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it always feels like pope’s in your stomach when you’re his girl. the memory of his cock stuffing his way into your cunt isn’t something you can usually shake.
it’s similar to the feeling of watching his large, bulky frame bend over to pick something up off the couch and seeing a sliver of his toned back when his shirt rides up. a deep twist, almost like hunger… an empty tummy when you should be satiated.
he was in your guts about 2 hours ago but still… the slow grind, pulsing palms mashing against each other and spreading heat and want and the heady scent of yearning.
when he lifts back up he turns to look at you in surprise, “ya alright?” his flighty eyes drag across you & then the room awkwardly– he can practically feel the heat and pulsing of your belly from where he stands.
vascular arms, tight t-shirt, broad shoulders cutting through the air as he straightens up. your hand presses to your stomach as your half lidded eyes take him in.
press, press, press. but nothing mirrors the sleeve of you cradling his cock closer & closer into your stomach.
depraved, you shake your head and whisper “wanna feel you again.” “n-now?” “now, please.” “b-i… what if you’re still sore?” “don’t care andrew, please now.”
it doesn’t take long for him to decide, especially not when he sees your smaller palm pressing into your stomach in thrusts; mirroring the rhythm he had you in this morning.
scooping you up like an angry bull, breathing heavy through his nose as he walks you into the bedroom and lays you out for the second time this afternoon.
omg yes, yes, yes i love this !! i had thought about this a while back but it slipped my mind, you’re literally in my head. i hope this is good enough for you and thank you for the ask !!💗
you’re in the bathroom, a heavy exhale leaving you as you smooth your hands over your hips. you had gone shopping earlier today with your friends and when they walked into victoria’s secret to browse, you too were nudged along. it’s not like you had an issue with the store, it was just that lingerie was a bit of an unfamiliar concept to you. you’ve never been in a relationship before pope so you’ve never really had the need to buy it or look for it. it was somewhat uncharted territory.
“c’mon, you can buy something for andrew, he’ll love it, trust me.” one of your girls had giggled to you as she tugged your arm, pulling you alongside the racks.
you were suddenly regretting your choice. you had gone for a pastel pink, lacy babydoll with matching panties. cute. pretty. but you couldn’t help but spiral. what if he didn’t like it or thought it was too much? it was your first time wearing something like this for him. you knew you were being silly because this was andrew you were thinking about, the man who had never made you feel anything other than cherished, but your mind was always against you. you check your phone that was on the counter. fifteen minutes had passed since you texted him that you were in the bathroom and telling him to wait in your room for you. he had replied with a simple “okay”. an amused snort leaves your throat as you imagine him obediently sitting on your bed with the rigidness of a wooden board, patiently waiting. and weirdly, that image had filled you with enough confidence for you to switch the light off and step out of the bathroom. you walk until you were stood a few feet away from him, hands joined behind your back as you shift nervously on your feet.
pope’s eyes rake from your face down to your body, slowly tracing each dip and curve exposed by your little see-through dress. his eyes lingered on where the babydoll cut off, just short of the tops of your pretty, thick thighs before landing on your face again. he audibly gulps.
“do you like it?”
fuck, your voice, so sweet and shy, had him biting back a groan.
“like it?” he asked almost incredulously. he could feel himself hardening against his jeans just looking at you.
“i-i love it, come closer, baby.”
you oblige, your nerves melting as you skip over to him with a soft smile until you were standing between his legs. he immediately reaches for you, his hands covering the span of your hips as he buries his face in your stomach, taking a greedy inhale.
“it’s so pretty, y’re so pretty,” he mumbles into the mesh, rubbing his face against the fabric before looking up at you, his chin resting on your tummy.
“did you buy this just for me?” his voice lowers slightly into that tone that made warmth travel to your pussy. you nod slowly and you swear you see his eyes darken before he tugs you down to his lap. you gasp, your hands instinctively finding purchase on his broad shoulders as you meet his unwavering gaze. your breath hitches, your core directly pressing against his hard-on through your sheer panties. the intensity in his stare suddenly dissipates as he pushes his face into your lace-cupped tits with a soft groan. you feel him twitch underneath you and you can’t fight back the smile that threatens your lips.
“fuck, sweetheart…” he takes more needy whiffs, the scent of you absolutely intoxicating as he presses some open-mouthed kisses to your cleavage.
“y’re so pretty, baby, so soft… can’t believe you’re mine.”
why you were even worried in the first place was beyond you as pope continued to lavish attention on you throughout the night.
need a pope smut where he makes reader sit on his face and he just can’t help but touch himself while he eats you out
─── FAVORITE POSITION
SUMMARY: There are some days when Andrew just can't get enough of you. So if that means he wants to fuck you silly on his cock and then have you cumming in his mouth right after, so be it.
WARNINGS: slight dirty talk, oral (female receiving, face sitting), masturbation, Pope just loves to be buried in your cunt <3
AUTHORS NOTE: from the bottom of my heart, thank you for sending this in, something about sitting on Pope's face is so brain melting to me hehe
PAIRING: Andrew Pope Cody x Reader
MAIN MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
"Andy...oh, fuck. Andrew, I'm gonna cum!"
He's got you right where he wants you; fucked out and dumb on his cock, spluttering out whines and profanities. Your cunt clenches around him, desperate to milk him of his release but he's not ready.
He wants his fix—a full fix. He's had a generous dose of your pussy sucking him in, of your tits bouncing in his face and his teeth around your pebbled nipples.
And as much as Andrew loves when you cum around him, when you squeeze his cock so tight it sometimes almost makes him black out, he wants you cumming in his mouth tonight, instead.
A shriek of a gasp tumbles wetly off your lips when his grip on your waist lifts you off the length of his cock, settling you on his rigid abdomen instead.
He hates to do it to you, he really does. But some sick part of him soars at the sight of your teary eyes and desperate pout. Call him a sadist but watching and feeling you rub your sopping pussy over his stomach almost makes him bust.
"Andy—wh—"
"I know you wanna cum, angel." He coos, pawing at the supple skin of your hips and dragging you closer until you’re making a puddle on his chest. "But I wanna taste you when you do."
You're rising slightly on trembling knees when you look at him through bleary vision; the precipice of an orgasm clouding your gaze and fucking with your head.
There's a darkness that washes over Andrew's eyes when he shuffles down the bed slightly, when his head rests against the pillows instead of the headboard, when your cunt is hovering just inches over his face instead of his chest.
He's just so fucking hungry for you. A lust that blows his pupils black and has your blood burning hot beneath your skin.
Pope reaches for your ass, grabbing sensual handfuls and kneading once, twice, before finding your hips again.
"Yeah?" You whisper, and although your voice is hoarse from moans and cries, there's an undeniable twinge of excitment laced within it.
"Yeah. Come on, baby. Sit on my face, let me taste you."
You don't need much more convincing to let him guide you down to his face, his head lifting to close the distance as his hot tongue wipes through the strings of your arousal.
A gasp slips from the back of your throat when he swirls his tongue around your entrance, when he dips it inside and massages it against that part just before your g-spot.
Pope can't help but whimper into your pussy, the taste of you so intoxicating he doesn't know how he'll ever function again without it staining his tongue every moment of every day.
His grip on your hips tightens and he's pulling you closer until his head is sinking into the pillows and your cunt is suffocating him entirely. He doesn't know why he's never suggested this before, why he's never thought of it.
The sounds of your desperate whines above go straight to his aching cock, the rocking of your hips against his mouth enough to have him releasing a hand on you in search of himself.
He wraps a fist around his length with a tight grip when your clit rubs against his nose and you're panting words of filth and praise. Pope doesn't think he's ever found something more erotic in his life than this moment.
His fist begins to move, pumping in quick successions—needy and desperate and mirroring the pace of your rolling hips. His stubble is scratching at your inner thighs, no doubt going to leave a burn but all you can do is tangle your fingers in his curls and tug.
The beg lands heavy in his balls, has his entire body stiffening. It's a split second decision he makes to abandon your needy little hole and wrap his lips around your puffy clit instead. A wise one, by the sound of your fucked out cries and trembling body above.
He's going to cum at the taste of your own release filling his mouth and Andrew holds not one ounce of shame about it. He rubs the flat of his tongue against your nub quickly, sucking on the hood at the same time and suddenly, all you can do it make choked noises and scratch helplessly at his scalp.
Andrew knows you're cumming because you're gushing into his mouth and all over his face; sobbing out his name and how much you love him and just how fucking good he makes you feel.
It's an intense mixture of it all that has his cock twitching and balls tightening until he's spurting hot ribbons of cum all over his hand and abdomen.
And with the overwhelming release that seizes his lungs, Andrew finally realizes it's been about three and a half minutes since he heaved a full enough breath.
But he's gentle when he releases his cock and slowly eases you off his face to sit on his chest again, lungs gulping down air while you do the same. He keeps his palms on your waist, can tell by the sticky sheen on your skin and daze in your eyes that you're stuggling to keep yourself up right.
It's bleary when you blink down at the literal man of your dreams, when the golden glow of the nightstand lamp glistens against his cum-soaked face.
The sight alone has your cunt quivering.
"Jesus Christ, Andrew." You pant through shallow breaths. "Where did that come from?"
He has the audacity to look sheepish, but doesn't divulge that it's now his new favorite position. “Dunno, but I wish we'd done that sooner."
His reply pulls a laugh from deep in your chest, the sound causing his heart to soar as his cock softens to something limp and heavy against his thigh. He doesn't think he'll ever tire of the sound of your happiness.
You reach out for his hand, finding something sticky when you meet his skin and he pulls away quickly, catching his mistake with a grimace while you fight the smile at the fact that he got himself off to eating you out.
"We need to shower."
You could've predicted that—his post-nut clarity, if you will. As soon as the high of his orgasm begins to mellow, he's always quickly reminded of how sticky and sweaty your bodies have become.
He's also overwhelmed that with every inhale, all he can do it smell the scent of your pussy that's seeping into his pours.
It's all a bit too much for him and within half a minute, he's carried you into the shower and is washing you both clean.
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tags :: not strictly plus size reader but reader does have curves! (pudge, thick thighs, soft tummy, all the package!) reader is just a big ol marshmallow, both literally and figuratively. wrote this with an age gap in mind but it doesn't really change anything sooo
a/n :: idk who to credit for the divider if anyone knows the creator pls lmk... this is definitely self indulgent, mostly because im on my period and i want to be held by a pudgy old man!
JACK ABBOT WHO :
who after living a life of hell, gets whiplash from time to time from how soft everything about you is.
“breathe jackie...” you'd coo when he'd woke you up from one of his nightmares. your delicate hands running through his curls as he buried his face between your breasts. not a sexual act, more like a desperate need for comfort.
JACK ABBOT WHO :
who loves poking you. your cheeks, tummy, thighs, ass. everything! loves how you laugh while trying to swat his hand away. loves how your body recoils slightly, loves how soft your skin feels against his rough fingers.
JACK ABBOT WHO :
who just as much as he likes poking you, he also likes groping you! specially your boobs. in public, its your ass. he purposely digs his hand into the backocket of your pants, not caring if it looks in appropriate. he gets better leverage from your ass like that! occasionally squeezing your flesh there. and you dont even bat an eye.
in bed, usually after sex or even during tired, quiet evenings, he's obsessed with your breasts. with his head resting on your shoulder, his thick, rough hand is most likely than not kneading at the swell of your breasts. sometimes he even likes rubbing his face over your breasts like a kitty. and he specially loves how you let him, and how you run your fingers through his hair whole doing so.
JACK ABBOT WHO:
who loves seeing you in dresses. or anything tight. the sight of the fabric clinging to your curves makes him instantly hard, even when you're innocently prancing around the house without doing anything remotely seductive.
JACK ABBOT WHO :
who gives you the biggest bear hugs! because as thick as you are, so is he. both of you are so stubby that hugs with him usually (always) get prolonged to soft gentle whispers and jack rocking you side to side. even if it puts more strain on his prosthetic. the position is always the same: his face buried into your neck while your chin rests comfortably against his shoulder. his hands are also always on the back of your head and the swell of your hips.
the embrace is just soo comfortable that you end up falling asleep in his arms once.
JACK ABBOT WHO :
who doesnt stop just at bear hugs, he also sleeps in a very particular way. a head lock. your back pressed against chest, (he always has a hard time ignoring how the swell of your ass feel pressed against his clothed cock) cheek squished against the hard muscle of his bicep while his arm loops around your neck from behind.
you dont mind, you like the feeling of being cradled in your sleep. and he absolutely loves it. specially since it keeps you from escaping his grasp without him having to wake up. also, a little bonus, his free hand is free to wander.
he lost count the amount of times he's made you orgasm from playing with your pussy, then kissed you goodnight in that same position.
JACK ABBOT WHO:
who gets a bit shy when you drool over his thickness. he has to put all his strength in not squirming when you rub his bicep. you just cant help it! they're so thick, and god, his thighs. they're like tree logs!
“jackie you're so cute!” you'd say, as if he couldnt squish you to death with his muscles. and when he lets you please him,( which is usually never because he's a giver not a receiver) you take extra time to trace the roundness of his pecks with your tongue.
he also always melts whenever you run your hands up and down his arms, to ultimately settle your soft hands around his cheeks. you make it seem like an innocent little touch. when in reality its an excuse to feel him up. but whatever dirty thought you had is crushed when he looks at you with those puppy eyes! because to him, you treating him like the most precious thing in the world is enough to have him melting in your arms.
JACK ABBOT WHO :
who definitely bites into your rolls during rough sex.
Sammy Bryant is always saving his girl. He’s your knight in a shining squad car. You swear he has a spidey sense when it comes to knowing you’re in trouble, because he’s so quick to rescue you from even the smallest inconveniences. You get a flat on the freeway, and within minutes he’s pulling up behind you, lights on so he’s visible. A tow truck is right on his tail, veering off to the front of your car. You’re sitting in the driver’s seat teary eyed. Sammy jogs up to you, bending down to talk eye level with you.
“Honey??? What’s goin’ on? You hurt?” You know it’s silly to cry over something that can be fixed, but you just have a hard time with things like this; inconveniences that throw your day off. You don’t like the unexpected, which you realize is ironic because that’s just life. But Sammy’s always there to get you through it.
“I-I don’t know why I’m crying, I’m s-sorry Sammy. I’m just rattled. I was panicking trying to get all the way over and I’m going to be late for work and-“
“Oh baby it’s alright, you handled it great. Jus’ glad you’re safe. And I will have the Chief of fucking Police call your work if I need to, honey bee.”
You’re getting a pedicure when you realize you forgot your wallet. You call Sammy and ten minutes later in he walks, full uniform, black aviators perched on his nose. He walks over to your chair, earning an ‘Oooh!’ from the other women getting their nails done. You giggle watching Sammy blush under their praise at the good man he is. He hands you his American Express out of his wallet, and cash for the tip.
“Thank you Sammy,” you coo.
“Course baby,” he smiles. He leans down to press a sweet kiss to your lips. He turns to the other women. “You ladies behave now,” he smiles, all the ladies just fawning over his goofy charm.
You tell Sammy about the creep at your work who keeps inviting you out for drinks, despite you telling him politely - multiple times - that you’re happily married. And this morning, he cornered you in the parking garage on your way into work.
“He what???” Sammy is fucking seething. He’s seeing red. He wants to knock this guy on his ass. “Did he touch you? I swear to God baby if he laid a finger on you, I’m breaking his fuckin’ hands,” he growls. He’s pacing around the living room as you sit, eyes puffy and pouty lip quivering, on the couch with Richter in your lap. You’re scratching him mindlessly behind his ear as Sammy talks himself down from driving to the guy’s house right now.
“No, no he didn’t. Fortunately Tess arrived right when he was getting too close, and saw what was happening. She came up and grabbed me to talk about a nonexistent meeting she made up. But it still scared me,” you said. Sammy‘s eyes soften and he moves to sit next to you. He puts a warm hand on each shoulder, rubbing your arms up and down soothingly.
“Of course it did baby, I can’t imagine how scary that was for you,” he coos. He pulls you close to his chest, runs his hand over your hair and presses soft kisses to your temple. Later that night, Nate comes to pick him up under the guise of going bowling with some of the guys from the department. But really, him and Nate definitely abused some power by going to your gross coworker’s house and threatening him if he continues to bug you. The next day in the office he just shyly nods ‘hello’ to you and completely avoids eye contact otherwise. When you tell Sammy over dinner, he acts totally surprised. Like he doesn’t know a thing about it. “Huh. Maybe someone told him your husband is an officer,” he smirks.
Sammy Bryant is just the kind of guy who can never keep his hands off his girl. From the moment he sees you it’s like a switch in his brain, prioritizing touch and proximity above all else, loves to cop a feel wherever possible—doesn’t matter whose around. The moment he’s in through the door from work, languid with exhaustion he’s beside himself to find you bent over the kitchen counter, a sweet smile spread across your face while you speak into your phone. A friend, a colleague, he wasn’t sure, frankly—he didn’t really care. Eyes draping over the arch of your spine, dancing onto your tip toes with each lilted giggle that passed your pretty lips. He’s loosening his tie coming around the kitchen island, palm sliding against your hip and around to press to your tummy while his thick frame encases yours, front pressed to the soft dip of your spine, hips hunching against the supple curve of your ass to relieve the ache restrained beneath his slacks, hard cock pressed against the zipper seam. He’s pressing slow open mouth kisses to the soft line of your jaw, your open mouth stilting pants from travelling through the phone line, fidgeting back against him to feel the hard outline of his cock digging into the back of your thigh, “Hang up the phone.” “What? Oh, nothing, what were you saying?” “Come on, hang up the phone, baby.” “Um—yeah, I—ah—sorry, I thought I heard someone at the door,” you excuse pathetically, looking back at Sammy scandalized when you feel his thumbs hook into the soft fabric hem of your lounge shorts, slipping down your legs in a heap at your ankles with your panties.
Endless babbling comes from the other line of the forgotten conversation, your jaw hanging slack against the crook of your arm, feeling the head of Sammy’s thick cock sliding between your folds, bulbous head bumping against your aching clit with each sheathe of his hips. “No—no, I’m still listening. Yeah—just have something on the TV.” Sammy’s cock catches on your hole and your body shivers under the weight of him, rumbling groans reverberating from his chest against your spine, thick fingers coming around to stroke your puffy clit almost making you shriek, “I’m so sorry—I have to go, yes, now, bye—” the end call button is hardly a hair away when Sammy finally presses into you, a loud moan leaving your throat as you drop the phone. The obnoxious wet sounds of Sammy's raw cock slipping in and out of your eager cunt makes your skin burn hot, clawing back to hold the hands yanking your hips to meet his, “Must’ve been a real interesting fuckin’ conversation, hm?” he rasps, “Not interesting enough, hm? My sweet girl goes so stupid for this dick, isn’t that right? Just how I like her.”
in which sammy bryant tries to get you pregnant. like. really tries.
mdni (filthy nasty dirty), based on a dream i had a few nights ago. for @mast3rbait3r who i am leaving once again :c
your legs were sore. and your back. and your shoulders. and your head. but most of all, your cunt. all because you were washing the fucking dishes.
sammy came home a little later than usual. nate had dragged him out to a bar to celebrate before their shared two days off. you didn't mind; you had been able to coordinate your schedules so that your 'weekend' aligned with his. two whole days of blissful married life. maybe you'd take richter to the park and check out that new food truck. the possibilities were endless, really. though, you figured you could probably guess how a majority of your hours would be spent.
you and sammy had been married for a while. long enough to know that, yea, this was gonna work, and that you wanted to add to your new family unit. you did the tests, scheduled an appointment to talk to your doctor about how best to conceive, stopped your birth control, took prenatal vitamins, all of the steps needed. you'd only been officially trying for a few months. but still, you were so excited at the new life that each negative tests made you frown. not for lack of trying, of course. sammy was insatiable about it. and you weren't exactly complaining about having your husband (who was thick in all aspects of his physique) fuck you til your voice was gone every night.
when you heard richter's collar jingle as he dropped from the couch, you knew your husband was home. an invisible tenseness disappeared from your shoulders. he had survived another day and come back home to you. you scrubbed at the sauce-stained pan you had used for dinner, steam curling around you and water pruning your fingers. you ignored the wet splotch that darkened your shirt around your stomach. the stain was really stuck on there and your elbow grease had caused some soapy water to splash against your belly. no big deal. you were planning on getting changed anyway.
you heard sammy greet you. the heavy steps of his shoes on your freshly cleaned floors. you leaned into him when he came into the kitchen and pressed a kiss to your cheek.
"can you take off your shoes? i just mopped." you said absent-mindedly, changing positions to get better leverage for the stain. damn, it was really on there.
"yea, 'course, honey," he murmured, toeing off his shoes and placing them by the table. "i'm gonna shower 'n get ready for bed." you nodded and smiled when he gave you another little kiss.
by the time the pan was sufficiently cleaned, sammy was already in bed. you clicked off the lights and gently nudged richter with your foot. he liked to stay beside you when you were the only one awake. the dog got to his feet and followed you into the bedroom.
sammy was sitting on top of the covers, mindlessly scanning over his monthly magazine that came in the mail that morning. you took a moment to admire the way his shirt stretched around his broad torso before making your way to the bathroom.
"so how was work?" you asked, picking up your pajamas from the floor.
"oh, you know. another day in paradise." he sighed, letting the magazine drop to his lap. "guy we've been looking to arrest for a few weeks got caught on a parking ticket."
"that's good, isn't it?"
"he'll be out again by monday." you gave a disappointed noise for him. you turned to the mirror, watching yourself as you pulled your dampened shirt over your head, tossing it into the hamper before fiddling with the clasp of your pants. when you were only in your underwear, a warm touch to your hips made you jump in surprise. your gaze snapped to sammy.
"sorry," he chuckled with a sheepish grin. "didn't mean to scare you." he took a step closer, fully in your space. his hand spun you to face him. you watched as his eyes drank in your body, and you felt a little self-conscious under his intense stare. it was only a few heartbeats, but it felt like forever. "you're so fucking sexy," he rasped out, voice low and gravelly- the way you liked it, and pupils blown wide.
"really?" your voice was a little shrill. you cast a glance down your front. you were wearing a simple black bra and cream cotton underwear. the kind you could buy in bulk if it didn't have the victoria's secret waistband. mismatched and decidedly not the stuff of fantasies. he nodded with a slackened jaw, eyes fixated on the way your chest rose and fell with each breath.
"really," he breathed, swallowing and licking his lips. his fingers brushed down your sides and played with the waistband of your underwear. "you're so...god, you look so...domestic."
"is that...a compliment?"
"of the highest kind." he pulled you flush against him. you could feel the throbbing of his already-hard cock against your thigh. "you're driving me insane." a smirk played at your lips and you brought a hand to his face, tilting his chin up to face you. you pressed your lips against his and he moaned into your mouth.
you couldn't really remember what happened after that. all you knew was that sammy had made you ride his face (two orgasms), before throwing you down on your back so that you could relax, still tongue-fucking you until your vision was blurry (one more? two more? three?) and then, he finally pulled your legs around his waist and humped into you like an animal, belly colliding against the back of your thighs with every sloppy thrust (another one for good measure). when he finally spilled inside you, filling you so full with his cum that it immediately started to drip down your ass, and you were both gasping for breath, you thought you were done. pleasantly fucked dumb and sleepy. you tangled your fingers in his hair and trailed kisses down his flushed jaw line. sammy snaked an arm under your waist and began to move you. you thought that he was just trying to get into cuddle formation. silly you.
sammy rolled onto his back, tugging you with him until your back was on his chest. you shivered at the sensation of the rapidly-cooling sweat were your skin connected. he planted his feet on the mattress, peaking his knees and situating your legs on the outside of his thighs. he made sure your head lolled back onto his shoulder.
"wh...what are you doing?" you said, barely able to form the sentence. but sammy was much more aware than you. you felt his cock rub through your folds and you let out a keen of overstimulation. you were leaking the combination of your juices. your arousal and his cum coated your pubic hair and inner thighs, pussy puffy and nerves already overworked. but sammy just used two of his fingers to spread your folds apart and gather the liquid. he brought his soaked fingers to your nipples, rolling and pinching. you sucked in a breath. unsure of where to put your hands, they flew behind you, finding a grip in his curls.
"saw it on a forum," he panted, lining himself up with your entrance with the hand not assaulting your tits. "s'posed to get real nice and deep. get right up against there n' reduce the amount of distance my sperm has to travel." he said it so calmly and matter-of-factly. like it was obvious. you wanted to make a quip about scrolling sex forums in his free time, but any remaining wisps of cognition dissipated when he pushed in. your moan was throaty and ruined. "yea," sammy cooed right into your ear, stilling his hips to give you comforting kisses to your temple. "you're doin' so good for me, sweetheart." he began to roll slowly, to try and keep some semblance of control over the burning need that flooded his bloodstream. but it wasn't long before his pace became punishing, his hands, still sticky with your releases, kept a bruising grip on your hips as he fucked you onto his thick cock. sliding you an inch up before plunging you back down to meet his thrusts. you didn't know if you came again. the hot band of arousal seemed to tighten around every part of your being. each of sammy's thrusts punched another breathy whimper from your lungs. your eyes were shut, limbs jelly. truly just allowing yourself to be used by him. "fuck," he hissed, watching where his cock disappeared and re-emerged from your warmth with a new coat of creamy slick. "you feel me in there, hon?" he shifted one of his heavy palms to the center of your abdomen, right below your navel. "that's where i'm gonna fill you full. fuck a baby right into you. right there. fuck- christ- i'm-" his words devolved into needy pants and moans as he felt his orgasm catch him. your body was so hot that you could barely perceive the new gush of warmth that filled you. all you could feel was sammy's chest heaving beneath you and the exertion straining your body.
so, yea, your legs were sore. and your back. and your shoulders. and your wrists. and most of all, your cunt. but all you could do about it was groan as you felt sammy manhandle you into a different position, half-hard cock still standing proudly against your thigh.
a/n: first time being a freak on tumblr…please be nice….
head’s up!: all smut, f!reader, craziest take is a lactation kink, shameful m!masturbation, crying during/after sex, semi-public sex, mentions of pregnancy, breeding kink kinda, virginity add-in/mention, staring and name kinks?, prison mentions, weird!andrew (i love him), i hope im not missing anything!
A: Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Cries. If not during, definitely after. Likes to just be close, skin to skin. He doesn’t know what else to do, but it feels right to be against your skin. Often in silence, but he really likes when you hold him too.
B: Body part (their favorite body part of theirs, and their partner’s)
Boobs. Favorite thing is to be between them, lay on them. Big time boob stress ball guy, he likes to hold them, stare at them, touch them, massage them, he does not care as long as they’re touching him.
He loves and hates his hands. He knows all the violent things he’s done with them. But he also knows that some of those violent things were to make sure you were safe. He knows you love his hands. How big they are, how they make you feel, that’s how he learns to love them.
C: Cum (anything to do with cum)
Big fan of doing it raw just so he can pull out after, wait for a bit of him to seep out of you, just to push it back in with a couple fingers. He hears you whine but he’s just making sure it’s not wasted!
D: Dirty (a dirty secret of theirs)
Would absolutely have a thing for lactation. Sorry not sorry. If you have a baby with this man it’ll be sheer accident the first time you’re having sex again that he gravitates toward your tits per usual but this time he’s licking a sweeter taste. Yup. You might have to drag him off. Like those cat baby daddies who have to be pulled away by the scruff.
E: Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Experienced. Felt like he had to be. With his brothers and all especially. He knows how to do everything/has seen it all, he doesn’t necessarily know if he’s good at it. But he trusts you when you say he is.
F: Favorite position
Controversial but missionary, sorry. He wants to watch. He wants to stare at your beautiful face and have all the access he can. He might push your legs up though, to get a little creative.
G: Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous?)
Nope! Maybe with foreplay if you crack a joke or say something sweet his freckled cheeks and ears will flush with pink but he’s not goofy. It’s dirty talk and whispers up in your ears, or he’s silent. He thinks sex, with you, is so personal and intimate that silly things don’t belong in your bed. He wants it to be like he’s soul bonding.
H: Hair (how well-groomed are they?)
Groomed mostly cause it gets overstimulating if he doesn’t. Also give him a sense of control post-prison, he was deeply deprived of personal care so he takes it seriously and often is alone to do it.
I: Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the intimate & romantic aspect)
It’s so serious for him. Eye contact forever. He’s so close it gets overwhelming, he wants you so close that all you both can think of is each other.
J: Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Only if you really, REALLY can’t have sex that minute, he’ll go harshly tug one out. If you made him cover you in sunscreen and instead of coming in with him you just wanna be in the sun? He’s in the bathroom with his small grunts. He kind of does it like he’s punishing himself, not really like he’s relaxing or enjoying it.
Please make him do it slow and easy in front of you. Oh, he'll be so good and teary eyed for you.
K: Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Eye contact. You learned to love his staring problem as is, but sex is totally different. He just wants to watch you silently the same way he watches you shower, or do dishes, or rub lotion down your legs, or fold laundry. Staring!!! Even if he’s got you in doggy, he’s pulling you back to meet his eyes in that damn mirror I’ll tell you that.
Semi-public sex…mostly a territorial thing. Doesn’t like the way some eyes fall on you, he might risk it in the hot tub or on a lounge chair. On a balcony. In the truck. Likes the idea of you being completely his but also everyone just knowing that you are.
Lactation, we’re all freaks here, please hear me out…we covered this but yes, he loves the idea so bad once he realizes what he’s thinking about when you’re pregnant and just starting to experience some early lactation. He tries to hide it, till it just kind of unfolds like above. (might cover this more later if we fw it…)
Finally…name kink? I don’t know if it counts but he lovvvessss being called Andrew or Andy by you, instead of Pope. It’s like his name never fit until you said it. Heart eyes.
L: Location (favorite places)
Shower, he loves the idea of you wet. Like covered in water droplets and in hot water, steam on the glass.
Bed for sure, it’s more so when your bed is a shared bed with him. Again, serious and claiming.
M: Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going?)
Domesticity. Ohhhh my god like how our grandmas had those bills PAID in that muumuu and slippers?? yeah so you won’t make it in the kitchen for a minute before he’s hiking it up. #easyaccess
He sees you doing laundry or dishes or cleaning or just cuddling up to him for a planned documentary night? Yeah, he’s about to rip your clothes off. Biggest fan of you cooking, the house smells amazing, he’ll steal a bite or taste, then immediately try to get a taste of you next. You might burn some meals this way.
N: No (something they won’t do/turn-offs)
Genuinely hurting you. Huge no. He’ll indulge you on a little manhandling or spanking but it’s never even enough to stay red.
Also not a fan of humiliation. Again, he’ll do his best to indulge you on degradation…but he doesn’t want you to feel humiliated, nor does he want to feel that way.
O: Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill)
Giver. Giver. Giver. He loves burying his head between your thighs, and just eating pussy like a man starved. Please tug on his curls, and just let him grunt and groan into you. He appreciates receiving, he loves when you make eye contact with him when you suck him off. Won’t really throat fuck you, he’ll let you do what you want and take what you need from him. But overall when faced with the choice, he’s going down on you.
P: Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual?)
Both. It depends on his day, his mood, the last family issue he had. A job. If you ask for either one, he’s happy to indulge, glad that you like both rough and fast but also slow and sensual with him. He finds it comforting that you trust him to use your body like that.
Q: Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often)
He absolutely will. He prefers long, drawn out sex but if you have a quickie you’re definitely getting that later so it doesn’t bother him.
R: Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks?)
Sure, if it makes you happy and comfortable. You might have to talk him through a lot. He won’t just jump into something.
Definitely takes risk of getting caught though…
S: Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Oh he’ll keep trying even when he’s exhausted and overstimulated and soft. It takes you whining enough to him or literal collapse. He wants you to feel amazing and he wants to be the closest to being in your skin as he can be.
Post-prison is difficult for him. it takes time to get him back to his normal self/a better version of himself. After that, he’s got a good two rounds in him, but you’re cumming much more than that. he’s mostly focused on you and how you feel. He makes it seem like every time is the last time and he wants to remember every second of you.
T: Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Doesn’t own any. Has seen all kinds but if he’s jerking off he feels guilty enough, he’s taking the rough hand. If you own them, he actually becomes a big fan of using them on you. Oh he loves the cute vibrator you have, he’ll just play around with it on you. Always makes sure to clean them and charge and store them properly.
U: Unfair (how much they like to tease)
He can get a little mean with rough and fast sex. Bits of edging or if you wore him down to degradation it’s worked in with such wonderful dirty talk you don’t even know it.
V: Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make)
Grunting and groaning for the most part, tries to keep it in. But you feel so, so, so good he can’t help when the moans start to slip in. And, when he gets so emotionally overwhelmed he can’t help the little whimpers into your chest or neck or shoulder.
-> V: Virginity (adding my own lil spin here ;) (easy, if you’re a virgin!)
If you tell him beforehand, oh he’s gonna wait and wait and wait until you’re so sure and so comfortable with him. To see that you won’t regret it with him and that you’re not afraid of him. It’ll take some wearing down and reassurance from you. He’s gonna try to make it the easiest time for you. He doesn’t want it to hurt, he’s not pushing, he just doesn’t want to hurt you & let you be afraid of him. Probably for at least two months straight before you talk to him.
If you don’t tell him beforehand, maybe you were afraid he’d treat you like a porcelain doll. Oh, but the second you get your pants off, he knows. He feels how your body language shifts as he watches you and he finally stops your hands and asks you to be honest with him. He doesn’t freak out or make it a big deal, like he won a prize…he just eases you into it a bit more than most guys even would think of.
W: Wild card (random headcanon for the character)
Role play. He will happily dress up as a cop or a robber or a doctor…and play into a sweet or more likely sexy fantasy. Though that never leaves the bedroom. He isn’t going to bring it up first.
X: X-Ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
I’m a believer in big dick and balls andrew ‘pope’ cody, sue me.
Y: Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Wants it when you want it. He’s pretty good with controlling himself. But if he gets a green light he’s taking it. Yall are frequently having sex, but it mostly hinges on when you want it, even after you talk to him about initiating it.
Z: Zzz (how quickly do they fall asleep afterward?)
It takes him a long time to fall asleep after. He buries himself in you (probably your chest, let’s be honest) and he’s a little weepy. He cries for a little bit. He loves your comfort and soft words or silence. How your fingers feel in his hair. Once he’s calmed down more, he’s quick to fall asleep with you.
a/n: again…nervous new smut writer…feedback is appreciated, please don’t crucify me 💔
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☆ Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader ☆
(part two) (part three)
summary: Andrew has survived his whole life by wanting nothing. Until Craig introduces one of his friends, and suddenly, Andrew wants everything and more.
word count: 20.7k (yeah kinda lost my mind there)
c.w: age gap implied but not explicit; short suicidal ideation; crying; mentions of blood; light physical injuries; angst to fluff; smut - piv sex, oral sex; praising kink; breeding kink if you squint
a/n: sooooo...took me two weeks. had a breakdown. bon appetit! (and thank you to my wife for proofreading it) I really hope you'll like reading it like i enjoyed writing it.
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading!
Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.
Nights spent pacing the garden of Smurf’s house, bare feet on the cold ground, counting his steps to keep his mind occupied. It never did. He tried to outrun the memories of his actions, to drown his pain at the bottom of the pool. But on those nights, his torment wore the faces of his ghosts.
First there was Julia, then Cath, quickly followed by Baz. And Smurf. Always Smurf. A cycle of misery that makes his ribcage feel as though it might collapse under the violent pounding of his heart.
Some days, seated at a table with his family, Andrew had felt he could scream until his throat gave out, and no one would have heard. He imagined falling into the pool, slipping under the surface, water closing over his head and staying there, lungs burning just long enough for the noise to finally fucking stop, no one coming to pull him out because nobody would have noticed he disappeared.
There were moments when the thought settled heavy in his bones: he would not survive another day in his family, he didn’t want to. He kept straining toward a bond that no longer reached his end…if it ever did.
Over the years, Andrew had grown accustomed to his role. Weird Pope, Creepy Pope, the family’s guard dog: asking for nothing, obeying to the beatings, the killings and never, never, mentioning the ghosts hunting the corner of his eyes each night.
He remembered Smurf’s voice, years ago. “Pop him a few pills and he’ll follow your commands, baby.” She said it to Baz like it was nothing, like he was nothing. This was before prison, before Andrew felt deep in his bones that the other half of his soul left this merciless Earth without him.
Sometimes he let himself think about Julia, since no one else did. He hoped that at least one of them had finally found peace.
Then, you happened.
And Andrew can’t make sense of it, no matter how much he turns it over in his head, how a girl like you ends up being friends with Craig and therefore, near the Cody brothers: you are sweet, kind, nothing but soft edges, and innocent. Almost like the world has spared you the knowledge of what men like him are capable of.
Whenever you are in the house, his gaze follows you from room to room. He tells himself that it’s vigilance and habit that pushes him to act like that. Except he doesn’t need to memorize the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or how he can recognize the distinct sound of your footsteps in a heartbeat.
He learns and catalogues each of your reactions: the faint frown of your nose at the smell of a particular brand of coffee (gone from the house and replaced before sunset), the soft curl of your lips whenever you are kindly refusing his offer to make you a sandwich.
(He wouldn’t be bothered if you took a bite of his.)
To see you is a special kind of hell and an indescribable heaven, like pressing on a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.
Lately, you shift the air of the house by simply existing in it. Your laugh, in the rooms where Smurf had once lived, seems to almost cleanse the walls of her memory. And Andrew knows. He knows that’s why Craig is friends with you. Because each day, the sun seems to finally be able to reach the house, even his own room.
It frightens him.
His body instinctively adjusts around your presence, his mind reassessing new rules (the glasses on the bottom shelf so you can have access to them, checking how many drinks you have at Deran’s bar). He memorizes your schedule, notes which books you are bringing with you in your bag, times how long it takes you to get home, parks far enough that you can’t notice his truck but close enough that he can reach you if something goes wrong.
All his life, Andrew had survived by wanting nothing. By hollowing himself out until the obedience Smurf wanted from him fitted neatly inside his ribs, because wanting had always been a liability, a weakness someone could press a knife into.
But now…now that life seems finally good and breathable, that he has the skatepark and his siblings and an almost regular life (if one exists for men like him) without Smurf’s claws on his throat, Andrew finds himself cornered by a simple, terrifying truth: he wants you.
He swallows it. Buries it deep inside, trying to drown it with numbness and even more repetitive actions when you are near: chopping, tidying the house, scrubbing counters that are already clean, fixing hinges that doesn’t squeak… Anything to keep his hands busy so they don’t reach for you.
No, Andrew Cody has never been able to sleep properly.
──────────
You remember telling yourself that the house felt wrong before you ever understood why.
Craig had asked you to come meet his brothers and from his tone alone, you knew it was a big deal. That something was at stake.
You showed up at four sharp, even if he hadn’t given you a specific time (something you would soon realize was typical of Craig), a paper bag pressed to your chest, palms already sweaty. You stood outside for a full minute before knocking, taking a few deep breaths, and stepping over the threshold with a smile as he wrapped you in a hug with his tall frame before dragging you straight into the kitchen.
That’s when you saw him.
Broad shoulders, dark curls on a face held tight, back straight and hands braced on his thighs, his posture so still you almost thought he was a mannequin.
“My brother Pope,” Craig said. “Don’t mind him, he almost doesn’t bite.”
His gaze was already on you, unblinking, steady in a quiet unnerving way, like he was committing every detail to memory, a look so intense it coaxed words out of you before you could stop them.
“H-Hi,” you stuttered, giving your name as you tried to stay composed. You extended your hand toward him, and he stared at it for a moment. The pause stretched long enough for doubt to creep up your spine (maybe he didn’t shake hands? maybe you had already broken some invisible rule?).
You swallowed, blood rising to your cheeks, drawing your hand back to clutch the paper bag as you tried not to stammer on your words. “I brought pastries. I didn’t know what you all would like so…I kind of…guessed,” you hated how small your voice sounded.
He stayed silent, brows faintly furrowed, as if he was processing what you had just said. Then he nodded. “Thank you.”
His tone was quiet, almost a hum, pulled from the depth of his chest, the sound settling low in your stomach, warm and heavy, and your first thought (unwelcome and strange) was how that vibration would feel beneath your palm.
Craig sighed with desperation at the conversation with a quiet “Stop being weird, bro!” while his other younger brother, unbothered, simply ignored the awkwardness, nodded as an introduction and handed beers around.
It was a welcome distraction, the cold liquid sliding down your throat, and buying you time to think on what to say next, but the youngest, Deran, beat you to it, asking you about your job and how good a surfer you were.
“You fuckin’ with me? You live in Oceanside and can’t stand on a board?” he laughed and couldn’t stop the slight condescending tone from his voice. “No worry, me or mister El Craigo here will introduce you to it. You’ll only swallow, like…a gallon of water before you get it.”
“Oh, um…I don’t think…” you tried to say, though it was mostly ignored.
Pope hadn’t looked away once, hand gripping tightly enough on the beer that you could see his knuckles whitening. There was something careful about the way he held himself: still, contained.
Your eyes met his again and you smiled tentatively.
“Um…Pope,” you started, uncertain, the name tasting strange on your tongue. “Can I ask you…”
“Andrew.” He interrupted, the tone firm enough to stop you mid-breath.
You suddenly became aware of your heartbeat, your chest lifting as it rattled against your ribs. Your gaze dropped at the intensity. Had you done something wrong? You suddenly felt foolish for the pastries, for the outstretched hand, for trying so hard, and an absurd urge to apologize rose in your throat, even if you didn’t know what for.
When you looked up, he was already halfway out of the kitchen.
You never finished your question.
Later that night, when you slipped into your bed, the sheets cold but familiar in their welcoming loneliness, you turned from one side to the other, eyes pinched shut without any release to exhaustion, realizing that you couldn’t remember what you had meant to ask.
Only that you wanted to hear his voice, just one more time.
──────────
The house is too loud. It always is when there are people over.
It reminds him of being a kid, hiding with Julia, hands intertwined, avoiding the drunk and high grown-ups. Whispering that everything would be alright. That no one would find them. Not even Smu-
(Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on the kitchen counter.)
The volume of the music is pushed too high for his comfort, a constant buzz under the conversations in the house and near the pool while Andrew stands in the kitchen, hands deep in soapy water, scrubbing a glass that is already clean.
He finished the dishes ten minutes ago, but he is still washing, still drying, rearranging things that don’t need rearranging because it gives him somewhere to put his hands, to put his eyes. Because the alternative is the living room. And you.
(You, in that white dress. He has the stupid thought that you look like an angel and immediately hates himself for it. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the droplets dripping from his fingertips.)
He tells himself that he is staying in the kitchen because it lets him see everything in the house, because parties mean unlocked doors, strangers who could wander into rooms they shouldn’t be in. And there are the habits he can’t shake off: watching the exits, the unfamiliar faces, counting heads (Deran, Craig, you), noting who is drinking too much, who is getting loud, who might break something.
He dries the same plate twice in a row before setting it down on the kitchen counter and looking up without meaning to.
You are by the couch, perched on the armrest while Craig, bare chest and shameless about it, tells you the story about the time he smuggled a burrito full of drugs across the Mexico border, story he knew you heard a dozen times these past three months. But still, you are laughing, head tipped back, hair falling down your spine (he wonders what they would feel like underneath his fingertips), one hand wrapped around a bottle you haven’t drunk from in a while, like it has more to do with keeping your hands busy while you are listening.
Andrew noticed it the first week he met you.
But the moment your lips wrap around the drink, he looks away and goes back to washing clean and dried plates, hands in the ice water, soap stinging the small cut on his knuckle.
(Good. Something sharp. Something real. Better than counting for now.)
“I bought you a new pair of gloves.”
Your voice is closer than he expected and his head snaps towards you before he can stop it. You are standing at the edge of the counter, smiling, so close that he can smell your shampoo despite the soap and the lingering smell of weed (it’s so clean, so soft, he wants to drown himself in it).
“Why?” He asks, his nostrils flaring at his own bluntness.
You shrug, small. “I know Craig threw your pair away yesterday. And, um… I know you like wearing them when you clean.”
“Why?” his voice repeats, breaking at the word.
Of course, you ignore his question, and he can’t help but spiral (why did you do that? do you realize how much the gesture is affecting him? no one ever cared about his gloves. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the freckles on your nose.).
“I got the good ones,” you add, beaming. “So the soap doesn’t mess up your hands.”
While your eyes drop to his hands, his are still enraptured on your face, studying every single feature (you really do look like an angel. and you act like one too. maybe you are his salvation. stop, he needs to fucking stop but he no longer knows what to count.).
Andrew swallows what feels like an anchor in his throat because you look like you worry about him (you have done that for a while now, which still baffles him). Nobody worries about him: they worry about what he might do, not whether he is hurt.
“’m fine.” He mutters, not convincingly enough, judging by the look on your face.
You are still looking at his bruised hands and your fingers twitch on the counter like you had the sudden urge to reach for him, like you might take his hand to look at it.
(He has the overwhelming need to know what you would do with his hands in yours. Hold them? Kiss them better? One. Two. Three- would you let his hands run along your hair? He knows what it’s like to touch you when you need help, but he feels that this would be very different.)
“They are under the sink,” you say above the music and Andrew can’t do anything else but stare, not trusting his own voice.
You linger for a moment at the counter and Andrew wants to ask you to stay (in the kitchen, in his life, doesn’t matter), but Craig shouts your name from the living room and suddenly he has some homicidal thoughts. You glance over your shoulder, then back at Andrew, and you look…reluctant.
“I’ll…”
“Yeah.”
You don’t move. Neither does he.
“Thanks.” He finally says, his gaze still tracking every shift of your expressions, trying to burn your smile in his retina, hoping one blink would not be enough to erase it.
“Of course, Andrew.”
Andrew. For you, he is Andrew and that’s all that matters because you are the only one calling him by this name and you make it sound like it belongs to you ever since you first said it by the pool.
With one last little smile, you walk away and his eyes follow you until he knows you have reached Craig but even then, he doesn’t look away, afraid you might disappear, just like every good thing always did.
And Andrew learned, a long time ago, that if you wanted something to stay alive and safe, you watched it. Guarded it. Didn’t blink.
Andrew didn’t blink.
──────────
You stepped outside because the house had started to feel too small, suffocating all at once, Craig and Deran’s voices stacking over each other in the open kitchen, arguing about a job - a part of the Cody brothers’ lives you knew existed but mostly chose not to look at too closely.
You told yourself you only needed a second of quiet, just enough space to breathe properly again after a long day at work full of aggravating customers, meager tips and a coffee spilt by a coworker on your bare legs.
The noise softened once the door closed, letting you draw in a deep breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.
“Fucking hell.” You muttered, exhausted by the shouting.
You hadn’t noticed him at first, too busy staring at the pool and ignoring your inner voice telling you to jump straight in the pool fully clothed, a thought that you were soon pulled out of when you heard a sound that didn’t belong to the wind or the trees.
That’s when you saw him, seated at the edge of a lounge chair, head bowed, a skateboard turned upside down across his thighs, one hand spinning a wheel while the other oiled it with slow, precise movements.
“Not a fan of the shouting matches?” you asked, trying not to startle him.
He glanced up, shook his head before going back to the board. “No.”
“So…not keen on loud noises either?”
“No.”
For a moment, you simply watched him, struck by how different he looked when he was doing something he seemed to…enjoy. Less folded into himself, the usual tightness of his posture easing (was it because of the board? the sound of the pool? the absence of his brothers? whatever it is, the view looked precious enough for you to want to capture it).
You lowered yourself onto the warm concrete next to him, your back resting against the lounge chair, knees pulled to your chest, neither of you speaking for a while.
That’s when you noticed his hands: knuckles swollen and red, the skin split near the thumb, a faint line of blood reopening every time the skin stretched.
“They look like they hurt. Y-Your hands, I mean.”
He shrugged without looking at you. “They’re fine.”
Your eyes drifted from them to his profile: from his hazel eyes fully focused on the board to the tight set of his mouth and you caught yourself distracted by his lips for a second too long before forcing your eyes back to the floor, warmth creeping up your neck (don’t think about that, don’t think about that).
“Andrew?”
The wheel immediately stopped spinning. Not gradually, just…stopped.
The entire yard suddenly became too quiet as his face snapped towards you, something unreadable flickering across his face and vanishing just as quickly, and you felt the realization settle in slowly that you had finally said his name after almost a month of avoiding it.
“Do you think I could learn how to skateboard? I…” the words got stuck between your throat and your lips while you searched for the courage to finish your sentence without tripping over yourself. “I mean…I wanted to know if you could help me. Learn it, I mean. If you wanted to. You don’t have to, I just…” (fuck. why? why were you so weird?)
Your fingers picked at the hem of your skirt and pulled on a thread to busy your hands, and from the corner of your vision you caught his brief smile, and the warmth that spread was so shamefully immediate that you bit your tongue until you tasted metal just to keep from blurting out something along the lines of ‘i really, really, fucking love your smile, please do it again so my day goes from moderately shitty to embarrassingly close to perfection.’
“Give me your phone.” he said, and you didn’t hesitate, fishing it out from your pocket, and placing it in his palm.
“There’s no password on your phone.”
“Yeah…I know.”
“It’s dangerous.” His thumb hovered over the screen, nose flaring. “Anyone could get into it. Your photos. Your messages. Your address. Everything is in there.”
You barely heard the end of it, too focused on the pull in your chest as his words kept coming, just for you.
“I haven’t thought about that.” You murmured, feeling foolish while he muttered to himself something that definitely sounded like ‘I did.’
He tapped his number in before going through the settings while you were still struck by his intensity and that he was doing this for you without being asked.
“Six digits. Not birthdates and not something simple like six zeros.” He handed your phone back, his fingers lingering for a second too long before pulling away. “Put one.”
This time you knew it was an order and you didn’t hesitate a second as you followed it, typing something in, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was standing, your shoulder almost brushing his calf, your pulse loud in your ears and a slow, humiliating heat pooling low in your stomach that you refused to think about at the moment.
“Good.” He said after you saved the password. “Text me your work hours.”
“So, it’s a yes? Really?”
He grunted and whether the dusting of crimson over his freckles was real or something you imagined, you couldn’t tell, you were too busy feeling as light as a leaf.
“Yes. And…”
His words were cut off by the screen door banging open, leaning back abruptly just as Craig made his way toward you both with a grin that meant whatever the fight with Deran had been about, he had won.
“Deran agrees for Friday night. And you,” he tapped your forehead. “didn’t hear shit.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s my girl. Now get your ass in the pool.”
Craig was already running to the pool before you could respond, clothes coming off mid-step.
“I can’t believe this man has a kid. Has you brother always been a shameless nudist?”
“Unfortunately…yes.”
You snorted before murmuring. “Thanks, by the way. For the password thing. And for agreeing to teach me. I promise I’ll only be like…average terrible.”
“You’ll be fine,” he shrugged. Then, quieter, “I’ll make sure.”
His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth when he said it, before snapping back up, and something in your stomach turned warm and gooey, a reckless part of you hoping he might add something else. Or step closer again. But he didn’t, just nodded once, before muttering. “Go.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you to your board, Andrew.”
You made it halfway to the pool before you glanced back. He was still watching, not even pretending not to, looking like a leopard ready to jump. Like if you slipped, he would already be moving.
And lying awake that night, window cracked open and the ocean humming somewhere in the dark, you muffled his name into your pillow, trying to quiet yourself, imagining his hands instead of yours. Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.
──────────
Andrew is used to ending his nights alone because wanting people to stay never goes well for him.
So, when the party finally ends at four in the morning, he does what he knows best: throwing the bottles into the trash, making sure no one is passed out in the backyard or asleep in one of the bedrooms and…cleaning.
First the diving board, even if Craig is still making out on one of the lounge chairs with a girl whose name Andrew can’t remember and doesn’t try to (he knows best). Next, the counter, twice in a row for good measure. Then the sink, while Deran claps a hand on his shoulder with a “Don’t stay up too late, okay?” before heading out.
(One. Two. Three. Four. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. He counts the second you spend in the bathroom.)
He stands in the kitchen for a moment before realizing it might look strange and make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing he wants.
He rushes back to his room (he wouldn’t exactly call it ‘sprinting’. sprinting would mean he is trying to avoid you. which he is not. not at all.).
He doesn’t bother turning on the light when he decides to lie on top of the covers, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling because he knows that sleep won’t come. It never does.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks.)
Every time he closes his eyes, something crawls up from beneath his ribs and he is once again plagued by his ghost: Julia’s voice, Cath’s smile, Baz’s forgiveness. Smurf’s words cutting straight through him.
He thinks about the pool and how easy it would be to let the water close over his head. How all the voices would finally be silent forever, his own included.
(Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He recites the number of cameras in the bank for the incoming job.)
He forces himself to think of something else.
Of you, earlier, laughing at Craig’s story (and the immediate, unwelcome ache in his chest as he wonders if there’s something between the two of you, if this will end the way things always seem to, if you’ll be another Cath: close to him before preferring his brother).
Then he thinks about the way he made you laugh on your first skateboard lesson, all because he wanted to make you feel safe and seen, how the simple feel of your waist had nearly made him press his forehead to your shoulder and beg for you to stay and keep looking at him like that.
He thinks about that night when you called him for help, and how he didn’t hesitate for even a second when reaching for his keys, truck already running before you even finished explaining because the simple thought of you alone somewhere in the dark, waiting and frightened, had felt like acid running through his veins, the kind of fear that made him beg to the sky “Not here, not her, not again. I won’t fail her”.
He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees bursts of purple light.
(Breathe. One. Tw-)
A faint knock against the door makes him freeze.
Nobody knocks in this house, his brothers just…barge in.
He is already on his feet before he realizes it, his hand finding the handle before he opens to find you there.
Barefoot, hair loose and messy, the mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes and the dress wrinkled. Earlier, Andrew thought you looked like an ethereal angel, something untouchable and holy.
But now…now you just look human, real and warm, which is worse because real things like you can stay as well as leave.
“Hey.” You murmur, leaning against the doorframe.
He grips the handle tightly to steady himself.
“Something wrong?”
“I was supposed to sleep on the couch,” you begin, talking with your hands the way you always do when you try to explain a situation, “but signor El Craigo has decided that it’s now his new make out spot with Sam and I really don’t need that image burned into my brain. And of course, I thought about taking his room in retaliation, but I don’t trust his conception of hygiene,”
That makes him huff.
“So…” you add, rubbing your arm, almost shy which doesn’t make sense in his mind because you haven’t been shy with him in a long time with the skatepark lessons or with the ‘hallway accident’ you both had together, “Can I stay here tonight?”
You don’t say ‘with you’ nor ‘in your bed’, but Andrew understands and he is pretty sure his brain short circuits for a second or two.
You didn’t text Deran or try to Uber home. You just came to him. Because you trusted him.
“Yes.” He replies too fast, stepping back from the door.
“You sure?”
He nods to avoid confessing that he would give you the bed. The room. The house. The air in his lungs.
You slip past him into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed before looking back at him and asking gently, “You’re not sleeping, right?”.
“No. Not…not really.”
“Yeah, figured.”
You lie down beneath the covers first, curling onto the side of the bed closest to the wall, leaving him space.
“Don’t think about staying on top of the covers, Andrew.”
The warning in your tone almost makes him laugh so he complies, lying down beside you, fully clothed and aware of every inch separating the two of you.
He stares at the ceiling again.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breathing.)
The mattress shifts while you slowly roll onto your back before turning fully toward him, your shoulder brushing his arm.
“Sorry,” you mumble sleepily. “’m cold.”
“It’s fine.” He says it like the ghost of your breathing over his collarbone didn’t just set every of his nerves on fire, like he was not terrified to shift even an inch.
After a few minutes, you drift closer in your sleep, chasing warmth without thinking, your knee pressing against his thigh, your hand sliding across the sheets until your fingers come to rest on the fabric of his shirt, right over his heartbeat and for a moment he genuinely forgets how to breathe.
Your palm is so warm, and he is painfully aware that you can probably feel how hard his heart is pounding.
Nobody has ever touched him like this, like he is something safe and out of everything that has happened to him: the underground fights, the prison, the jobs…none of that ever made him feel this defenseless.
His eyes suddenly burn because he wants to turn so much to see your peaceful face, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pull you closer to know just once in his life what it’s like to hold something good without destroying it, to press his face into your hair and breathe until the ghosts quiet down, but he doesn’t.
He stays exactly as he is, lying in the dark, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your breaths again. Then the seconds between them. He thinks about the fact that you’re here and the miracle of it.)
Sleep doesn’t come, but for the first time in years, the night doesn’t feel empty.
Because you’re here. Warm. Alive. Trusting him.
So, Andrew stays awake until morning, guarding the only good thing that ever chose him.
──────────
You were so, so late.
You had told Andrew on the phone that you would be at his skatepark at 5:15 sharp after work, and it was now 5:42 and you were sprinting the half mile that separated the coffee shop from there, bag smacking against your hip, your lungs burning, already sweaty before you even reached the entrance, trying to slow your breathing with a few useless deep inhales, hands braced on your knees, pretending that you were not seconds away from passing out.
(First lesson and you were already late and a disaster. Great. Very impressive.)
You straightened, wiped your forehead, and stepped inside, scanning the park before finding Andrew, board tucked under one arm, sleeves riding up his biceps, curls messy from the wind and sweat and you were now positively sure that you had some drool at the corner of your mouth (the universe had decided to sabotage you and that was fucking unfair.)
You watched the tiny smile he had as a girl showed him her board, proud and beaming at him like he had personally hung the sun in the sky (no, you didn’t need to think about him being good with kids. you didn’t need to picture him with kids, him gentle, him…stop. shut up.).
The second his head lifted and locked eyes with you, you were pretty much done for. It was ridiculous, really, how one look from him could short-circuit every coherent thought in your brain, how your feet just…moved, carrying you toward him instinctively, dropping your bag by the fence without breaking your stride as he met you halfway.
His gaze dragged over you once: your face, your hair, your chest.
“You ran here?”
“Yes. And I’m sweating…a lot. Please don’t judge me.”
He took a few seconds, a storm passing through his eyes before he added.
“You’re late.”
“I know,” you rushed, your hands quickly moving and your words tumbling over each other like they always did when you got flustered around him. “but a guy ordered for his whole ‘cheaper by the dozen’ family like three minutes before we closed. I’m probably sure he sensed my despair and fed on it.”
A small huff escaped him. “You didn’t have to run.”
You shrugged, eyes to the ground. “Didn’t want you to think I bailed on you.”
You felt it, his head tilting down just enough to catch your gaze again, stubborn about it.
“I wouldn’t. Now you ready?”
“Born ready.” You lied through your teeth.
“You look terrified.”
“I can do both, you know,” you shot back quickly. “I am large, I contain multitudes.”
There was the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, Whitman.”
“Y-You know Whitman?”
A pause.
“I mean…not that I don’t believe you or think you can’t read poetry or anything…that’s actually super hot, so good job!” you gave him a thumbs-up, aware you had just lost every ounce of dignity you had ever possessed. “It’s just that last week Craig asked me if ‘Pride and Peace’ was a good book to impress a girl, so…my bar was very low.”
Andrew stared at you for a moment. “Pride and Peace.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not…”
“I know, I know. But don’t worry, I did a good deed for society and told him not to mention any book ever. You and Deran are safe from now on. You’re welcome.”
And there it was again: that quiet amusement on his lips, the roll of his eyes like he couldn’t help himself, making you feel the stupid and dangerous need to continue to jest (keep talking, say anything, make him do it again).
He shook his head once. “C’mon Whitman. Let’s see what you got.”
You trailed after him without thinking and the first few attempts were…humiliating to say the least: your balance was nonexistent, your feet refused to cooperate, your arms stood uselessly at your sides, and you had absolutely no idea where you were supposed to look while Andrew hovered nearby like he was ready to intervene at any moment.
“I look stupid!” you complained.
“You’re fine.”
“I’m not fine! This is deeply humiliating. I can barely stay upright and there are twelve-year-olds doing tricks behind me! Tricks, Andrew!”
“You’re doing good.”
“I almost died.”
“You didn’t.”
“Socially, I assure you I did.”
Your heart did a stupid little skip when a tiny, amused sound escaped him.
(You could bottle that sound and live off it. You were now pretty sure you would commit crimes for it.)
“Makes sense you’re friends with Craig,” he muttered. “Dramatic.”
You gasped, unable to contain your grin. “Excuse you mister Cody, but I am layered! I am complex!”
He looked unimpressed and repeated “Dramatic.”
You opened your mouth to argue before your foot slipped, the board shooting forward, and for one horrible second you thought that worse than falling off in front of children was falling off in front of the guy you had a crush on.
But you never got to know the feeling before his hands were suddenly there, at your waist, catching you fast and steadying you while you became acutely aware of every nerve under his palms, of his thumbs grazing your hipbones, of his breath brushing your cheek as heat pooled between your legs.
He moved behind your back, still holding your waist before murmuring “Don’t lean and bend your knees.”
(You were starting to suspect he was fucking with you on purpose.)
But still, he adjusted you gently, palms rotating your hips and guiding your stance before kneeling to help place your legs on the board and you couldn’t stop yourself from blurting:
“I haven’t shaved my legs. Sorry.”
“Me neither.” He huffed, his breath warm on your calf and the faintest hint of amusement threading through his voice.
(Was that…a joke? Was he joking? Since when was he doing that? You liked that. You wanted that.)
Andrew pushed himself back on his feet, stepping away just enough for you to feel the sudden absence of his body, leaving you oddly cold, like you had stepped out of the sunlight.
“Try again.”
You nodded, realizing that his joke had somehow shaken the worst of your nerves away, before pushing off, your knees bent like he had shown you, your weight centered and the board rolled.
“Oh my God, I’m doing it! Andrew, I’m really doing it!” you exclaimed happily.
“You are.”
You risked a glance over your shoulder, and he was watching you with his usual careful intensity, hands half-raised and prepared to catch you, like protecting you was the only thing on his list right now.
So (naturally), you did the dumbest thing possible and tested him. Just a little bit. Just to know.
You leaned and let your weight tip forward just enough to know if…
His hands immediately caught you, his hands on your ribs, scanning up and down if you had been hurt, “You okay?”
You swallowed, realizing that you had never doubted a second he would be there. And that settled something warm and terrifying in your chest.
It was not a silly crush, not your friend’s brother that you thought was hot and interesting, no. It was falling. Headfirst, no parachute.
And judging by the way his hands hadn’t moved from your waist yet, you weren’t entirely sure he wasn’t falling a little too.
──────────
You are screaming and he is too late.
He is always too late.
Your voice breaks into something small and terrified, the kind of sound that doesn’t even feel human anymore, and he is running but his legs don’t cooperate, move in slow-motion, the floor stretching longer and longer beneath him and the house smells like chlorine, metal and something sour he recognizes too fast.
You’re in the pool, face down and the water is red. And you are so, so still. He tries to move, to drag you out, but he can’t.
You turn toward him, eyes open and your mouth spilling blood.
“You were supposed to be there, Andrew. Why weren’t you there?”
He jerks awake, his whole body snapping upright while air refuses to enter his lungs, a pain in his ribcage so intense he thinks it might split him open from the inside out.
He doesn’t understand why at first: why his pillow feels cold and damp to the touch, why his throat burns, until he drags a shaky hand across his face and touches something wet, the realization feeling nauseating.
He has been crying in his sleep for God knows how long.
He presses his palms hard into his eyes like maybe the pain will help him, like maybe if he suffers enough the images will disappear. That you won’t be floating face down in the pool, covered in blood, your blood, your voice joining all the others, the same disappointed tone he’s memorized over the years with his ghosts.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He tries to count but it doesn’t work.)
The house is quiet for once, too quiet, and Andrew has this awful, crawling sensation lodged under his sternum, something cold and irrational that he can’t help but spiral into.
(What if…No.)
He is already moving, because lying back down would mean closing his eyes again and he can’t, he fucking can’t risk seeing you like that again, can’t hear the sound of your voice pleading and begging for him to save you when you are already gone, can’t add you to the long list of ghosts that wait for him every night.
Halfway down the hall, he gets as quiet as he can manage, moving through the house like he is on a job, because it feels the same: this sick, urgent need to verify something, to be sure that you are here, that you are safe.
The living room is glowing faintly blue before he even steps in, the light spilling on the floor and he hears it: a narrator speaking about sharks and the distant sound of recorded waves.
You always pick sea life documentaries when you stay over.
He doesn’t know when you figured out he liked them.
He stops at the threshold and sees you: curled on the couch, hidden beneath a blanket and alive.
(Your chest rises. Then falls. Rises. Falls. You’re not floating. You’re not gone.)
His lungs finally unlock and he breathes sharply, the sound loud enough that you look up immediately, like you sensed him there, like you are now tuned to him in a way he doesn’t understand, and your expression softens the second you see his face.
“Hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep. “Everything okay?”
He nods automatically but knows that he can’t bullshit you.
“You don’t look okay.”
“I’m fine,” he manages, but the words come out wrecked and dragged through his throat.
Your eyes examine him slowly and it clicks behind them. “Nightmare?”
(Oh, he hates this word. Hates how small it makes him feel. Hates how childish it sounds. Hates how accurate it is.)
His jaw locks so hard it aches and he can’t force out anything more than a stiff, miserable nod, his nails digging crescent moons in his palms as he braces himself for questions, for having to justify why he is standing there at three in the morning, shaking over a bad dream. But you don’t push.
You just scrub a hand over your tired face before moving your legs and lifting the blanket, creating space beside you.
“Come here.” You mumble, looking at him, patient.
He crosses the room slowly, the couch dipping under his weight as he lowers himself beside you, hyperaware of every inch of distance, of your arm brushing his, of the warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your shirt, of how close your knee is to his thigh and how easy it would be to accidentally touch.
Your hand bumps his and even if he should pull away, he doesn’t. The contact is small, just skin against skin but for Andrew, it’s the closest to heaven he’s ever been.
Your fingers linger, uncertain, like you’re giving him time to decide, like he is allowed to decide. His thumb moves before he can stop it, brushing lightly over your knuckles, slowly, reverently, like he needs to make sure you are solid and not a trick of his mind. You feel warmer than him.
(Alive warm. Not water cold. Not bloody and floating. Not like in the pool.)
The memory hits so hard it hurts.
He jerks his hand back abruptly, his breathing going wrong again, shame creeping hot and fast because for a moment he wanted something and asked for it, letting the walls go down.
But you don’t comment, don’t tease and don’t pull away in response to his neediness and instead, you shift closer and you help settling the blanket over both of you, your arm following, tugging him in gently, like there has never been a version of this world where he wasn’t permitted to be here.
He stiffens when your hand finds the back of his neck and he wants to reassure you that it’s not because he wants it to stop but because he wants it too much, and he doesn’t deserve it. But your fingers brush his scalp, and suddenly he is nothing but starving for it, leaning toward it instinctively.
You guide him down gently, so gently and he can’t win this fight tonight, his ear pressing against your chest.
The documentary keeps whispering about tides and sharks, but he barely hears it now because all he can focus on is the rhythm under his cheek and the way your fingers keep caressing his curls in slow strokes like you were calming a frightened wild animal.
He wants to move. To slide his arm around your waist. To press his face into your shirt and breathe you. To hold you tight enough so nothing could ever take you away.
But he stays still, terrified of ruining it and breaking something with the weight of his want.
Your fingers drift lower to cradle the back of his head while your other arm tightens around him and pull him fully into you, closing the remaining space between your two bodies. His relief is immediate and overwhelming, pulling a whimper out of him, emptying him of his thoughts.
His chest caves inward on a shaky exhale, his hand finally moving hesitantly until it rests lightly on your waist, barely touching and giving you room to pull away if you want to, but you don’t. You tuck him closer, your chin brushing his hair.
“I’ve got you. You’re okay, Andrew, I promise. I’m here.”
The words land deep and it takes him a moment to realize he is sobbing in your arms, the tears soaking your shirt while he presses his forehead closer to your chest, just to confirm that the heartbeat under him is real.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your heart now.)
“Shh…It’s going to be okay, Andrew.”
The storm in his head – the ghosts, the pool, your voice – slowly quiets for the first time all night, dissolving under the simple, undeniable fact that you are here and breathing under his cheek, speaking to him, comforting him.
And somewhere, between one beat and the next, his body finally gives up the fight, his sobs stop, exhaustion dragging him under gently this time, no drowning, no screaming, just the steady rhythm of you and your quiet voice drifting above him.
“I’m not leaving Andrew.”
He knows that for tonight at least, no nightmare will come at him.
You promised.
──────────
“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.”
Craig was the worst and you were absolutely going to kill him. Not even metaphorically, but in the sense where you would pick up the nearest heavy object and aim for his head the next time you saw him, if only you were able to find him right now instead of wandering through a house you didn’t know that smelled aggressively of weed and alcohol.
Deran and Andrew would forgive you, you were sure of it, if you murdered their brother under these circumstances. Hell, they might even help you bury the body. Because you could have had a regular evening at home, watching for the hundredth time Shawshank Redemption but no, you had to be alone in a stranger’s kitchen, trying not to panic.
The party had shifted, you felt it about twenty minutes ago.
It had stopped being loud fun and started being loud wrong when little bags started to be passed around, people disappearing in rooms and coming back with pupils blown wide and white powder on their nostrils.
You had looked for Craig. Texted him. Called. Nothing.
You had found someone who vaguely resembled one of the friends he introduced you to earlier, and when you asked if they had seen him, they laughed and replied something about “upstairs with Renn so it might take a while, Sweetheart,” and you stood there for a second, scared. Really scared.
Because you didn’t know anyone there, not really. And you were now surrounded by idiots who were snorting cocaine.
(Okay. Calm down. Breathe. Don’t cry. It doesn’t help your situation at all.)
A guy you didn’t recognize slid a drink toward you with a grin that lingered too long, and the fact that your very first thought was ‘I wonder if he put something in that’ made your decision for you: you were leaving. Immediately. Whatever Craig was doing upstairs with Renn was officially no longer your problem.
The night air hit your face, making you regret for the lack of jacket.
You stood on a sidewalk for a moment, trying to calculate the distance back to your apartment. You were too far, with no car and a phone at nine percent.
“Craig is dead. He is fucking dead. I will kill him myself,” you muttered under your breath as you started walking anyway, heels dangling in your hand, bare feet against the cold concrete, just to put some distance between you and the house.
But the further you got, the louder your heartbeat became, pounding in your ears, the fear crawling up your spine.
Still, you kept walking, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, repeating ‘You’ll be fine,’ over and over to your brain.
(You were not fine. You were alone. In the middle of the night. Walking barefoot down a street you didn’t know. Why were you like this? Why didn’t you just stay? Why didn’t you drag Craig out by his stupid hair to drive you back home?)
You didn’t want to try to call Craig again and waste your last percentage of battery on someone who would not answer.
And before you could talk yourself out of it, before you could rationalize or be embarrassed…your thumb was already pressing Andrew’s name.
(If you called him, he would come. He wouldn’t hesitate. You knew it.)
The phone only rang once before he picked up.
“Yes?”
That was all it took for you: the sound of his steady and low voice to make something inside your chest collapse, the fragile composure you had been clinging to dissolving instantly as you let out a shaky exhale, thanking all the Gods above for Andrew Cody’s existence.
“Andrew,” you said, your voice betraying you immediately with a crack right through the middle of his name. “I-I’m sorry. It’s late, I know. I just…”
“What happened.”
You swallowed, trying to force the tears to back down. “I’m at this party and…and Craig left. I mean…he is upstairs with Renn doing I don’t know what and he won’t answer me. I left the house because it got weird there and I’m trying to walk home but I think that was a stupid idea and I just…”
(You hated how your voice wobbled. How small it sounded. You should have bought pepper spray.)
“I’m so scared.”
In the background, you could hear keys jangling, a door closing and his truck starting.
“Where are you?”
No ‘why’, no ‘what were you thinking’. Just that.
You gave him the street name and the closest intersection you could see, wiping your face with the back of your hand and trying to steady your breathing so you didn’t sound like you were seconds away from a breakdown.
“I’ll be there in five.”
You let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. “It’s at least ten.”
“Five.”
The line went dead before you could argue, the call cutting off abruptly as your screen went black. Dead battery.
You stared at your reflection for half a second on the dark screen, heart hammering while you counted the seconds in your head, hoping that somehow it would summon him faster.
It took less than three hundred for you to see headlights cut around the corner of the street faster than the required speed limit, relief crashing into you. He didn’t even fully stop before the driver’s door was already swinging open, crossing the distance to you in three long strides, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe then past you to the houses.
“You okay?”
You nodded too quickly and he stared at you, jaw locked so hard you could see the muscles twitching. He looked furious.
“Get in,” he said, opening the passenger door, one hand braced on the roof as he helped you climb up into the seat, taking your shoes to put them in the back seat.
You stayed silent, not wanting to know to whom his anger was directed at. It was only once you were down the street that he finally spoke again, eyes flicking between the road and you.
“Did anyone hurt you?”
You blinked at him. “No.”
“Touch you?”
“No.”
“Follow you?”
You shook your head, watching his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.
“Say anything to you?”
“Just…offered me stuff,” you admitted quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself again. “But I said no. I would never do that. You know I would not.”
You weren’t sure why you felt the need to add that, why you wanted him to understand that you hadn’t been reckless. That hanging out with Craig didn’t mean being like him. That you wouldn’t caught yourself in drugs. You knew better.
The streetlight caught the side of his face and for a split second you saw something raw there before it slipped behind his mask of control. The silence continued to stretch, heavy.
“Are you angry at me?”
The truck slowed to a stop at a red light, allowing him to turn his head toward you fully, eyes dark and intense in a way that made your whole body pulse in response, not from fear but from the weight of being seen.
“I’m not angry at you,” he said, holding your gaze. “I’m angry you were there alone. Angry that my stupid brother left you. Angry that I wasn’t there sooner. But not at you.”
The light shifted to green, but he didn’t move right away. His eyes remained locked on yours, unblinking, making sure you understood the distinction.
“You call me,” he added quietly. “The second you have a problem, you always call me. Okay?”
You nodded, fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You don’t.”
And there was something in the way he said it, like he was wounded at the idea you thought you might ever be an inconvenience to him, that made you blush.
The truck finally rolled forward, but the air between you felt different, heavier in a way that you’ll only be to shake off with a cold shower.
You watched the way his shoulders remained tense all the way to your home and understood then that he had come because he had been frightened, that the thought of you alone in the dark had unsettled something in him, and that he had needed to fix it.
And the scariest part was that something warm and traitorous inside your chest responded to that.
You liked that he had been scared.
You liked that he came in less than three hundred seconds.
That he didn’t even hesitate when you admitted you were frightened, he simply moved.
And you liked the way he refused to let you walk barefoot to your apartment, carrying you, as if the idea of your skin touching the cold pavement was something he would not allow.
He didn’t put you down immediately. No, he held you all the way from his truck to your doorway, one arm firm beneath your legs and the other steady at your back, your shoes dangling loosely from his fingers, your body tucked close enough to feel his breathing through his shirt, making you aware of how easily you fit there.
When he finally set you down at your threshold, his hands lingered at your waist a second longer than necessary.
“You’ll be good?” he asked quietly, handing you your shoes, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.
You nodded, incapable of trusting your own voice, because if you opened your mouth, you were fairly certain that something reckless would fall out, something dangerously close to ‘stay’ and you were overwhelmed enough by the urge to step over, to reach for him and press your forehead against his chest just to see if his heart was still beating as fast as yours.
He was still staring at you, something unspoken passing like electricity.
“Good night,” he whispered, the softness of it almost undoing you.
“Good night, Andrew.”
You closed your door slowly, pressing your back against it, listening to his boots on the pavement, realizing that he hadn’t moved until he heard the lock click.
Only then did he walk back to his truck.
You would maybe not murder Craig after all.
──────────
Andrew spends the entire day watching for the moment you are going to change your mind and run from him.
And you don’t act differently when you wake up: you drink coffee while humming along to the songs on the radio, trying to coax a laugh out of him, but he keeps waiting for it anyway: the flicker in your eyes that says you’ve seen too much of him now, that holding him while he sobbed was enough to scare you off for good.
He replays the night while you are in the shower. How he cried in your arms. How your fingers combed through his curls. How you held him pressed against your chest. How he let himself need you.
He wonders if he should apologize, or explain, or at least even just…acknowledge that you saw him at his weakest and that he was thankful it was you.
Instead, he washes the dishes twice in a row to calm his brain, avoiding looking directly at your body when you step back into the kitchen in your coffee shop uniform, hair damp.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the dents on his mug.)
You ask him if he is still taking you to the skatepark after your shift, and he wants to say no. The word sits right there on his tongue, ready to spill, because the park means proximity and proximity means touch and desire which always ends with something being taken away from him.
But you smile at him in such an open and easy way, and if it was something you really wanted to do, far be it from him to deny you after last night when you held him like he was something that could be saved, that was worth saving.
So, he nods and the way your whole face lights up makes him think, not for the first time, that he would probably give you anything you asked for.
That is the part of himself that scares him.
And now that he is finally at the skatepark with you on this late afternoon, he knows that he should be tracking your stance and foot placement the way he always does, but today he notices different things about you instead: how you are not pulling away from him, not avoiding him, how you stand close when you talk, lean into his space without hesitation.
And somehow that unsettles him more than distance would have. Because, if you are not afraid of him, if you are not stepping back after seeing what he is like during his worst nights, then what does that mean?
You sway on the board.
He sees it, but his brain is still half-caught in the memory of your heartbeat under his ear, still waiting for the recoil that doesn’t come and by the time his body reacts, you’re already too far from his reach.
You hit the concrete hands first, palms slamming down on instinct before your knees follow, the skin scraping on the ground with a sound that makes his stomach drop. The impact steals the air from your lungs and for a fraction of a second you manage to hold yourself up before your face strikes the ground with a sickening thud.
Andrew is already moving before you even understand what happened, the board rolling behind you while he drops to his knees so fast, he doesn’t register the sting tearing through his own skin, doesn’t feel the way his jeans split at the knee or how his knuckles scratch raw when he catches himself, because none of it matters to him. He is scanning, assessing and cataloguing the damage, forcing his mind to clear before he dares to touch you.
Your palms and knees are damaged through the torn denim, but it’s the blood beginning to run from your eyebrow that makes him feel abruptly cold. It gathers at the edge of your lashes and runs along the curve of your nose, bright red against your skin, and for a second, the world tilts.
(Blood. So much blood. He knows blood. Knows how to stop it. How to clean it. How to stitch it close. Pope is good with blood.)
The thought lands with cold precision, and even if he hates the name, even if it sounds wrong in his own head, he can’t afford to hate the part of himself that steps forward first right now - efficient Pope, steady Pope, the one who does not panic.
“I’ve got you,” he says, and his voice is low, measured, trying to reassure you the way you reassured him last night while he broke apart against your chest, even though his heart is hammering through his ribs.
Your eyes flutter, dazed, before you try to sit up, but he is already there, placing one hand at the back of your neck and the other on your shoulder to help you.
“It’s okay sweetheart, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs, and there is something almost pleading behind his words that has less to do with your eyebrow and more to do with the memory of the pool and your voice accusing him of being too late.
He swipes his thumb gently beneath the cut to assess its depth, his other hand moving to brace your jaw so you don’t move, and when fresh blood coats the pad of his finger, he feels the familiar switch inside him flips into place.
(His breathing slows. His hands stop shaking. This he understands. This he can control.)
“It’s not deep,” he says after his inspection, even though he knows you’ll need stitches. “You still with me?”
Your hand lifts and finds his wrist, fingers curling around it, and the contact sends something through him that is not adrenaline and not fear but softer that frightens him more because it makes him aware of how much he needs you to be okay.
“I’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice is small.
He shakes his head once, tearing a strip from the hem of his shirt. “Let’s get you home so I can clean this properly, okay? Keep pressure there,” he instructs, guiding your hand back to your eyebrow and pressing it into place.
You nod, and that’s enough for him.
He slides one arm behind your back, his broad palm spanning the length of your shoulder blades, the other slipping beneath your knees to lift you, ignoring the sting of his knees and the sticky blood drying across his knuckles because none of it is important compared to the steady rhythm of your breath brushing his collarbone.
He carries you toward the truck, opening the door and lowering you carefully into the passenger seat, one hand coming up to your jaw, his thumb resting lightly on your cheekbone to make sure your eyes focus on him.
“Stay with me,” he says softly.
Your lips twitch despite the pain. “Bossy.”
He goes to buckle your seatbelt, adjusting the strap and closing the door gently before circling the truck, wiping his bloody hand against his jeans.
While driving back to your apartment, his eyes keep darting to you every few seconds.
“Talk to me,” he says after a moment.
“About what?”
“Anything.”
You take a moment before starting to talk about your day at the coffee shop, just mindless little moments. He doesn’t interrupt, he listens and nods at the right moments. You are grounding him on purpose, he realizes, dragging his thoughts back to something ordinary, something alive.
(You are not in the pool. You are breathing. You are not telling him he failed you. He counts your breaths.)
Inside your place, he works methodically, like he always does when someone comes back from a job hurt and bleeding – controlled, shutting everything else out. He lays out all your medical supplies on your desk with a precise spacing: first gauze then antiseptic, needle, sewing thread…The order is important. Order means control.
You sit on the edge of your bed, looking at him and continuing the pressure of the piece of his shirt against your eyebrow.
“Alright,” he says quietly, stepping between your knees so he can reach your face properly. “Hold still.”
He cleans your palms first, his concentration absolute because his entire world has narrowed down to the square inch of skin beneath his fingers.
“I should have caught you.”
“It’s not your fault, Andrew. Don’t punish yourself for it, okay? I’m fine, I promise I’m fine.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t trust himself to.
Instead, he goes silent and returns to the work in front of him, bandaging thoroughly your hands before taking off your pants and doing the same with your knees, making sure everything stays in place.
Finally, he allows himself to look fully at your face again, examining the cut on your eyebrow and tilting your chin upward with two fingers, feeling your breath ghosting on his lips in the small space between you.
“You’re going to need stitches,” he murmurs.
You study him for a second. “You’re very serious about this.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not dying, Andrew.”
“I know.”
“You look at me like I am.”
His jaw tightens and for a moment, he almost says it. Almost tells you that in his head, he’s already seen that version of you, floating and gone, but he swallows it back.
“Hold still,” he says instead.
He cleans the wound carefully by dabbing away the dried blood, and when you flinch, his free hand comes up automatically to steady the side of your head, thumb resting near your temple, not commenting on the way you lean into that touch.
The first puncture makes you inhale sharply.
“Breathe,” he says low, “Just breathe slow for me.”
You obey, focusing on him rather than the pull of the thread, your eyes locking on his face. He works carefully, tying each stitch with precision, trying not to falter at your gaze and even less at the reckless, intrusive thought about pressing his mouth to your brow to undo the wound.
When he finishes, he doesn’t move right away. He studies the line of the sutures, checks for tension, checks for bleeding or anything he might have missed before studying you.
“You’re okay,” he says, trying to convince himself.
You give him a small, tired smile. “I told you. I’m tougher than I look,” you say before your gaze drops, narrowing as you notice what he has been deliberately ignoring. “Andrew.”
“What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
He shrugs, dismissive, trying to pull his hand back so you can’t look too closely. “It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s not nothing,” you murmur, reaching for him before he can retreat, your fingers tracing carefully over his knuckles, making him go still. “You can’t patch me up and ignore yourself.”
He swallows, and before he can argue, you’re already reaching for the antiseptic with your bandaged hand, fumbling slightly. He catches the bottle before you drop it, his other hand covering your instinctively.
“You shouldn’t…”
“None of that,” you interrupt, and there is a flicker of stubbornness there that makes his mouth twitch despite himself.
You tug his hand toward you, and this time he lets you clean the scrape on his hands. He doesn’t look at the wound. He looks at you.
At the crease between your brows as you concentrate. At the way your lips press together. At the way you treat his injuries as if they matter. No one ever does.
Your fingers tie the bandage clumsily but securely, and when you finish, you don’t let go right away. Your thumb lingers, stroking slowly over the back of his hand. He is not sure how to breathe. The room feels so much smaller now. Quieter?
You lift your eyes up to him and whisper. “Can you stay? Just for a bit. So…we can check on each other.”
He could tell you it’s starting to get late and he was supposed to meet Deran and Craig for their next job.
He could tell you he’ll call you tonight to see how you feel.
But there is nothing in him that wants to leave this room.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can stay.”
He helps you shift properly onto the bed, careful of your knees. When you lie back against the pillows, you reach for him, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.
It takes him a second of hesitation before lying down beside you, stiff at first, but you roll toward him, your bandaged hands pressing against his chest as you settle close, your head finding the space beneath his chin.
He exhales through his nose before lifting his arms and resting them around you.
After a few minutes of silence, when he thinks you might already be drifting, you murmur. “I like it when you called me sweetheart.”
He presses his mouth lightly into your hair.
“Go to sleep now.”
You nod, your body going slack after a few minutes while he stays wide awake, his hands moving slowly along your spine.
“You scared me,” he whispers into the quiet, once he is sure you’re gone.
His fingers move to brush lightly just above the stitches of your brow.
“I can’t lose you,” he breathes, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
(He counts your breathing. One. Two. Three. Four. Not because he is afraid. But because he simply likes knowing the rhythm.)
When sleep finally comes at him, he knows there won’t be any nightmare.
Because you’re there.
──────────
You did not mean to end up alone with Deran.
In fact, if you were being completely honest with yourself, you had carefully avoided being alone with him since you met, not because he had been hostile to you, but because he seemed to have this unnerving habit of seeing through people and you were not a fan of subjecting yourself to that.
Craig had dragged you to the bar “just for a bit,” (which in Craig language meant ‘indefinitely’) before promptly disappearing with a girl, leaving you at the counter, nursing a soda because you had work in the morning.
Deran was wiping down the bar in front of you.
“El Craigo has already left?” he asked without looking up.
“’Flee’ would be a better word to describe what happened.”
“And so now you’re just…” he gestured vaguely toward you with the cloth, “…miserably contemplating on drowning yourself in your drink?”
“It’s a soda.”
“You know what? That’s so much sadder.”
You exhaled, dragging a hand over your face before saying, “Can I ask you something without you telling Craig?”
That caught his attention immediately, making him glance up.
“Depends how embarrassing it is.”
“It’s not embarrassing,” you protested automatically, then faltered. “Fine. It’s…a little embarrassing.”
“A little?”
“A lot,” you admitted.
He huffed once, almost amused, tossing the cloth over his shoulder. “Fine. What?”
You took a breath, suddenly aware of how absurd this was and how you were feeling like you were sixteen instead of twenty-nine. “It’s…” you cleared your throat. “It’s about Andrew.”
(Fuck. This was so deeply humiliating. But Craig was not an option. He would weaponize the information and never let you live it down.)
Deran blinked once before leaning his forearms on the counter, a smirk spreading on his lips. “Oh, I see.”
You groaned immediately. “Oh, please, can you not react like that? You’re making this worse.”
“I haven’t reacted! I’m just…not quite surprised about this discussion. Come on.” he waved a hand. “What’s your question?”
“It’s just…” you stopped. “I don’t know how to tell if he…”
(Oh my God. You had faced worst things than this. You could finish a sentence.)
Deran tilted his face slightly, with a shit-eating grin that you absolutely hated. “If he…what?”
“If he likes me,” you blurted out in one breath.
The silence fell for exactly two seconds before he let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“You’re fucking with me. Right?”
Your face burned instantly. “Okay, great. Never mind, I’m just gonna dig my gra-”
“Easy tiger. Don’t get your panties in a twist. He’s obsessed with you.”
You stopped, your stomach flipping violently.
“That’s not true.”
“It is deeply true,” Deran replied flatly. “He reorganized the shelves in the kitchen.”
You blinked. “Well…I thought he just liked order.”
“Oh yeah, he does. Trust me, he fucking does. But…not that much.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Surely that doesn’t mean…”
“He drove across town at three in the morning to get you out of a party,” Deran continued, counting off on his fingers now. “He cancels family meetings to go to the skatepark with you. He did his ‘scary stare’ to me the last time I drank in your mug.”
Heat crept up your cheeks as you stammered, throat dry. “B-But he doesn’t…He doesn’t say anything.”
Deran snorted. “Yeah, that’s Andrew.”
“It’s just...sometimes I don’t even know what he’s thinking.”
“Neither do we,” he deadpanned. “Welcome to the family.”
You exhaled, frustration spilling over. “So, what am I supposed to do now?”
Deran considered you for a moment. “Just…let him try to go at his own pace here. He is not good at the whole…relationship thing.” he said, his voice stripped of its usual sarcasm before adding. “And for the record, the way you look at him? Not subtle. Like, at all.”
You nearly choked on your own spit. “I am subtle!”
“I mean, yes,” he conceded dryly. “You are subtle…for Andrew and Craig. So don’t be proud about it. That’s the lowest level of subtility possible.”
“I hate you, Deran.”
“Yeah?” he replied with an amused smile. “Well, get in line.”
There was a pause before he said quietly. “You’re good for him. Just…don’t screw it up. You’re in the tribe now. Which means I have to tell you this…”
You straightened slightly.
“…if you’re not sure about this, about yourself, you go now. Not in a few months. Not after he lets himself think this might be real. You don’t get to backpedal if it gets complicated. He wouldn’t recover from it.”
You shook your head immediately. “I swear, I won’t hurt him. He’s…he’s-”
You stopped, because the word felt too large to say aloud. But Deran looked at you intensely enough for you to finish.
“He’s important. To me. I don’t want to fix him, because I don’t think he’s broken. I like him the way he is. I...I think I wouldn’t recover from losing him too.”
Deran held your gaze for a long moment. “Alright.”
You tilted your head. “Alright?”
“Alright,” he repeated. “You pass.”
“Was-Was it an interview? Are you serious?”
“Yep. And congrats, you got the job.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt lighter than it had in quite some time while Deran smiled, a real full grin, almost boyish, making it easier to see the younger brother under his usual cryptic attitude.
“I forgot what it was like,” he said after a beat.
“What?” you asked.
“Having a sister you can annoy.”
“That’s…extremely sweet of you.”
“Don’t ruin it,” he warned, pointing the towel at you. “I will absolutely deny this conversation ever happened if you mention it to my brothers.”
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head.
Then, he leaned forward and whispered to you. “And if you hurt him, I’m stealing your car and slashing your tires.”
“O-Okay.”
He had a little smile before straightening up. “Welcome into the family.”
──────────
He has not told you.
No one has told you about the job.
Craig said it wasn’t necessary, that you would make a big deal out of it. Deran said it was cleaner that way, the less people know, the less risk and Andrew didn’t argue, telling himself it was better if you didn’t know the details, better if you didn’t have to sit there, waiting for them to come back and spiraling about what could be happening to them.
He told himself that ignorance would keep you safe.
The screen door slams and your voice, sharper than he has ever heard it is rising against Craig, who’s following you in the backyard like a kicked puppy.
Andrew doesn’t turn immediately from his spot, staring at the water of the pool. He closes his eyes, preparing himself for the loud noises.
(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the tiles of the pool.)
“You asked me to babysit Nick,” you’re saying, your voice shaking like you are about to start crying, “and you made it sound like it was for a date or something stupid! You didn’t say it was because you were going to fucking rob a jewelry store!”
“Jesus, lower your voice.”
“Lower my voice? How about you shut your mouth you liar!”
It isn’t only outrage in your voice, Andrew feels it. It’s fear. A raw, unfiltered fear for them. For him. And he doesn’t know what to do with that because no one has ever been afraid of losing him. When he went to prison years ago, his family moved on, sold his place and went on with their lives. For them, it was an inconvenience, for him, it was three years in Folsom.
Andrew turns then.
You’re standing a few feet from Craig, hands still bandaged, the thin line of stitches above your eyebrow visible, pointing a finger at Craig angrily while he tries to stay calm, running a hand through his hair.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re breaking into a jewelry store, Craig. That’s not exactly Disneyland.”
“We’ve done jobs for years,” he snaps. “We’re good at it.”
Andrew watches the way your shoulders rise and fall too fast with your breath, the way your fingers flex like you’re resisting the urge to grab something and throw it at Craig.
“You know what happens if you get caught, right? You know what that would do to Nick?”
Craig’s jaw tightens. “We don’t get caught.”
You let out a bitter sound that is half a laugh, half a sob.
“Repeat this in the eyes of your brother, I fucking dare you. That’s not how life works, and you know it. You can get caught.”
Andrew feels the words hit him in the chest and rip something out of him. He doesn’t know when you learn about it. Doesn’t know who told you or the extent of your knowledge about those three years of fights and isolation.
If you know – truly know - why aren’t you running away? Why are you still here?
(He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. It’s too much. It’s too little. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the cracks on the floor.)
“We’re not idiots, just trust us, okay?” Craig argues, rolling his eyes.
“You left me alone at a party in a house full of people doing coke,” you fire back, your finger jabbing hard against his chest. “You are the exact definition of an idiot, Craig.”
Craig winces. “We don’t have to do this right now, okay? I already told you I was sorry about it. Pope, back me up.”
Both of you turn toward him at once, the weight of the fight landing on his shoulders. He doesn’t move immediately. Doesn’t speak either. Andrew has never been good at splitting himself in two, at giving his opinion. He was raised to follow orders.
Craig gestures toward you. “She’s acting like we’re amateurs.”
You slap his arm, wincing, forgetting for a moment about your bandage. “Fuck.”
Andrew walks up to you, checking your hand while you keep repeating him. “I’m okay, Andrew. I promise.”
He lifts his eyes to yours, angling his head to catch them, and when your gaze finally locks with his, he holds it, stubborn and unblinking. Your eyes shine brighter tonight than they usually do, so he doesn’t give himself permission to look away.
(You’re about to cry. It’s his fault. It must be his fault. He should have been better. But the voices are too loud. He doesn’t like when it’s too loud. One. Two. Three. Four. He remembers your breaths when you sleep.)
“I just…I thought you all trusted me,” you say, your voice breaking halfway through, fighting back tears of frustration.
Craig’s shoulders drop while Andrew’s thumb strokes over the back of your hand, grounding himself.
“We do,” Craig says, less combative now. “That’s why I asked you to watch Nick.”
“That’s not making me feel like you trust me. It’s making me feel like I’m a convenience.”
The word hangs there, making Andrew feel like he failed something. He has never wanted you to feel like this. He wanted you to be protected.
His gaze doesn’t waver as he keeps your hand in his, stroking over the bandage.
Craig looks between the two of you, seeing the hand, the closeness and mutters, “Jesus, bro, this is the worst time,” under his breath.
“Okay,” he exhales finally, turning fully toward you. “I fucked up. Massively. About the party. About not telling you. About…probably a million other things. I didn’t mean for you to feel unsafe.”
You don’t look convinced.
“Trust me,” Craig adds quickly, throwing Andrew a sideways glance, “I got my ass kicked enough by Pope to regret this party for the rest of my life.”
Your lips twitch a little, trying to keep it contain.
“Now, if you could hand me back my brother, I would be very grateful because we have a job to do, and you have a kid to entertain,” Craig says, rolling his eyes and retreating inside the house.
Andrew doesn’t let go of your hand, refusing to blink and terrified of losing a moment of you. He has the irrational feeling that if he does, something will waver on your face, the moment when you realize what this life looks like and he won’t be able to see his failure in time.
“We’ve planned it,” he murmurs finally.
You hold his gaze. “And if something goes wrong?”
He doesn’t answer right away because he knows the answer to this, and he is certain you don’t want to hear it.
(If something goes wrong, he goes down first. He makes sure Deran and Craig are safe. He doesn’t come home because he won’t ever go back to prison. He prefers to die trying to escape than go back in a cell. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your eyelashes.)
You are still waiting, searching his face.
“Then I handle it,” he says quietly.
You shake your head, your jaw working as if you’re trying to physically hold yourself together. “Promise me to come back safe.”
His hand lifts before he can stop himself to settle against the side of your face, his thumb resting just beneath your eye, making you go very still, waiting for what he will do next.
His thumb caresses your cheekbone once, just enough to fill his mind with the memory of your skin.
“I won’t let anything happen to me,” he whispers, and he doesn’t know if it’s meant as a vow or a lie he’s trying to force into becoming true. “I promise,” and before he allows himself to overthink it, he presses a careful kiss to your forehead, his lips brushing just above the line of stitches.
He can hear you catch your breath and it makes him pull back, his lips tingling at the contact. He knows it now: if he stays longer, if he lets himself feel the warmth of you, he might not leave at all.
He memorizes the sight of you like this: looking like losing him would break you and it does something unfamiliar to his chest. No one has ever been scared at the thought of him disappearing. No one has ever demanded that he come back.
He turns quickly, putting distance between the two of you before he changes his mind, the promise he made echoing in his head.
He hears it when Deran cuts the alarms. Promise me to come back safe. When he cuts through the back entrance. Promise me. And when Craig tries to improvise. Promise. He is not one to do reckless things but tonight, he is particularly unyielding each time the job almost goes sideways.
He knows you are in the house with Nick, probably pacing the kitchen and waiting to see the outcome of his word. So, when he finally reaches the main display room, he is quick to reach for the highest value pieces that will be cut down and reshaped. No traces or evidence will be left, they have done this long enough to know how to make everything disappear completely.
Andrew’s hand hovers for half a second over a particular velvet cushion before picking up the thin gold chain, a small heart-shaped pendant set in the center. It’s delicate and quiet, reminding him how it feels to bask in your light. He turns it between his fingers once, twice, imagining it resting just below the hollow of your throat, his thumb brushing over it absentmindedly while you are both sitting on the couch and watching a documentary.
He slips it securely into the inner pocket of his jacket, pressing it flat against his chest for a brief second before stepping back into motion and leaving with his brothers without any alarms or police sirens cutting through the night.
And when they get at the warehouse to stash the duffel bags, Andrew doesn’t stay like he usually would to make sure about getting his fair cut of the job. He nods once, quiet, ignoring their snickers and comments about him being ‘down bad’ all the way to his truck.
The house is dim when he enters, a soft glow coming from Craig’s bedroom and before he sees you, he hears your voice. It’s so soft.
“And baby whale swam all the way across the ocean to find mama whale,” you murmur.
He quietly walks up to the threshold to see you sitting on the bed with Nick lying, his eyes dropping with sleep, his thumb in his mouth and clutching to his monkey plushie. You slowly close the illustrated book before pressing a kiss onto the his hair and something expands in Andrew’s.
(You would be good at this. At building something steady. He can picture you pregnant, swelling with a child. His curls and your smile on a being that would never know the kind of hurt he had to go through.)
You stand up from the bed and see him, the relief crossing your face so achingly tender it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.
“Andrew.”
He nods once, trying to convey his feelings, “I came back.”
You smile, closing the bedroom door behind you and stepping close to him, scanning for injuries the way he did for you at the skatepark. He lifts his hands, showing you his palms.
“I’m fine. I promised you I would.”
Your shoulders drop in a way that tells him you’ve been holding yourself rigid for hours, managing a barely audible, “Thank God.”
His lips tilt upward before reaching into his jacket’s pocket, “Turn around,” before adding a quiet, “Please.”
“Bossy,” you reply, amused, before turning your back to him.
He closes the one last step between you, pulling out the necklace from his pocket, careful not to let his hands shake as he lifts your hair to expose the back on your neck. He fastens the chain, the clasp clicking softly into place and for a second he doesn’t step away, the pad of his thumb grazing at the nape of your neck.
“Andrew,” you whisper, turning back toward him, your fingers lifting to trace it. “It’s…It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
He keeps staring at the pendant who rests exactly where he imagined it would be, then at your mouth before quickly going back to your eyes. You are close enough that he can feel your breath on his face, the world narrowing to the space between you.
He wants to close the distance, to press his mouth to yours.
Instead, he rests his forehead gently against yours, grounding himself with your scent, refusing to close his eyes.
“You should sleep,” he murmurs.
You smile softly and suddenly, Andrew wonders how he can extract a memory and preserve it forever in resin.
Because this moment feels like the dawn of his existence.
──────────
When Andrew was seven years old, the house was already too loud.
Somewhere down the hall a door slammed hard enough to be heard from the bedroom he shared with Julia, who was sitting on the floor with a deck of cards spread between them while he lined them into exact rows instead of playing War.
He liked the rows and the symmetry of it. It calmed him each time the edges were precisely following the pattern of the carpet. With this, he didn’t need to count.
In the backyard, someone shouted about money, making the twins flinch in fear. Julia reached for his hand, and they sat like that for a long time: her fingers curled tightly around his, his eyes fixed on the the cards. (Hearts. Diamonds. Clubs. Spades. Everything will be all right.)
Smurf emerged in the doorway with her bright smile, eight months pregnant with their little brother, tilting her head, “My baby is a strange one,” she whispers to his new stepfather, “But useful.”
Andrew heard it. He didn’t know what strange meant exactly, but he knew it was something you said when you didn’t want to say wrong.
At school, boys kept snatching his skateboard, tossing it across the asphalt because he rode the same loop over and over during recess, memorizing how many pushes it took to reach the fence.
(Fourteen. Fourteen every time. An even number. He liked them. That’s why he always counted till four.)
The first time a boy shoved him and called him a freak, Andrew didn’t respond. Just took back the board and kept doing his loops. The second time, when the board got kicked away and Julia was not there to held his hand, Andrew swung without warning. He couldn’t remember deciding to, just the sound of the impact and how the noise inside him went blissfully silent.
After that, teachers called him difficult, the kids stopped approaching him and Smurf congratulated him with a kiss on his mouth.
At night, when Julia was asleep beside him, Andrew kept staring at the ceiling, wondering something he couldn’t say out loud to his mother or his sister: would anyone ever see that he was trying? Trying to keep himself together so he didn’t explode? Trying to be good? Trying to stop the noises in his head?
-
When you were seven years old, the house smelled like warm cookies.
You were sitting on the couch, your small arms cradling your cousin, afraid to drop her. You didn’t know how to act with a baby. Your parents had sat you down a few months ago at the kitchen table and told you that you were their little miracle, that Santa sometimes forgot things and that maybe it would always just be the three of you – which sounded a little sad until your father had squeezed your hand and told you that three was already perfect.
But it was alright, because now, you had your cousin’s fingers clutching onto your hair, “She’s holding me!” you squealed, delighted and in awe because here, in this house, you were allowed to be amazed and to grow at your own pace.
The day you scraped your knee on the sidewalk, trying to teach yourself how to roller skate, you cried for less than a minute before your mother knelt in front of you, cleaning the wound and kissing the sting away. “You’re gonna be okay,” she said, and you believed her.
At school, you had a best friend who whispered to you how babies were made, and that made you giggle all day, the teacher shaking his head and calling you incorrigible, even though you had no idea what that meant and decided it must be something wonderful if it made you laugh that hard.
And the day you asked what you could be when you grew up, no one laughed. “You can be anything my little monkey,” your father had told you, and you thought about it for the whole day. Because anything was a lot for your brain: a teacher, a vet, a marine biologist. You always circled back to the same answer: something to help people.
And at night, as you looked at your glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, you wondered about other things: would someone look at you the way your father looked at your mother when she was singing in the kitchen, with that love that said I am home?
──────────
Deran’s bar is louder than usual tonight, crowded by sports fans watching a game between Los Angeles and Atlanta. Craig has tried to tell him why it was so important to win at least five times since their arrival, but Andrew’s attention remains elsewhere entirely, watching you from across the room the way he has been watching you for four months now: trying to read something in your posture or in the tilt of your head that could give him an answer.
Because the truth is…he doesn’t know what you are after last night and if what happened in the hallway, or every night you’ve spent wrapped together, mean the same thing to you that they mean to him. He wants to ask, to spill the question out before it eats him alive: what are we?
Andrew hates not knowing. On a job, he knows every camera, every blind spot, every possible way things can go wrong but with you, there’s no map. And he hates that he can’t predict your next move.
You are standing at the bar, ordering a drink, your back half-turned to him and wearing a dress that shouldn’t be allowed to exist in public. It makes his pants grow tighter and has him readjusting on the stool, trying to pretend he isn’t affected while his brother sits three feet away and would never let him live it down if he knew.
And he knows he shouldn’t be staring, but you keep touching absentmindedly the necklace, your fingers tracing the pendant as it moves with your breathing, and before he can stop himself, he’s counting it.
(One. Two. Three. Four.)
You had said thank you last night in a way that felt like you meant something more, had let him secure the necklace around your neck and had met his eyes when you called it beautiful as if you were promising you would always wear it.
Always.
(Oh, how he doesn’t trust that word. Doesn’t trust anything that implies staying. He knows better. He should know better.)
And yet, there you are, wearing it for everyone to see, which does nothing to steady his accelerated pulse, and leaning across the counter to collect your cocktail from Deran. The movement doesn’t reveal much more of your skin, but it still sets ablaze Andrew’s brain, his lips going dry as he tries to resist the urge to walk up to you and beg for you to tell him that he isn’t the only one picturing rings, and a cradle in a quiet house and your head on his chest until he is old and grey.
“You’re not being subtle, you know that?” Craig says, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.
“Don’t start.”
Craig raises his hands innocently. “Jesus, relax.” He immediately reaches for the bowl of peanuts on the table, and Andrew feels his jaw tighten at the thought of how many unwashed hands have touched that bowl already. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you tonight?”
What’s wrong is that he just stole diamonds worth more than all of the jobs he did last year and it doesn’t compete to the way you look with the chain resting against your collarbone.
What’s wrong is that he would give back every dollar from last night if it meant waking up beside you for the next fifty years.
What’s wrong is that he is one second away from walking across that bar and lowering himself at your feet for your hands to baptize him clean, as if loving you were the only absolution worth asking for because whatever heaven exists for a man like him begins and ends with you.
And what’s wrong right now is that a man slides into the empty space beside you, leaning too close and touching your arm to get your attention. You turn toward him politely, your lips curving into the small smile you once called your ‘customer smile’. You had explained it to his brothers and him: that you always kept the worst-case scenario in the back of your mind and that a smile felt safer than a hard no since it could mean the difference between walking away or not.
(Andrew doesn’t know the names or the faces of those who made you feel like that but he wants to find them. He wants to press them on the ground and feel their pulse panic under his thumbs. He wants them to understand what fear tastes like when it turns metallic into the mouth. He wants the air stolen from their lungs the way it must have been stolen from yours when you felt scared. He no longer wants to count. He wants to hurt. To see this man’s blood on the bar.)
Andrew starts walking towards you before he even formulates the thought, shoulders squared, already calculating how much force it would require to grab the stranger by the collar and steer him outside of the bar.
His vision narrows as he sees the stranger laughing, his hand lifting to linger near your elbow as if he was testing whether he can push for more and that makes Andrew’s vision blur at the edges. He is three steps away. Two.
Your eyes find his instantly, and something shifts in your expression. Your hand leaves the cocktail and you smile at him. It’s not the customer smile. No, it’s the real one that unravels him each time.
“Hey, honey,” you say brightly as your arm wraps around his neck and you press a kiss to his cheek, your hand traveling down his side before sliding into the back pocket of his pants, settling against him.
Andrew is almost sure he died at some point on the way there because he is pressed against you and now, he is no longer Andrew or Pope. For a brief moment, he gets to just be honey, and the word makes him happier than any name ever has.
The stranger glances between you. “Oh. I didn’t realize…”
“My boyfriend,” you cut him off with a smile, looking up at Andrew’s face.
His eyes were already on yours, searching for the smallest flicker of fear. Because if the man has dared put some in them, Andrew would dig an unmarked grave without blinking. When he finds none, his hand comes to your waist, his thumb strolling along your hip as he dips his head and presses his mouth above the faint line of stitches on your forehead.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low enough that the word belongs only to you.
He feels your breath hitch against his skin before turning to the man and saying lightly. “No worries, he always gets a little intense about men crowding me,” you tilt your head, thoughtful. “Not sure if it’s the boxing or the prison time. But don’t mind him…he almost doesn’t bite.”
The stranger’s smile falters just enough to satisfy something dark in Andrew’s chest. “Oh, um…yeah. Sorry man, I didn’t know she was taken.”
Andrew doesn’t raise his voice or move, he just stands there with your hand in his pocket, letting the silence stretch until it feels suffocating. “She is.”
“Right. I’ll go back to…the match.”
Andrew doesn’t blink and keeps track of the man’s back until he is laughing again at his friends’ table like nothing happened and only then does he let his focus shift back to you. You, who’s still close and warm, holding onto him like you have no intention of letting go.
His hand remains at your waist as he turns toward you, the movement bringing your faces close enough that your noses almost brush and your breaths mix between you. He lowers his head slightly, almost enough to kiss you.
“You okay?” he murmurs while his thumb keeps its slow movement on your hip.
You nod, your mouth curving up in that smile he loves. The real one. The one that you have at the skatepark each time you manage to stay upright a little longer than the day before: proud, bright and stubbornly pleased of yourself. And he can’t help but think about those lips and the way they said ‘honey’.
(He wants to hear it again. Wants to hear it softly. Wants to hear it moaned in the dark and against his mouth. He wants to kiss them every day for the rest of his life. To learn them. To know how they would part as he pounds into you. Stop. He has to stop.)
He blinks twice, grounding himself in the feel of your waist.
“Andrew. I’m good, I promise,” you murmur, sliding your hand out of his pocket and lace your fingers with his instead, interlocking them. “Let’s get out of here, please. It’s too loud.”
He doesn’t say it out loud, but relief settles at your suggestion. The bar feels too loud, too crowded and the idea of how many unwashed hands like Craig’s have been over the counters keeps coming back at him. So, when you tug gently at his hand and turn toward the door, he follows without hesitation, grateful that you were the one saying it.
The door swings shut behind you and the noise from the bar dulls instantly, reduced to a muted thud. The air is cooler than inside, smelling like the salt of the ocean mixed with your shampoo and he doesn’t understand how he gets to still have your hand in his and your thumb moving across his knuckles.
It’s only when you stop beside the truck and turn toward him that his eyes drop to the thin gold chain resting around your neck. His free hand lifts carefully to brush the chain first, following it down until the pad of his thumb rests over the pendant itself, flattening it against your skin.
“Still got it on,” he murmurs, tracing the outline of the pendant.
(He imagines doing this, years from now. In the kitchen. In bed. In the shower. Adjusting it before you leave the house. Brushing it aside before he kisses the curve of your throat. Seeing it against your skin when you are carrying his child.)
“Looks better on you than it did in the store,” he adds.
Your fingers slide slowly between his, guiding his hand so it settles flat over your heartbeat. He can feel it beating loud and fast under his palm, matching his own.
You tilt your face enough to find his eyes back. “Thank you for what happened in there, Andrew. You were good.”
His eyes slip shut for half a second because he doesn’t trust himself to survive the way you are looking at him, smiling at him with such warmth he shivers of pleasure.
(Good. You think he is good. If that’s what you want, he can be good. He can kneel. He can find how to rebuild himself from the bones if it means you keep calling him good.)
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he says under his breath.
“Why?”
“Because I’d do anything if you asked.”
Your fingers start to caress the back of his hand. “Anything?”
He nods, his gaze unwaveringly focused on your eyes. “If you told me to walk away from the jobs, I would.”
Your hand pauses against his.
“Andrew…” you murmur, but there’s no panic in it, no immediate rejection. “You know why I wanted to reject him, right?”
He doesn’t answer, too scared of startling the moment with another word.
“You know why I’d reject any other guy in that bar and why I wanted him to know?”
“Know what?”
“That I’m not available.”
“You’re not?” he asks, as his mind races.
“I don’t know,” you say softly. “Are you?”
The question hangs there, in the small space between your bodies, his mind fumbling with a thousand overlapping questions.
(Are you with him? Calling him yours? Defining what this was? Finally answering the question that has been rattling his brain for weeks?)
“Are you available Andrew?” you repeat gently, your hand lifting up to cup his face.
He exhales slowly, trying not to whimper at the contact, shaking his head.
You lean closer, your nose brushing his and your voice dropping lower. “No?”
“No.”
Your thumb traces patterns along his cheekbone and it takes him a few moments to realize that you were mapping his freckles. “How long?” you whisper.
He feels too weak to reply, overwhelmed by the tenderness of your touch. If his heart had not been already yours, he would lay it at your feet right there, so long as you promise to treat him with this gentleness and care for the rest of his life.
“Before the party? When I called you to help me?” he nods. “Before our night on the couch?” another nod. “Before our first skateboard le-?”
“When we met. And you brought pastries,” he replies, on the verge of a sob, shameful to confess that he keeps thinking about you on top of him, under him, any way you want it as long as he could disappear into your light and be drown whole by your grace to wipe out every horror he has ever seen or done for the sake of others.
“Andrew. Honey. Please, look at me.”
He keeps his gaze darted to the ground, like looking anywhere but you might prevent him from saying anything more revealing about the depth of his feelings, before his eyes close on their own instinctively, only realizing a heartbeat later that it’s because your lips found his.
And for the first time in Andrew’s life, that deep pit of misery in his heart goes completely silent, frozen for a flash before kissing you back.
Your lips are warm and a little reckless, tasting like mint and something entirely yours that he knows he will crave for the rest of his life. Your fingers thread into his curls, pulling a groan he can’t control out of him. He moves closer without thinking, his hand sliding along your waist until your back meets the metal of the truck door.
The second he registers the force of it, he pulls back just enough to search your face, to scan for any sign that he has gone too far, but the pause barely lasts a breath before your fingers tighten in his hair, guiding him back down as your body arched into his, slipping his tongue past your parted lips.
You are an oasis and he is nothing but a thirsty man wandering in the dark who gets to finally know what it’s like to drink every drop of it. You taste dizzy and intoxicating and he knows that he has been feeding on scraps of affection all his life and now…now he understands what it means to be full.
He is about to tell you how much sweeter you taste than in his fantasies before you bite down on his lower lip, drawing another sound of his throat.
You tilt your head, your arms wrapping fully around his neck as his drop to your hips, steady and sure, to raise you higher against the door, a gasp spilling out of you that he swallows eagerly and your dress hiking up as your legs wrap around him, denying any space between your bodies.
He feels you pull away for air by an inch or two, making him whine at the loss of contact, but he quickly recovers as he sees the flushed smile on your kiss-swollen lips. “Show off.”
“Yeah?” he asks while one of his arms tightens under you, anchoring your body to the door while the other frees itself to trail up your body and adding a smug, “Yeah,” skimming your inner thigh and marveling at how many sounds he can coax out of you, wondering how much more he’d pull if he could trace his thumb along your heat. But instead, he cups again your cheek, tracing slowly the bow of your lips.
“Dimples,” you murmur.
“What?”
“Dimples, Andrew,” you repeat, delighted, like you’ve just discovered something rare. “I didn’t know you had them.”
(Oh. Of course. You can see them because he is smiling. For real. A real one. Not the tight, guarded version. Not the twitchy one. A full unguarded smile. When was the last time he did that?)
“I do,” he says, trying and failing to smooth it away. “So do you.”
Your eyebrows lift. “I do not.”
“You do,” he insists quietly, shifting his hold slightly to keep his arm secure around you, his thumb pressing gently at the corner of your mouth. “Right there…”
Inside the bar, the crowd erupts in a wave of shouting, making you glance at the door before erupting in laughter, eyes wide.
“Oh, fuck,” you whisper, incapable of stopping your giggles. “I forgot.”
Andrew exhales through his nose, trying to calm the blood pumping hard all the way down his length. He knows that you’ve been feeling him against you the whole time, your hips still rubbing together, and for once in his life, he doesn’t want to excuse himself or feel ashamed of his desires, of how much he wants. He has spent too many nights thinking about how you’d taste, how you’d moan. Too many cold showers to try get rid of his hard-on whenever he was picturing you.
“Maybe…” you murmur against his mouth, pecking soft kisses along his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”
He looks at you, at the way your lips are still swollen and glistening from kissing, at your panting and the tremors of your legs.
He nods, lowering you carefully back onto your feet, his hands still trailing along your sides to still have some ways of being connected to you before reaching for the door handle of the passenger seat and helping you in.
He feels, walking around to the driver’s side, that he is still smiling. Dimples and all.
──────────
“Maybe…” you sigh, struggling to keep your composure and pressing kisses along the freckles dusting his jaw. “Maybe we should relocate.”
The intensity of his eyes on you, trailing along your body and taking in your rampant arousal, feels like he is on the verge of taking you against the door. You are pretty sure that if he’d ask you for permission, you’d grant it promptly. You want him. You want to know how long it would take for his unwavering hazel eyes to become pleading wet just by your lips telling how good he is to you.
But he just nods, jaw tight before lowering you carefully back onto your feet, making you bite down a protest at the loss of contact, like even the air feels like too much distance, until you feel his fingertips dragging over your waist.
He opens the door for you and not so long ago, you would have described his current behavior as controlled and cold, but now that you know him…you recognize a man who’s trying to contain himself, like a wild animal finally freed.
(Devour. You want him to devour you. To ruin you. Four months of trying – miserably – to have a date with him and it took only a gross man and a ‘honey’ to get him to kiss you like that and tell you he would quit everything? Fuck. Focus.)
He starts the engine, snapping you out of your thoughts, before pulling out of the parking lot, still smiling. You stare at his profile: the line of his jaw that has now faint traces of your lipstick, the way his tongue briefly drags across his lower lips like he can still taste you and his hand on the gear shift that slowly drifts to your thigh.
Your breath stutters the moment his palm settles just above your knee, the pads of his fingers tracing patterns over it while he keeps his eyes on the road. That definitely doesn’t help your craving for more.
(How much can be a fine for having sex in a car anyway? Andrew has money. Plenty from what you understand so…that would just be a drop in a bucket, right?)
You slide your fingers over his, intertwining them on your lap and stilling his slow, absent movements. He glances at you immediately, probably to understand why you stopped him. But the look you give him is enough to answer his question.
His eyes trail your face a fraction too long before looking back to the road, purposefully, the streetlights passing by a little faster.
“We’ll be there in five,” he declares without looking at you.
“Andrew, it’s at least ten minutes away,” you say, with a barely contained smile.
“Five.”
“I’m timing you, you know,” you smirked, pointing at the car clock.
The truck moves through an intersection just as the light turns yellow - once, then again at the next block – while Andrew doesn’t do so much as blink.
“See?” he says, the hint of a smug smile on his face when the car finally parks home.
You check the dashboard clock. Four minutes.
You shake your head, laughing as you both unbuckle your seatbelts. “Show off.”
Of course, you should know better now, he is not a man to stop there. So, when he opens the door for you before you even reach for the handle, and offers his hand, you should see it coming.
He helps you down carefully and for half a breath you think that maybe this time he’s not going to do it. No, you definitely should know better cause the moment your feet hit the ground, his arm slides behind your knees, sweeping you off while the other moves behind your back.
A breathless gasp escapes your mouth. “Andrew!”
(God you are so fucking gone for him. Is this what it would feel like? Crossing a threshold with him as a young bride? Completely besotted in a white dress? No. Not would. Will.)
He shuts the door with his hip, adjusting you against his chest as your arms loop around his neck automatically, your body relishing his touch as the thought slips out before you can stop it: “I feel like your bride right now.”
His steps slow on his way to the door, just enough for you to notice and wonder if you should just tell him to brush off your stupid words. That you are just drunk (you barely had the time to drink a sip of your cocktail earlier) and tired (you just spent two nights in a row sleeping like a baby in his arms).
The garage light flickers as he reaches the front door. “You are.”
He carries you inside like he’s done it in a million other lifetimes while you are still gaping, mouth wide open at his words. You shake your head a bit wobbly before moving your hand from the nape of his neck to the place on his cheek where you know a dimple is hiding.
“Careful,” you murmur, smiling softly. “Keep talking like that and I might start looking for a dress rea-”
Your words are being cut off by his mouth, kissing you like he is trying to drown in the sensation, tilting his head to fit you better, to take more of you, and you can’t stop the moan passing your lips. It feels like stepping into the fire and realizing you don’t ever want to be pulled out.
Your feet carefully find back the ground as his hands slide along your backbone, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades. His lips part yours with the same confidence he has when he catches you at the skatepark. You feel him everywhere and you still want more.
(Is it ever going to stop? This feeling? This whole tremor that dances under your skin every time he touches you? Every time he kisses you like he means forever?)
He pulls away just enough, heavy breath mingling with yours, hazel eyes half-lidded in pleasure and his nose brushing yours softly with your foreheads pressed together, “We can just kiss. If that’s what you want. I don’t need more. Just you,” he murmured in a broken voice.
The words settle deep in your chest, heavy and large as if they have roots. It makes you want to answer him with your mouth, to kiss him until his doubts leave his bones entirely. You bring your fingers to the bow of his lips and he kisses them gently, one after the other, the softness of it making you tremble.
“Andrew,” you say quietly, smiling despite your racing pulse. “Take me to bed.”
He regards you for a long moment, his eyes moving slowly over your face as though he is searching for hesitation and when he finds none, a smile begins at the corner of his mouth, enough to carve that rare, gorgeous dimple into his cheek. “Bossy,” he smirks before lifting you back by the waist so your legs can wrap up around his waist, walking around the house guided only by his memory since his lips are too busy coaxing moans out of you.
You are almost blacking out from the lack of oxygen when the kiss suddenly breaks. In the soft lighting of his bedroom, you distinguish most of his expression: lustful and bewildered that this is finally happening.
“I want to taste you. Please,” he breaths and you nod, not trusting yourself to reply.
The look that passes through his hazel eyes is hazy, fingers finding the hem of your dress and carefully pulling it up.
“Don’t want to mess it,” he says, folding it neatly on his chair. “You look pretty in that.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to feel too self-conscious about being only in your underwear, braless as he kneels down to the floor, still fully clothed and face a few inches lower than yours, prying your legs apart.
“Andrew,”
He doesn’t respond, pressing his lips to the inner corner of your thigh and moving further up between your legs.
“You don’t have to Andrew.”
He only lifts his gaze up to yours, unwavering as he continues his kisses, “You don’t want it?”
“I…I’m not saying that. I just…I don’t want you to feel obligated to it. I know it’s not…what men like the most,” you gasp, your hand finding his curls and twisting them around your fingers, making him grunt.
“It’s what I want to do the most, right now,” he says with a sinful gaze. “Can I?”
“Yes. Okay. Sure,” you choke, closing your eyes and lying down as he continues his torturous path, his hands slowly tugging the last piece between him and your pussy.
You don’t think you have ever been this wet with a man. Or a woman. Or anyone at all. Normally, you feel a bit uncomfortable with men going down on you cause they never seem to know what they are doing or are too impatient of having ‘real sex’ to let you finish. But here with Andrew, you are nothing but pleasure, his lips fiddling with you like you are an instrument that he is tuning to his own harmony.
You gasp as his tongue finally probes your folds stopping just underneath your clit, earning from him a low whimper.
“You taste delicious,” he goes, coming up for air by an inch. “Just like how I dreamt,” he adds, making you feel close to delirious.
He lowers his face again, tongue working its way up your pussy again, finally reaching for your clit and rolling over it, making you shudder and writhe on the bed, incapable of keeping your moans down and your hands running through his scalp.
“Andrew, please. Just like that. It’s perfect,” you praise him, feeling how it makes him pick up the pace.
Your last straw is the sight of his face between your legs, eyes burning with nothing but want, his hands used to stealing and hurting now holding onto your legs to keep them open and making you come with a hoarse cry. If there’s a heaven on Earth, you know now that it must only exist in this man. In his hands, his chest, his mouth, his eyes. He is nothing but your sanctuary, your promised land and your altar.
When your orgasm subsides, you feel Andrew crawling over you and pressing his lips against you, making you taste yourself on his mouth as you slip your tongue in it. The small noise of pleasure from the back of his throat is the most delicious sound you’ve ever heard.
“You,” you breathe against him, your lips brushing his, pupils probably wide. “I want you. Like right now. So please…take off those clothes. I love them. Really. But take them off.”
His lips twitches again to the side, “Anything.” as he starts to undress, folding them before going above you, his hard cock pressing against your heat.
His eyes keep searching your face, looking for an ounce of backtrack in your eyes before slowly entering you. That’s when you realize how grateful you are for the previous climax because in any other situation, you would have probably wince at his thickness. Thankfully, he seems to catch on with it - probably due to his gaze not leaving your face and refusing to blink – and takes his time to be fully inside you.
For a couple of minutes, the two of you don’t move, give you the time to marvel at how good he feels inside of you. You know now that you’ll have other days and nights to ask him to stay like this for hours, just to be one.
Andrew presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing yours as he whispers. “I love you.”
The word hums through your body. Love. Love. Love. Andrew loves someone and it’s you. From your scalp to your toes, you can feel it resonating through you. Love. Love. Love.
“I love you, Andrew. My Andrew,” you murmur happily, moving a drenched curl from his forehead. “So good to me.”
His face ends up in your neck, trying to cover his reaction to your words. “You really think I’m good?”
“Of course you are. Look at me, honey,” you say, holding onto his chin to bring back his face close to yours as your legs wrap around his waist. “You are good. You are kind. You keep making me feel safe. And…I’m so lucky to have you,” you add, rolling your hips and making him shiver.
You drink in the sight of him: his sweaty hair sticking to his head, curls messy from where your fingers had run through, the freckles dusting his chest and the traces of old wounds that you’ll ask about one day. But the most important of all is the way he is looking at you – as if he loves you. Because he does. He said it. I love you. I love you. I love you.
You keep whispering sweet nothings into his ear, just to see the flush spreading on his cheeks, his ears, his chest and encouraging his thrusts to go harder, deeper. Soon enough, you are quivering around him, your nails digging in his skin as you bite on his lower lip in retaliation for making you wait so long for this moment.
He lets out a desperate moan. “I won’t…last long. ‘m sorry. You feel so…”
“It’s okay,” you encourage him. “I want you to come.”
He slams his cock one more time and goes. “Wh-Where?”
“In me,” you beg, and you know you have hit the right nerve from the way his whole body trembles.
“Really?” he breathes.
“Please.”
The sight of his body, eyes fighting to not shut tight from the pleasure, mouth pursuing yours, mixed with how good he is making you feel, is too much. Your back arches as you reach your second climax tonight, quickly followed by Andrew, clinging to you as his warm load fills you up. Both of you are gasping for one another, time almost freezing as your eyes are sharing the same thought. I love you. I love you. I love you.
After a couple of minutes, Andrew slips out of you and lays most of his body against your side, putting his head above your breasts, on your heartbeat, intertwining your hands together.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
You brush a kiss on top of his head. “What?”
“Tomorrow, we’re picking out your dress.”
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i love ur baby daddy pope can you please please please do a baby daddy sammy bryant who constantly flirts with reader at drop offs and begs her to get back with him
i think baby daddy!sammy is toxic and sleeeeeeazy
you would pull up to the station, your usual and neutral meeting spot to drop your son off to sammy whenever it was his weekend. the reason you divorced in the first place was a mix of things. your schedules never aligning, constant bickering, never being able to agree. you were the one to file for divorce, sammy begging and pleading you not lot leave but after months, he finally relented and signed the papers. he never stopped trying to get back with you though.
it was 10 minutes since you had pulled up, a sigh leaving your lips at his usual lateness. you had plans with your friends that evening, planning to go out to the bars and drink till you couldn't stand. the dress you wore was one you had bought after your divorce, deciding to do something for yourself for once instead of trying to please sammy all the time. you had started working out more, dressing a little more revealing, and going out more when you didn't have your son. your top priority was always him though, making sure he was happy whenever he was at your house. "you excited to stay with daddy this weekend?" you spoke, turning back in your seat to your son who was 4 now. all he did was nod, the toys in his hands keeping him distracted.
you were snapped out of your thoughts at the sound of a door closing, sammy making his way outside with a smirk on his face at the sight of you. he had changed quite a bit too since your divorce. he was fitter than ever, having lost a lot of his weight, cockier than ever, and loved to push your buttons ten times more. you only glanced at him before you were climbing out of the car, going to the backseat to unbuckle your son. what you didn't see was his smirk drop and eyebrows furrow together at your outfit. "daddy!" your son called as he ran to sammy, hugging onto his legs tightly. sammy was quick to lift your son up, pressing a kiss to his head. "hi buddy, you have a good time with mommy?" he hummed to the boy, smiling to his son before his attention was turned to you, watching you bend over in the backseat to grab his bag of clothes.
you leaned forward to press a soft kiss to your son's cheek, shoving the bag into sammy's free arm. his cologne was strong, the same one he wore when you were married. the same one you were so addicted to. "say bye to mommy and head inside, i have to talk to her," sammy spoke, your son reaching to hug you tight before he was wriggling out of his father's arms and running to the door of the police station. you were already turning around to get back into the driver's seat, sammy's hand slamming against the door to keep you from opening it. "got plans or something?" he mumbled, an irritated sigh as leaving your lips as you turned to face him.
his eyes looked you up and down slowly, his teeth clenching at the sight of your cleavage popping out. "yes. now let me go, sammy," you mumbled, trying to push his arm from the door but he was quick to grab your wrist. "where you going? especially wearing this?" he mumbled, his fingertip moving to run against the top of the dress where it rested on your tits. you couldn't help but swallow hard, goosebumps popping up all over your body that had him smirking. "out with my friends. now if you'll excuse me i am going to be late because someone can never seem to be on time," you murmured, trying to free your wrist from his tight grip.
that only made him hold tighter, pulling you close so your bodies were pressed together. "don't be like that, baby," he hummed, hands moving to rest on your hips as he looked down at you. "could skip your plans and come over for dinner? lil family night," he suggested as he leaned down to your ear, pressing a small kiss to it. you hated the effect he still managed to have on you after all this time. curse him and his smooth talking and his sexy face. "not happening, it's amanda's birthday," you mumbled, hands moving to his police vest to try to push him back but he didn't budge, his hands only squeezing at your hips. "just come over after then. he'll be asleep. just wanna see what you have on under this," he continued to press soft kisses to your ear, knowing it was your weak spot.
you couldn't stop your thighs from clenching together, the sight of it making the evil smile on his face grow. "you're a pig," you mumbled, shoving him back before climbing into the driver's seat. he was quick to move between the door, not allowing you to shut it. he leaned across you to buckle your seat belt for you, pressing a small kiss to your cleavage. "you have my number, sweetheart. call me when you're all done tonight," he spoke, shooting a quick wink at you before he was shutting the door behind him.
and of fucking course you called him in your drunken state that night. who else was going to take care of you when you were this far gone?
There are too many risks with the job. Well, there's always risks. You're never not worried about Andrew—worried that he'll get himself into the kind of trouble he won't be able to get out of, worried that he'll land himself back in Folsom, worried that, one of these days, he will get himself killed. The job his idiot brothers had lined up this time around carries more risk than ever, and you've been dreading it since it was first proposed.
Several months ago, you and Andrew had struck a deal. He would do only as many jobs as he needed to save up enough money to leave this place and this way of life behind. It gave you hope—a path forward that allowed you to see a real future with him, but if he gest caught out or worse during any one of these jobs it will be for nothing. And that is why you had spent this morning arguing with him, while he moved around the room, getting ready to leave.
You bickered, yelled, pleaded, and cried, but Andrew is one stubborn bastard and he walked out the door anyway. There was no hug or kiss goodbye, you'd been too busy fighting. In the radio silence that proceeds his departure, you regret every moment of the turbulent morning. He said that he would text you as soon as possible, but the day passed you by dreadfully slow, phone kept close by during every waking moment. You waited and waited, but your phone never buzzed. Please, please be okay. That argument cannot be the last exchange.
You wake up to dreary grey morning light cascading over the room. The bed is empty beside you. Instantly, you reach for your phone. Nothing. Panic claws it's way up your throat and wetness stings your eyes. Just as you're about to cave to a flood up tears, you hear the rumble of a truck in the driveway. You jump out of bed and dart down the stairs, flinging the front door open. Your bare feet scrape against the wet concrete. You're still in your pj's, anything else becomes the least of your concerns.
Andrew has just exited his truck when you barrel into him. He catches you with a grunt, stumbling back a step. A split second passes before he registers what is happening, then his strong arms wrap around you. Only then does your brain let relief pour through your system. Rain pelts you, soaking you to the bone, and plastering your clothes to your skin.
"You're gonna catch a cold," he says. A big hand tilts your chin up. Your lashes have clumped together, rivulets roll down your face—a mixture of cold rain and hot tears. You must look like a mess. Sleep deprived and worried sick.
"You're okay…" you breathe out.
"I had to lay low for the night," he says, "I couldn't text you, I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry!" Your voice cracks, a sob that you fail to hold back scrapes the back of your throat. "I thought that the last thing we would ever say to each other was—"
You're cut off by his lips on yours. Warmth blooms where frigid cold has engulfed you, and for awhile you forget the droplets slashing down at you. One hand at the small of your back hauls you close, bringing your chest flush to his. The other remains cradling your face, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek. Stray, dripping curls tickle your skin. He kisses you until the shared warmth can no long stave off the cold, and it begins to settle into your marrow.
His forehead comes to rest against yours, the tips of your noses brushing. The smallest smile touches his lips as he watches your nose scrunch up. Nothing has ever felt as nice as being held in his arms after spending a day thinking you might never get to be again.
"I love you, Andrew."
"I love you too," he rasps. There's a pause. A shudder runs through your body, goosebumps raising along your skin. "Let's get inside before you end up sick."
✰summary: Comfort shower bench sex with Jack after an emotionally taxing night shift at the Pitt.
✰wc: 1.5k✰
✰a/n: shower sex with jack thats the premise. but i really wanted to write him using mobility aids, like a custom wheelchair and a shower bench for disability pride month. because way too many fics exclude the fact that Jack is disabled. and because i read one too many shower sex fic where Jack was standing so I wrote this :) ✰ (i know thats andy just ignore it lol).
✰ warnings: shower sex. mention of/alluding to an age gap ✰
Jack unlocks his door and opens it for you to walk through first. It wasn't the first time you've been in Abbot's house or the first time you've stayed the night/morning with him. Over the course of your relationship, his house had become a second home. As you enter through the front door, his hand brushes against your lower back as he walks past you and towards his living room.
"I think there's leftovers in the fridge you can help yourself to." He tells you as he sits on his couch, taking off his prosthetic.
You appreciate it, but food is the last thing on your mind. The adrenaline that carried you through the last 3 hours of your shift had dissolved and left you with exhaustion, and the only thing that is on your mind is a hot shower.
"Thanks, maybe later I'm not really hungry."
Jack's head instantly lifts to look at you, with his brows raised. You already know what he's going to say. Something you've heard before, so you speak before he says anything.
"I promise I'll eat later. I just really want a shower right now."
Jack relaxes, but you can tell he won't let it slip your mind. "Promise? Because the 2 protein bars you had during your shift aren't anywhere near enough food."
You nod, going to where he was sitting on his couch. You bend over slightly, just enough to press your lips against his. His hands go to your hips as he kisses you back. When you pull away, you nod. "I promise. Just really want a shower first."
His hand rubs your waist. "Alright, honey."
You leave the living room and go to his bedroom. Grabbing one of his shirts out of his dresser and the extra pair of underwear you keep in your bag for your shift. After Dennis' first day, you've always kept a set or two of a change of clothes, just to be safe.
You enter his en suite bathroom and set your clothes down on the counter, and turning on the shower. You take off your clothes, leaving them on the floor, then step into the shower.
Instantly feeling refreshed as the hot water pours down and hits your body. Your eyes close as you stand underneath his showerhead. Just letting the water run over you for a bit first. You're so relaxed that you don't notice Jack has entered the bathroom until you hear the bathroom door close behind him.
You look through the glass door and watch as Jack wheels his wheelchair further into the bathroom. "Can I join?" He asks quietly in his familiar low voice.
You nod, "Yeah. Was hoping you would, honestly."
He smiles as he takes off his shirt and pants. You watch, shamelessly taking in his attractive body. His large chest and biceps. The freckles that decorate along his skin.
"Enjoying the view?" His voice breaks you out of your trance of admiring him. You step back, towards the front of the show, to give him room to transfer from his wheelchair to his shower bench. You stay standing near the front, but after Jack is sitting on the bench, he motions for you to come closer.
You listen, taking a few steps closer to the bench until his hands land on your hips, and he pulls you closer to him until you're sitting on his thigh. He dips his head against your shoulder as you play with the curls at the back of his neck.
"Well, it was kinda hard not to enjoy it. It's a pretty hot view."
That earns a laugh from him. He presses a few kisses along your jaw and neck. "My view isn't too bad either." Jack's hands run along your body, groping and squeezing your tits in his large hands.
You head tilts back over his shoulder, letting out a moan.
"Jack."
You turn your head until his lips are in front of you. You hold his scruffy jaw and press your lips against his.
"You know." You start, saying in between kisses, before stopping to finish your sentence. "I didn't realize this was a shower bench when I first used your shower." You admit as he continues to caress your body.
Jack's head tilts, both amused and confused. "Oh yeah? What'd you think it was?" He asks.
You plant another kiss on his jaw before laughing. "Don't laugh at me. But I thought it was a really long shelf."
Of course, though he does, you're met with a laugh. "A really long shelf? Seriously?" He cracks another laugh as his hands move across your thighs. "Such a shame you're only book smarts and not street smarts, huh? I mean getting through med school. A breeze. Recognizing a shower bench, though, thats a struggle."
"It's dark in here! And I just didn't realize what it was the first few times."
His lips go to yours, and he kisses you again. His hand travels from your inner thigh towards your pussy. His fingers rub over your cit, then move along your folds before slowly sliding his index and middle finger inside you. He moves his fingers inside you. The hot water from the showerhead adds to your wetness. His fingers move easily in and out of you.
Your lips move against his as he continues fucking you with his fingers. You break the kiss, letting out a few hushed whines and moans of pleasure.
"Jack. Need you in me. Please." You beg.
"What do you want?" He asks, still moving his finger inside you.
"Jack," You whine because you know he knows what you want.
"Say it." he directs quietly.
"I want your cock in me." You say breathlessly. "Please"
He carefully removes his fingers from you and presses a kiss to your temple. "See, that wasn't so hard wasn't?"
An annoyed groan leaves your lips. "You're so annoying."
Jack's eyebrows raise, faking offense. "You're doing a shitty job of convincing me to fuck you, just so you kn-"
You take his cock into your hands, and stroke it up and down, causing him to cut himself off with a moan. You move your hands up and down his shaft. Slowly at first, but gradually increasing your speed. Jack's head tilts over your shoulder as you continue to jerk him off, rubbing his tip with your thumb.
His hand goes over your stopping it. "Sweetheart, I'm in my 50s, and if I cum now, then I'm down for the count."
You let out a small laugh. "I don't know, I think you could manage." You start to move your hand again, and he groans, stopping your hand with his hands once again.
"Baby." He shifts your weight on his lap a bit. "Trust me, I know my limits. 20 years ago maybe. But today, yeah, I'd be down for the count. "
A laugh escapes you. A part of you wants to make him cum, just to annoy him. But the other part knows that he is right.
"You know, they make these little pills. They might be helpful with your situation, as a doctor I'm sure you're familiar with it, Vi-"
He gently pinches your ass to shut you up, and before you can respond, he presses a rushed and aggressive kiss, further shutting you up. His fingers skim across your back and pull you deeper into him. As your lips are on his, he gently lifts your hips, just enough for you to sink onto his cock.
The feeling of him inside you causes you to moan against his lips. You carefully move your hips, rolling them against his.
"Fuck honey, you feel so good," Jack mutters in between kissing your lips.
You moan against his lips as he continues to move inside you. His hand slips between your thighs and rubs your clit.
"Jack…" you moan again, burying your head against his neck.
He whispers your name, caressing your back softly while fucking into you.
"You take me so well, sweetheart. Such a good girl for me, baby." He praises you. His hand moves from your back up to the back of your head that's still buried in the side of his neck, cradling it.
The mix of his cock filling you, his soft low voice praising you, and his thumb rubbing along your clit reduces you to nothing more than a mess of whimpers, moans, and cries of his name.
You continue riding him, while the shower head pours over both of your bodies. Moving your hips with his, chasing your release until it washes over you and your cuming on his cock. Nails digging into Jack's back as he talks you through it.
"There you go, baby. Cum for me." His low voice comforts you as you come down from your release.
His own orgasm happens not too long after yours; he cums inside you with a few moans. His hands squeeze your waist. Both of you are breathing hard.
He rubs your back a bit before reaching over and grabbing his shower gel. "You ready to actually get clean now?"
You think about it. "Can we sit here for a bit first?"
Jack nods, giving your shoulder a soft kiss. "Of course."
Summary: after a bad nightshift you get stuck in your own head, letting it dift you away into that hazy space until you need Jack to reel you back in with a worthy distraction... Based on this lovely anon request <3
Warnings: mentions of a bad ER shift and the negative impact on mental health, some subspace/subdrop vibes, softdom/Olderboyfriend!Jack, car shenanigans, praise, over the panties rubbing, clothed play, clit stimulation, vaginal fingering whilst driving, Jack talking you through (bc ofc he does?!) kinda open ended cause i wouldn't mind picking up from this at some point.
Masterlist
It'd been one of those shifts.
You know the kind that starts in a mood far too good to be working a 12-hour shift and ends with the lingering question of why you'd chosen to take the path into medicine at all.
The same kind that goes from good to bad in a blink, that goes from stable to crash carts, and condolences that are never enough.
Those 12 hours felt like a test of will, of strength, of your shreds of remaining sanity. You can’t stop thinking about it all; those saved and those... Those not.
It weighs heavy in your head but presents heavier in the slump of your shoulders beneath a backpack strap.
The early sun is already golden as you finally make it out to meet Jack at his car again, leaving a night you'd rather forget behind. All you want now is to be home, to curl up with the man who understands it all on such an experienced level—highs and lows—and sleep.
"There she is," he calls whilst you cross the lot, his beam almost as bright as the sun's rise, eyes crinkled, and jaw peppered with white stubble. He still has some energy left in him by his voice, how though you have little clue. At least there's no way break room cold coffee is the answer.
You pull on a smile of your own, though, one like you didn't already spend your night working beside him or catch up with him half an hour ago about having to finish up some charting before you could leave.
"Sorry about that," you apologize anyway, to a shake of his head.
"Told you already, s'fine it happens—hop in." Those thick, freckled biceps ripple as he takes your bag and places it inside the backseat along with his own.
The engine is a rumble you're almost thankful to be able to hear when he pulls away, a distraction from replaying beeping machines and commands during procedures. It pairs perfectly with Jack's humming and the tap of his fingers on the leather wheel along to some song playing quietly on breakfast radio.
You're too busy zoned out on it all to notice Jack's curiosity, though, or to catch the crease in his brows or the bite of his jaw. He can see you in his periphery, fingers clenched tight into scrub bottoms you couldn't be bothered to change from, that slightly misty look in your eye as you watch the world go by through the window.
He's seen this before with you and knows the drop of a bad shift too well—what your mind needs to ponder and what to be distracted from.
Jack clears his throat, a quiet attempt at getting your attention before he asks. "Doing okay there, sweetheart?"
You meet his eyes in the rearview mirror, clearing the lump out of your own throat. A sound thoroughly unconvincing, your reply bordering closer to a question than an answer.
"Oh, Yeah m'fine?"
"Uh huh.." Jack hums, attention half on the road, half on that telltale knotting of your fingers in your lap. "Been staring out that window for a lil while now; I wanted to check in."
"Just.. Tired."
He sighs, nodding, offering you a sympathetic smile. "I know honey, was a long one, not so far now." he lets that sit for a moment, lets his eyes track the squish together of fabric squeezed thighs and fingers picking until theres loose thread.
"In the meantime.. S'there somethin you're wantin? Keep on fidgeting over there"
You swallow, shrug, chew at your lip slightly, before offering. "I.. I dont know"
Its a lie, a bad one really, but it fits the state you're in- when being verbal makes your mouth feel like its stuffed with cotton. When your thoughts jumble and make it hard to untangle the things you need from those you dont.
But Jack knows. He always knows, when you need things that you cant always say just yet. "Thats alright" he says softly, one hand leaving the wheel to reach over the cener console, before letting it rest limp in your lap. His lips curve into a smile that both reassures and confirms. "Aint gotta know. Tell you what, you can have my hand to hold the rest of the way; how's that sound?"
You nod, letting yourself drift again, this time allowing your nails to trace the worn lines and plush curves of his palm.
You admire how thick his fingers are, marvel at the way you know exactly how fucking perfect they feel stretching you open.
"Jack.." you breathe, thighs pushed tight beneath where you hold his hand.
He hums, focused on the road.
"Please.. Need to- to not think. Now."
Jack doesn't say a word, just waits for your fingers loosen around his, for your thighs to part in the car seat. Then he touches you, fingertips apply the barest pressure over the crotch of both scrub bottom and underwear.
The friction is.. Nice, But just that. Not good, not direct and, most of all, its not at all enough.
And asif on cue, Jacks voice breaks the quiet. Asking a question he knows is almost mocking.
"Hows that angel, better?"
You cant speak, cant even begin to have your mouth form the words, but a mewl does slip free- wanton and needy. It makes Jack's lips quirk up into a smirk, the maddeningly slow pace he rubs you at never faultering.
"aint enough is it?" he coos, glacing your way. "my poor girl, Huffin n' puffin in that seat. We're almost home, can have whatever you want then i promise"
The speed you head shakes almost makes him worry about whiplash, a pitiful sound filling the car. You squirm beneath the seatbelt, wiggle your hips against his still moving hand, anything to keep it going.
"C-cant.." you struggle. "Please Jack, need it now.
"We'll be home in few more mi-" hes cut off via the soynd of fabric tearing, of seams giving in from the pressure of both fingers curled into them tight and legs trying to shuffle wider in an awkward space. The rip leaving behind frayed edges and a gaping hole that reveals the wetly stained patch of your arousal in your panties.
You're nothing but wide eyed and illuminated by the morning sun in that moment, squirmy and needy, wanting nothing more than to get out of your head.
And Jack? Still with one hand gripped on the leather wheel, driving steady down intersections and bustling blocks, finally gives in.
"Oh honey.." His coo is pittying as he meets your eyes in the mirror, fingers already moving on your thigh toward the rip. "Alright shh, let's make some space." He taps your furthest hand with his fingertips. "pull those panties over f' me, open up a little wider, thats it good girl."
If you thought the contact of the air inside the car on your bared pussy was bliss, the slow trace of Jack's middle and ring finger up your sticky slit is sublime. He teases them up and down, traces the lips of your pussy, gathering your arousal until his fingers slide with little resistance. That first circle to your clit making your hips jolt up, a quiet gasp ripping from the depths of your chest.
Its good- so fucking good- that the hand not holding your panties digs into his forearm, keeping him there; controlling the stimulation you revel in. It's like the radio melts away, like the sun bothering your eyes and the streets passing by no longer exists, every flick and pinch toward your puffy little nub further dousing the fire in your gut in excess gasoline.
"Thats it" Jack drawls, suppressing a growl in his throat. "guide my fingers angel, take what you want."
And boy do you.
With a broken moan and a lilt of your hips, you guide a thick finger into your fluttering hole. You take it greedily, jaw falling open at the strech of his middle inside you, before guiding in a second to join in. Leather seats squeak quietly as you rock your hips, chasing the perfect drag of his tips against your walls, curling dangerously close to the spot that always has you shattering.
Those squeaks of the seat are drowned out however, quite literally, what with the debauched squelch and drip of your pussy. Your gasped moans and soft whines dont help, every sound in the car hardening Jack's cock in his pants to something solid.
"She's so wet, you hear that? Specially When i curl em righhhht there," he marvels in a coo, thumb adjusting to bump against your clit with every motion. "my thumb on that puffy clit, rubbin all those thoughts away. s' been hard tonight, i know baby. Doin so good"
Your lips form the shape of his name, the sound breaking in your throat as your nails only dig deeper into his freckled forearm. Every drag against your walls feeling better than the last, every sensation to your puffy clit growing almost overwhelming.
"J-jack" you mewl, hips jolting in the seat as you slide down slightly, head thrown back in that space between door and headrest. "O-oh god- m' close"
"Yeah?" he responds, pleased. The engine rumbling back to life after another red light, driving like he hasnt got his fingers knuckles deep inside your poor soggen pussy. "Gonna cum like this before we get back home? Be my best girl?"
You hum, the deep curl of his fingers drawing you ever closer, winding that band in your belly tighter.
"That's it, i know" Jacks thumb presses against your clit with the slightest increase in pressure, your hips jolting in the seat. "Just let it happen, dont chase it.."
You dont, or at least, you try. Your whole body is trembling, toes curling tight in your sneakers, nails close to maiming his forearm. The rhythm consistent, steady, perfect in every possible way.
Jack coaxes you anyway, like he always does, keeping you grouded with the husk of his tired voice. "Just ride it out, deep breaths, can feel it comin. drenchin my hand and my car seat, s' gonna be a big one huh?"
You struggle to reply, heaving out a broken moan "U-uh huh"
"Do it," he nods, eyes locking on your hazed, lust blown ones in the mirror, a growl ripping from him as he feels the telltale ripple of your pussy clenching around his curling, dragging digits. "Yeaaah, there we go, cum for me angel, make me proud."
The orgasm hits you in the chest first truth be told, It steals the very breath from your lungs, taking with it the noise you'd intended to let free. Your ears ring, vision a haze of white behind tightly cleched eyelids.
You cum violently, with a stuttering chest, writhing hips, and stomach muscles contracting wildly under your top. Arousal squelches lewdly down his hand, soaking the seat beneath you and whats left of your scrub bottoms, debauched and filthy. Your pussy pulses intensely even as he slows, as if trying to milk out any further bliss jack could bring her.
In fact, he doesn't let up until the last shocks overtake you and the bliss begins to burn. When your body no longer writhes and your moans turn to soft whimpers of overwhelm. Every motion turns gentle then, the draw out of his thoroughly soaked digits, the lift of his thick thumb from your puffy clit.
You let go of his arm with still closed eyes, body slumping into the seat exhausted and stated.
You dont catch him drag his tongue over those fingers, nor register the car's lack of movement, but what you do see when those eyes finally pop open? A smile as proud and adoring as it could possibly be.
And the solid tent of Jacks own arousal
"That feel a little better sweetheart?" he asks softly, reaching over to unclip your seatbelt. When you hum, he lets out a breathy laugh, rounding the car to meet you at the passenger side. "Yeah, i thought so silly girl.. Now, Lets get you all cleaned up and into bed hm?"
Writing this lowkey got me thinking about this here link i saw recently🤭🙂↕️ (fingering)
But Thank you so much for requesting and reading i hope you all enjoyed <33
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⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ JACK ABBOT who... cannot wrap his brain around the fact that you're insecure.
CONTAINS: 18+ MDNI, 3.1k words, unprotected p in v sex, insecure!reader, curvy/plus size!reader, discussions of insecurity and food intake, ass man!jack abbot supremacy, spanking, brief mentions of jack's prosthetic/crutches, not proofread! divider from the beautiful @robinavitchslut⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚
It starts after a rich, full dinner. You're stumbling across his threshold together, slightly tipsy off of what seemed like bottomless wine. Jack's lips are on yours in an instant, a large, rugged hand cupping your cheek, pulling your face to meet his.
You melt into him, like you always do, though flashes of the night keep echoing through your brain. The bloat in your tummy, the waitress who's eyes lingered on Jack for too long.
Suddenly, your dress feels too tight, Jack's roaming hands like little taunts over your plush skin. Not thin enough, not pretty enough, not good enough.
You're not an idiot, you see the way women look at Jack, the confused looks that always follow when you tell them that no, you are not his daughter. The logical part of your mind assumes the confusion is born of your age gap.
The rest of yourself is not so kind.
Wiggling out of his grasp, your heart clutches at his little pout. You pinch his cheek, stomach lurching at his hungry eyes.
"I just have to use the bathroom, I'll be right back, okay?" You whisper, desperate to hide any emotion in your voice.
"Okay," he mumbles as you walk past. "Don't take too long, I'll miss ya."
You roll your eyes, affection for the sweet man momentarily drowning out your painful insecurities. Once you're behind the bathroom door, though, the dam breaks.
All your worst thoughts flood through, sweat pricking at your brow. The shape-wear you shoved yourself into just hours ago is too tight, suffocating as you peel your dress above your head, wiggling the pinched fabric down your hips.
Once your skin is free of its confines, you can breathe a little easier. It's stolen from your lungs once again, though, when you slip your dress back over your head.
The satin clings to your tummy in a way that makes you cringe, a low wince slipping through your teeth. You pinch at the loose skin, sucking in and turning every which way in a sad attempt to flatten your stomach.
Why did you have that second helping of pasta? Why did you agree to dessert? Why would Jack ever be attracted to someone like you?
Tears slip past your ducts, and you hold your head parallel to the ground in an attempt to preserve your makeup. You catch your arms in your periphery, the extra jiggle in them as your shoulders shake, a gasp escaping your throat.
Do detox teas work in 30 minutes?
You don't have time to Google your absurd question, as a knock comes from outside.
"You okay, baby? Heard some heavy breathing in there, you're not sick are you?" Jack's sweet voice rings out, and your heart aches.
Sick in the head, maybe.
"No, I'm good," your voice comes out shaky, and utterly unconvincing.
Jack picks up on it, because of course he does, with a sassy huff.
"You sure? Can I be of service in any way, doll?" He pushes, and for some reason, that name snaps something deep within you.
"Don't call me that," you hiss, and he's silent for a moment.
Guilt and regret flood you in equal parts, burning deep in your belly like poison.
"I'm sorry," he responds, and you just cry a little harder. "I'm going to come in though, okay? It's very obvious you're crying, and I can't have that. This is your warning, alright?"
He waits a second before turning the knob, sliding across the threshold, brows furrowing when he sees you in such a state.
"Honey, what is it? What's wrong? Anything hurt?" He jumps into doctor mode, if only for a moment, while he gets underneath you to scan your face.
"Hm, pretty as ever," he muses, pinching your wet cheek.
You sniffle, arms coming up to cover your stomach. He knows this move, has picked up on all your little signs in the short time you've been dating, a small coo escaping his lips at the action.
"Oh, honey, you're overthinking that meal, aren't ya?" He asks, and it's so matter of fact that it makes you cry even harder.
"Oh, shh, shh, shh," he whispers, stroking your hair and peppering kisses to your scalp. "You're okay, I got you, you're so beautiful."
"Stop lying to me, Jack," you babble, throat scratchy and voice hurt. "I saw the way our waitress was looking at you, y'know?"
He takes a step back at this, clearly surprised. You keep going.
"In fact, I see the way all girls look at you when we go out, the way they look at me," you mumble, avoiding eye contact.
"Yeah?" He prods. "And how's that?"
"Like they can't believe you'd be with someone like me," you answer, punctuating with a pitiful laugh. "Hell, I can't believe it most days."
"What are you saying to me right now, baby?" He asks, and you roll your eyes. "Don't give me that. What are you trying to tell me?" He demands, and it's embarrassing how easily you fold.
"I'm saying that you could be with anyone in the entire world!" You throw your hands up, gesturing to your curvy frame. "But you chose me? Why? I just don't understand what you see in me, is all."
You trail off at that last bit, crossing your arms over your body once more. He's not having any of it, hands immediately coming down to remove them.
"What?" Is all he manages, a sad whisper reluctant to leave his lips. "You don't understand what I see?" He laughs, though nothing about his tone is humorous. "Baby, you're half my age!" He exclaims, and you roll your eyes.
"No, I'm serious, do you know how scared I was to ask you out on a date? Robby had to talk me off the roof, I'm serious," he insists, and you swat at his arm, remembering the day.
A new EMT at PTMC had flirted with you, and as Jack described him, he was younger, fitter, and more…age appropriate. He'd come rushing to you, had told you that the thought of you with someone like that scared the living shit out of him; you'd told him you weren't interesting in that. Only him.
So why is it so hard for you to understand that this is a two way street?
"Can I help you understand?" He asks, taking your hand. "Please?"
You nod, letting him take you from the bathroom to his bedroom, where he takes a seat at the edge of the bed. You stand in the doorway, watch for a minute as he undoes the mechanisms of his prosthetic, carefully sliding it off and resting it on the side of the bed.
He uses his palms to scoot himself back, not too far, but enough to open a spot for you between his knees. You take it, slotting in like a perfect puzzle piece. His hands start low, fiddling with the hem of your pink dress.
"'s this okay?" He murmurs, and you whisper a breathy, 'yes'.
He doesn't lift it up, rather continues to work his hands up the fabric, pinching your thighs and massaging your ass. Resting his head against your tummy, he peppers kisses there, and your face heats.
"Jack, you don't-" you try to move his head out of the way, discomfort an ever present third in this relationship. "You don't have to do this just because I was sad, I'm a big girl, I'll get over it."
He chuckles, it's sardonic, almost a little mean as he continues to kiss your plush skin.
"I know you are," he mumbles into you. "That's not what this is about. This is about me taking what I want. Y'gonna let me do that? Or are you going to keep doing this lil' shy girl thing?"
Your stomach burns at his words, jaw dropping in surprise.
"Jack-" you exclaim, a gasp wrestling from your chest as he pulls you further into him. "Oh!" You moan, throwing your head back and finally letting yourself lean into his touch.
"There she is, thaaaat's my girl," he coos, finally pulling your dress up over your head.
Your tits bounce as they're freed from the fabric, your tummy spilling over the waistband of your panties, just a little.
His eyes glaze over at the sight, and you cup his cheeks in your hands. He can't take his eyes off your body, and you have to fight the instinct to run away, to hide.
"So fucking beautiful," he grumbles, pushing his face deep into your tits.
You gasp as his hands follow suit, grabbing at your skin, kneading them, enclosing his own head between them. You can't help but giggle, trying to separate yourself from him.
"Jack! You're gonna suffocate!" You chuckle, but he just holds you closer.
"Perfect way to go, stop interrupting me," he quips, latching onto your nipple now.
A sweet 'oh!' leaves your lips, fingers coming up to scruff and tug on his hair. He groans at that, the vibrations around your peak sending shockwaves straight to the apex of your thighs.
"Prettiest fucking body I've ever seen, you don't even know," he breathes out, switching his attention to your other breast now.
Spending some time there, he moves his lips lower now, lifting you with ease so he can better access the swell of your tummy. His hands and lips are all over, kneading and massaging what you've always imagined to be your worst feature.
You tell him so, and he just shakes his head, a sardonic chuckle leaving his lips.
"'s fucking insane, baby. Thought you were my smart girl, hm?" He asks, looking up at you.
You nod, tears filling your eyes. He smiles at the sight, his thumb coming up to brush them away.
"Not a very smart thing to think, that you're anything other than a fucking goddess," he whispers. "Not smart at all."
He scoots back some more, holding his hand out for you to straddle him. He pulls you to him by your hips, his hands sliding lower until they reach your ass. You're thankful you at the very least had some foresight to put on a cute pair of panties.
They're not entirely a thong, but a pretty, seamless pair that slides between your cheeks anyways. He groans, bites down on your shoulder at the sight of them.
"God, you have all this back there and have the nerve to be insecure?" He asks, finding purchase on the real estate of your skin.
He grabs at it, kneads like dough, even leaving a few slaps there. You whine at that, and he groans, the way your skin jiggles rolling his eyes back.
"Jesus fucking Christ, want you over my lap. Now," he orders, and you scramble.
Your tummy and tits press up against his soft duvet, your hips settling on his lap. Heat blooms warm in your belly as he rubs a hand over your skin, a soft, "good girl," falling from his lips.
You whimper, arching your back into his touch. He chuckles, and it's almost mean as his hand cracks down on your skin.
"Jack!" You squeal, lurching forward. He just grips your waist, strong hands holding you in place.
"Ah, ah, ah," he tsks, giving you another slap in punishment. "Stay still, yeah?"
You nod, and he smacks you again.
"Yeah?" He repeats, firmer, stronger.
"Yeah," you blubber, wiggling into his harsh touch.
"Good girl, that's my sweet girl," he mutters, dropping another slap onto your cheek.
You squeeze your eyes shut, wetness dripping down your thighs. You can feel his hard length beneath you, and you don't feel so embarrassed, knowing he's turned on, too.
Wiggling your hips into his crotch, he chuckles, coos a bit before cracking his hand down once, twice, three more times. You whine, though you arch into his touch all the same.
"Okay, okay, we can be done," he secedes, and you huff out a breath. "C'mon, up, thatsagirl," he purrs, settling you upright on his lap once more.
He massages your raw skin as you get comfy, leaving one last little smack before pulling his cock out.
You swallow thickly, helping him lift his shirt over his head, as well. He's so pretty, his buff, rugged frame threatening to swallow you whole. Darting your tongue out, you wet your lips before leaning back into him.
He kisses you with a fervor you have no chance of resisting, shoving his hand between you. His coarse fingers collect your wetness, bringing it up to your clit with slow circles.
It feels incredible, your tummy already tightening at the pressure. Your lips form a cute 'o', a small moan escaping them. He splays a hand across your lower back, pulling you further into him.
"I know, feels good, doesn't it, pretty girl?" He asks, and you whine. "D'ya think you can take me like this? Think you're wet enough? Or d'ya need my fingers to split you open, first?"
As delightful as his fingers sound, you think you'll die if you go another 10 seconds without his cock.
"I'm wet enough, I am- oh God, please!" You whine, thrashing your hips for more friction.
He cuts your writhing off with another sharp slap to your ass, and you throw your head back in a whine.
"Y'gonna stop being a brat so I can fuck you properly?" He asks, lining his tip up with your entrance.
You nod, tears pricking your eyes at the pure desperation.
"Good," he mumbles, poking his tip into you.
Your jaw goes slack, ever the stretch, no matter the lubricant.
"Yeah, yeahh," he draws out, pulling you down even further onto him. "That's it, 's a lot, isn't it? Big dick for my sweet girl, hm?" He asks, getting you seated fully.
You rest your hands on his shoulders, squeezing your eyes shut as you adjust to his size. When you try to move, though, he stops you, his big hands once again controlling your actions.
Your head whips up, eyes glassy, lips pouty. He cocks his head to the side, faux-pity lining his features. You rake your nails across his skin, reveling in the goosebumps that erupt on his skin.
"Jeeeesus," he groans out, taking a deep breath to maintain his composure. "What did I say about bein' a brat? Get comfortable, y'gonna hurt yourself if you try to move so quickly."
Your heart flutters at his casual dominance, the way he takes over your decision making. It makes your head go fuzzy, your hips wiggling in his grasp.
"God, you're fuckin' pushin' it, aren't ya?" He asks, swatting your backside once more.
"'m sorryyyy," you whine out, sounding nearly drunk of him already. "Just feels too good, need more, please."
He relents at that, relief flooding through you when he says, "Fine, but go slow, and be careful."
You listen, because of course you do, rocking your hips every so slightly.
"Good, gooood job, baby, s'nice, huh?" He coos, and your tummy turns at his words. "Nice and full of me, hm?"
You nod, desperate and shaky as you lift yourself up, just slightly, to drop back down.
"That's my girl, body looks so fucking beautiful riding me like this," he mutters, and you bury your face in his neck.
"Nuh-uh," he tsks, pulling your hair to get you to look at him.
You whine, and he pouts at you.
"Ooh, that hurt?" He asks, and you nod. "Mmm, sorry, angel," he replies, not sounding sorry in the slightest.
His hands grip your ass once more, helping you move up and down on him like an expert. You babble around him, utter nonsense flowing from your lips at the intense pleasure.
"Jack-Jackie-ooh! Oh, it's so good!" You whine, breath hitching as he hits your sweet spot.
"Yeah, that's the spot isn't it? Makes you feel so nice every time I hit it," he inhales sharply. "And I do hit it every time, don't I?" He calls for reassurance, and you wonder how much of it is for him and not you.
"Every time, Jackie, fuck me so perfect every time," you whine, pushing him back onto the bed to gain more purchase above him.
He flops back in surprise, eyes going wide as you press two delicate hands on his chest. You resume your bouncing, this time with much more fervor. Your skin prickles as you feel your orgasm build, the warmth in your tummy has been brewing for too long, you're starting to grow desperate.
"God, this fuckin' view," he groans, hands gripping your love handles. He squeezes the extra skin there, thumbs running over the chub. "So perfect, baby, gonna dream about this for years."
You giggle, picking up your speed, just a little.
"Y'know, you can always just ask me to fuck you, don't have to dream about it," you tease, earning you another spank.
"I guess I can, can't I?" He muses, arms coming up to rest behind his head.
"Mmhm," you coo, circling your hips to get friction onto your clit. "Comfy?"
"Incredibly," he replies, and your eyes shine with love. "Gonna cum for me?" He asks, and you're reminded of the task at hand.
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the burning sensation in your stomach hard to ignore, growing more impossible each second. You nod, brows furrowing in desperation.
His lips collect in a whistle as he drags his thumb between your legs. He rubs, and it's nearly immediate, how your orgasm takes over. Arching your back, lightning shooting through you as the first wave washes over.
Your orgasm comes in a million little explosions, fireworks popping through your veins, tightening your pussy around Jack. This spurs his own release, as he releases inside you, a raspy "good girl," falling from his lips.
Trails of fire litter through you as you both come down, the throbbing of his now softening cock like a reward for your hard work.
"That's it, thaaat's it, good job, honey," he mumbles as you pulse around him, limp body flopping into his chest.
His large hands creep up your back, rubbing soothing circles on your sweaty skin. Chests heaving together, he slowly lifts you up and off of him, where you both groan at the sudden emptiness.
"Baby, will you grab me my crutch so I can go to the restroom 'n clean you up?" He asks, a bit of red tinting his cheeks at the request.
"Honey, of course," you say, leaning over to the opposite side of the room. "But I can always go myself, you know?"
"Ah, ah, ah," he cuts you off with a wave of his finger. "Don't want hear that, you know that, hm? What did I say about being a brat?" He asks, hoisting himself up.
"Hmmm," you pretend to think, resuming your spot on the bed. "Not sure, you're going to have to remind me later."
He growls, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, pressing one last sloppy kiss to your lips.
you tell jack abbot you can’t cum without a vibrator and he proves you wrong. not proofread btw
“i didn’t sit through all those anatomy classes for nothing,” he grumbles, one hand holding your hip and the other keeping his dick in line with your pussy.
“that was what? like fifty years ago?”
he starts shoving himself in before replying, “very funny.”
“ah, ah! i’m—jesus—telling you, jack. it won’t work.”
“you know i have to try, at least once.”
he hasn’t let up on it ever since you told him. you can’t have an orgasm without some sort of toy. of course that simply can’t be true.
he always just assumed it was a preference. the few times you’d slept with him so far, you’d always had a vibrator ready on the nightstand.
“just—let me try, huh?”
there’s a pillow beneath your lower back, and your legs are tensed up around his hips.
“you need to relax, though, honey.”
you exhale a deep breath and nod shakily. “okay, i can try.”
“good, just listen to me. do you feel me here?”
he pushes down on your stomach, just above your pubic bone.
“sort of,” you say to be nice, appreciative of his efforts. you expect him to pull out and give up, suddenly decide you’re not worth the effort.
“okay, tilt your hips up towards the ceiling a little bit. good, hold it right there.”
he rolls his hips back and forward again, dragging against your upper wall and hitting something that makes you yelp.
you slap your hands over your mouth and stare at him with stupid, wide eyes. he ignores you, just keeps rolling his hips up into you with his hand pressing into your stomach.
“good girl, focus.”
one hand leaves your mouth to dig into the linen sheets. expensive sheets. the ones you liked in the store, that jack had to insist you buy.
the other hand stays covering your mouth to keep in all the noises you’d never made before.
“how’s that feeling?”
“pressure—there’s pressure, jack. i don’t know what—”
he shushes you, “you don’t have to do anything, just feel it. feel me taking care of you.”
he runs his big hands up and down your sides, keeping the same rhythm with his thrusts, not speeding up or going harder.
“jack, i think im gonna cum. i’m gonna—oh, jesus christ!”
you sit upwards, instinctively tensing your entire body up. jack pushes you back down with a hand on your chest that moves up to curl around your neck. no pressure, only a firm, reassuring warmth.
your stomach drops into that familiar buzz you thought you could only achieve with a toy.
“c’mon, breathe through it,” he grunts, letting himself go as you clench around him so tight he tips his head back and groans like an animal.
when all is said and done, you’re panting and glistening with a sheen of sweat.
“look at that. didn’t even have to play with her,” he says with a smirk, giving your clit a light slap.
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