You barely acknowledge him, and when you suddenly shove the pencil over your shoulder, Astarion chuckles, taking it from you. He watches you begin smudging the charcoal with the pad of your finger. You're adorable when your art consumes you. Every time, it captivates Astarion.

This was how most of your nights were spent. Not always precisely like this; sometimes Astarion brought a book, and sometimes your hand got too sore to draw, so Astarion read to you as you curled on his lap. But as long as it was spent in each other's company neither of you cared much for the activity.

Astarion adored these nights the most, primarily because he could feast his eyes on your beauty without you shying away or throwing a stupid joke at him to break the tension. You were perfect in every way, and when he opened his heart briefly and confessed the broken pieces of himself and the motivations that led him to you. All you did was look at him with unspoken love and hugged him. 

Your relationship became something more after that. Sex was not what drew the two of you together. For the first time in 200 years, Astarion had someone he trusted with his every sense of the word. Someone who wanted more than his body and showed their love for him without words. Someone he wanted to spend every moment of his life with despite the fear that thought causes him. 

Astarion thinks he loves you but can't find the words when his mouth opens. He's always struggled with expressing his true feelings, but he wants to try with you. He wants to bear his heart to you and show you all that you mean to him. And with all the trust you and Astarion have established, one thing has become a very big problem. 

You have begun to treat Astarion like glass, as if one sexual touch will break him. And frankly, it's pissing him off. Astarion finally has complete control over his body and a partner who he trusts. A partner that can bring him to his knees with a simple giggle and to put it bluntly, gods you were fucking sexy. 

He's frustrated, horny, and has no idea how to ask for anything he wants. And for fucks sake, if he wakes from a meditation to have you grinding against his erection again, he just might explode.

In his frustrated musing, he didn't notice that you had placed your sketch pad away. He only noticed when you cupped his jaw and moved his eyes to meet yours. "What are you thinking about, handsome?"

It takes a moment for Astarion to collect himself as he stares at your soft smile. "I was thinking it's about time we get you, my sweet, to bed," he pecks your lips before grabbing your wrist and entwining your fingers. You nod and press a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

Astarion holds the flap open, and you duck inside. Kicking your pants off and into the corner, you unceremoniously plop down into the pile of cushions. You began sharing a tent in the shadow curse lands. Astarion found out pretty early on that nightmares of Cazador were less likely when you were in his arms. And thankfully, you slept better, too. 

You prop yourself on your elbows and silently watch Astarion move about the small space, removing his outer clothing. He seemed to be stalling, almost like he was silently debating with himself. Astarion is in his underwear when he seems to come to a conclusion. He takes a deep breath and moves towards you. Kneeling by your feet, you watch as Astarion hesitates, his hand resting softly on your shin. Hesitation is soon replaced with a devilish smirk that stretches across his lips.

"Whatcha thinking about pretty boy?" 

Astarion doesn't say anything, just slowly begins to crawl up your body before capturing you in a breathtaking kiss. His knee is between your legs; your hands are around his neck, pulling him flush against your body. You sigh softly into his mouth, moving your hands to caress his cheekbone.

He tongues the seam of your lips, and you are quick to gasp, giving him access to lick deeper. Astarion's hands are caressing up and down your curves, cupping your breast and tugging the metal bars of your nipple rings. His mouth moves to your throat, sucking hard at your jugular. 

"W-wait!" You choke out, causing the elf above you to freeze. He's quick to remove himself from you, putting some distance between your bodies. 

"Shit, did…did I do something wrong?" Astarion's voice cracks; you've never heard him so unsure of himself. You pant hard but are quick to sit up and fall into Astarion's lap, his arms instinctually wrapping around your waist.

"No, gods no," you sigh, cupping his jaw and pressing your forehead against his. The tension in Astarion's shoulders drops, and he squeezes you a bit harder.

"Then what is it, my sweet?"

That has you pausing to figure out the best way to say this. "What was your plan?" Shit, that didn't sound good

"My plan! Are you serious?" He's already pulling away, shutting off completely when you pull him back tightly.

"No! Th-that's fuck, that's not what I meant, Star," at least he's not trying to run, but he's as stiff as ever. "Astarion, I will be as blunt as possible because I care about you. Were you trying to have sex with me because you felt obligated?"

This isn't what Astarion expected you to say because he can't mask the look of surprise. He opens his mouth to speak before clamping it shut. He does this twice more, but you don't rush him, you push stray curls behind his ear and wait. 

"No." His voice is small. He clears his throat before speaking again, stronger this time. "No, I want this, and I would appreciate you stop treating me like fucking glass."

“What?”

You're flipped over, and suddenly, on your back, Astarion's body pressed closely against yours. He ruts against you. His cock was hard, feeling painfully constricted in his underwear. "I appreciate your patience with me, darling, but I need to clarify one thing to you right now."

Astarion licks a long stripe up your collarbone, ending just under your ear. You moan softly, trying desperately to roll your hips up into Astarion. "I have never wanted someone more than I wanted you. So, if it's okay with you, my sweet, I'm going to take the rest of our clothes off, and you're going to finally let me feast upon the sweetness between your legs."

You whine and buck, trying to get anything from Astarion's unmoving body. "Tsk, no, no, my sweet. Use your words." He purred, nipping your ear.

"Please! Yes! Oh gods, Astarion," 

Once the words leave your lips, you're tearing at each other's clothes in desperation. After you are both fully undressed, Astarion shoves you back onto the cushions. You expect him to pounce but he hovers staring down at your naked body.

Astarion's deft fingers grab your foot, and he presses a soft kiss to your inner ankle. A pang of heat flared through your lower abdomen. He kisses up to the top of your calf before giving a playful bite. You release a soft yelp, and Astarions lavishes the bite with his tongue. He slowly moves up to your inner thigh, leaving various bruises in his wake.

 You're gasping as he ghosted over the spot you wanted him most. His breath fans over your dripping cunt, and you swear he's about to give you what you want. Then he kisses you. Just one small peck on the public area just above your clit, before he retreats. You cry, and one of your hands card into Astarion's white locks. 

“No! Please!”

 He begins the same slow ascent up your other leg, paying just as much attention. "Now, as much as I love those beautiful noises you make for me. Remember that our camp members are trying to sleep; you can be a good girl for me, right?" He gazes up between your parted legs, and you nod and swear if he asked at this moment, you would have given him anything.

"I thought so," Astarion purred before licking up the entire length of your pussy. You moan out and swiftly clap your hand over your mouth. Then suddenly Astarion is a man starved.

His hand grips the underside of your thighs hard and pulls you down the bed as close as physically possible. He sucks, and licks, piercing his tongue sloppily at your dripping cunt, and you're a mess of pleasure. Your grind against Astarion's face, his nose rubbing beautifully against your clit. If it weren't for Astarion's hands keeping your thighs parted, you probably would be crushing his head in your desperation.

A low groan rumbles from Astarion's chest, and he focuses his attention, sucking tightly on the bundle of nerves. He slips his first and middle finger into your cunt and curls up, causing you to gasp for air. 

"S-star…oh gods!" You cried, and he was ruthless with his assault. Astarion pumped his fingers quickly, the sloppy sounds of his mouth mixed with your muffled moan. Your stomach was coiling with pleasure, and you were embarrassed with how fast Astarion was picking you apart. "I'm close." you whimper, rolling your hips against his face. 

Astarion, after a moment, releases your clit. Still pumping you with his fingers, he looks up at you, chin glistening with your arousal, a smug grin lazily plaster on his lips. "Come for me, love, be a good girl."

With the last few slips of his fingers, the coil snaps, and you're falling apart. Eyes unfocused, muscled tight, the silent gasp of ecstasy stuck in your throat. Astarion watches in amazement and arousal as you come apart so thoroughly with just his mouth and fingers. His cock is aching pre, now dribbling down the shaft. 

Once your orgasm slows, you feel the immense need for more. And with Astarion still nestled between your legs, it has you moving without thought. You push Astarion back and plant yourself on his lap. You mash your mouth against him, chasing the taste of yourself on his tongue. 

Astarion groans and cups the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Your palms roam down his chest, smoothing down his abs until you come to his neglected cock. It's swollen and red, and when you grip it softly, Astarions hisses into your mouth, bucking into your palm. 

Smearing the pre-come around, you slowly work your hand up and down Astarion's dick in long, languid strokes. His eyes glaze over, and he moans, head dropping to your shoulder. Astarion's cold hands fondled your breast, and he leaned down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. He pulls the metal piercing softly with his teeth. 

You whine and tug on a fist full of Astarion's hair, rubbing your thumb over the head of his cock. "Fuck, darling." Astarion moans, moving to give your other breast equal attention. Your positive marks will be littering your body for days following. And the thought alone causes you to clench your thighs. 

You pump your hand faster, and Astarion meets everyone with thrusts of his hips. He claims your lips again in a sloppy dance of wet tongues. Then suddenly Astarion stills your hand.

"If you keep this up, I'm not going to last much longer." Astarion's pants, nudging your nose with his.

"Isn't that kinda the point, handsome?"

"Not if I want to come apart feeling you clenching around me," Astarion's voice is breathless, and you moan at the thought. He kisses your cheek, then your jaw. Trailing his way to your neck. "Would you like that, my sweet," 

Whatever power you had over Astarion had just turned to dust. You bite your lip and nod quickly, letting Astarion push you on to your back. You part your hips, and Astarion slots right in. 

"Words, my love. You do know how much I love your voice." Such a fucking tease.

Linking your arms around his neck, you pull him down, hitching one of your legs over Astarion's hips. "Please…I need you to fuck me." 

"Shit…" Astarion groans. Taking himself in hand, he smears his dick with your arousal before filling you agonizing inch by inch. 

The two of you let out a collective cry of pleasure, and you feel complete. Astarion pulls out and slams his hips back, ripping the oxygen from your lungs, and sets a steady pace. You clutch at his shoulders, digging your nails into exposed skin. The slick sounds of Astarions pumping in and out of you were depraved and did nothing but fill your lower abdomen with molten lava. Astarion wholly consumed your senses. 

The coolness of his lips left lingering kisses on your arched neck. The smell of bergamot and rosemary flooded your nose with each shaky inhale. The saltiness of any skin you could taste. It was too much and not enough all at once. 

The scrape of Astarion's fangs graze his favorite feeding spot, and you grab the back of his head. "Yes! P-please…" and soon, the icy pierce of his teeth is followed by the cool tingle of pleasure that flows through your body. 

Astarion grunts as soon as the blood touches his tongue. He ruts faster against you, grinding you into the blankets. He has to clamp a hand over your mouth to keep your voice from waking the whole camp. 

But what can you do? Nothing. Not when his other hand begins to roll your clit in tight circles matching his thrusts. Your hands trail down his back, legs hooking tightly around his torso. The angle of your hips changes, and Astarion is pounding into the spot that has you seeing stars. You're close, and you try to say so, but Astarion hand is still tight around your mouth. 

After a last mouthful of blood, Astarions peppers kisses over the bite. "I know, my sweet, I'm…fuck I'm close to." 

His fingers are rubbing your clit faster, and his hips aren't letting up the brutal pace. Your legs are quaking, and you feel like you might faint. You clench tightly around him, and then you fall apart. Suddenly, Astarion's hand is gone, and his tongue is in your mouth, capturing every whimper of pleasure you give. And with a few more swallow sloppy thrusts, Astarion falls over the edge with you, filling you with his spent.

Astarion continue to languidly kiss you, both hands cupping your face like you are the most precious creature on the plane. He barely grinds his hips, feeling the last of your orgasms fade until you are both too sensitive. 

And it's like someone cut the puppet strings. Astarion falls limply onto you, blanketing your body with his. You comb softly through his hair, gently pulling out any knots. Astarion kisses your shoulder before rolling off of you. 

It is silent for a while as you stare into each other's eyes. Astarions is the first to speak. "I love you," His words were barely above the whisper, and if you weren't staring intently at the man, you might have missed it. 

You're speechless. Were you dreaming?

"I still believe you deserve more than the broken man before you. But you've chosen me, and I have felt true happiness for the first time since waking up in my grave. And well-"

You don't give him a moment to finish before you're in his lap and tackling him into an embrace. "I love you, Astarion." 

The dopey grin on his face has you breaking into your own. You press your forehead to his, and he hugs you tightly. You don't know what tomorrow brings. But being here, seeing Astarion's smile, and knowing he loves you just as much as you love him. It feels like you can do anything. 

Okay, friends, this was just so fun to write. Let me know what ya thought. I swear all the love and support I've received from my last few posts have been so amazing. I'm so excited to show you more!!!

If you liked this, maybe you'll like one of these?

Happy Birthday (fluffy)

Reoccurring Nightmares (hurt/comfort)

You push off the log, slamming the novel down. Level-headedness has been one of your strong suits. It’s the main reason you found yourself leading these misfits across the kingdom. You can keep your cool under the most extreme sources of stress, but everyone is just annoying you today.

“Look, I get it. You need a shoe to chew on, or you’ll go boom. But guess what? I have given you every spare artifact I have to give. Our coins are down to silver and copper. So unless you are willing to chomp down on the stupid circlet you just ‘had to get,’ then you can suck it up and wait until we reach another town.” By the end, you’re yelling, and Gale looks like a kicked puppy. The rest of the camp has turned to look at your outburst. You burn with regret for everything immediately.

You reach out a tentative hand, “Gale, I didn’t—”

“No, you are absolutely right. Apologies for my inconvenience. I hope you enjoy the rest of the night, Tav.” He quickly returns to his tent and pins the flaps close.

Sighing, you rub your hands down your face. You feel terrible; Gale’s condition is excruciating, and you hate to be unable to get him something to alleviate the pain, but your supplies are down to the bone. “Fuck,” you breathe, picking the book back up and storing it away.

“I must say, my sweet, I could get used to this more dominating personality of yours. It certainly gets me excited.” Astarion practically purrs in your ear. You turn face to face and stumble back slightly at his proximity.

Brushing your hair behind your ears, you avoid his eye contact. A warmth spreads across your face. “Oh, I'm sure,” you smirked, clearing your throat and recovering quickly.

It was a game between you two, ignited on the beach with a knife to your throat. Harmless flirts, playful banter with no attention to go further. Attraction is thick, but neither dares to press in this dance.

He crowds into your space. His nose practically tickles yours. He plays with your hair, fingers tangling in the locks. His face dawns an emotion of concern. “Darling, I’ve noticed you’ve been very stressed these last few days.”

His breath fans your face. You grab the edge of his shirt. “I think it would be a good idea to release some tension. Some alone time, maybe?” His pointer finger traced the bone of your jaw.

You smirk and pull away, trailing your hand up the contours of his chest. “You're right.” His wicked grin widens like a cat playing with prey. “I think I'll call in early and have a night to myself. I hope you will be okay hunting tonight.”

When you were scouting the perimeter, you stumbled across a small alcove. It was breathtaking. Several willows enclosed a small lake, water beautifully sparkling in the sun. You love swimming and have been thinking about the lake ever since. You occupy yourself with finishing your book until the sun sets. Once the camp settles for the night, you grab your pack and sneak your way out to the forest line.

Astarion’s grin drops, and his arms go limp. You slip away, lifting the edge of your tent. “Thank you again. Do you mind telling the others as well?”

He glares knowingly, and with a wink, you drop the flap and sit on the floor. You gather your supplies: a change of clothes, your only towel, and your washing bag.

The lake isn't too far, and before you know it, you're there. It's different in the moonlight. Fireflies buzz around the cattails, the willow branches sway softly above the water, and frogs croak on lily pads. You set a blanket to place the rest of your stuff around, quickly tossing your clothes off and wading into the water.

It's not as cold as expected, but you still gasp at the initial sting. You adapt quickly and soon dive fully, submerging into the fresh water. You stay underwater; ears plugged, giving a warped vibration through your head. Once your lungs begin to burn, you surface and gulp air.

“Well, isn't this just a coincidence?” Astarion chuckles, standing at the shore with pale forearms crossed over his chest. “I was just out on my hunt when I came across such a delectable treat.”

You bite your bottom lip, pulling your hands back and forth, sucking water in and out around your form. “Well, now that you've found me, what do you plan to do with me?”

You move onto your back and float, exposing your entire front half to his eyes. The water on your skin chills in the air. Your nipples pebble, and you hear a groan.

Floating in the water, you close your eyes. It's quiet momentarily before a large splash startles you and you're pulled under. You kick instinctually, and Astarion grabs your foot and drags you closer.

His strong arms circle your waist, and you resurface. You smack his chest. “You asshole.”

He laughs, and before you know it, you're laughing too. You sway in Astarion's arms as he carries you deeper into the lake. Grabbing a flower floating in the water, you begin to pick some of the limp petals. You look up and slide the flower into his hair. It's adorable.

Astarion pinches your chin and pulls your face close, staring deep into his eye. There are no words; you feel the line shatter when the reality of what's happening sinks in. There is no performance in his eyes. No formulaic flirtatious lines or sexy words. What is happening? You don't know, but when he crashes his lips to yours, you really fucking want to find out.

It's like a rubber band. The kisses open the damn, and soon your legs are wrapped around his hips. One hand threads through his pale curls, the other encircling his neck.

Astarion breaks from your lips and trails sloppy kisses down to your neck. "I have waited long enough to ravish you, my dear,"

And then you are moving; he's quickly wading through the water, not once removing his lips from your throat. You know it will bruise, and the idea of another mark of his sends heat lower down your body.

You sigh when Astarion nips your neck, pressing you down on the blanket. Wet skin slides against damp skin. Grabbing his hair, you pull him back up, capturing his lips. It is messy, sloppy, and all too much to handle.

You arch up, pressing your breast against his chest. He pauses, and you whine when he pulls away.

"What are these?" Astarion practically growls, pinching your hard nipple. You gasp his name as he twists the small metal bar through the nub. He grinds his hips against your leg. He's hard, his cock presses against his stomach.

"Jewelry," you moan, clutching his shoulder. "They make me more sensitive."

"Oh, my naughty girl," he lowers to take your neglected breast into his mouth. His skillful tongue sucks your breast, his hand paying equal attention to your other. Feeling a scrap of his fangs, you let out a cry of ecstasy, rolling your hips, seeking any source of friction.

Astarion pins your hips down and pulls away from your breast with a wet pop. "No, no, my sweet. I think you have not been fair keeping least lovely tits from me. I can't remember ever seeing such unique body modifications." He gives a sharp bite to your breast, just deep enough to pierce the skin.

Droplets of blood beaded to the surface; it was quickly lapped up with his tongue, a groan crawling its way up his chest. He slips one of his legs under yours, and his hips slide his stiff cock between sopping wet folds. You choke out his name, and his mouth moves to the other breast. "I think I'm owed a bit longer exploring such a beautiful chest."

"My, my, you're so responsive. I could spend hours pleasing you with my tongue." Astarion trails his tongue up between your breasts, eyes boring up into your flushed face. "Just imagine the delightful words I could pull from your beautiful lips as I lay between your thighs, playing your exquisite body like a bard's violin."

Your breath is uneven, panting while Astarion takes his time lavishing your breasts. Soon, your nipples are on fire, swollen from the ruthless attention Astarion has provided. Tears sting your eyes. You are desperate for anything, nothing; you are not sure, but you are moaning and pleading up into the night air. All available skin was victim to your desperate fingers.

"Starion, ugh-please, they're too sensitive." You tug at the small hairs at the nape of his neck. His lips tug the metal bar just enough to pull another cry from your lips. He releases your breast with a wet pop.

You bite his neck (almost the same spot he uses to feed from you) and all semblance of his control dissolves—you're back on the blanket in a show of Astarion's speed. Air was knocked from your lungs. "Fuck, my dear," Astarion grinds against you coating his cock in more of your juices. "I believe we've waited enough time to enjoy each other. So, I think I fuck you, deep and slow, until you can only scream my name. And if you're lucky, spend the rest of the night pulling lovely whimpers from your over-sensitive cunt."

His husky voice purred in your ears. Your thighs clench, arousal dripping onto the blanket. "Star," you breathe out, grabbing his face and crashing your lips together. Teeth clashed, and tongues fought for dominance. Wrapping your legs fully around Astarion's slim hips, you roll up. Using his distraction as leverage, you twist your hips and maneuver the two of you.

Astarion is now on his back, curls silver in the dark, and his eyes are wide with shock. You comfortably sat on his hips, hands pressing on each of his pecs. "You have my full permission to do that, but if you don't fuck me right now, I will be taking care of myself in my tent." Lips are back on his before you chuckle in his ears. "We have teased each other for months. I think it's about time you do something about this pretty boy."

Astarion doesn't leave a moment to respond before he impales you with one deep thrust. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Astarion grabs your calf, raises your leg, and sets a brutally slow pace.

You were matching each of his thrusts with a roll of your hips. Your mouth at his chest and throat, sloppily leaving kisses and spit on his pale torso. "Ug-fucking Gods, you so tight," The sounds of skin slapping against skin and collective cries of pleasure break up the quietness of the lake.

Astarion presses his forehead to yours, breathing in your whimpers of ecstasy. The force of his thrusts is jostling your breasts; your nipples rub against his cold skin.

The moans roll off your tongue; you put a hand into his hair. "A-astarion fast…faster," you choke, snaking a hand between your conjoined bodies to rub small circles over your clit. The warm tightening coils in your lower abdomen. "P-please, Star."

"Beautiful." Astarion's pace picks up, his balls slapping against your pussy. He quickly pushes your hand away and replaces your fingers with his own.

He doesn't need to be asked twice, and the cold pierce of his fangs digs into your throat. You choke on gasp, hips stuttering. Astarion is dragging, mouthfuls of your blood down his throat, his fingers picking up pace, rubbing tight circles on your clit.

The coil is tightening, and soon, you cannot form words outside of Astarion's name between pleases. "Oh, my sweet girl, so lost on my cock. I...fuck...I know it feels good."

He pinches your left nipple again and you whimper. "Your body is exquisite. I won't be able to last much longer, my love." His voice is hoarse, and he rambles between frantic ruts. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply.

Astarion presses kisses and licks to the hollow of your throat. He is asking for permission, and you quickly press him closer. "Yes, please," you groan. All the sensations Astarion was giving you were becoming too much. You were quickly approaching the edge.

The pain mixes with pleasure, and it's too much. Tears prick at your eyes. You ticken around hos cock and a rumble ruptures through his chest. He takes a few more gulps before pulling away. Astarion's tongue licks, ensuring no waste of your blood.

As soon as he pulls away from your neck, he's pushing his tongue into your mouth with a quick thrust—the metallic tang of your blood mixes between your mouths. "I'm close," you breathe, running your nose against his. Your panting, feeling like no breath can satisfy your burning lungs.

His thrusts are becoming sloppy, devolving into more grinds of hips. His fingers drag over your clit in tight, fast circles. "Me too," he's just as breathless, hips stuttering with pleasure. "Come for me, darling, let me hear you."

It's like your body was waiting for his honey-slick words to give you permission. Because the moment those words leave his devilish lips, you snap. You scream his name, legs pulling him close.

You didn't expect post-sex cuddles from Astarion, but gods, you could fall in love with this man if you weren't careful. But would that be too bad? To fall in love? You kiss his collarbone and pull your towel over the majority of your body.

With one, two, three more deep thrusts. Astarion comes with a breathy moan spilling deep into your core. You two lay there, tangled in each other's body. Hearts are pounding as you breathe each other's air.

Astarion pulls out and rolls to his back. You curl onto his chest, laying your ear over his silent heart. He plays with your hands and peppers kisses over your hairline.

You wish to stay the night in his arms right here, just having him hold you. But Astarion stiffens slightly when a shiver rolls through your body. It's like the bubble of serenity pops. Astarion is quick to remove himself from you.

"I don't believe cuddling wet and naked with a vampire is good for one's health." He's pulling his clothes on. And reluctantly and with shaky legs, you follow his lead. Astarion is quiet on the walk back, lost in thought. He plays with a coin mindlessly.

You don't push, knowing Astarion better than to pry. So you let him walk you to your tent. And just as you move to duck into your bed for sleep, Astarion grabs your wrist.

You turn and look up into his scarlet eyes. His expression is hard to read; his confusion, hesitancy, affection, and anger are fluidly behind his eyes. They could all fit, but nothing seemed to reflect Astarion's eyes. "I…" He pauses, thumb rubbing the back of your hand. He opens his mouth again but clicks it back close. Astarion searches your eyes as if they held the answer to his unspoken question.

Astarion doesn't seem to find what he's looking for because he shakes his hand—pressing a light kiss to the apple of your cheek. He drops your hand reluctantly. "Have a good night, my dear,"

Then he's gone, leaving you alone, the tingle of his lips still lingering on your skin. Your fingers trail across your cheek, and a small smile stretches your lips. Yeah, you could very easily fall in love with that man. Maybe you already have.

Okay let me know what you thought? I haven't written smut in forever and have never been super confident in it.

If you liked this how about checking out my other two Astarion pieces.

“come on, y/n. you can take it; been up my ass all night and now you wanna squirm away.” ryan slows his fingers, making me cry and reach for his hand. “nono! i can! i can take it! just please don’t stop touching me.” i practically cried.

ryan grinned but there was nothing sweet about it. “yeah? then be a good girl and stop all that whining and squirming.”

he pulled my hips closer to his spot by the edge of the bed and dove right in; sliding his tongue up and down my pussy, stopping over my clit to give it a good suck making my hands fly to grip his hair. “fuck. taste so good, honey.” he mumbled against my lips making me shudder. “ts all for you, ry.” i arch my back off against the bed, feeling myself come closer to the edge. “damn right it is.” he pulled away just to spit a glob of my juices and his saliva onto my clit, before diving right back in, leaving lingering kisses.

suddenly ryan pulls away for what it feels like to be the millionth time, making me whine and ryan smirk. “i don’t think you deserve to cum, yet.” he wipes the back of his mouth with his palm making me squeeze my thighs together tight.

“please, ry. i need you.” i pout, my eyes becoming glossy from the orgasm neglect and overstimulation. ryan tsks, standing up from the edge of his bed. “flip over, ass up.”

i immediately do as i’m told and lay on my knees with my ass arched up. “good girl..” i hear him hum and the bed dip as he gets into position behind me.

“you’re so fucking pretty..” ryan grips my hips grinding his boxer clothed cock against my throbbing core. “ryan!” i gasped, jerking myself forward due to the cloth stimulating my clit, making ryan chuckle. “what did i say, y/n?” he smacked my ass with his hand, making me yelp. ryan kissed my stinging ass cheek as he shuffled his hard cock out of his boxers before lining it up with my hole. “think i should play with this pussy till she squirts, huh y/n?”

a/n: I am not rewatching Animal Kingdom (idk if my heart could take the series finale again) but I always thought how bittersweet Pope and J's relationship is. I think out of all of the Cody boys, Pope was probably the only one who understood J best and why ultimately, he couldn't even be mad at him in the end. I remember in the beginning how Pope warned J like "hey, this family ain't what its cracked up to be. don't let the money fool you." I am not going to go on a rant but Pope really is best!uncle, like sorry but he loves his niece and nephew and in this au, he is really trying to get it right.

s/n: I love "Life is Strange 1" and its soundtrack is absolutely perfect for when I write angsty fics like this.

Pope sits on the edge of the bed, posture slouched, hands folded in his lap as he blankly stares ahead – at the bedroom door.

For just a moment, the eldest Cody can pretend that the day has yet to touch him, but it’s a simple lie he tells himself. Anxiety, grief, and anger roil in his stomach like a cocktail; all Pope could do is sit with it, analyze it and try to repurpose it into something better.

The thoughts in his head are not loud enough to block out the soft breaths behind him. You are still asleep, the collar of one of Pope’s old black t-shirts is visible even as you burrowed under the blankets. Above, the ceiling fan continues to push down cool air, and the air conditioning unit cycles on and off as Pope continuously turns over his thoughts.

Half an hour later, Pope remains in that same position, but this time the lull of silence is broken the rustle of sheets behind him.

A dip of the brow is visible while you search the bed, humming to yourself when you meet the cold flesh of Andrew’s waist. Your fingers brush against his briefs before you let them trail up his spine.

It is not an exact word, but a soft exhale of breath that has Pope lying back down next to you. He is rewarded with a faint croon that is muffled once you lay your head in the dip of his shoulder, your leg thrown back over his waist as though you yourself are a weighted blanket. The pleased sound that escapes your throat is enough for Pope to relax, allowing his hand to settle on your thigh, rubbing his thumb in a circular motion.

Neither one of you spoke for a few moments, your bodies communicate not through words but touch. Your soft lips press into Andrew’s upper arm, sleepy kisses that are not meant to evoke the embers that remained dormant from last night but instead soothe like a salve to a burn.

Pope’s grip on your thigh is not tight enough to leave bruises – but it is enough to keep you from pulling back, not that you would.

Your left hand is intertwined with Pope’s right, your bodies folding in on one another as another minute passes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” You murmur.

Pope lazily draws circles on the skin of your thigh. “I did earlier,” he admits. “Just…” Pope swallows, searching for his words. “I just wish I could have did this two weeks ago,” the anger he feels sharpens quickly, but the edges are softened when you use your other hand to turn his face towards you.

The slit of your eyes only allows for a sliver of brown to be seen.

“It’s not your fault,” you remind him. You squeeze his hand; the sheets are rustled by your movement. Any comments that you have on Smurf are set aside, it is too early for you to start a tirade on her and because you knew that Andrew doesn’t need that – not today, not now. “No one can fault you for this, for doing everything you can to have this one day for you and J.”

You watch as Andrew exhales, the way his chest drops from a deep breath. You saw the way his guilt shifted on his shoulders like scales that have been tilted. Quietly, you unthread your fingers from his and pull his hand towards you. With a gentleness that startles him, Pope watches as you kiss his fingertips before you thread your fingers once more with his.

“You are allowed to want this, you are allowed to have this,” you repeated the mantra twice more. You are never afraid of reminding Andrew that he can and deserves more to life. Breathlessly you add, “you are allowed to grieve your sister.”

This is not permission you are giving but a reminder of basic etiquette – grief does not settle like a rock thrown into the sea. A photo, a scent, a forgotten memory, can suddenly bring forth waves of all the love you possess for a person who is no longer alive to receive it.

Pope doesn’t say anything, just holds your hand tighter.

It is silence that fills the room but soon two bodies are slotted together once more. You hold one another close; your fingers are like red thread that ties you both together.

When he wakes a few hours later, Pope takes a deep breath before stirring and sitting up in bed.

Pope rolls his shoulders before turning his head, glancing at you.

The covers are pulled up, partially hiding your face before you pull them down to talk. “I know you never fully processed Julia’s death and that is unfortunate.” The flare of indignation you felt on Andrew’s behalf is smothered as you shift closer towards him. “You lost a sister and J lost his mom.” You didn’t know the intricacies of J’s relationship with Julia, but from what Andrew disclosed, J took on more responsibility than he should have had to as a child. The Codys are marred by unacknowledged pain and trauma – you didn’t know how it would get better without it ever being addressed. “Today is for the both of you. Don’t just see J as Julia’s son but see him as his own person.”

Because you knew from experience how easy it is for others to view you not as who you are but simply as your father’s daughter. It made the grief harder to process because you wanted to be seen as more than the girl whose father died before he got to see her truly live life on her own terms. The move you made from Texas to California forced everyone – members of your family included – to not perceive you as a daughter beholden to grief but instead as a woman who stands on her own with the principals that have been instilled in by her parents.

You needed the space to be more.

“Give him that.” It is a quiet entreaty, from one child who knew the loss of a parent on behalf of another.

Pope nods his head before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. The faint scent of your conditioner tickles his nose, and he brushes it along your jawline.

A huff of laughter escapes past your lips while basking in his affection. “Before you leave, check the fridge. It’s for you and J.” Your eyes close for a second before you open them once more, Andrew’s face coming into focus. “I know you like to keep everything separate,” you whisper. “But I meant what I said about caring about the people in your life,” you would even make the exception for Baz. You wrinkle your nose at the thought. “You can invite them to dinner, this is your home too,” you explain.

Pope considers your words for a few moments before nodding his head. Kissing your brow before he rises from bed and disappears into the bathroom to shower and dress. His footsteps are quiet when he leaves the bedroom, not wanting to disturb your sleep-in. Pope knows Sundays are sacred for you, and you held true to them – a day of rest.

The sunlight that filters into the kitchen cast it into a soft glow, the earth-tone décor is warmed. Pope runs his finger across the soil of the potted plants in the kitchen and waters them before he shuffles towards the sink, washing his hands before opening the fridge.

When Pope arrived home last night, he did not linger in the kitchen – too eager to be in bed with you – but he did smell faint scent of spices. It wasn’t unusual, you baked and cooked weekly if not daily – making sure that if he was gone for more than half a day, he had food to eat while working with his family.

Bag in hand, Pope sweeps the house once more to make sure that the doors are locked before he departs through the garage. He knows that by the time you get up from bed, you will likely make a cup of tea and sit on the couch with a blanket, body languid and tired from the previous weeks. While he drives towards Oceanside, Pope can easily see you dosing on and off while you watch episodes of Perry Mason, waiting for him to return and join you.

It is different from Folsom.

In Folsom, Pope kept to himself, trying to keep his mind organized to not go insane, to not be provoked and abused by other inmates and guards. There wasn’t anything to do in prison but read – and think.

Of all his mistakes.

Pope turned his memories over like a rock on a worn path, analyzing and dissecting how many times he made the wrong choice repeatedly.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Over the year, the emotional beatings Pope gave himself have lessened. He didn’t find himself thinking about Folsom when he lay behind you on the couch; limbs tangled and body relaxed as a documentary played. You had once jokingly said, “There is an art to doing nothing.” In the beginning, Pope hadn’t understood but then you showed him – hours spent letting his mind and body rest.

It gives him the strength to keep on the path he’s walking – because he knows that if he doesn’t, your paths will diverge and he can’t have that, he can’t lose that, lose you.

When he parks in front of Smurf’s house, the dread he felt years before is dulled, as though time and distance have hollowed out the pain. It’s still there, but it no longer stands in the forefront of his mind like a neon flashing sign.

J is dressed similarly to his uncle: sneakers, jeans, plain T-shirt and black jacket. The door to the passenger side of the truck is open for barely a second before it closes and Pope peels off.

The view of Oceanside passes in a blur.

Unwilling to sit in silence the entire time, J comments. “This is a good song.”

Hazel eyes are concentrating on the road, but Pope gives J a glance, nodding slightly. “Willow made it for me.”

There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by where Pope doesn’t listen to the song you composed for him. And it wasn’t just that song that you added to his phone, you added a library of playlists as well for him. When you had finished and unplugged his phone from your computer, you stood and kissed his lips, eyes wide with affection and adoration alike. You told him: “They’re all songs that make me think of you and how you make me feel.”

J’s brows dips before he remembers. “Oh, this is the one she gave you an invitation for, for your birthday?”

Pope turns off the main road and continues to drive east on the gravel road. “Yeah, best gift I’ve gotten for my birthday in a long time.” Possibly ever, his mind supplies.

The conversation peters out once Pope’s truck enters the cemetery proper.

Rows of headstones that continue to stretch in all cardinal directions while they continue to drive. There are very few families out here, Pope observes.

Uncle and nephew do not concern themselves with the dark clouds that hang above them, the overcast pitches the world around them in grays and blues.

This isn’t the first time that Pope or J have been out to Julia’s grave, but this year it felt different.

It’s been a year since Julia died and Pope found out – not even from Smurf but from J who had been settling into Pope’s old bedroom. Newly released from Folsom, Pope had felt for one moment, a brief sense of happiness when J told him who he was, only to then be informed that Julia was dead.

Every conversation that Pope dreamed he could have with his sister – it will never happen.

Pope knew that the apology he should have given Julia – the one that she has always been owed – will forever go unspoken.

That is what made his grief so twisted, so many things he wishes he could say and he can’t.

J moves ahead of Pope, knowing where his mom is buried. His uncle follows behind him, the bag in his hand hangs limply at his side as they approach.

The first headstone had been plain, too plain for someone like Julia who always saw the best in people – even when they gave her no reason to.

Pope knew that it was just another way for Smurf to edge Julia out, a final “fuck you,” to the one person who saw Janine Cody for who she is – before anyone else ever thought to view her too closely.

The money that Pope had hidden and stashed aside, he purchased a new headstone for his sister.

An angel leaning over the headstone, head bowed and arms at rest while she mourned.

When J had returned to Julia’s grave by himself, he had been shocked to see the new headstone.

The relationship he had with his uncles wavered day in and day out. He often stood in the background and observed their interactions with one another and Smurf. J is reminded daily of the conversations his mom would have when she was nodding off from the drugs, of how hard she tried to protect him from her family. At the time, J hadn’t truly realized what she meant, but now that he is here, he understands it.

The grass underneath their feet is soft, muffling their shoes before they sit down in tandem.

Uncle and nephew are mirror images of one another; spines filled with tension, eyes dark in contemplation.

A grave did not suit Julia Cody.

Not Julia who had laughed loudly, eyes bright for the curiosities of life. A woman that had only ever tried to be more than what her own mother thought her to be, of what Smurf tried to groom her to be – but she hadn’t succeeded.

Pope swallows, his throat working against the words that sat on his tongue. “There are a lot of things that I regret,” Pope admits. “And it would take me a lifetime to rank them all,” he turns slightly to stare at his nephew. “But I regret not being brave enough when Julia needed me the most.”

The underpass.

Pope closes his eyes when he remembers Julia’s face that day, recalling Smurf’s threat.

J let’s Pope words hang in the air between them for a moment. The only question he has is the only he’s always asked himself, “why?”

A dry laugh escapes Pope who runs his hand warily across his face. A wobbly smile makes it way across his face. “In 92’, Julia had a stash of money – she was always trying to get ahead of Smurf,” Pope sighs out loud, his eyes falling back to the headstone, mouth flattening once more. “But Smurf found out and took it all, kicking her out in the process.”

J doesn’t speak as he listens to Pope talk.

“Then one day back in 99’, desperate for cash, she came back to the house and I caught her. I put her in the bathroom once I saw she was high, she was pregnant with you, I knew she needed help.” Pope glances back at J. “But Smurf…she had already washed her hands of Julia.”

J can hear the way Pope voice cracks on that last sentence. His face is pulled by the bitterness he feels, and he can’t help but turn away – to give himself a few seconds to pull himself together again.

Julia Cody never shied away about telling her son about the trauma her family caused her. But now J is given more context to the circumstances of all that transpired to lead his mom to where he found her, overdosed and dead after a lifetime of disappointment and abuse.

“The day Smurf kicked Julia out, she took us for a ride,” and Pope will never forget it. “It wasn’t a long drive but eventually Smurf stopped at an underpass and told Julia to get out.”

“When Julia begged me to get out of the car, Smurf told me that if I left, I couldn’t come back. That she would raise Craig and Deran to not be like Julia and me.” Pope works his jaw, clenching his teeth before relaxing. “Told me to make a choice.”

J’s fists clench at his sides. “And you did.”

The branches on the trees creak from a breeze.

“Yeah, I did,” Pope readily admits. “I was too stupid to not try to see the bigger picture. Craig was 15 and Deran, 13. I could have taken them with me, found Julia and got her clean.”

There were so many possibilities, so many paths that could have been taken – if only Pope hadn’t let his fear of Smurf overrule the love he had for his sister.

J snorts, not rudely but with the exasperation of a teenager who knows when a plan sounds too farfetched even for him. He’s still bitter about his upbringing, of all the bullshit he had to deal with on his own while caring for his mom, but as he stares at Pope’s side profile, the guilt and grief on his face lessens his own.

“Mom was 22 when she had me, you would’ve been taking care of a drug addict, a newborn, and two brothers under the age of 16 – and that’s if Smurf didn’t call the cops on you, or worse.” J shakes his head, “Smurf would have never allowed that, you know that.”

J observed Smurf enough to know that she would never allow any of her boys to leave her sight.

Pope chokes on a laugh, “that’s the same thing Willow said when I told her.” It was one of the days that you both sat together and watched the sunset. You quirked an eyebrow and said, “from what you’ve told me, your mother would have never allowed you to leave, even if you wanted to, Andrew. Unless you had the money to put a dozen states or body of water between you, she wouldn’t have let you get far.” At the time, it felt like damnation and absolution alike. Because Pope knew, knew that if he had gotten out of that car, Smurf could have done something bad to Julia – to finally remove his sister’s influence from his life, permanently.

“She’s smart,” J said, complimenting you. J remembers the paranoia that Julia had about her family finding her; her son could only think of how much worse it would have been if Pope had taken his siblings and ran. “In your own way, you probably saved her life by not coming.”

Since a young age, Julia Cody searched for the deeper meaning of life and perhaps in death, she found it.

“At Smurf’s house…are you good there?” Pope randomly asks.

J shrugs his shoulders. “It’s fine, nicer than the apartment I lived in with Mom.”

Pope shakes his head, turning fully now towards Julia’s son. “No, I mean…” Pope pauses, words heavy like a stone. “Are you comfortable there, with Smurf. She hasn’t done anything to you, right?” Pope’s hands flex in his lap, fingers spreading before curling back into fists, posture turning defensive.

J considers Pope’s words, and slowly nods his head no. He watches how Pope’s lips purse and then relaxes, posturing softening marginally.

“Okay,” Pope whispers. “But, if she does something, anything, you tell me. Okay?”

It is hard for Pope to put a name to what Smurf has done to him and his brothers throughout the years. That is a closet that Pope is not fully ready to open and explore, not yet. But he knew that J was young, the moment Smurf got her hooks in him, she would twist him for her benefit.

The two men sat next to one another, like liquid in a flask, silence fills the space between them, and it is only broken when Pope coughs.

This time, Pope’s attention is more direct and focused. “Joshua.”

J stirs at his full name. “Yeah?”

“I apologize for not being there for you when you were a kid. It wasn’t just Julia that I failed, I have a responsibility to you too.” Because Pope may be a lot of things, too odd, too weird, too quiet for those who do not know how to sit in silence, but when it came to family – he cares. It’s why he tries so hard with Baz, Craig and Deran, still there to help clean up their messes when they need him; the care he shows for Lena, who doesn’t see Pope as some anomaly but as a dotting uncle. “I know I can’t erase the past,” no matter how much Pope wishes he could have chosen different, “but if you need me…I’m here.”

There is hardly anything of Baz in Joshua Cody, but J has taken Julia’s face for his own and for the smallest moment in time, Pope feels as though he’s speaking to his sister. He knows he can’t save Julia – it’s too late for that – but she left her son and while Julia is far out of his reach, J is right here.

J stares at his eldest uncle, dark eyes assessing the sincerity in his voice, of the hand that is outstretched – yearning for a connection. J knows that he could use this moment to his benefit and he considers it.

The skies above shift, another breeze cuts through the cemetery. But it is not harsh. The breeze skirts over rows of headstones, a gentle caress against J’s face as he stares back at the grieving angel.

Julia Cody.

Daughter.

Sister.

Mother.

Three separate titles.

If someone asked Smurf, Julia failed as a daughter.

If someone asked J, he could admit to his mom’s shortcomings – the plague her addiction caused in his life.

But if you asked Pope, he would say that Julia was the only one who ever cared for him as a child.

J hesitantly nods his head at Pope who returns the gesture.

When the silence becomes too much, Pope lifts his chin towards the bag he brought along. “Willow packed us food,” he raises a hand to let J grab it. “I didn’t look before I left the house,” he mutters.

J pulls the zipper and looks in the bag and begins pulling out the food.

Two sandwiches wrapped and each labeled with their names in cursive.

Pope takes his, a small tug of the lips when he sees that you bought the square sandwich meat he likes.

J continues, handing a water bottle to his uncle but he pauses when he sees the white box beneath.

It wasn’t large, just big enough to fit tightly against sides of the bag, but J shifts it until he pulls it out carefully.

Pope doesn’t bite into his sandwich yet, staring while J opens the box. There is a small cake and written in forest green is: “Happy Birthday Julia.”

The utensils for the cake are at the very bottom of the bag, but Pope doesn’t need to cut into it to know that it’s carrot cake, Julia’s favorite.

“Willow had asked me a few weeks ago what Julia’s favorite cake was,” Pope continues to stare at the cake. Warmth blooms through his chest at the thought of you; he knows that Julia would have loved you, the way you care for others – the way you care for him, Julia would have taken to you like a duck in water. It’s bittersweet knowing that the two of you will never meet, because Pope knew that if Julia had a friend like you growing up, perhaps life would have been kinder. “I didn’t think she would bake it.”

J glances at the frosting, neat, especially for a person who isn’t a professional baker. He remembers the small slices of carrot cake his mom would share with him from the diner up the street from their apartment over the years. A small indulgence that was shared between mother and son.

Words aren’t needed; the sandwiches are set aside, and the small plastic plates are grabbed.

Carefully, J slices the cake with the knife, watching as the “J” dip downward as he presses down.

Amongst the row of headstones, the scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and allspice fills the air. The staleness of the cemetery is sweetened by vanilla, brown sugar and pecans.

Their forks scrape against the plates before they both bite into their sandwiches, listening to the birds who flutter from branch to branch, some disappearing into the clouds while others faded into the surrounding greenery.

Once they are finished, Pope puts their trash back inside the bag and he hesitates after he stands, pulling J up in front of him. He thinks of you at home, perhaps you’ve switched from Perry Mason to a horror movie, fuzzy socks on with the laundry basket at your feet if you care enough to do it today instead of waiting for tomorrow. You’d likely ask him what he had a taste for, and by noon you’d be in the kitchen, prepping for dinner while the movie continued to play on your iPad.

A home that is warm and safe, often filled with laughter and music.

Pope stares at his nephew. The question is out of his mouth before he gives it too much thought. “You want to come over for dinner?”

Both know that on Sundays, Smurf cooks and calls them over. She now knows that Sundays, Pope will spend with his girlfriend if you didn’t want to come over – which often is the case – but she expects J to be there.

J doesn’t consider it for more than a second. “Yeah, I’m in.”

Pope nods. “Good. You’re a teenager, it’s about time you start your rebellion.”

The bitterness of life’s disappointments will not fade overnight.

Not for Pope.

Not for J.

But in this sacred moment between uncle and nephew, there is an understanding that is reached between them, sweetened only by the better memories of a woman they both loved – who saw her at her best and worst and still loved her despite it.

Whatever you were about to say is completely erased as he leans in and captures your lips.

The kiss is deep and demanding. With force and intensity.

His tongue slides past your lips, tangling with yours in a toxic rhythm that makes your head spin.

You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the short hairs at the back of his neck.

He groans into your mouth, sounding desperate and hungry, and his grip shifts from your face to your waist, his fingers digging into your hips to lift you slightly higher on the counter.

A loud moan escapes the back of your throat.

Andrew shifts his angle. Taking advantage of the breath you catch, his teeth catch your full bottom lip, tugging on it just firmly enough to send a sharp jolt of electricity straight to your core.

The sound makes Andrew’s eyes flare open for a fraction of a second, dark and completely wild, before he buries his face against yours.

"You sound so pretty when you moan like that for me," he murmurs against your lips.

​Before you can even process the praise, his mouth is back on yours, hungrier than before. He sucks on the lip he just bit, soothing the mock pain with a wet heat, tugging firmly once more.

He runs his thumb across her stomach the soft cotton of her t-shirt feeling nice against the rough calluses of his hands. The words leave him soft and uncertain. "A baby."

It's when they're lying in bed that night after he comes up with the plan to leave Oceanside and get the hell away from his family. He's pressed his hand to Reader's stomach after she's fallen asleep and the words spill from him soft and sweet careful not to wake his sleeping girlfriend. "I don't know anything about being someone's dad. I never met my dad. My mom...she's not nice. You don't have to worry about her though...I'm getting us out of here and you'll never have to worry about her. I can't promise I am not going to disappoint you or be everything you're hoping for...I can promise I love you though. I promise I love you, and I will never let anything happen to you."

The next morning Pope patiently holds back Reader's hair when she deals with morning sickness even if it makes his anxiety rise. All he can think about is the fecal matter that's probably near the toilet so small they can't see it and the smell of vomit and the germs crawling all over her bathroom invisible vile things that will make them sick.

Pope pushes back his anxiety the desire to take care of Reader and the love he feels for her screaming louder than his anxieties about germs and contamination.

Pope who barely lets Reader do any of the packing when they pack up the uhaul and secretly get the hell out of Oceanside before Smurf or his brothers realize what's going on.

Pope who shoves an envelope of cash at her landlord, enough so that the man doesn't bitch that Reader is breaking her lease so suddenly.

Pope who is thankful he's off parole and has been smart enough to avoid gaining the attention of the law despite his involvement in the family business. It makes it possible for Reader and he to leave the state and put some real distance between Pope and the life he's running away from.

Pope who is picky about choosing a house once they reach that sleepy little beachside town in South Carolina.

Reader who has to reassure him that the fixer upper they settle on is perfect for their little family. She has to remind him that he's good with his hands and any repairs that are needed can be handled by him with zero issue.

Pope and Reader who hit up thrift stores to buy furniture to fill their new home. The contents of their Uhaul aren't really enough to fill a house.

That's not the only thing Pope finds at a thrift store...the pregnancy book is snatched up too only for five bucks.

Pope reads it from cover to cover religiously soaking up every word.

He maybe hunts for other books on the subject too.

He's filled with facts about pregnancy. He tells her a new one every day. Some facts she wishes he wouldn't share though. "Around six months the fetus will develop fingerprints and footprints." "You can start expecting to possibly produce breast milk at 14 weeks." "By the end of the pregnancy your uterus will weigh roughly 2 pounds." "A fetus will begin to urinate in the womb after a few months of development."

"You should avoid soft cheeses and unpasteurized milk during pregnancy." ...."Andrew, why the hell would I drink unpasteurized milk?"...... "I don't know but it says you shouldn't."

Pope's hand is always on Reader's stomach even before she develops a pregnancy bump.

Pope doesn't like how people feel entitled to touch Reader once she starts to show. He's been known to be rude and snap "Don't think about it." when someone reaches out to press a hand to her belly. Reader has to gently scold Pope on occasion and remind him to play nice.

Pope reads a statistic about how 20% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage during the first four weeks and he has nightmares about it....even after she passes the four week mark.

Pope rubs Reader's feet without her even having to ask. He's tapping her legs and getting her to lie back on the sofa with her feet in his lap so he can take care of her poor aching feet and listen to her complain how swollen her ankles and feet feel.

She grumbles about her stretch marks and Pope is rubbing cocoa butter on them and has been known to kiss them and insist "they're beautiful."

Pope finds a way to meet all her pregnancy cravings...even the weird ones that make him gag a little. Pickles with Peanut butter check, potato chips dipped in strawberry ice cream...weird and the chips seem like they're gonna get soggy but okay..."You want peanut butter m&ms and a taco bell quesadilla at two am...I'll grab the car keys".

Pope sits his back stiff his hand locked over Reader's in her doctor's appointments his stern unblinking gaze making the nurses squirm just the slightest...Pope is an intense man and Reader being pregnant has made him all the more intense.

Pope who runs bubble baths for Reader because he knows she feels achy and tired and a good bath with that rosy smelling bubble bath she loves will relax her.

Pope who stares at Reader's breasts probably a little too much...he's been known to murmur that they're "big" and has grumbled "want to squeeze em like ripe melons but it'll hurt you, fucking torture."

Pope who was anxious to have sex with Reader at first terrified he'd hurt her or the kid despite everything he read in all those pregnancy books he's been collecting.

Reader finally bluntly asks her doctor about if it's safe to have sex despite how mortified Pope is. He's given the green light to do so unless Reader expresses discomfort.

Reader does worry at one point that maybe he's just not attracted to her anymore and pregnancy hormones do make her weepy when she breaks down and asks if that's why he seems to shut her down when she tries to ask for sex.

Pope feels his heart crumble at the thought that she might believe he doesn't want her. He absolutely proves to her that he so still wants her.

Pope who worries over every slight sign of discomfort Reader might show. Achy feet, sore back, the need to pee way too often, the occasional harsh kick by the kid renting her womb. Pope is fretting and Reader is having to reassure him that it's just the normal pains of pregnancy.

Reader and Pope who sit up with a book he found of baby names putting checks by the ones they like.

Pope who is dumbfounded when Reader says the words. "I want to name it for you if it's a boy." His response being "Why would you want to do something like that?" She gives him a kiss on the cheek so fast to say the words. "You're my Andy. Of course, I want to name a son after you."

Pope likes the name Hope for a girl. That's what this kid is for him, hope of something better, something he never thought he might deserve but somehow is getting.

Of course down the line when they do eventually have a girl Reader talks him into her desire for an A name in honor of their daughter's father...they go with Amelia, Amelia Hope Cody.

That first pregnancy though it's a boy. It's their Andrew.

Pope feels his eyes begin to water at the first sonogram even if it looks like a blob. The next sonogram looks like a jellybean which starts the playful name "Jellybean" for their baby.

That 22 week sonogram is the one that makes him fully weep unashamed. A boy; he's having a son. He's having a son who Reader wants to name after him.

The name that Reader suggests makes Pope weep all the more. Andrew Julian Cody. It honors both Pope and his twin in a way. It honors Julia. It's a bittersweet choice for Pope...the guilt he still carries about Julia and what happened.

Reader is worried he's going to hate the suggested middle name, but he admits he wants it. He knows he'll always carry the guilt from his past. The trauma of his family won't ever go away. His son though; its a chance to break that cycle.

Pope feels guilty over his lack of funds. He's no longer robbing banks and has taken an honest job working for a local handyman. It's honest work and it does pay pretty well...but it's not heist money.

He knows the honest work is worth it even if money is occasionally tight. He's staying out of trouble. He's far from Smurf. He's far from the family business. He's building something for his kid, something to be proud of.

Pope who sits up watching Reader sleep his hand pressed to her belly feeling his son move within her the feeling soothing him.

He's been known to talk to the baby while Reader dozes. He tells him stories about himself...even sad stories. He tries to find happy stories at least...ones about the skate park back in Oceanside....stories about Julia and he when they were kids and the rare occasion when things were good....stories about how he met Reader....the story about the moment he realized he loved Reader....stories about the dates he took Reader on....talking about Reader's paintings.

Pope does paint the nursery under Reader's supervision though he bans her from entering the room without wearing a surgical mask...the fumes are dangerous.

He chooses a sunny soft yellow for the nursery walls. It makes him think of sunshine and warmth. He wants his son to feel warm and secure.

Pope who feels himself get weepy when Reader's coworkers at the community center throw her a baby shower and they are able to get a crib, a high chair, a car seat, a stroller, a diaper changing table...all the things Pope fretted over trying to afford. Parenting is expensive.

Pope does search thrift stores for things for the nursery always sanitizing them in the most Pope-like obsessively efficient way. He finds baby books and blocks and those fisher price stacking rings. He finds a little lamp that has a base shaped like a bear.

He throws himself into that nursery so much one would think he was the one actually nesting.

He's willing to attend lamaze classes with Reader even if he feels so out of place and is much quieter than the other dads in the class. His focus stays on Reader and he doesn't make small talk with the other expectant parents. He does take the class seriously though. He soaks up everything they learn there. He convinces Reader to practice at home too. They should be prepared as possible.

Reader barely has to lift a finger at home. She doesn't cook dinner without Pope right there beside her helping. She attempts to vacuum one time and Pope waves her away and takes over. Pope ignores her protests that being pregnant doesn't make her totally helpless.

The first time their son kicks Reader grabs Pope's hand and presses it right against it. The smile on his face says it all. That's his boy.

Reader cries at everything and Pope is willing to hold her and insist that no it isn't dumb that she's crying at the ASPCA commercials. The dogs do look sad, so it's perfectly okay....no it's not weird that the documentary made her weepy...it was very sad that the baby giraffe has to start walking right out of the womb and doesn't even get to sit down for a moment and get used to existence.

The closer they get to her due date the more anxious Pope gets. He's watching over her like she might squat down and birth the kid if he looks away for a second.

He's constantly asking her if she's okay. If she's comfortable. Does she feel anything that might be a contraction?

Reader's water breaks in the middle of the night and Pope almost trips over his own feet to get to their suitcase and get her out the door cringing at the thought of the wet floor in the bathroom but too frantic in the moment to let it be the first thing on his mind. Reader does at least reassure him she threw a towel down on the bathroom floor...which is an amusing thing to consider later on...but she panicked and just did it okay.

Labor makes Pope a mess. He's holding her hand and trying to play it cool but he feels lightheaded and his heart is racing. Reader tells him he better not faint on her. If he faints she's letting him stay on the floor because fuck this hurts and he's not the one who feels like his private bits are being ripped in half.

Pope does manage to stay upright and does at least not show that Reader squeezing his hand so tight hurts. Kind of a bad idea to complain about pain when Reader has snapped that she's shoving something the size of a damn watermelon out of something the size of a lemon.

There's a lot of tears from both parents; tears of pain and fear and worry. Then finally tears of joy when Reader gives that final push and they're rewarded with the sound of their son's cry.

Pope who cuts the cord feeling like his knees might buckle but he manages keeping his focus on his son's crying face. Even covered in afterbirth; the kid is perfect.

Pope who fights the urge to snatch his son away when the nurses are cleaning him up and weighing and measuring him and making sure he's okay.

Pope who keeps his hand locked in Reader's trying to divide his attention between Reader and their son.

Pope who grimaces when the doctor asks if they want to keep the placenta.

Reader thankfully answers it as politely as someone who just went through hours upon hours of labor can be. "No, no we do not."

When Andrew Julian Cody is placed in Reader's arms Pope presses a hand to the boy's back and the tears build up in his eyes all the more. He's everything to him.

Pope who loves skin to skin contact especially after Reader explains it to him "It's how he knows you're safe. He can feel your skin and it's warm against his. He smells you and feels warm and safe. He learns that your smell is safe and your touch means safety. It helps him know that you're dad and you're safe."

Pope has always thought his girlfriend was smart, but he's convinced she's the smartest person in the world at that moment. When he blurts this out loud to her she shakes her head and points it out. "You aren't the only one who read all those pregnancy books buddy."

Pope watches Reader breastfeed his son and sits by her bedside in that little hospital room his hand reaching down to brush across his son's cheek. He has never felt more in love with Reader than at this moment. He's never felt love like the love he feels staring down at his son.

Pope who does fret over the hospital bill but Reader does gently remind him that they have a payment plan and will make it work. Besides Reader reminds Pope that his boss does manage to get Pope some pretty decent insurance. The hospital bill might suck but their son is worth it.

Pope who stands over the cradle at their bedside at home every night watching the kid sleep. He finds himself thankful for once that he's never slept too well. Sleepless nights seem a little less awful with Reader sleeping in their bed and Pope and his son staying up and figuring out this life thing.

Pope who no longer hears Baz's voice in his head telling him no one would ever want a kid with him.

Pope knows that's not true.

Pope isn't sure he is truly deserving of his little family, but he knows he's going to fight like hell to keep them safe.

Y/N sighed the warm feel of the bubble bath feeling heavenly on her achy body. The tub in their bathroom was actually pretty nice for such an old house. The tub was a full-on soaking tub; perfect for a good bath. It was something Pope and she had indulged in once they got the bathroom up to a decent state.

She sighed as Pope entered the bathroom a cup of herbal tea in hand...decaf of course. He handed it over to her she taking it shooting him her best puppy dog eyes. "Thank you. Are you sure you don't want in too?"

"This is about you relaxing. Some other time, I promise." Pope reassures her sitting on the floor by the tub on a round cushion he pulled from the sofa. She knows he's going to steam clean the hell out of the cushion later after he has time to think about how its been on the bathroom floor, but for now he's making use out of it.

She reaches out with a soapy hand waving it at him he shaking his head taking the hint and reaching up his hand taking hers.

She sipped her tea with her other hand the mint soothing her. Though the morning sickness had mostly passed she still occasionally felt herself get a sour feeling in her stomach. The mint helped.

"Do you think the baby will like mint? I keep wanting mint tea." She blurted out Pope feeling a hint of a smile cross his features.

"I think the kid's going to like peanut butter and pickles though he's got some weird ideas about how those two things should go together." Pope responded trying not to cringe at the latest pregnancy craving he'd witnessed from his girlfriend.

"It's good, don't knock it till you try it." Y/N insisted Pope shaking his head knowing that there was no way in hell he was trying it.

She managed to finish her tea, Pope standing up and releasing her hand to take the cup leaving it on the bathroom counter.

He gazed down at Reader the words leaving him "Want me to wash your back?"

"Yes, please." She was quick to respond, Pope moving to grab a loofah and get to work.

She let out a soft moan at the feel of the loofah against her back Pope not shy about peeking around to take in her soapy breasts a giggle leaving her. "You said you were washing my back not gawking at my tits."

"Just admiring my girlfriend." Pope was quick to reply she shaking her head fast to say the words.

"Yeah a ton to admire, swollen ankles, stretch marks, gassy, and cries at the dumbest things. Real hot and tempting."

Pope is fast to speak not letting her comment fly. "Pregnant with my kid, stunning and glowing, looks adorable waddling around rubbing her belly, great tits, and the prettiest woman in any room."

She felt her cheeks flush ever so slightly he leaning down pressing his lips to hers the words certain. "Trust me, there is nothing about your body that makes me want you any less right now."

You heard your phone ring, but couldn’t find it anywhere. Where you put it last night was beyond you. You checked all the usual spots, but it was nowhere to be seen. Following the sound of the ear-piercing ringtone, you eventually found it charging in the kitchen. Pope must have plugged it in for you. Before you could answer, the call ended. You saw three missed calls from Deran and a text asking you to call him back.

Just as you were about to press the phone icon, Deran's name lit up your phone. You picked it up on the second ring. “Hel-”

He didn’t let you finish your greeting before he started talking. “I need a favour.”

“Uh oh.” Coming from him, that could mean anything. He might want five bucks or an alibi—both of which you had given him plenty of times before.

“I know it's your day off, and you probably have plans with Pope, but” Deran basically pleaded while your stomach dropped.

You knew what was coming next. Every time something happened, be it an unexpectedly busy day or someone calling in sick, it was you who he called first, as if you being there would magically fix all his problems. Not to say you weren’t good at your job, but you definitely weren’t that good.

You braced yourself for the words that he would say next, the anticipation leaving a heavy weight on your chest. “Can you come down to the bar?”

You could say no. You probably should say no. You had plans, albeit they consisted of doing nothing in particular while Pope remained no more than two feet away from you. The most exciting thing you had scheduled for the day was takeout for dinner, but the sound of a glass breaking and someone screaming for service cut through all of your doubts. You couldn’t leave him hanging.

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. The enjoyment of your first day off in two weeks was pulled out from under you like a dusty rug. “What time do you need me there at?”

You could hear him running his hands through his hair through the phone. “How quick can you get your ass down here?”

The desperation in his voice and the fact that he called to ask for help were entertainment enough. “I’ll change my clothes, and I’ll be straight over.”

“You're the best.”

“You owe me.” You meant it. Your short-lived afternoon with your boyfriend was torn up, and the thought of telling him weighed down your heart. He had been clingy lately, more than usual. He missed you, and he had said as much.

You heard him come in behind you by the huff he let out when he saw you on the phone. You placed your phone on top of the kitchen counter, giving Pope your full attention. “That was Deran”

“Of course it was.” Pope groaned in response. There was something behind his tone, as if he held some animosity over the fact that he was calling you. “What did he want this time?”

“Help at the bar.” He stared at you while you twisted the ring on your finger, the one he gave you. Pope was possessive, and it was his way of always being present in your life. If you wouldn’t let him follow you around all the time, you would at least keep a little piece of him with you always. He made you promise to never take it off, a promise you gladly kept and hadn’t yet broken. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Don’t go.” The bass in his voice told you it wasn’t a suggestion, and he wasn’t asking. He was telling you.

You rolled your eyes and turned around to grab your phone. “Why, are you jealous?” You didn’t mean it. You snorted as you said it; you were joking. However, the way he crossed the kitchen in three steps, closing the distance, told you he didn’t find it funny. He was serious.

“Every time he calls, you go running. It's like you’re at his every beck and call.” He pressed into you, pinning you further against the countertop. With his hands on your hips, he pulled you flush against him, leaving no space between you.

Your back was pressed against his chest meaning you could not only hear his words, but you could also feel them. They rippled through your mind, making you feel dizzy as you read in between the lines. He was incredibly jealous.

“He can't have you. You're mine.” Hearing his deep, sultry voice whispering in your ear, claiming you was the sexiest thing you have ever experienced. It was like silk, flowing through your body straight to the ache between your legs. You were sure you let out a breathless moan when he said it.

His breath on your neck sent shivers down your spine. You could tell Pope knew the effect he had on your body by the way he tightened his grip on your hips. If he was going to play with you, you were going to play right back. Pushing his buttons was one thing you were excellent at.

You grinded into him, causing him to grunt, and he turned you around in his arms.  With his arms placed on either side of you, he made sure you knew you were trapped. He wanted you to know that you weren’t going anywhere without his approval, that you would have to ask him for permission.

Glaring down at you with a deep stare, he cocked his head to the side, daring you to try to make an escape. When you didn’t move, he placed his hand on the side of your face. Your reward for being a good girl.

Pope swiped his thumb across your bottom lip in a steady and deliberate motion. The rough feeling of his finger pad against the plump skin of your lips had you fisting his shirt between your fingers. Your desperation for him left you desperate for air. It took everything in you not to take it into your mouth and suck. You knew he wouldn’t be happy. You didn’t ask for permission.

When he was content with your breathless plea and glazed-over eyes, Pope ran his nose up the side of your neck. It was agonisingly slow. He got a high from knowing his actions caused your pulse to quicken. He lingered on your pulse point, laying a gentle lick before continuing his way up and across your cheek.  

He stayed especially close. You breathed the same air, your chest brushing against his. He looked at you with an intensity only he could achieve. His eyes pierced through you like an X-ray, seeing parts of you that you didn’t know existed. It was a language he used to communicate silently, and you were fluent in Pope.

When he did speak, it was carnal, packed with a raw need neither of you could control. The way he used his voice to taunt you was shameful, but you were far past the point of caring. The feeling of him commanding you was seductive beyond imagination. Being told what to do was one thing, but when he told you what he needed, it was mind-blowing. “Say it.”

You knew what he wanted you to say. More importantly, you knew how he wanted you to say it, but you weren’t giving in that easily. If he left you as a horny mess, you would make sure to leave him just as needy. You wanted him to care of you in his unrivalled way.

“I'm yours, Pope.”

He growled, his hand squeezing yours in warning not to push him. “Properly.”

"Yours, Andrew.” You moaned his name, and he grinned. It was the only way he would let you say it. Any other way was unacceptable to him. "I'm yours."

Stepping back, he softly kissed your cheek. It was his way of letting you know you had given him what he wanted and that you could go. You had just been dismissed. It was a move he would allow you to make, a move he controlled. He could so easily pull your strings, and you loved it. You were a violin, and he played you so masterfully and beautifully that it brought you to tears many times. You were his favourite thing to play with, and he never let you forget it.

Pope created just enough space for you to make your move. As you ducked under his arm, you dragged your hand across his hips and past the top of his jeans, teasingly. Before stepping backwards and walking towards the bathroom, you leaned up towards him. “I'm going for a shower.” You whispered, mouth skimming the shell of his ear.

Pope smirked as he glanced at you over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. He followed the sway of your hips until you twirled towards him and winked. He watched with a burning intensity as you dragged up the end of your shirt over your body, painfully slow.

“Are you coming?” You whispered as you threw your shirt towards him.

He caught it one-handed and pushed himself off the counter as you ran down the hall, giggling. It might take you a little longer than anticipated to get to work.