welcome to the pitt ♡

26 | she/they

[xthepittlingx]

The Pitt

Dr Abbot ->

Dr Robby ->

Rabbot ->

Dennis whitaker ->

Brendon Park ->

The pitt boys as dogs ♡

Animal kingdom

Pope Cody ->

Southland

Sammy Bryant ->

Masterlist

Here!

[fanficwritinggirl]

{One Whole Year - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

I can assure you all that he is getting out very soon. Comment to be added to the taglist.

Andie turned one on a Thursday.

You knew because you had checked the date six times before getting out of bed.

Not because you had forgotten.

Because it felt impossible.

A year.

One whole year since the hospital room, since Craig filming with shaking hands, since Deran pretending not to cry, since Andrew's voice through the prison phone telling you to breathe while his daughter fought her way into the world.

A year since she had been placed on your chest, furious and warm and dark-haired, with Andrew's frown already stamped across her face like a warning.

Now she was standing at the coffee table in the living room, one hand planted flat on the wood, the other clutching a soft block she had no intention of sharing with anyone.

She was wearing one sock.

The other had been missing for forty minutes.

She had a smear of banana on her cheek, a tiny yellow bow in her hair that she had already tried to remove twice, and an expression of deep suspicion aimed at the birthday outfit laid across the back of the sofa.

"No," you told her.

Andie slapped the block against the table.

"Da."

"Yes, Daddy later," you said, because that was what most of her sounds meant now, according to you and absolutely no science.

From the kitchen, Deran said, "That one was definitely block-related."

You looked over your shoulder.

He was leaning against the counter with a paper bag of pastries in one hand and a tiny birthday cupcake box in the other, trying very hard to look like he had not specifically gone to three places to find the right one.

"It was not block-related," you said.

"It was."

"She knows today is special."

"She's one. She thinks the remote is special."

"She does love the remote."

Craig came in from the hallway carrying the diaper bag, which he had packed and repacked twice with the grim seriousness of a man preparing for siege.

"Do we need two backup outfits or three?"

You stared at him.

"For a one-hour visit?"

"She got apple sauce in her ear yesterday."

"That was one time."

"How?"

You looked at Andie.

Andie looked back at you with complete innocence.

"No one knows," you said.

Craig put a third outfit in the bag.

You did not stop him.

The contact visit had been approved four days earlier.

You still did not entirely believe it.

The same family programme. The same good-behaviour notes. The same mountain of paperwork Craig had bullied into existence with phone calls, follow-ups, and a tone that made multiple people decide it was easier to say yes than continue speaking to him.

One hour.

Contact room.

Supervised.

Approved birthday visit.

You had read the message until the words blurred.

Then you had called Andrew.

He had gone silent for so long you had said his name twice.

Finally, he had said, "I get to hold her?"

And your whole chest had folded in.

Now the hour was today.

Andie's birthday.

Andrew's daughter, one year old, walking badly along furniture and saying his name like she had invented the word.

You looked at her again.

She grinned around the corner of the block.

Your eyes filled.

"No," Deran said immediately.

You blinked at him.

"What?"

"You're doing the birthday crying."

"I am not."

"You are."

Craig glanced over from the diaper bag. "She's allowed. It's emotional."

Deran pointed at him. "Don't encourage it."

Craig zipped the diaper bag shut. "You cried at the cake."

"I did not cry at the cake."

"You stood in the bakery staring at it like it owed you money."

"It was too small."

"It's a baby cupcake."

"She deserves bigger."

You pressed your lips together.

Deran saw your face and looked away fast.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

"You love her."

"Everyone loves her."

"You love her in a very soft uncle way."

"I will leave."

Andie slapped the table again.

"Da."

Deran looked at her. "See? She wants me to leave too."

"She is saying Daddy," you said.

"She says Dada to spoons."

"She says Dada when she sees Andrew's photo."

"She says Dada when she sees the ceiling fan."

Craig looked up. "To be fair, the ceiling fan is impressive."

You laughed despite the lump in your throat.

Andie cruised carefully along the coffee table toward the framed picture on the low shelf.

Andrew through visiting glass.

His hand pressed to the barrier.

Andie's tiny hand, months younger, held opposite it.

She slapped the frame with her palm.

"Dada."

The room went quiet.

Deran stopped pretending not to feel things.

Craig's hand stilled on the strap of the diaper bag.

You swallowed hard.

"Yeah, baby," you whispered. "We're going to see Dada."

Andie looked back at you and grinned.

Like she knew.

Maybe she didn't.

Maybe she only knew that the word Dada made your voice go soft and the house go still.

But you believed she knew enough.

That had always been the rule with Andie.

She knew enough.

The prison looked wrong with birthday clothes.

It had looked wrong with a newborn.

It looked wrong with a six-month-old.

It looked wrong with a baby in a soft yellow romper with tiny white stars, one sock already threatening escape, and a birthday bow in her hair that had somehow survived the car ride.

The building did not deserve her.

That was the thought you had every time.

It did not deserve Andrew either, but that was a different ache.

Andie sat on your hip, alert and busy, one hand fisted in the collar of your shirt. She looked around at the doors, the walls, the guards, the lights, taking everything in with the solemn intensity of a tiny judge.

Craig walked on one side of you with the diaper bag.

Deran walked on the other with the approved cupcake container.

He had complained about carrying it twice.

He had also refused to let Craig carry it because Craig "tilted it weird."

At security, the guard glanced at the paperwork.

Then at Andie.

"Birthday?" he asked.

"One," you said.

Andie stared at him.

The guard's face softened despite himself. "Happy birthday."

Andie blinked.

Then said, very seriously, "Da."

The guard looked briefly confused.

Craig looked down.

Deran coughed.

"She's selective with thank-yous," you said.

The guard waved you through.

The contact room was the same beige box you remembered.

Same table.

Same chairs.

Same too-high window.

Same walls that looked like they had been designed by someone who distrusted joy.

But today there was a small paper banner taped crookedly along one wall.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Plain block letters.

Approved, apparently.

You had not brought it.

You looked at Craig.

Craig lifted both hands. "Not me."

Deran looked away.

You turned to him slowly.

"Deran."

"What?"

"You did the banner?"

"It came with the cupcake thing."

"It absolutely did not."

"Maybe it did."

Your eyes burned.

He made a face. "Don't."

"You got her a prison birthday banner."

"Worst sentence anyone's ever said."

Craig snorted.

You laughed wetly and leaned over to kiss Andie's head.

"Your uncle Deran is very emotionally fragile today."

Deran pointed at the door. "I'm waiting outside."

"Coward."

"Correct."

Craig set the diaper bag down and squeezed your shoulder once as he passed.

Not long.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

"You good?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"No."

He smiled faintly. "Fair."

Then he and Deran left.

The door closed.

You were alone with Andie.

For maybe five seconds.

Then the other door opened.

Andrew walked in.

Andie saw him before you said a word.

She turned toward the sound of the door, one hand still clutching your shirt, bow slightly crooked, eyes bright and curious.

Andrew stopped just inside the room.

His gaze went to you first.

It always did.

A quick check.

Your face.

Your body.

Your eyes.

Still making sure you were okay, even after a year of learning that you were allowed to be tired and fine at the same time.

Then he looked at Andie.

Really looked.

And something in him went quiet.

Not empty.

Not blank.

Quiet like a room after a storm.

She was so much bigger than the newborn he had held.

That was the first thing you saw him understand.

Not because he hadn't seen photos.

He had.

So many.

Printed photos. Visit photos. Still frames from videos. Pictures with banana on her face and socks in her hands and books half chewed.

But photos flattened her.

Here, she moved.

She breathed.

She looked at him.

She knew him.

Andrew's hands flexed once at his sides.

Andie stared.

One second.

Two.

Her face lit up.

Not slowly.

All at once.

A gummy, delighted grin opened across her face, bright enough to ruin him on sight.

Then she reached both arms toward him.

"Dada!"

Andrew's face broke.

Completely.

His hand came up over his mouth.

He looked like he had been hit.

You started crying immediately.

There was no point pretending otherwise.

Andie bounced on your hip, reaching harder.

"Da-da-da!"

"Oh," you whispered, half laughing, half sobbing. "Okay. Funeral for your father, apparently."

Andrew made a sound.

It might have been a laugh.

It might have been a sob.

It was probably both.

He crossed the room carefully, like moving too fast might make this less real.

Andie leaned toward him so hard you had to tighten your grip.

"Someone remembers you," you said.

His eyes lifted to yours.

Wet.

Destroyed.

"She does."

Not a question.

A realization.

You nodded.

"She does."

Andrew reached you.

For a second, he only looked at Andie.

Then his eyes came back to you.

"Hi," he said.

Your laugh shook. "Hi."

"You okay?"

"Still your first question."

"Yeah."

"I'm okay."

"You sure?"

"I'm very emotional, but physically intact."

His mouth twitched.

Then you shifted Andie higher.

"Do you want her?"

Andrew looked at his daughter.

Andie had one fist tangled in your shirt and one hand still reaching for him, impatient now.

His face softened into something so open it hurt.

"Yeah," he whispered.

You passed her over carefully.

This was different from the newborn visit.

So different it almost knocked the breath out of you.

Then, she had been small enough to frighten him into stillness.

Now Andie came into his arms like she had places to be.

She grabbed his collar immediately.

Andrew froze.

Andie patted his chest with one hand.

"Dada."

He closed his eyes.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Andrew held her more securely, one arm under her, one hand spread over her back. His fingers looked huge against her little yellow romper.

"She's heavy," he whispered.

You laughed through tears.

"She is not heavy."

"She is."

"She weighs about as much as a bag of flour."

"She's heavier than last time."

"That was almost a year ago."

His jaw worked.

"I know."

Andie slapped his chest again.

"Da."

Andrew looked down at her.

"I'm here," he said.

His voice was barely there.

Andie grabbed at the front of his prison shirt, then leaned forward and planted her open mouth against his collarbone.

You blinked.

Andrew looked panicked.

"What is she doing?"

"Kissing you. Or trying to eat you. Hard to tell at this age."

Andie lifted her head, drool shining on his shirt.

Andrew stared at the wet mark.

Then looked at her like she had blessed him.

You laughed so hard you cried harder.

"She drooled on you."

"I know."

"You can wipe it."

"No."

Of course not.

You stepped closer and brushed your fingers over Andie's hair.

Andrew's eyes flicked to your hand.

Then to your face.

The room shifted.

For one year, every contact visit had left both of you starved for touch. Every time you were allowed in the same room without glass, you became careful and greedy at once.

Today was no different.

His free hand reached for you.

You took it immediately.

Palm to palm.

His fingers closed around yours with a force that made your breath catch.

Not too tight.

Never too tight.

Just enough to say he had missed this too.

You stepped into his side, your shoulder brushing his arm, Andie between you.

Andrew looked down at your joined hands.

Then at you.

"You made it a year," he whispered.

Your eyes filled.

You shook your head.

"We did."

His expression cracked.

"Baby."

"We did," you said again, firmer this time. "She knows you because you showed up every way you could. Calls. Books. Visits. Photos. All of it."

Andrew looked down at Andie.

She was busy trying to remove the top button of his shirt.

"You did this too," you said.

His hand tightened around yours.

Andie looked up at him again.

"Dada."

His face folded.

"Oh, she knows how to weaponize that now," you said.

Andrew huffed a broken laugh.

"She can say it whenever she wants."

"She does."

"Good."

"She said it to a spoon yesterday."

His eyes lifted.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"She called a spoon Dada?"

"Briefly."

Andrew considered this.

Then looked at Andie.

"That's okay."

You stared at him. "That's okay?"

"She's learning."

"She called cutlery by your title."

"She's one."

"You are so biased."

"Yes."

No hesitation.

No shame.

Just yes.

You laughed and leaned into his shoulder.

His hand released yours only to wrap around your back, careful and warm. You turned your face into him for one second, just one, breathing him in as much as the room allowed.

Andrew pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Your eyes closed.

Andie slapped his cheek.

He opened his eyes.

You burst out laughing.

"She wants attention."

"She has it."

"She knows."

Andrew shifted Andie slightly and sat down, bringing her onto his lap. She immediately tried to twist around, interested in the table, the banner, your hair, the air, absolutely everything.

Andrew looked overwhelmed.

"She moves a lot."

"Yes."

"All the time?"

"Yes."

"How do you do anything?"

"I mostly don't."

He looked up, concerned.

"I'm kidding."

"Are you?"

"Partly."

He frowned.

You touched his cheek because you could.

Because you would use every second.

"I'm okay."

His eyes softened under your hand.

"You look tired."

"I am tired."

"But okay?"

"But okay."

Andie reached for your hand on his face and grabbed your fingers.

For a second, the three of you were tangled together.

Your hand on Andrew's cheek.

Andie's hand around your fingers.

Andrew's hand on Andie's back.

A ridiculous knot of love in a beige room.

Andrew looked at it.

His throat moved.

You did not say anything.

Some moments did not need help.

The guard outside shifted.

Reality, reminding you it existed.

You ignored it.

"Do you want the cupcake?" you asked.

Andrew looked immediately suspicious.

"For her?"

"For her birthday."

"She can eat cake?"

"She can eat a tiny bit of cupcake."

"Sugar?"

"Oh no. Not sugar on her birthday."

Andrew gave you a look.

You laughed. "Baby, she will survive frosting."

"What if she chokes?"

"She's supervised."

"What if—"

"Andrew."

His mouth shut.

You smiled fondly.

"Would you like to give your daughter her first birthday cupcake or would you like to continue arguing with me about sugar?"

He looked down at Andie.

Andie slapped the table.

"Da!"

He exhaled.

"Cupcake."

"Good choice."

You opened the little container.

The cupcake was tiny.

Yellow frosting.

One small white candle tucked separately because fire was absolutely not allowed in a prison contact room, which you had expected and honestly did not mind.

Deran had somehow found tiny duck sprinkles.

You stared at them.

"Oh, Deran."

Andrew leaned forward. "What?"

"Duck sprinkles."

His mouth softened.

"And he carried it?"

"Like it was evidence."

Andrew looked toward the door.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

You placed the cupcake on the table in front of Andie, who was now sitting on Andrew's lap with both his arms forming a protective barrier around her.

She stared at it.

Suspicious.

Andrew stared too.

Also suspicious.

You looked between them and snorted.

"She has your exact cake suspicion face."

"I don't have a cake suspicion face."

"You do now."

Andie reached one finger toward the frosting.

Stopped.

Looked at you.

You nodded. "Go on."

She poked the frosting.

Then looked at her finger.

Andrew leaned in like he was watching a bomb.

"She okay?"

"She has frosting on one finger."

"She's thinking."

"She is."

Andie put her finger in her mouth.

Her eyes widened.

You grinned.

Andrew stopped breathing.

Andie looked at the cupcake again.

Then slammed her whole hand into it.

You laughed.

"There we go."

Andrew's mouth parted in horror. "Oh."

"She's supposed to make a mess."

"She's destroying it."

"It's a smash cake."

"It's a cupcake."

"Smash cupcake."

"That sounds made up."

"It is made up. It's still happening."

Andie lifted her frosting-covered hand.

Before either of you could stop her, she planted it directly on Andrew's chest.

Yellow frosting smeared across his prison shirt.

The room went still.

You clapped a hand over your mouth.

Andie looked delighted.

Andrew looked down at the mark.

A tiny, messy, yellow handprint.

Right over his heart.

Your eyes filled instantly.

"Oh," you whispered.

Andrew did not move.

He just stared at it.

"Andie," you murmured, laughing and crying at once. "That was very dramatic."

Andrew's hand hovered over the frosting mark.

Not touching.

Not wiping.

Just hovering.

You swallowed hard.

"You can wipe it," you said softly.

His eyes lifted to yours.

"No."

Of course.

Your face crumpled.

He looked down at Andie.

She had frosting on her wrist now. On her mouth. Somehow near one eyebrow.

"Dada," she said happily.

Andrew closed his eyes.

For a second, he looked like he was praying.

When he opened them, they were wet.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I'm here."

You did not survive that.

You cried quietly while Andie continued destroying the cupcake with astonishing focus.

Andrew watched every movement like it mattered.

Because it did.

The way she poked the frosting.

The way she offered him a wet, crushed handful and then changed her mind before he could pretend to eat it.

The way she clapped once, smearing cake between her palms.

The way she babbled, "Da-da-da," like she was narrating the occasion.

Andrew laughed.

Really laughed.

Small and rough and unused, but real.

You stared at him.

He saw.

"What?"

"You laughed."

"She put cake on my shirt."

"Frosting."

"Frosting."

"You're happy."

His face softened.

"Yeah."

The simplicity of it made your throat close.

You reached over and took his hand again.

His fingers folded around yours.

For a few minutes, you let Andie have the cupcake while you and Andrew stayed pressed close enough that your knees touched. His thumb moved over your knuckles. Your shoulder leaned into his. Every small point of contact felt like a stolen thing.

Eventually Andie got tired of the cupcake and more interested in the paper banner.

Andrew held her up so she could see it.

"Happy birthday," he said.

His voice was quiet.

Andie looked at the banner.

Then at him.

"Da."

"Yes," he said. "Dada."

You wiped frosting from Andie's chin with a cloth.

"She had your birthday recording this morning," you said.

Andrew glanced at you. "Yeah?"

"She smiled at the part where you said happy birthday."

He looked down quickly.

You squeezed his hand.

"She did."

"I recorded it three times."

"I know."

"How?"

"You sounded hoarse by the end."

His mouth twitched.

"The first one was bad."

"I doubt that."

"I said happy birthday too fast."

"She is one. She does not have pacing critiques."

"I did."

"You always do."

He looked at Andie.

"I wanted it right."

Your face softened.

"It was."

The guard knocked lightly.

"Fifteen minutes."

The words dropped into the room like a stone.

Andrew's hand tightened around yours.

Andie, oblivious and sticky, reached for his face.

He leaned down automatically.

She patted his cheek with a frosting-smudged hand.

A faint yellow streak appeared along his jaw.

You laughed through tears.

"She got you again."

Andrew did not wipe that either.

"She can."

"She can?"

"She can do whatever she wants."

"You are going to be impossible."

"Yes."

"At least admit it."

"I did."

You smiled at him through wet eyes.

"She's going to run circles around you."

"Good."

"You say that now."

"I'll say it later."

Andie grabbed his nose.

He winced slightly but let her.

"Gentle," you told her.

Andrew's hand covered her back.

"She's okay."

"She needs to learn gentle."

"She's one."

"You are no help."

"She's one," he repeated, softer.

There it was.

The weight under the sweetness.

One.

A whole year.

His daughter had lived a full year outside your body, and Andrew had counted it through visits and recordings and phone calls and photos held carefully by prison light.

You touched his arm.

"She's one."

His eyes stayed on Andie.

"I missed a lot."

You took a breath.

You had known it might come.

Not as a spiral.

Not as self-punishment.

Just truth.

"Yes," you said softly.

His jaw worked.

"And you were there for a lot."

His eyes lifted to yours.

"Not the same."

"No," you said. "Not the same."

You would not lie to him.

You loved him too much for that.

"But it counted."

Andrew looked down at the frosting on his shirt.

At Andie's little handprint over his heart.

At his daughter chewing on the edge of a napkin you immediately removed from her mouth.

He huffed softly.

You smiled.

"It counted," you said again.

His eyes went wet.

"Yeah."

This time, it sounded like belief.

The guard moved outside.

Ten minutes.

You leaned forward and kissed Andrew.

He froze for only half a second before kissing you back.

Still careful.

Always careful.

But less disbelieving than the first contact visit.

His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye.

Andie made an outraged sound between you.

You pulled back, laughing.

"Sorry. Birthday girl objects."

Andrew smiled at her.

Actually smiled.

A tiny, open thing.

"Sorry."

Andie slapped his chest again.

"Da."

"I know," he said. "You're in charge."

"She really is."

He looked at you.

"You okay?"

You laughed softly. "Yes."

"With this?"

Your smile faded into something tender.

"With what?"

"With me having this today."

Your heart cracked.

"Oh, Andrew."

His eyes flicked down.

You touched his jaw, thumb brushing near the frosting streak Andie had left.

"I wanted you to have this."

His throat moved.

"I have her every day," you said. "The mornings. The nights. The messes. The firsts. The tantrums. The way she throws spoons like she's being paid. I get so much."

His face tightened.

"So when there is a way for you to have a piece too," you whispered, "I want you to have it. I want you to have all of it."

Andrew's eyes shone.

"I don't want to take from you."

"You're not."

"I know, but—"

"You're her dad," you said. "Loving her isn't taking from me."

He looked at Andie.

Then at your hand on his jaw.

The words landed slowly.

Carefully.

Like his body was still learning that love could multiply instead of divide.

Andie yawned suddenly.

A huge, dramatic yawn that made both of you stop.

"She's tired," you said.

Andrew's face shifted immediately into concern.

"She needs sleep."

"She can survive five more minutes."

"She's rubbing her eye."

"I know."

"She does that when she's tired?"

"Yes."

He watched closely, memorizing that.

Of course he did.

"Anything else?"

"What?"

"When she's tired."

You smiled despite the ache.

"She gets clingy. She makes this little humming sound. She hates being put down even though she clearly wants to sleep."

"Like you."

"Excuse me?"

"You get mean when you're tired."

"I gave birth to your child and organized a prison birthday cupcake. Choose your words."

His mouth twitched.

"You get quiet when you're tired," he corrected.

"Better."

"And mean."

"Andrew."

He laughed again.

You loved him so much in that moment it made you almost dizzy.

Five minutes.

The guard announced it softly this time.

Maybe because of the baby.

Maybe because even he had a heart somewhere under the uniform.

Andrew looked down at Andie.

His face changed.

The letting go was coming.

It was always coming.

No amount of frosting or laughter or birthday banners could stop it.

Andie rested against his chest now, sleepy, one sticky hand curled against the mark she had left on his shirt.

Andrew's hand covered her back.

You watched him breathe her in.

"Baby," you whispered.

His eyes closed.

"I know."

You moved closer.

"I'll take her."

His arms tightened for one second.

Only one.

Then loosened.

He handed Andie back with the kind of care that made your chest ache.

She fussed immediately.

Reached for him.

"Dada."

Andrew's face crumpled.

You held her close, tears filling your eyes again.

"I know," you whispered to her. "I know."

Andie reached harder.

"Dada!"

Andrew stood.

His hands curled once at his sides, like letting her cry for him was worse than anything he had prepared for.

You stepped close, shifting Andie between you.

"Touch her," you whispered.

He did.

One hand to her back.

One finger to her tiny frosting-sticky hand.

Andie grabbed it.

Hard.

Andrew bent his head.

"She knows you," you said.

His eyes closed.

"She'll know you next time too."

His jaw worked.

"I know."

And he did.

That was the difference.

He knew.

Not perfectly. Not without pain. But enough.

Andie tugged his finger.

"Dada," she said again, softer now.

Andrew swallowed hard.

"I love you," he whispered.

She blinked at him.

"I love you," he said again.

You were crying openly now.

He looked at you.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

He leaned forward and kissed you once more.

Brief.

Warm.

Desperate around the edges.

Then he kissed Andie's forehead.

She grabbed at his chin.

He smiled through tears.

"Happy birthday, baby girl."

The guard opened the door.

Time.

You stepped back.

Andrew's hand slipped from Andie's grip.

She made a noise that nearly broke all three of you.

You bounced her gently, trying to soothe her while your own face fell apart.

At the doorway, you turned back.

Andrew stood in the middle of the beige room with yellow frosting on his shirt, a smear on his jaw, and tears on his face.

The birthday banner hung crooked behind him.

One hour.

One cupcake.

One whole year.

You lifted Andie's hand.

She did not wave.

She was too busy looking at him.

"Da," she said.

Andrew covered his mouth.

Then the door closed.

Deran was waiting in the hall.

Craig too.

Both of them stood when they saw you.

Their eyes went immediately to Andie.

Then to your face.

Then to the closed door behind you.

"How bad?" Craig asked.

You laughed through tears.

"Destroyed."

Deran looked down at Andie. "Him or you?"

"Yes."

Craig stepped closer, reaching out to wipe a bit of frosting from Andie's wrist with a wipe he had somehow already prepared.

"She okay?"

"She's tired."

"She cried?"

"At the end."

Craig's face tightened.

Deran looked away.

"She reached for him," you said.

Neither of them spoke.

Andie sniffled against your shoulder, thumb creeping toward her mouth.

Deran cleared his throat.

"He got to hold her?"

You nodded.

"And she said Dada to his face."

Craig closed his eyes briefly.

Deran rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"Jesus."

"Yeah."

You smiled through wet cheeks.

"She put frosting on him."

Deran blinked.

"On purpose?"

"She's one."

"So yes."

You laughed.

Craig looked toward the door, then back at you.

"He wipe it?"

"No."

Craig's mouth trembled.

Deran turned toward the exit.

"Car," he said roughly.

"You're crying again," you said.

"I am walking."

"Emotionally."

"I am walking emotionally."

You laughed, then kissed Andie's hair.

"Let's go home, birthday girl."

Andrew did not wipe the frosting off until he had to.

Not when they walked him back.

Not when another man looked at the smear on his shirt and raised an eyebrow.

Not when the guard said, "You got something there."

Andrew looked down at the tiny yellow handprint over his heart.

"I know."

The guard did not tell him again.

Later, when he had no choice, he cleaned the shirt carefully.

But before he did, he pressed two fingers to the mark.

Just once.

A handprint.

His daughter's handprint.

Andie had turned one.

She had reached for him.

She had said Dada to his face.

She had laughed at cake and grabbed his nose and smeared frosting on him like she knew exactly where to leave the proof.

Andrew sat on the edge of his bunk that night with the birthday photo you had managed to get printed before the visit tucked between his hands.

In the picture, Andie sat on his lap, frosting on her mouth, one hand pressed to his chest. You were beside him, leaning close, smiling through tears. His own face was turned toward Andie, ruined and soft and unguarded.

He barely recognized himself.

Maybe that was good.

Maybe fathers were supposed to become unrecognizable in certain ways.

He looked at the wall of photos.

Scan.

Gender note.

Nursery.

Contact visit.

Smile.

Glass visit.

And now this.

One year.

One whole year.

A year ago, he had heard his daughter's heartbeat through a prison phone.

Now she had said his name to his face with cake on her hands.

Andrew touched the edge of the birthday photo.

One year had passed without him coming home.

But not one year had passed without him being her father.

He knew that now.

Not all the time.

Not perfectly.

But tonight, he knew.

Behind concrete and locked doors, Andrew Cody lay down with his daughter's voice in his head and the memory of yellow frosting over his heart.

Dada.

Dada.

Dada.

And for once, the word did not feel like something he had to earn.

It felt like something she had already given him.

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

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@pinguphd, @fulla02, @nightshadestars, @rebeccaflores1 @romantic-insomniac @sage-files @starwarsdinosaur  @goddess-of-spring @tulilip21 @mxkhxx 

[xthepittlingx]

Hoping for the future...

Dr Robby × reader

Reader and her husband, Michael, hoped and prayed for their own little miracle - going as far as testing their fertility to ensure everything was perfect. Do they get their happy ending?

Part one

Part two

[xthepittlingx]

Grieving!Jack Abbot who visits his wife's grave every single anniversary and special occasion without fail.

You, his wife, who comes along to pay your respects to the woman who had his heart first.

You felt no ill will towards the love they shared as you settled on your knees in front of the polished granite stone, just like always, and placed a fresh bouquet of pink and red roses at the base - head cocked to the side as you cheerfully gave your greeting.

The way you smiled brightly as you told her about the week you'd had was almost as if you were talking to a close, childhood friend.

Grieving! Jack Abbot, who thanks his lucky stars every day that he found someone who would drag themselves through the trenches of loss with him no matter how long it's been since his wife's passing.

The same Jack that soon enough began to crouch next to you every visit, quietly so he didn't disturb the ritualistic chat between his two favourite girls, and watched as you laughed and moved your hands dramatically as you spoke.

Grieving! Jack Abbot that had brought you up to the cemetery on a day that wasn't on the calendar, but he just couldn't wait to tell his wife the amazing news.

A visit that had ended with you kneeled in dew-coated grass with a hand over your stomach, tears lining your lashes as you pulled out a sonogram from your coat pocket and let it rest against the headstone.

[xthepittlingx]

Dino nerd! Reader and a confused Pope Cody who knew more about the animals of today than the ones that no longer roamed the earth thanks to his interest in the nature documentaries on tv.

But, despite that, he still makes an effort to listen. To be involved in your interest in his own way.

[xthepittlingx]

The Pitt boys as dogs

Michael Robinavitch

↳ German Shepherd

Protective of his people, loyal and highly intelligent - but needs to constantly keep himself stimulated to fight the behavioural changes that come with being still for far too long. Can be affectionate and sweet until he's pissed off and decides to lash out, teeth bared in all their glory. The quote "all bark, no bite." Is less than accurate the minute he's mad and don't the other members of The Pitt know it.

Jack Abbot

↳ Pitbull Terrier

Jack is the definition of confidence and the sense of strong-will personified. As a military man who works closely with others, his loyalty is off the charts, and he's never once backed down from being overly protective. He takes great pride in any bond he may create with his fellow workers, and what most don't know is... he's secretly a softie at heart who would do anything to velcro himself to his nearest and dearest.

Dennis whitaker

↳ Border Collie

A farm boy through and through - with an intense focus that can't be stopped, higher than average intelligence and energy levels that end up through the roof when he's in the zone. He's a speedy learner and picks things up so quickly, it almost makes people wonder if he's done it all before in a past life. Can't forget the little nips here and there when he finally, and much to everyone's shock, stands up for himself.

[xthepittlingx]

Michael Robinavitch drabble ♡

Downtime 💌

Down time at the Pitt came so rarely, it was almost like a unicorn. Talked about, a few documented "sightings" of said mythical creature, but nothing concrete to suggest it existed.

So the minute Robby pulls you to the side and offers you a chance to breathe, you almost choke on your own saliva. A break? Now? Was he having you on?

"Got a few."

"Feel like I need to be pinched."

"Could do, but it'd hurt."

"Well... at least then I'd know I wasn't dreaming."

He nods, that smile you loved so much tugging at his lips until the soft creases in his brow bunch together. Another rare sight that you would choose over a breather any day.

"Listen... about the other week-"

You raise a hand, watching his lashes flutter as he stutters into a pause.

"Wasn't coercion. Wasn't you using your chief attending status either. Was mutual and between two consenting adults."

"I'm still your superior. Not just here, but in age too."

That had your attention. You bite your lip to stifle the giggle that bubbled in your throat before ever so carefully shifting yourself closer. You could feel the heat he radiated, and you were sure he could feel yours too as his Adam's apple visibly bobbed with a thick swallow.

"And what, pray tell, is wrong with me liking men old enough to be my dad?"

"I-... I never said there was but-"

"Shh. Michael Robinavitch, you little kink shamer."

"Now, see, I don't know whether to kiss you or have you over my knee."

"Both. Both is good."

[xthepittlingx]

The morning after...

Warnings: brief mention of inebriated/drunk sex.

The dappled glint of the morning rays trickled through the small gaps of your blinds just enough to irritate your lash-line and cause you to stir from what was usually a deep, uninterrupted sleep unless an alarm was strumming it's godawful tune.

You wince, nose scrunching, and allow a hand to cup the sweat-slicked skin of your forehead in an attempt to steady the dizzying motion that makes your sight blur. Wow, those drinks you'd thrown back had really knocked you on your arse, and now you were reaping the consequences of a night a young teenage you would've been proud of.

"... morning."

the sound of a gruff voice you knew all too well had you almost whimpering out loud, spine stiffening almost impossibly straight until you felt the burn of barely awake muscles contracting under your skin.

"Oh, um, morning."

You mumble back, and Jack smiled slightly. That all too familiar uneven cock of his lips that had your pussy fluttering and your heart doing flips like an overachieving gymnast.

Well... now you know why the skin of your thighs felt sticky as you shifted from under the crisp white duvet - and the poor stuffed animals you usually had settled on the left side of your bed to keep you company at night were no longer there, but instead at the end of it, turned as if they were avoiding any form of embarrassing eye contact.

[fanficwritinggirl]

{Almost A Smile - Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader}

Comment to be added to the taglist.

The first time Andie smiled, you were not ready.

This felt rude.

You had spent weeks watching her face like it was going to reveal state secrets. You had studied every twitch of her mouth, every sleepy grimace, every milk-drunk expression, every scrunched little frown that looked so much like Andrew it made your chest ache.

You had been waiting.

Not patiently.

Never patiently.

But waiting.

Everyone said six weeks was around when babies started smiling on purpose. Real smiles. Social smiles. The kind that meant something other than gas or digestion or mysterious newborn internal politics.

Andie was seven weeks old.

Seven weeks and two days, if you were being exact, which you were, because motherhood had apparently turned you into the sort of person who counted time by days and feeds and nappy changes and how long she slept before making the tiny offended noise that meant she had decided the world was disappointing again.

You had been prepared.

Sort of.

You had your phone nearby almost all the time now because she had started doing this little thing with her mouth that looked almost like a smile if you were very hopeful and willing to ignore medical probability.

You had tried everything.

Silly faces.

Terrible singing.

Bouncing her gently on your knees.

Kissing her cheeks.

Saying, "Who is the prettiest baby in the entire world?" in a voice that would have made Andrew stare at you with deep concern.

Nothing.

Andie would blink at you.

Frown.

Occasionally spit up.

Once, she had sneezed directly after you said, "Smile for Mummy," which felt personal.

Then, on a Tuesday afternoon when your hair was half falling out of a claw clip and you had one sock on because you had lost the other somewhere between the nursery and the kitchen, you played Andrew's duck recording because Andie was getting fussy.

Not screaming.

Not fully.

Just building toward it.

The dangerous pre-cry stage.

The red eyebrows.

The trembling bottom lip.

The increasingly dramatic breathing.

You were sitting cross-legged on the nursery rug with your back against the rocking chair, Andie lying on a blanket in front of you. Her little legs kicked the air with furious purpose. One hand waved near her face like she was conducting an orchestra no one else could hear.

"Don't start," you warned gently.

Andie's mouth opened.

"Please don't start."

She made a tiny angry sound.

You reached for the little approved player on the floor beside you.

"Okay," you sighed. "Fine. Calling in reinforcements."

You pressed play.

There was a second of static.

Then Andrew's voice filled the room.

"Hi, Andie."

Your daughter went still.

Not asleep.

Not magically soothed all at once.

Just still.

Her eyes widened slightly, dark and unfocused, turning toward the sound like her whole tiny body recognized the shape of him before her brain knew what recognition was.

You froze too.

You always did.

Even now, after playing the recording every day, sometimes more than once, the sound of him in the nursery still caught you right under the ribs.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie blinked.

Her little hand opened.

You smiled.

"There he is," you whispered.

Andrew's recorded voice continued, rough and careful and more nervous than he would ever admit.

"This is a duck book."

You laughed softly.

Every time.

Every single time.

You knew the recording by heart now. You knew where his voice steadied. Where he paused too long before turning the page. Where he did the barely-there duck voice and pretended, later on the phone, that it did not count as a duck voice.

You watched Andie while he read.

She kicked once.

Then again.

Her face, which had been working its way toward tragedy only seconds earlier, relaxed.

Her eyes tracked vaguely toward the player.

Andrew read about a duck getting lost, then found, then tucked into bed beneath the moon. It was not a complicated book. It was, in fact, a very silly book. The duck had no survival skills and far too much confidence.

Andrew had somehow made it sound important.

Halfway through the second page, Andie's mouth moved.

You leaned forward.

"No."

Her lips twitched.

Just a tiny curve.

Barely anything.

You stopped breathing.

"No, no, no. Do that again."

Andie blinked at the ceiling.

Andrew's voice said, "The duck was not scared."

Andie's mouth curved again.

Small.

Soft.

There and gone so quickly you almost doubted it.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

"Oh my God."

Andie waved one fist.

You grabbed your phone so fast you nearly dropped it on your own foot.

"No, wait. Wait, do it again. Please do it again."

Andie immediately looked bored.

"No. Don't do that. Don't look like your father when someone asks him to talk about feelings."

She sneezed.

You stared at her.

"That is not a smile."

She made a tiny noise.

Andrew's recording kept going.

You hit record on your phone anyway, because if motherhood had taught you anything, it was that babies liked to perform miracles the second no one was documenting them.

"Okay," you whispered, aiming the camera at her. "Go on. Smile for Dad's voice."

Andie hiccupped.

You narrowed your eyes.

"You are being difficult."

The recording ended with Andrew's soft, "Goodnight, Andie. I'm here."

Andie did not smile again.

You replayed it.

No smile.

You replayed the first page.

No smile.

You tried saying "Hi, baby girl" in Andrew's voice.

This was a mistake.

Andie looked deeply unimpressed.

You gasped. "Excuse me. That was a very good impression."

She started crying.

You sighed and picked her up.

"Alright. That was fair. I'm sorry. I'll never impersonate your father again."

Deran arrived twenty minutes later with groceries, nappies, and the expression of a man who had somehow been tricked into becoming useful.

He let himself in like he lived there.

Which, at this point, he basically did three days a week.

"You alive?" he called.

"In the nursery."

He appeared in the doorway carrying two shopping bags and a packet of nappies under one arm.

Andie was tucked against your chest, mostly calm now, one cheek pressed to your shirt, mouth making tiny sleepy motions.

Deran looked at her first.

Always.

Then at you.

"You look weird."

"Thank you."

"No, like..." He frowned. "Excited weird."

You sat up straighter in the rocking chair.

"I think she smiled."

Deran's face went blank.

"Okay."

"At Andrew's recording."

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

"Okay."

"Do not say okay like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're humouring me."

"I am humouring you."

"Deran."

He stepped fully into the room and set the bags near the dresser. "Babies do weird face stuff."

"It was not weird face stuff."

"It was probably gas."

Your mouth fell open.

"You are banned from the nursery."

"I brought nappies."

"You may leave them at the door and go."

"She's seven weeks old."

"Exactly."

"Babies smile around then."

"See? You know that."

"I know it was a smile."

"You want it to be a smile."

You pointed at him. "That is a dangerous sentence to say to a sleep-deprived mother."

Deran glanced at Andie. "She asleep?"

"Almost."

"Then why are we arguing?"

"Because you accused my child's first smile of being gas."

"I said probably."

"You're making it worse."

Andie stirred against your chest, grumbling softly.

Both of you froze.

Deran lowered his voice. "Sorry."

You looked at him.

He looked annoyed at himself for apologizing to a seven-week-old baby who could not understand him.

You smiled.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You had a face."

"I have many faces."

"Unfortunately."

You laid Andie carefully back on the blanket on the floor once she seemed calm enough, because now that Deran was there, you needed a witness.

A hostile witness, apparently, but a witness.

You grabbed the player again.

"Watch her."

Deran leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. "This feels like a trap."

"It is not a trap."

"You're going to say I'm heartless if I don't see a smile."

"You are heartless if you don't see a smile."

"Trap."

You ignored him and pressed play.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hi, Andie."

Andie's head moved toward the sound.

Deran's posture shifted.

Tiny.

But you saw it.

You looked up at him with triumph.

He pointed at you. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

Andrew's voice continued.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie kicked.

Her eyes opened wider.

Her mouth made the smallest little shape.

You stopped breathing.

"Watch," you whispered.

Deran looked down at her.

The room went quiet except for Andrew's recorded voice reading about the deeply incompetent duck.

Andie stared toward the player.

Her hands opened and closed.

Andrew did the duck voice.

Barely.

Just enough.

Andie's mouth curved.

Tiny.

Soft.

Completely real.

You gasped.

Deran went still.

"There," you whispered. "There."

Andie's little face relaxed into it for maybe two seconds.

Two seconds of something bright and new and unmistakable.

A smile.

Not gas.

Not digestion.

Not a random twitch.

A smile.

At Andrew's voice.

Your hands flew to your mouth.

"Oh my God."

Deran did not say anything.

That was how you knew he had seen it.

You looked at him, eyes full.

"That was a smile."

His jaw worked.

He looked at the player.

Then at Andie.

Then back at the player, as if Andrew might somehow be hiding inside the little approved device and would hear him admit defeat.

"Yeah," Deran said.

Your face crumpled.

"Yeah?"

He cleared his throat, looking away. "Yeah. Probably."

"Deran."

"It was a smile."

You burst into tears.

Andie, offended by the sudden emotion, kicked one leg.

You laughed and cried at once.

"She smiled at him."

Deran's eyes went shiny in a way he absolutely would not appreciate you mentioning.

"Yeah."

"She smiled at his voice."

"Yeah."

You grabbed your phone.

"Oh my God, I didn't get it."

Deran looked relieved to have a practical problem.

"Do it again."

"Babies aren't vending machines."

"Play the duck again."

"She might not do it again."

"Try."

So you did.

You replayed the first part of the recording.

Nothing.

You replayed it again.

Andie yawned.

Deran said, "Maybe the smile took it out of her."

You glared at him.

"What? It was probably hard work."

You tried again fifteen minutes later after a feed.

No smile.

You tried after nappy change.

No smile.

You tried while she lay on your chest.

No smile.

Andie had apparently decided to reveal joy once, emotionally destroy the room, and then retire from public life.

Deran stayed.

He pretended he was only there because Craig had asked him to check the smoke alarm batteries, which was both random and unbelievable. In reality, he sat on the nursery floor with his back against the wall, scrolling through his phone and glancing up every time the recording started over.

On the fifth attempt, Andie smiled again.

You almost dropped your phone in your rush to record it.

"Got it?" Deran asked.

"I think so."

"You think?"

"I panicked."

"You had one job."

"You hold her entire emotional development in your hands and see how steady you are."

You opened the video.

It started with a blurry shot of your knee.

Then a close-up of Andie's foot.

Then your whispering voice saying, "Come on, baby, do it again."

Deran snorted.

"Shut up."

Then the camera found her face.

Andrew's voice played in the background.

"Hi, baby girl. It's me."

Andie blinked.

Kicked.

Then smiled.

Small.

A little crooked.

Over in a second.

Perfect.

You pressed the phone to your chest and started crying again.

Deran sighed.

But not like he was annoyed.

More like he had accepted this was what the day was now.

"That's it?" he asked.

You nodded, laughing through tears. "That's it."

He leaned over to look at the screen again.

"She did smile."

"She did."

"At Pope's voice."

"At her dad's voice."

Deran looked away.

His mouth tightened slightly.

"Yeah," he said. "At her dad's voice."

Andrew called at 8:43 that night.

You had been waiting since 8:00.

Andie had fallen asleep against your chest after an hour of fussy, unsettled little noises that never quite became crying but still kept you trapped in that strange newborn state of alert exhaustion.

The player was on the side table.

Your phone was tucked into the chair cushion beside your thigh.

The second it rang, your hand shot out.

Andie startled.

You froze.

She settled.

You accepted the call before the automated voice had finished its usual insult to romance and family life.

The line clicked.

Static.

Then Andrew.

"Hey."

"She smiled at you."

Silence.

You closed your eyes.

That was not how you had planned to say it.

You had meant to ease into it. Ask how he was. Tell him Andie was asleep. Mention the recording. Build toward it gently because Andrew handled joy like something suspicious left on his doorstep.

Instead, you had thrown it directly at his head.

The line stayed quiet.

You opened your eyes.

"Andrew?"

"What?"

His voice was strange.

Low.

Careful.

Like he had heard you but did not trust the sentence.

"She smiled," you said, softer. "At your recording."

Another silence.

Then, "No."

"Yes."

"She's too little."

"She is seven weeks."

"It might've been gas."

You sat up straighter. "Do not Deran me."

"What?"

"Deran said that."

"Deran saw?"

"Yes."

A pause.

"He said it was gas?"

"At first."

"And?"

"And then she did it again."

Andrew stopped breathing.

You smiled through tears.

"She smiled, Andrew. It was tiny and quick and she immediately went back to looking like she was judging the furniture, but she smiled."

"At the recording?"

"At your voice."

He did not answer.

You held Andie closer.

"She was fussy," you said. "So I played the duck book. And you said, 'Hi, baby girl. It's me.' And she just... stopped. She looked toward the player and her little mouth did this tiny—"

Your own mouth trembled.

You laughed, crying already.

"I can't even explain it. It was so small."

Andrew was silent.

"Baby?"

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"No."

You smiled through tears.

"Good no or bad no?"

"I don't know."

"Still?"

"Yeah."

You leaned back in the chair, rocking slowly.

"She smiled at your voice."

This time you said it carefully.

Like a promise.

Like proof.

Andrew inhaled shakily.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Not because you wanted her to?"

"I mean, I did want her to."

"Baby."

"But Deran saw it."

That seemed to land.

Andrew knew Deran. Deran did not hand out sentiment unless cornered by objective evidence or a newborn.

"He said it was a smile?" Andrew asked.

"Eventually."

"Eventually?"

"After being banned from the nursery."

A small breath came through the line.

Almost a laugh.

"Did you get it?"

"Yes."

His silence changed.

"Video?"

"Yes."

"You got a video?"

"I panicked, so the first second is my knee and then her foot."

"Okay."

"But then you can see it. Your voice is playing, and she smiles."

Andrew did not speak for so long that you checked the phone screen to make sure the call had not dropped.

It hadn't.

"Andrew?"

"I want to see it," he said.

His voice was rough.

"You will."

"When?"

"I'll bring it next visit if they let me show you. If not, I'll print a still from it. Or I'll describe it frame by frame until the guard begs for mercy."

Another small breath of laughter.

"You would."

"I absolutely would."

Andie made a tiny sound against your chest.

Andrew went quiet instantly.

"What was that?"

"She's asleep. Just making noises."

"She okay?"

"She's perfect."

"She smiled."

"She smiled."

"At me."

"At you."

His breath caught.

"At my voice," he corrected softly.

You looked down at Andie.

Her cheek was pressed against your chest, mouth slightly open, one tiny fist curled in the collar of your shirt.

"At her dad's voice," you said.

Andrew went silent again.

This time, you let him.

Some silences needed space.

Finally, he said, "She knows me."

Your throat tightened.

"Yes."

"I know we said that before."

"I know."

"But she..."

"She smiled."

"Yeah."

You nodded even though he could not see.

"She knows you in the ways she can right now."

The line crackled.

"Your voice," you said. "Your rhythm. The way you say her name. The way you do that terrible duck voice."

"It's not terrible."

"It is beloved and terrible."

"It's one voice."

"It is a duck voice."

"It's barely a voice."

"It made your daughter smile."

That shut him up.

You smiled softly.

"Yeah," he said, very quiet. "Okay."

Andie shifted, making another sleepy sound.

You moved the phone closer to her without thinking.

"Want to talk to her?"

"She's sleeping."

"She can still hear you."

"She needs sleep."

"She can sleep and be loved at the same time."

Andrew went quiet.

Then, softer, "Put me on."

You held the phone near Andie, careful and close.

"She's listening."

Andrew's voice lowered into that tender place that belonged only to her.

"Hey, Andie."

She did not wake.

Her tiny fingers flexed against your shirt.

"I heard you smiled today."

Your eyes filled all over again.

"Your mom says it was at me."

You pressed your lips together.

"She's usually right."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"And Deran saw it, so I guess it counts."

You laughed silently.

Andrew paused.

Then, voice rougher, "I wish I saw it."

Your smile faded.

"I know."

"I will."

"You will."

"I just..." He stopped.

You waited.

He breathed out.

"I'm glad it happened."

Your heart softened.

There he was.

Not spiraling.

Not making the good thing smaller because it hurt.

Letting it be good.

"She'll do it again," you whispered.

"She doesn't have to."

"No?"

"No. Once is good."

You closed your eyes.

"Once is everything," he said.

You brought the phone back to your ear.

"She'll smile for you again."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Mother science?"

"Mother science."

A pause.

Then Andrew said, "Father science says she will."

You burst into a wet laugh.

Andie stirred.

You froze.

Andrew huffed softly. "You woke her."

"You made me laugh."

"She needs sleep."

"You are the problem."

"I am never the problem."

"Lies."

Andie settled again with a sleepy sigh.

Both of you went quiet.

"You sound tired," Andrew said.

"I am tired."

"Did you eat?"

"Yes."

"Pain meds?"

"I don't really need them much now."

"That's not what I asked."

You smiled despite yourself. "Yes, if I need them."

"Water?"

"Yes."

"Sleep?"

"I have a seven-week-old."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

His voice softened.

"You okay?"

The question was gentler now.

Not routine.

Not interrogation.

A real ask.

You looked down at Andie.

At her tiny face relaxed in sleep.

At the little mouth that had smiled at her father's voice.

"I'm okay," you said.

And you mostly were.

Tired. Lonely in the strangest ways. Happy in ways that made the loneliness sharper and softer at the same time.

But okay.

"She makes it better," you said.

Andrew was quiet.

Then, "Yeah."

"And harder."

"Yeah."

"And better again."

A breath of laughter came through the line. "Yeah."

You smiled.

The call timer beeped faintly.

Your stomach sank.

"How long?"

"Ten."

Ten minutes.

You let your head fall back against the rocking chair.

"I hate that sound."

"Me too."

"Tell me about your day."

His pause told you the answer was no.

You lifted your eyebrows though he could not see.

"Andrew."

"What?"

"Tell me something boring."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want every call to be me giving you Andie updates while you disappear into listening mode."

"I like Andie updates."

"I know. Tell me something boring anyway."

He was quiet for a second.

Then, "They served bad chicken."

You smiled. "That's terrible."

"Dry."

"How dry?"

"Very."

"Compelling."

"You asked."

"I did."

He continued, reluctantly at first, then with a little more ease. Bad chicken. Loud guy in the next unit. Recording programme had another slot next week. He had looked at the book list and there was one about a bear that seemed "less stupid than the rabbit one."

You laughed.

He tried to explain why the rabbit book was stupid.

You listened.

Andie slept through all of it, which felt like a miracle.

Near the end of the call, Andrew asked, "You play the recording every day?"

Your chest softened.

"Every day."

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes more than once."

"She doesn't get sick of it?"

"No."

"You?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Andrew, I listen to your voice read a duck book while wearing pyjamas covered in spit-up. I have never loved you more."

He went quiet.

Then, softly, "That's weird."

"It is."

"I love you too."

You smiled into the dim room.

The timer beeped again.

Five minutes.

Andie stretched against you, one arm lifting, fist opening.

You looked down.

"She's doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"Stretchy arm."

"What's that?"

"You know. The newborn stretch. Where they lift both arms like tiny old men waking from a nap."

"I don't know that."

"You will."

The words came out before you could stop them.

Not maybe.

Not someday if the system allowed.

Will.

Andrew went quiet.

Your eyes burned.

"You will," you repeated softly.

"I want to."

"I know."

"I want all of it."

"You'll get pieces."

His breathing shifted.

You hated that it was true.

But pieces mattered.

A recording.

A smile.

A phone call.

A tiny hand through glass.

His daughter knowing his voice.

"And someday," you said, "you'll get more than pieces."

He did not answer for a moment.

Then, "Yeah."

You knew he did not fully believe it yet.

That was okay.

You could believe enough for tonight.

"Ask me again," you said.

"What?"

"About the smile."

Andrew breathed out shakily.

"She smiled?"

You smiled through tears.

"She smiled."

"At my voice?"

"At your voice."

"What did she look like?"

You looked down at Andie.

"She looked happy," you whispered.

The line went silent.

You could hear the words reach him.

Happy.

His daughter.

At his voice.

"She looked happy," he repeated.

"Yeah."

The timer beeped.

One minute.

You moved the phone near Andie one last time without him asking.

"Say goodnight."

Andrew's voice came softer.

"Goodnight, Andie."

She stayed asleep.

"I love you. Keep smiling at the duck story. Your mom likes it."

You laughed quietly.

"And sleep for her tonight."

You brought the phone back.

"She will ignore that."

"Probably."

"She's your daughter."

"Yeah," he said.

There was no fear in it this time.

Only warmth.

"She is."

The final warning beeped.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you."

"And she loves you."

"I know."

You closed your eyes.

That still got you every time.

The line clicked off.

The room went quiet.

You stayed in the rocking chair for a long time after, Andie sleeping against your chest, your phone resting in your lap.

The player sat on the side table.

You looked at it.

Then at your daughter.

"You smiled at him," you whispered.

Andie slept on, mouth soft and relaxed.

You smiled.

"Show-off."

Andrew lay awake that night, one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

The unit had quieted.

Mostly.

There was always noise somewhere. A cough. A door. Someone muttering in sleep. Pipes knocking in the walls.

But beneath all of that, he heard your voice.

She looked happy.

He closed his eyes.

He tried to imagine it.

Andie on the blanket.

Her little fists.

The dark hair.

The frown.

Then the smile.

He could not get the shape right.

That frustrated him at first.

He wanted to know exactly. Wanted to see it properly. Wanted to hold the moment in his hand and study it until it belonged to him.

But maybe that was not how this worked.

Maybe some things could be his without being fully seen.

A recording sent home.

A smile he missed but caused.

A daughter who knew his voice before she could know his face.

Andrew turned onto his side and reached under his pillow.

His fingers found the folded copy of the photo from the contact visit — you had managed to get one printed after all. Him in the beige room, holding Andie with your head leaned against his shoulder, his eyes down on the baby, your hand around his wrist.

He held it carefully in the dark.

Tomorrow, maybe he would ask about recording the bear book.

Maybe the rabbit one too, even if it was stupid.

Maybe all of them.

If his voice could reach her, he would send as much of it as they allowed.

Across the city, in the green nursery, you pressed play one more time before laying Andie down.

Static.

A page turning.

Then his own voice, rough and careful.

"Hi, Andie."

Andie slept through the rest of the story with one tiny fist curled beside her cheek.

And behind concrete and locked doors, Andrew Cody fell asleep trying to imagine the shape of his daughter's smile.

Taglist - 

@itwas-maroon16, @locaalolaa, @lizzyhaas-blog. Angelbunny222, @ynniksslirg, @mn2024x, @leilawarnerr, @lillly-ofthevalley, @nyxmoretti, @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @happyendingarentreal, 

@Jennataurus, @heyyimmisunderstood,@just-reading22, @karlawithacapitalk, @alexxavicry, @tubby23, @mil88691 

@jennataurus @sarai-ibn-la-ahad 

@changbinsrightboob @labiblioteque @booknerd0394  @fromirkwood

@pinguphd, @fulla02, @nightshadestars, @rebeccaflores1 @romantic-insomniac @sage-files 

[xthepittlingx]

Inner child healing.

Pope Cody × healing!Reader ♡

Cutesy, sparkle-loving reader who has an obsession with stuffed animals and collects enough of them to have her own army. Each one filled with a memory of some sort and a name she is adamant they gave themselves in a hushed whisper that only she could hear.

As strange as Pope thinks it is at first, he doesn't stop her. In fact, after she explained how much those stuffies helped heal her inner child, he wanted to try and heal his own too.

So they started slow.

It began with dates to local aquariums where she squealed at the sight of all the fish and he internally felt baby-faced Andrew Cody, who had never experienced a moment like this before in all his life, smile and clap his hands together in awe. A sudden sense of peace flooding through his veins as he watched the creatures before him swim so beautifully through the calm waters. He also scooped up a souvenir whale shark plushie unprompted from the giftshop because those big, gentle giants were his favourite thing about the visits. Not that he said it out loud.

Feeding the ducks also became a regular activity for the pair, and he soon noticed that a lot of them remembered his face. He genuinely couldn't describe how special he felt having them waddle their way up to his crouched form to eat eagerly from the palms of his hands - quacking their thanks when he'd run dry of the little pellets his sweet, thoughtful girlfriend had said were healthier for them than pieces of bread.

Then came the sandcastle making when they visited the beaches of Oceanside, having healthy competitions when it came to who could build the highest or the most accurate.

And the inevitable, much begged for, trip to build-a-bear that ended with his girl owning an 'Andrew' bear - dressed up in jeans, a black top and a leather jacket. He had one with her likeness, too - adorned with frilly white socks and a sweet little skirt that matched the glittery pink tank she helped choose.

Andrew David Cody never got to experience a normal, healthy childhood but the girl he'd fallen in love with never let the little boy in him die. Her payment for it? Seeing the ever so wonderful smile he soon began to crack more often whenever he felt safe again.

[mariasont]

SUN-SPLIT LOVERS ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

when pope tries to protect you from his family's crude conversations, he ends up having to answer your uncomfortable questions about sex

PAIRING pope cody x bunny reader

WARNINGS suggestive content, explicit talk about sex, obsessive behavior, innocent reader, craig being a dick, mention of crying during sex, pope has dirty thoughts about reader, possessiveness, coercive undertones, age gap, emotional dependency, crude language, if u don't like it don't read!!!!

WORD COUNT 1.9k

The Cody house can be a very uncouth place to be.

Loud in every way possible, in volume and temperament too. Filthy-mouthed. Mean for the pleasure of it.

Craig says something disgusting every third sentence just to hear himself say it, just to get a laugh, just to see who flinches and who doesn’t. Deran’s no better when he’s in the mood to needle. And Smurf, when she wants to, can make a whole room feel dirty with one lifted eyebrow and six words.

Pope has never minded crude things. Never saw much use in pretending to. This place is what it is. He’s used to it. This is his life. This is simply the way he grew up.

But now you’re here, Smurf’s latest little acquisition, her new ornament to polish and put in the window.

Another pretty doll in her crooked collection. All polished and docile and good manners, brought in to handle the things Smurf considers beneath her. Logistics. Errands. Paperwork. Loose ends. The harmless-sounding parts, at least on the surface. 

Pope can’t decide how much you actually know. About any of it, really — where the money comes from, whose hands get dirty, which names to never mention again.

He bets you don’t ask, though, and Smurf must love that. Probably loves that you move through the work the way you do everything else: sweet and unassuming, smiling vacantly like you’re still asleep, floating somewhere in the middle of the ocean, eyes closed, nothing beneath you but endless dark water.

Open-hearted, oblivious, too easy and good to survive here.

So now the vulgarity of the Cody house grates on him. Makes him tense. Makes his shoulders bunch up near his ears. 

“So this chick tells me she can take it, right? Says she can handle anything. Five minutes later she’s cryin’, tellin’ me it’s too good.”

You stand against the fridge, spoon paused midway to your lips, yogurt abandoned as Craig’s drunk slurred chatter hangs in the air.

Pope watches closely, your expression a cloudy haze, eyes soft and curious and unaffected by words that should shock you into silence.

Pope’s fingers twitch at his side, the urge rising like nausea to shake you awake, to wrench you away to somewhere safe. 

He stays rooted instead, his muscles aching from the strain of keeping still as your curious voice cuts through the air.

“Why would she be crying?”

Craig looks at you blankly, his mouth hanging open as incredulity colors his face, like he’s never encountered something quiet so baffling.

A clueless girl in the Cody kitchen. It’s almost funny. It’s definitely not funny to Pope.

Deran, at least, thinks it’s funny, he makes a garbled choking sound and swivels away, a strangled laugh breaking through his arm. 

Craig continues to gape, finally managing a long breath, punctuated by hard edges: “Are you fuckin’ serious?” He tries again, mouth twisting into a smirk as he attempts an explanation, “I mean sometimes people cry when they’re gettin’ fu —”

Pope moves before his brain can catch up. His body knows something his mind hasn’t yet processed, and one second he’s pressed flat and invisible against the wall; the next he’s behind you, palms cupping over your ears. 

Your startled intake of breath dies softly under his touch, your confusion vibrating delicately against his fingertips.

“Don’t,” he growls, gaze sharp, locked onto his sibling’s stunned face. “You finish that sentence and you’ll spend the afternoon putting your jaw back together.”

Craig shakes his head. “The fuck's wrong with you? She's a grown woman. What, you think she's gonna burst into flames if she hears the word sex?” 

Pope’s eyes darken, narrowing into slits as he tightens his hold ever-so-slightly around your ears. 

“Maybe she will. Either way, you won’t be around to see it.”

Craig lets out a low laugh, running his hand through his hair like this whole standoff is just another joke, palms upraised like he’s dealing with a wild animal.

“Alright. Relax. Whatever you say, man.” 

Pope watches him retreat out of the room, Deran trailing not far behind him, likely to finish his story elsewhere.

And that’s fine. As long as he stays over there and out of ear shot of you.

The tension lingering in his tendons only just starts to loosen when he’s out by the pool.

He feels your hands reach up to pull his wrists away from your ears, fingers tentative around his rough palms. Rough palms that make him notice just how soft you feel, petal-pink nails sinking into the course terrain of his own skin.

The contrast is jarring. Scarred knuckles, raised veins, and a web of old cuts meeting hands that have never know real violence.

You pivot in his space, turning to stand toe-to-toe with him. 

You smell like whipped vanilla and candied pears. He forces himself not to lean closer, not to draw in another desperate breath because he wants to pin the scent down, memorize it, peel it apart note by note until he knows exactly what clings to your skin and your hair and your clothes.

“What was that for?” you ask.

Pope looks at you. “You don’t need Craig ‘splainin’ things to you.”

“Does that mean you’d rather explain things to me?”

Is that what he meant? Pope isn’t sure, and the uncertainty bothers him more than he wants to admit. The idea of you coming to him with your honest confusion, earnestly asking him to explain the gritty specifics of things he can hardly voice — no, that sounds like a terrible idea.

You have to know the basics, surely. Isn’t that enough? Pope thinks so. He thinks, really, the less detail you know, the safer your carefully maintained sense of self remains. The longer you stay wrapped in that protective bubble, unblemished by knowledge you shouldn’t have, the better.

Pope doesn't want to be the one who breaks it open. 

“I’m no good at explaining things like that,” he says finally. “Just don’t need Craig putting ideas in your head either. Or anyone else for that matter.”

You take a small step back, and Pope feels like he’s finally getting air into his lungs again. It’s short-lived. You scoop another spoonful of yogurt into your mouth, pretty lips pursed around the spoon, before you tilt your head and look at him thoughtfully. 

“Then… how am I supposed to learn anything?” you ask.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, aware of the incremental tightening of his pants. Fucking pathetic, he thinks.

He clenches his jaw tight before speaking. “You don’t need to know everything. Some things you’re better off not knowing, yeah?”

Your brows knit together. “But wouldn’t it be better if I at least knew —”

Pope cuts you off sharper than he intends. “No. You heard me. Drop it.”

You look away from him, nodding as your shoulders sink a little. “Right. Sorry.”

The frown on your face settles like a shadow Pope desperately wants to wipe away.

It sits wrong there, out of place, disturbing, even. He realizes, abruptly, that he hates seeing you even the tiniest bit upset. He’s not used to it; your smiles come so easily that your unhappiness feels tangible, something he’s placed there.

Something he’s responsible for. It’s rare to see your features drawn up like this. 

God, he’s really fucking this up, isn’t he?

He’s always been a little awkward, always a little too blunt, and no good at smoothing things over. He doesn’t know what comes next, doesn’t understand how to mend whatever he’s broken. Maybe that’s always been the problem, that hollow feeling at the back of his brain, the missing part, the empty gap everyone else seems born knowing how to fill.

“Shit, listen, kid,” Pope clears his throat, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean anything by it, alright? I just meant Craig talks a lot of bullshit and there’s stuff said around here that you really don’t need to learn. But —” He sighs, glancing down at his knuckles. “You’re an adult. If you wanna know things, it’s your call.”

You lift yourself onto the counter, legs swinging gently as you bring another distracted spoonful of yogurt to your mouth. 

“So if I do decide I wanna know something…” You pause, eyes turned up to the ceiling as if testing the air, probing at an unknown territory. “You’ll tell me about it?”

“Yeah,” Pope says slowly. 

He can’t quite meet your gaze, his eyes tracking the linoleum pattern like it’s the most compelling thing in the room. He knows he has no real choice in the matter. Better he’s the one who delivers the hard truth rather than you seeking answers elsewhere. With someone else.

“So…” you say slowly, voice dipping into something quieter, almost shy now. You lift on foot onto the counter, unthinking, the fabric of your skirt slipping upward. Soft pink underwear flashes at the edge of Pope’s vision. “Why exactly was that girl crying — with Craig?”

He takes two steps towards you, broad shoulders angled slightly to shield you from the rest of the room should someone walk in.

He keeps his eyes steadfastly fixed on your face, even as his fingers curl tense at his side, nails biting deep into his palms. 

It’s torture, but he doesn’t glance down. Not even for a second.

He hesitates at your question, searching for words that fit just right. He’s not sure he’ll find them, but he forces himself through it anyway.

“Craig was, uh — he was tryin’ to say she was crying because the sex was good, I guess. But, it’s not always just that. People cry for all kinds of reasons during sex. Could be physical, emotional, whatever. It’s complicated sometimes.” He pauses again, clearing his throat. “People have complex reactions to physical stuff like that.”

“Have you ever —?” Your teeth press carefully into your lower lip. He can see the follow-up question forming in your eyes. “Have you ever cried, you know… during?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, uncomfortable already. “Happens.” 

The word feels too small for it. Happens. Like it’s the same as catching a cold. 

“Oh.” 

And then his brain takes a turn and he’s picturing you. A common theme. You with glassy and wide eyes, dark mascara streaking down your cheeks in inky lines as he pounds inside you.

He can almost hear your breath catching, a soft sob, the slick slide of tears along your face for him to kiss away. 

Given your question, Pope doubts you’ve ever felt something so intensely vulnerable. Probably never cried during sex.

Maybe you haven’t even had sex, though he tries not to assume things. Still, it seems likely, given your blushes, your hesitations, the way your eyes widen at even the most indirect innuendos. You could have some scattered experiences, maybe, fragments of intimacy without ever fully grasping how it all works. 

He doesn’t like the sudden flare of possessiveness he feels; he doesn’t want to imagine anyone else ever seeing you like that. 

Pope clears his throat, banishing the image away. “So, uh, did that… answer what you wanted to know? You satisfied now, or?”

Your fingers move to twist the hem of your skirt. You look up through your lashes.

“Yeah,” you murmur finally, a little unsure and entirely too sweet. “I mean, I think so. For now.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You let me know if that changes, then.”

Craig’s voice cuts through the kitchen before either of you can say anything else, his footsteps heavier than usual as he strides back inside from the glass doors.

Pope reaches out and pulls your leg down, adjusting the hem of your skirt in the process.

His skin burns from where he touched you. 

“I’m tellin’ you, if she can’t fit both —”

Pope interrupts him by stepping forward, giving him a swift shove against the wall. Hard. Craig smacks shoulder-first into the wall with a loud thunk.

“Jesus, Pope. What’s your damage today?”

Pope steps back with a neutral expression, shaking out the tension in his knuckles. “Just doing everyone a favor.”

He avoids your eyes, heat still burning up the back of his neck.

A/N - this reader series will be a lil different than my usual i think... will end up being pretty dark and twisty!!! read at your own risk! and to reiterate!! if you don't like, don't read!

FIND MY MASTERLIST HERE! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[moodyabbott]

he wants me dead

[dilfrobinavitch]

instagram stories if you were dating andrew pope cody ✧

part 1 of ?

[thykingdoncome]

untouched, xo

summary: you need help getting one of J's asshole friends to stop hitting on you.

|| pope cody x reader || angst, heavy making out, touchstarved!pope, jealous!pope, fake dating trope, pope is v socially awkward (leave my baby alone!!), age gap, non canon timeline, no specific season but earlyish, mentions of drugs and alcohol consumption, character study || a/n: based on diet pepsi by addison rae - potential smutty p2? wc: 3k

Pope wasn't sure if he hated the summer or loved it.

He hung out awkwardly in a chair by the pool, cold beer sweating in his hand under the glare of the early summer sun. San Diego had a habit of being hot nearly all year round, but there was something about the end of spring that had everyone and their mother calling the Codys for a party. Bikinis, drugs, old friends of his brothers he barely talked to. All in the name of summer. By noon the backyard already smelled like chlorine, sunscreen, cigarette smoke, and grilled meat from the burgers Deran was flipping on the grill. Music blared from the speakers mounted under the patio awning so loud it vibrated the large floor to ceiling windows of the house.

With J taking college classes too, there had been more people around. Pope always figured his nephew was more the loner type, same as him, even if girls seemed to flock to the kid anyway. But college had done something to J—it seemed to draw him out of his shell a little. He had more friends around the house, more nights out, more people filling Smurf’s backyard until Pope barely recognized half of them anymore.

That's how they'd met you, too.

You—just a friend of J's, you'd clarified more than once to Pope—who looked so fucking cute in that little red bikini you had on. He could just see the red ties of the bottoms poking from cutoff shorts with the frays brushing your thighs every time you moved. A can of Diet Pepsi sat in your hand with one of those little pink straws poking out the top so you wouldn’t ruin your lipstick. Pope always made sure they stayed stocked in the garage fridge, even if he didn’t spend as much time at Smurf’s house anymore. But when he knew the guys were throwing something, when he knew J would be here, he somehow always found his way back over. Because if J was here, there was a good chance you’d be trailing in behind him sooner or later.

But he often wondered what you and J truly were, no matter how many times you said he was a friend. Why were the two of you tied at the hip so god damn much? It made Pope's knuckles blanch when he thought of all the time his nephew got to spend with you.

Now you were standing across the yard with your head tipped back laughing at something J said while Nicky stood beside you smoking a shared joint, the end burning bright orange each time she inhaled. Smoke curled through the air around all of you, mixing with the sharp chemical smell of pool chlorine baking under the heat. Pope watched J lean down closer to hear whatever you were saying over the music and felt his jaw tighten hard enough to ache.

"Hey—"

He looked over to see Craig handing him a fresh beer. Pope hadn’t even realized the one in his hand was empty already, his knuckles white around the neck of the bottle.

He merely grunted, taking it from his brother.

"You look like you need something harder than a beer, but I know you better."

Pope's lip twitched, hardly stealing a glance at him.

Craig let out a low whistle. “What’s got your panties in a twist today, huh?”

Pope finally looked over at him then. Craig had his sunglasses shoved up into his hair, dark locks tucked behind his ears, blue eyes narrowed with curiosity and amusement.

"Go away." Pope said simply.

"Oh, now I really wanna know." Craig grinned as he sat down beside him.

Pope clicked his tongue against his teeth and twisted the cap off the beer, taking a long drink of the cold amber liquid while his eyes drifted back toward you again. By then the back gate was opening, and he watched your entire demeanor change.

First, it was your smile that slipped. Then your eyes flicked toward the guys coming through the gate, then over to Nicky beside you, and you murmured something to her, but Pope was too far away and it was so fucking loud out here to hear anything. His attention sharpened immediately anyway, ears pricking up like a mutt waiting for a command.

The guys spilling into the backyard were long and lean in only that college-kid kind of way. Floppy hair, muscle tees loose over wiry arms, sunburnt shoulders, a thirty pack of Bud Light swinging between them. Pope knew the type without ever stepping foot on a campus himself.

"Oh, shit." Craig muttered when he followed Pope's hardened gaze.

One of the guys had walked right up behind you, tossing an arm over your shoulders familiarly, and yet Pope saw your whole body go still under it. He couldn’t see your expression from here, only the way your head turned slightly toward Nicky. Across from you, J stood with his beer hanging loose in his hand, watching quietly, his face flattening out into that cold look he’d gotten better at lately. The Cody look.

"Easy, man. She's fine." he heard his little brother say beside him.

Pope felt like he was vibrating as he watched, ready to jump at any sign of this asshole giving you a hard time. He knew you could handle yourself too, but there was something about this guys confidence, how he thought he could come into his house and prey on his girl.

Pope stopped himself there. Not his girl. Not his house, really, either. He bit down on the inside of his cheek until his mouth filled with the taste of iron.

Then you slipped neatly out from under the guy’s arm, moving away from the group while lifting your drink toward the questioning looks they threw after you. Gotta get a refill. you called over your shoulder, as you walked away quickly.

But the second your back turned to them, your expression dropped. Plain annoyance sat across your face clear as day. Your shoulders folded inward a little while you crossed through the yard, weaving between people with your drink clutched against your stomach, making yourself smaller.

A little bit later, when you came back out into the yard with a new cold drink in hand, Craig was talking about some job he'd found—some mattress warehouse with a safe stacked with cash. Pope was only half listening. His attention snagged the second you stepped through the sliding glass door barefoot, little beads of condensation sliding down the side of your soda can onto your fingers.

You paused halfway across the patio, clearly intending to head back toward J, but the view of all those guys still talking around him seemed to make you pause. Your fingers tapped the side of the aluminum can in your hand, and then—to his surprise and horror—your head swiveled, and you were looking at him.

At Pope.

And now you were walking towards him. His heart lept in his chest.

Craig noticed immediately, straightening up in his lounge chair with that easy grin he wore around pretty girls.

"Hey—" Craig started, but you weren't even looking at him.

“Do me a favor?” you asked Pope quietly. He didn't even register the question—the answer would always be yes for you. He was nodding before he knew what you needed.

Your gaze flicked over your shoulder at the sound of footsteps coming across the concrete.

It all happened very quickly, and yet—he remembered it as if it was slow motion.

You bent toward him, fingers slipping around his wrist first, then into his hand—cold and wet to the touch from your soda—and his callouses scraped against your soft skin. You lifted his hand carefully, guiding his arm out of the way so you could turn yourself between and sit down onto his lap. The soft wash of your shorts brushed against the black denim of his jeans, your weight settling over his left thigh, and Pope stopped breathing for a second.

You—you were touching him. Sitting in his lap. In front of everyone.

His hand stayed where you’d moved it, hovering awkwardly over your hip, fingers flexing in midair, his brain choking on what to do next. He could smell your green apple shampoo when you leaned back into him, could feel the heat of your legs through his jeans.

Was this a joke? Had you planned to make fun of him? To show all your little friends how much of a freak he was?

"Just go with it," you whispered into his ear, your hand coming up behind his neck, manicured fingers delicately cupping his skin. Despite the heat, his flesh rose up in goosebumps. You were balancing your soda awkwardly in the other hand while reaching back for his still-hovering arm, guiding it around your waist yourself. Your fingers pressed gently against the back of his hand until he held you properly, as if soothing him.

Most of his palm landed against the rough denim of your shorts, but his fingertips brushed frayed fabric and warm skin underneath. The bare top of your thigh. He wouldn't let himself look at you properly— the skimpy red bikini top showing more skin than he could handle so close to him, bare shoulders shining with the glow of sunscreen and your chest dabbled with sweat. He swallowed thickly.

Your head turned towards the guys who were walking over, and the one in the middle—Asshole who put his arm around you—had stopped completely. His shoulders were tight, his glare ice cold.

But Pope was meaner. He knew how to do this, at least—how to play the guard dog, the meanest, eldest Cody brother. It was a role he slipped into easily, like second nature. The two of them stared at each other for a long minute.

Then J appeared beside the kid, clapping a hand onto his shoulder and saying something about putting their beer in the fridge. The group drifted away slowly after that, disappearing through the sliding door.

You let out a long sigh, your shoulders lightening as your fingers unlatched from Pope's neck. He missed the touch almost immediately.

"Thanks," you said.

Pope looked up at you. You were smiling gently down at him, casual as anything, but he soon realized that you weren't making any moves to get up. Your arm was still around his back, his still on the top of your thigh, but neither of you seemed eager to move away.

He just nodded stiffly. "Sure."

Your smile widened as the two of you studied each other. He watched you lift your soda, bringing the pink straw to your mouth. Pope did his god damn best not to let his eyes flit over your lips as you took a long sip.

He heard a huff of breath beside him suddenly.

"Well, that guy seemed like a dick."

You startled a little, turning your head like you’d forgotten Craig was still sitting there at all.

"Oh, hey Craig, I'm sorry—" you said, and you moved to finally get up, but Pope held on fast. He wouldn't let his baby brother take this from him.

When you looked back at Pope, your brows pulled together faintly in question. Something curious flickered there for a moment, but then your expression softened, like you understood anyway. You leaned down, lips to his ear, "Let me just switch sides, that okay?"

Pope's lips tightened. He suddenly became painfully aware of every awkward thing about himself. The way his hand probably sat too stiff against your waist. The fact that your breath sent a tingle down his spine, making his jeans suddenly feel too tight. And the fact he hadn’t said anything smooth this entire time. Anybody else would've known how to play this—smile, flirt a little, maybe make you laugh. But no, you were the charming one. The one who knew how to flirt, how to handle him.

So, he let go.

You kept your promise, only switching to his other thigh, letting his brother get an eye full of you now. You did the same thing again—bringing your hand around so you could take his, pulling it against yourself without even a moment of hesitation while you looked at the tallest Cody.

“Sick party,” you told Craig, lifting your drink in distant cheers. “How are you?”

Craig smiled back, all shiny teeth and charm as he held his beer up in salute, "I'm doin' good. What's up with your little friend?"

You rolled your eyes, "The guy has been trying to get me to go out with him for weeks." you sipped your drink again, eyes flickering over into the glass windows of the house, watching Asshole and his cronies from afar, "Except his version of taking me out is fucking me in the back his mom's BMW."

Pope was in the middle of taking a sip of beer when you said it, nearly choking.

"What the fuck did you just say?" he demanded. It was probably the most words he’d strung together to you all day. Hell, maybe all month.

But suddenly his head was making up different scenarios, none of them involving you in the back of Asshole's car, instead, he was wondering what the kid's head would sound like bouncing off the concrete when Pope's fist met it.

Your brows jumped a little at his reaction, but you only shrugged, unbothered. “He’s a dickhead. I’ve been trying to tell him I have a boyfriend, but he doesn’t believe me.”

"Do you?" Craig asked.

Pope thought maybe his little brother wasn’t completely useless after all.

He saw you shake your head in his periphery, and his heart, the traitorous thing, began to pound in his chest a little.

“No,” you admitted softly. “And I don’t think our little performance convinced him much either.”

Your gaze drifted back toward the sliding doors just as the group started filing outside again. Pope felt your body tense slightly on his thigh before you muttered a quiet, Oh, fuck my life under your breath. The asshole slowed when he passed, taking another long look at where you sat in Pope’s lap.

And Pope stared right back at him, lip curling.

Once they had gone towards the other side of the pool, he heard his brother say lightly: “I bet if you made out in front of him, they'd buy it.”

"Shut your mouth." Pope snapped, his hard glare turning on his brother.

But you barely seemed to hear either of them. You kept looking over your shoulder toward the yard, eyes skimming from Asshole to J and Nicky talking nearby, chewing lightly at your lip while you thought about something.

When you turned back to Pope and his brother, you had a funny look on your face.

Pope frowned slightly. “What's wrong?”

You hesitated, studying his face. You had lost that easy confidence from a moment before, fingers playing with your straw as you looked at him.

"Would that… ? No, no nevermind." you said, shaking your head. You cut yourself off by lifting your drink to your mouth again, shifting a little on his thigh in the process. The movement dragged your hip against him, making him painfully aware of just how much he was affected by your closeness.

Beside him, Craig made a strangled noise trying not to laugh. When Pope looked over, his brother was practically vibrating in his chair, eyebrows climbing halfway up his forehead while he grinned like a complete asshole.

"Get outta here, go—" Pope barked.

Craig finally lost the fight against his grin. He held both hands up in mock surrender while getting up from the lounge chair and walked away, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Sorry,” Pope murmured once his brother was out of earshot.

He took another swallow of beer and leaned down to set the bottle carefully beside the chair, his movements slower now, more aware of you sitting there against him than anything else.

You shrugged, "It was…a good idea."

Pope's brows pulled together when he looked at you. God, you were so fucking close. The feel of your warm, soft skin against him, the smell of your apple shampoo mixing with sunscreen and the syrupy fake-sweet scent of the Diet Pepsi in your hand. He still couldn't believe you were sitting on his lap. Touching him. Pulling his arm around you as if it natural, like there wasn’t anything strange or dangerous about him to hesitate over.

And now you were looking at him with that look, something behind your eyes he couldn’t immediately sort out, and the fact he couldn’t sort it out made his stomach knot. As uncomfortable as he made people feel sometimes, Pope could still catch onto things. Patterns. He was always used to the way people acted, knew if they were lying because they started acting differently around him. But you never did that with him, and you never looked nervous around him like this before.

A thought occurred to him, one that made his stomach hurt even worse. Maybe you saw him for what he was—scary, mean; Smurf's dog made to heel and bark and bite when she commanded it. He became horribly aware of himself under your searching gaze—how tightly his hand was holding your thigh, how he could still just feel the top edge of your skin, your shoulder bumping into his chest when you'd shift.

And maybe you'd just realized whose lap you were in.

"Andrew…" you murmured, "Are you okay?"

He nodded.

You set your drink down in a hurry, cold aluminum knocking lightly against the concrete beside the chair before both your hands came up to his neck, fingers spreading against his skin as you tipped his face upward toward yours. Your touch was cold, wet from the soda.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I'm sorry."

You were touching him again. Both hands on his neck. Your face was so close to his. Noses nearly bumping. He could make out every clump of mascara around your eyes, your smudged lipstick. It made him nearly nauseous with want. Your eyes—they were worried. Why were you so worried to be around him now?

"I shouldn't have asked—or even—I don't know, Craig said it and for some reason I thought maybe—"

The gears in his brain finally started catching up after spinning uselessly for the last few minutes, thoughts grinding slowly into place one after another while he stared at your mouth moving so close to his.

What Craig had said… What had his brother said?

I bet if you made out in front of him, they’d buy it.

“You…” he managed finally, his mouth dry as cotton, heart thudding so hard it hurt. “Want to…?”

You licked your lips nervously, and the movement nearly derailed his thoughts again immediately.

"Not if it makes you uncomfortable. I just…” You sighed and glanced over your shoulder toward the yard. Your hair brushed lightly across his nose before you looked back at him again.

“I’m gonna lie to you and tell you it’s only to make this guy get off my back, okay?”

“What’s the truth?” he asked quietly, somehow finding enough nerve to force the words out.

Your teeth caught your bottom lip. “I just need you to tell me if it’s okay to do this—”

You leaned closer.

Pope’s hand moved before he could think better of it, wrapping carefully around your wrist to stop you there. So soft—the delicate bones of your joint in his rough hand.

"Y-yes but—what's the truth?" he echoed. He had to know. He had to.

You were hardly listening now, your attention splitting somewhere between him and the movement in the yard behind him, and Pope’s brain kept trying to grab onto something solid, some version of this that made sense, because he had to be out of his fucking mind to think maybe you meant what he desperately wanted you to mean. Maybe you actually—

But then your eyes flicked over his shoulder again, and Pope’s gaze followed yours automatically, catching the group of guys heading back across the patio towards you with J in tow, and suddenly your fingers tightened against Pope's face.

And then you turned into him, and kissed him.

You tasted like aspartame.

That syrupy sweet taste from the soda, like the waxy, cherry lipstick that you kept in your pocket. The smell of apple shampoo and sunscreen filled his nose while your lips pressed hard against his with a little gasp that went straight down his belly and into his dick. You didn’t kiss him shyly either. Pope could tell immediately you were trying to make a point, trying to push this far enough that anybody watching would understand exactly what they were seeing.

When he felt your tongue trace the seam of his lips, he didn't care anymore. He didn't care if this was some ruse to get Asshole off your back, he didn't care if you didn't actually like him, because fuck your tongue felt so good against his mouth. He was opening for you, tasting you back, and he could've sworn—under the noise of the music blaring, of the pool water splashing and people talking over one another—he heard a small, little helpless moan from your throat when he finally kissed you back properly.

His hands tightened around you immediately, both arms circling your waist to drag you closer against him until there was hardly any room left between you—your shoulder pressed tightly into his chest, a little awkward with the way you sat sideways across his thigh, but he didn't give a shit.

It felt endless and too short all at once, your tongues sliding together smoothly while you held his face so tenderly it made his throat tighten, and then little by little that tenderness started disappearing into want and hunger. Your fingers pushed into his hair harder now, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, making his breath stutter against your mouth.

“Holy shit.”

The voice cut through the air beside you like a gunshot beside him. The party seemed to rush back in all around at once—the sounds of people shouting scores for dives off the pool house, music blasting, the sliding door opening and closing.

And then you were pulling back, lips unlatching from his. To Pope’s immediate disappointment it was Deran standing there frozen beside the cooler with a beer halfway out of the ice.

He licked his lips automatically even as he glared at his brother, catching the lingering taste of you on his mouth, and when he looked up at you again your lips were swollen and shiny.

You glanced toward the group of guys across the yard, then Deran with a quick, oh-- hi, Deran, before looking back at Pope. Your hands were still around his neck, and you were leaning in again. But this time, your lips went to his ear.

“The truth is, Andy...” you murmured softly.

Pope felt another shiver move through him at the feel of your breath against his neck, and his grip tightened on your little denim shorts as you said, “…I've wanted to do that for a long time.”

And then, as if you'd merely said thanks, pope, bye! you were pulling away from him, brushing your thumb across his top lip, wiping away whatever lipstick you'd left him with, and you were standing from his lap and walking off through the yard like you hadn’t just detonated his entire fucking nervous system in front of half the party.

Deran let out a low laugh beside him before grabbing a pool towel from the chair nearby and tossing it at Pope’s chest.

“You’re gonna wanna sit there for a minute,” he said. “Wait out that, uh… problem.”

Pope glared at his brother over the towel clutched in his lap.

why am I literally so nervous and would you like a part two yes or no

[moonbug333]

“would you like a part two yes or no” i think i might go insane if you don’t make a part two

[p1ttlings]

SWEET CREATURE!

021. not quite

warnings . . . lewd conversations, curse words, mentions of the previous sexual scene (fingering), foot fetish talk again lmaoooo, making out, boob talk, sleep deprived so this is all i can think of will put more if needed. wc: 1.3k

You’re perched on Pope’s bed, back and posture stiff, unsure of how to act. Should you even been inside of his room without asking? What if he didn’t want to makeout with you tonight? Are you taking advantage of him? Does he even want to makeout with you at all? 

What are you talking about? He fingered you. If he can shove his fingers in you, he can definitely push his lips to yours… right?  

You drop yourself dramatically onto his bed with a loud groan, your mind racing. What if? Why? Why not? Will he? Won’t he? It won’t stop. 

“You look like a fish out of water.” His familiar voice has you sitting up, eyes wide in shock. 

“Geez,” you huff, embarrassed by the way you were flopping around in his perfectly made bed. Which is now unmade. “I need you to get louder shoes. Ones that squeak. Or the light up ones so I know when you’re coming.” 

He shrugs, leaning against the shut door of his bedroom. “How else am I supposed to catch you doing weird shit?”

“Haha.” You deadpan. “Where were you? I’ve been waiting here forever.” 

“Handling something.” 

You grin, leaning back on your arms. “Oooooh, did you beat up your brother for me?” It’s a tease. You don’t truly believe he’d get into a fight with his brother over you.

You may joke like you are, but you’re not stupid. The web of odd familial ties in the Cody family are… borderline incestuos. Weird. Confusing. And you don’t doubt that it’s all Janine Cody’s fault. She has a way of making anyone in a room with her feel powerless. You see it with the gardeners she watches over as they work, the way she speaks to her sons, even her lawyer who isn’t around often, but you’ve seen a few times. 

Conversing with the woman feels like she’s ripping your chest open and grabbing at everything she can, inspecting you. As terrible as it makes you feel, you try to push that back on your schedule for Lena until the very last second, even to the point where Lena can’t see the woman from the constant activities you take the little girl to. 

“No.” Is his lacking response. 

You sigh dramatically, “and here I thought you were my knight in shining armor.” 

“I’m not that.” 

“Clearly.” 

The silence isn’t awkward but the way his hands are rubbing at his jeans, tells you that he does believe it to be so. You stand, tugging at your t-shirt to fall over your body. “So, you—” 

“Do you think we can reschedule?” His voice sounds almost shaky. Almost, not quite nervous, more ashamed. He clears his throat, “I don’t think I'm up for—“ 

You nod, immediately feeling the guilt eat away at you. “Of course, Pope.” You take a step back, sitting back down on the bed, afraid to make him feel afraid. “You don’t even have to makeout with me at all. I was only joking. Well… half-joking.” 

He sighs, bothered by your words. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to makeout with you. Just… another day.” 

“I didn’t say that you didn’t—“ 

“Stop talking.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I don’t think I want to makeout with you anymore.” He admits. 

“Jesus.” You cackle, “what’s up your ass?” 

“You.” 

“Oh, baby, I wish I was.” You get up off the bed, making a thrusting motion with your hips, hands out like you’re holding onto somebody. “Get all up in there.” 

He grimaces, “that’s disgusting.” 

“Fine.” You stop, “I’ll leave.” 

“You should.” He agrees. He doesn’t move off the door, still pressed up against it. 

It’s impossible to hold back your grin. “You gonna let me out?” 

He doesn’t speak. His eyes are on you in that intense manner he usually carries. The constipated look, Nicky would say. 

“Hello?” You tease, “anyone in there?” 

“Fuck it…” he breathes low, cutting the distance between you in two steps. His hands are on either side of your face, pulling you into him. And his lips are on yours. 

You don’t spare a second, hands falling to his waist, face tilting to deepen the kiss, noses nudging as you do so. And he delivers on your wish. The kiss is hot and heavy, tongue lapping into your mouth as the back of your knees push against his soft bed. Your hands move from his sides to his chest, then back down to the bottom of his shirt, urging him to remove it. 

He pulls his lips from yours with a loud smack, “no,” he shakes his head, removing your itching fingers from his shirt. “Not that.” 

You groan, leaning your forehead to his chest. “Fine. Can I dry hump you at least?” 

His eyebrows furrow, “are we teenagers?”

You scoff, lifting your head to eye him. “Dry humping is a lost art. I’ve made it my duty to bring it back to light. Think about it. The act is—“

“Shut up.” He groans, annoyed as he grabs your chin and presses his lips to yours again. One of his hands lowers to your waist, down to your hip, and ends at your thigh, gripping your leg high up on his leg. 

“Pope!” You squeal when he drops you onto his bed. “What the fuck?!” 

“What?” He shrugs, not caring. “Swear you told me that you like it when a man manhandles you.” 

“Yeah, I like it when they grope my ass or spin me to push me up against a surface, not throw me like a ragdoll!”

“Miscommunication.” His tone is bored as he grabs your hips, pulling you to lay atop of him, lips meeting yours again. 

You pull from him, sitting up. “Can I take my shirt off?” You ask breathily. 

“W-what? Why?” 

You shrug, “want you to admire my boobs.” 

He looks bewildered, eyes wide and shocked as he looks up at you. “Don’t look so surprised.” You scoff, “I love my boobs. All my friends have seen them.” 

“Wha—“ you tug your shirt off, left in your ugly sports bra. 

“Oh my god, wait!” You cover his eyes with your hands. 

He flinches, but doesn’t push your hands away. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“My bra is ugly.” You groan. “Pretend what you saw was sexy lingerie.” 

He doesn’t speak for a moment, lying back with his eyes covered by your hands. “It wasn’t that bad.” 

“I’ve had this bra since I was a freshman.” 

“… in college?” 

“No.” 

“Okay.” He admits, “that’s kinda gross.” 

You scoff, moving your hand from his eyes to pinch his nose. “It is not. I wash it regularly and I’ve only had to stitch one slit since then. And bras are expensive. You can only talk shit if you buy me new ones.” 

“I will.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I will. What’s your size?” 

“Big as fuck.” 

He scoffs, moving your hand from his eyes, sitting up and moving you to straddle his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. His big hands are gripping your hips, securing you on him. Without skipping a beat, “take it off.” 

You don’t hesitate to tug the piece off, tits spilling out for him. You hear the way his breath hitches, eyes dancing on your chest. He won’t look away, even when you wiggle on his lap. “Hello? My face is up here.” You sing, desperate to get him to look at you. “You know, this is a lot more than a sloppy makeout. If I were a freaky person, I would say you’re trying to sl—“ 

“Oh, god…” he breathes, moving you off of his lap and getting up off the bed himself. 

You’re scared, watching him carefully as you sit on his bed, tits out. “A-are you okay?” You ask, eyes searching his body for any sign of discomfort. 

“Y-yeah, I’m fine.” He’s turning his body away from you, facing the bedroom door. “You should— you should go.” 

But you’re too concerned to follow his wishes. Instead, you sit up and reach over to him, noticing the way his body is shaking. “Pope…?” You place your hand on his bicep, desperate to help him.

He flinches away, “just go.” 

authors note . . . to my big bitches (me) he can and will toss you around. don’t let no twig man stop u

taglist (closed(. . . @theariespov @slytherclaw1978 @manilovewomen1 @harhar0777  @cassierins @hhusbuds  @shitface-t @firstlyferrari @marauvderss @vesperazhier @love-pluto-love @peachyfckingkeen @wylewhims @byfragonard @xreader1989 @inbred-eater @verygentlementrash @sagelovesbooks @callmestgalex @robinavitchabbotslut @momdancingtomcr @pr3ttygirlavenue @cherryybombbthoughts @tatoda @cosmicneptune @buckystwilight @iansunibrow @cosmosnkaz @feminine-ominon @caterppillar @milestellerismybf @scream4mami @niyizh @4ngelest @4rtem4r @miauforme @archxve @ellieslaces @edynmeyer1 @sunbonesss @tojiramisu @xoxabs88xox @stylesonlyangel4 @flirtism @viviannagiorgini @mimiunfiltered @tumbletune @croissant31 @beths-shoelaces @iriths

[fandomunite2107]

Pretty Sounds ♥️

Robby puts his hand over your mouth after a particularly loud moan. “You don’t want to wake up Jack now do you, baby? You need to keep quiet. He had a long shift.”

He continues to keep his hand over your mouth as he drags his cock through your wet folds and notches at your entrance. Robby slowly enters and whispers into your ear. “Such a good girl staying quiet. Think you can keep doing that?” You nod your head as you bite your lower lip to keep as quiet as you can. Robby removes his hand from your mouth and wipes at a tear that fallen near your cheek.

At one point, you turn your head and look at Jack asleep on the other side of the king bed. Robby notices that you’re not looking at him and does a particularly deep thrust, making you gasp. He takes your head and turns it back to him. “Eyes on me baby. If I’m making you cum, you’re looking at me.”

Robby starts to pick up the pace and his fingers find your clit moving in just the right tight circles. Your thighs start to shake and you can’t hold back moaning Robby’s name as you grab his biceps.

There’s movement from the other side of the bed. Robby notices that Jack is now awake and sitting up with his back against the headboard watching you two. Robby grabs your hips and makes an adjustment to the angle. “Sorry brother, she can never be quiet.”

Jack brushes some of your hair away from your face. “It’s fine. Just means we’re doing something right, doesn’t it sweetheart. Go on. You don’t have to be quiet anymore. Let us hear those pretty sounds you make.”

Robby takes that comment as challenge to get you to make as many sounds as he can. He repeatedly finds the perfect spot, making you clench so hard around him that you see black spots. “Fuck me. You’re gripping me tight, baby.” You cry out his name as you cum. Robby follows right behind you, spilling inside of you. “Jesus Christ.” He rolls onto his back over on his side of the bed.

Jack pulls you closer to him and kisses your forehead. “You good, sweetheart?” You nod, still trying to catch your breath.

“Alright, let’s get some sleep now.” Jack maneuvers you so that he’s lined up with your entrance, that’s dripping with Robby’s cum. He nudges his tip into you. “Don’t want you making a mess all over these sheets.” He slides in the rest of the way, making you whine because you’re still sensitive from Robby.

Robby rolls closer and brushes some of your hair back. “Be a good girl and give Jack a kiss goodnight. He’s had a hard shift and needs some rest, baby.”

You raise your head up and kiss Jack. “Goodnight Jack.” He puts his hand on the back of your head and kisses you throughly for a moment. Jack breaks the kiss to kiss your forehead. “Such the perfect girl for us.” You fall asleep a few moments later with Jack still inside you and Robby’s chest pressed against your back.

——————-

[nurse-abbot]

Jack Abbot x Witchy!girlie

- she gets him to pick out a crystal that “speaks to him.” He doesn’t know what that means but picks a cool blue shiny one. “Ooh, that once good for emotional balance,” she’d say. “I’m going to charge it then you need to keep it in your pocket.” “Why?” He’d ask. She’d laugh as if he were silly for even asking the question, “to keep you safe baby.”

- their apartment always smells of incense. It isn’t overpowering. She chooses homey scents - lavender, sandal wood, rosemary.

- soy candles are all over their apartment too. Jack likes it. It’s homey and comforting - especially after the bright artificial lights of the hospital.

- he often finds her cross legged on the floor doing her daily tarot pulls and always asks if he wants one. He’s surprised at how accurate they are and he finds himself relying on them to know if a shift will be chaos or not.

- he takes her to her favourite witchy shops and watches as she eyes the beautiful new tarot decks and crystal spheres but leaves them knowing it’s not in her budget right now. He sneaks back when they’re having a coffee break to buy them for her.

- he often finds himself texting her when a shift is going bad, asking what planet is in retrograde and what the cards are saying. She often replies “people are just assholes Jack without any planets to blame” and “the cards can’t replace medicine baby.”