Summary: You just turned 18, your momma’s away & Lee’s got his eyes (and cock) set on you.
AN: Greed 02, for @theoracleofsin event Summer of Sin: “There is no such thing as 'enough' when it comes to what I want."
AN2: Divider courtesy of @saradika-graphics
🚨WARNING🚨DDDNE (Dead Dove Do Not Eat) The following work deals with a large age gap (reader just turned 18, Lee is in his 40s) as well as dubious consent (non-con if you squint).
The author also trusts that you know your own triggers before you proceed. PLEASE READ RESPONSIBLY.
🚩Content Warning🚩 language, dubcon/noncon, stepcest/fauxcest, sexual relations between step-dad & step-daughter, including but not limited to: kissing, fingering, groping, p in v sex, loss of virginity, virginity slang, Lee being crude and lewd, creampie, blood play (very minor), rough sex, mirror sex, underage drinking.
You peered over your sunglasses as the squad car pulled up to the house. It was hotter than Satan’s cat; it must’ve been 90° alone in the shade.
Sheriff Lee Bodecker - your step daddy - pulled into the driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires. You were laying on a faded lawn chair, enjoying the sun and heat in your little bikini top and cutoffs.
It’s your birthday. Eighteen today—finally legal, finally an adult. Your mama’s gone for the week, visiting your aunt in Chillicothe, leaving you alone in this creaky old house with your step-daddy.
Sheriff Lee Bodecker.
He’d been eyeing you like forbidden fruit since the day he moved in, his uniform always crisp, that drawl dripping with something darker than authority. He wasn’t exactly shy about his wandering eye and you didn’t understand how your mama put up with it.
“Happy birthday sugar,” Lee drawls as he climbs out of the car. His eyes rake over your tiny sleep shorts, tits in your bikini top, hair tousled. There was no escaping that hungry stare. “C’mere and let your step-daddy give you a birthday hug.”
He’s on you in two strides, big hands pulling you up. He grips your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his belly, the badge on his chest is cool through the fabric, a stark reminder of who he is—the law in this town, and right now, the law wants you.
“C’mon honey, let’s go inside so we can celebrate proper. Stopped at the store on the way home and picked you up a little cake. Thought we could share with some beers.”
Your brow arched. “I’m 18, not 21.”
“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t sugar,” Lee winked with a lascivious grin.
Twenty minutes later, you’re on your second beer as you take the plates to the sink. As you turn, you see Lee run his finger through the thick buttercream before sucking it off. “Mmm, so sweet,” he murmurs. “But my sweet tooth wonders if there’s something sweeter…”
You pick up on the double entendre immediately. “Lee…”
He’s in front of you now, his large arms caging you in at the sink.
“Lee…” you repeat again, your voice low and warning.
Lee paid no mind. “Party’s just getting started sweetheart. Been patient long enough.” His mouth crashes down on yours, demanding, tongue sweeping in like he owns every inch. You push half-heartedly at his shoulders, a soft moan slipping out. Lee just chuckles against your lips, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb teasing the nipple until it pebbles.
“Turned eighteen. My good girl now. Time to give your step-daddy what he’s been cravin’.” He tugs you effortlessly into the room adjacent to the kitchen - your room.
Fingers hook into your shorts, yanking them down with your bathing suit bottoms in one tug. You gasp as cool air hits your exposed skin, thighs pressing together instinctively. But Lee’s knee wedges between them, spreading you open. His fingers find your slick folds, circling your clit with practiced strokes that make your knees buckle.
“Lee, I—I’m not sure about this…” Your voice trembles, body caught between shame and the building heat. Heat pools low as he kisses down your neck, sucking marks that’ll bruise tomorrow. “This is wrong. I can’t— I’ve never…”
“How can it be wrong when wrong feels too damn good, don’t it?” He spins you to face the mirror, forcing you to watch. His hand is in between your legs, two thick fingers pushing inside. The stretch burns sweet, drawing a whimper from you as he pumps slow and deep. “Look at yourself. Soakin’ for your stepdaddy already.”
He frees his cock, thick, veined, flushed dark, and rubs the head along your slit. “There is no such thing as ‘enough’ when it comes to what I want.” The words rumble against your ear as he notches at your entrance and thrusts in, not giving you time to adjust. You cry out at the fullness, tears stinging your eyes, but he holds you steady, one arm banded across your chest, the other working your clit. “Fuck, so tight. Look at the sweet cunt. She’s takin’ me so pretty.”
Pain fades into overwhelming pleasure as he bottoms out, hips snapping forward in a steady rhythm. The mirror fogs with your panting breaths. His groans mix with your moans—surrender as your body betrays you, hips rocking back to meet him. “That’s it, baby girl. Let stepdaddy ruin this pussy.”
He fucks you harder, hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds, claiming you completely until you’re clenching around him, coming with a shattered gasp.
He buries himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, cock pulsing hard as he unloads. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your pussy, so much it immediately starts pushing out around his shaft, creamy and messy, dripping down. He keeps grinding deep through it, fucking his load even further into you.
“Atta girl… milk every drop. That’s my good fuckin’ girl.”
He stays buried inside you for a long moment, panting, then slowly pulls out just to watch the creamy mess spill out of your wrecked hole.
His eyes widen at the red streaks mixed with his load. “Would you look at that,” he replies in wonder. “Popped my girl’s cherry.”
He smears the now pink mixture of your blood and his cum up over your clit with his thumb, teasing. He leans down to kiss the back of your neck all
Andrew knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but he couldn’t help himself.
There were only two things he wanted in life: you and a baby.
Maybe multiple babies, but everyone had to start somewhere. And Pope wanted to get started now. But you kept waffling, saying “I don’t know” and “maybe next year.” You’d told him next year about three years ago, and he was done waiting.
Lucky for him, you weren’t on any birth control. That had partially been his doing. You’d complained about side effects from your IUD, so Pope had suggested that you get rid of it, that he didn’t mind wearing condoms if it meant you were more comfortable. And you trusted him wholeheartedly. You’d never have guessed he had ulterior motives.
So here he was now, taking a thumb tack to every single condom you kept in your night stand drawer. He was methodical, poking five holes in each. Pope didn’t want them to break, though, that would alarm you and then he’d have to get Plan B. He wanted them to stay intact, but give just enough room for some of his little swimmers to leak out into you.
By the time he had finished, he only had a few minutes before you were due to arrive home from work, so he settled back on the bed to wait.
That was how you found him, sitting with his back against the headboard, hands folded in his lap and eyes locked on the door.
“Andy,” you set your purse on the dresser, smiling at him as you walked over to give him a kiss. “How was your day?”
Before you could peck him and move on, Pope was grabbing you by the hips and dragging you into his lap. You squeaked against his lips in surprise, laughing as you relaxed in his hold. His hands roamed over you, moving from your tits to your hips to your ass, like he couldn’t figure out what he wanted to grope.
“Miss me?” You were grinning ear to ear as you finally freed your mouth from his, but Pope didn’t stop, dropping his head to kiss and suck at your neck and using his hold on you to rock your core over his. You could feel how hard he was growing already.
Pope had been half hard since he began sabotaging your contraceptives, but seeing you waltz in none the wiser had all of his blood rushing south.
“Need you,” he grunted. Momentarily, he stopped painting your neck in bruises and bites to pull your shirt up and over your head. He quickly popped your bra clasp open after, dragging it down your arms and throwing it across the room.
“You can have me,” your hands dropped down between your bodies, yanking and unbuckling his belt to get his jeans open as fast as possible. “Been thinking about you all day.”
“Yeah?” Pope looked up at you with wide eyes as he guided you up onto your knees to remove your shorts and underwear. Once he had them gone, it struck you that he was still nearly fully clothed, his pants pulled just far down enough to free his length while you were naked. A shiver ran up your spine. Something about your states of undress were much more attractive than it should be.
“Yeah, Andy,” your fingers came to wrap around his cock, stroking over him slowly. Your fingers swiped through the precum leaking from his head. Holding eye contact with him, you brought those fingers to your lips, licking the salty fluid off of them.
Pope groaned before he was frantically yanking your nightstand drawer open and grabbing a condom. You’d seen him put on a condom a million times before, so while he went through the motions, you took your turn to leave your mark on his neck. Working the skin between your teeth, you drunk in every little groan and gasp that came from him as he working the latex down over his length.
You’d been planning on riding him, but before you could pull back and sink down, Pope was lifting you up and off of him, manipulating your body to land face down on the bed.
“Andrew-”
“Want you like this,” his body laid over yours, pressing you down into the mattress before you could push up or protest. His cockhead was running through your folds, trying to catch and push into your hole, but he kept missing. Pope grumbled in frustration, and then his weight shifted off your back.
You looked over your shoulder to find out exactly what he was doing, but you quickly found out when he was jerking your hips up, folding a pilow and propping your hips up on it. His body was back over you once he had you exactly how he wanted.
“Oh fuck-” his head dropped to your shoulder as he finally sank into you. He swore he could feel your wetness on the little bits of skin exposed by the microscopic holes. It was incredible. He’d truly mourned not being able to fuck raw after you’d had your IUD removed, but he knew he’d be able to again once he finally got you pregnant. “Feels good.”
Pope couldn’t help himself. His hips jerked and ground into you, chasing his own pleasure. He needed to cum in you now. He’d give you as many orgasms as you wanted once he was done, but right now his sole focus was finishing as deep inside you as he could.
“Fuck, Andy,” you were whining and pushing back against each movement he made. He felt so good deep inside you.
Pope’s thrusting picked up in pace. He was already embarrassingly close. You were so warm and tight and perfect around him. He just couldn’t help himself. His pace stuttered, hips slamming into your ass as he pressed as deep inside you as he could get.
Pope was used to the sensation of his cum filling up a condom, how the warm heat would spread down his shaft as emptied himself into it. This was different. He could still feel some of that wet heat trapped in the latex, but it was not nearly as much as before. As far as he could tell, his plan had worked perfectly.
He waited until the aftershocks were done and every drop had been wrung out of him by your walls before he pulled out. You hadn’t finished, and he felt guilty, but he also needed to cover his tracks, at least until those two pink lines showed up.
Thankfully, when his cock emerged from your cunt, the holes he’d pricked in it were more visible, but he was pleasantly surprised to see that it had overall held its shape without tearing but had let almost all of his release flood your depth.
He quickly stripped the condom off and threw it in the trashcan beside the bed before he was yanking your hips up.
You squeaked in shock as Pope pulled you up onto your knees. He could see some of his milky white release starting to drip from you. He couldn’t let you see that.
So he buried his face in your cunt. His tongue licked from your clit to your ass, cleaning up any trace of his cum that leaked out of you. It hurt his soul to not push that precious fluid deep inside you, but he had no choice for now.
He focused his efforts on your clit, trying to work you up to an orgasm as fast as possible. The foggier your senses were, the more likely he’d be able to get away with filling you once again, and his already hardening cock was aching for it again.
“Andrew! Fuck!” You were rocking back against his face, panting and moaning.
Two of his fingers pushed into you, curling down to press into your g-spot as his lips circled your clit. He sucked the little bud into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it. Your thighs were shaking and you buried your face into the mattress as you cried out.
“Cum,” Pope growled, doubling his efforts and intensity.
You came, fluid squirting out around his fingers as your walls spasmed and clenched around his fingers. He didn’t stop, fighting through your tightening insides and the tremors that wracked your body. You were whimpering, moaning his name, and reaching behind you to try and push him away when you started to come down.
“Oh my god,” he finally backed off, looking down at your slumped form as you tried to catch your breath. “Jesus Christ, Andrew.”
Pope leaned back to open the drawer again. You looked over your shoulder, expression incredulous as you watched him fish out a brand new condom.
“Again!?”
“Again.”
Pope was not going to stop until he got what he wanted.
Summary: When you let slip to Lena one night that you want the kind of love where someone would do anything for you, Pope sees his opportunity to give you exactly that. His obsession with you now perfect since...isn't that what you want?
Pairing: Pope Cody x Lena's babysitter!fem!reader
TW: 18+ MDNI, NSFW; Sex scene includes oral f recieving, fingering, p-in-v, slight breeding kink if you squint; Andrew is down bad for the reader; reader has a crush on Andrew; Andrew prevents her from leaving and makes the first move; Lena and the reader are really close; mentions of alcohol. I think that's it. I hope so.
Credit: GIF by @littlebatx
A/N: Can I be completely honest that I have no clue what this fic is anymore? I wrote the beginning and by the time I got to the smut, the story I was intending was gone and Pope was just...sweet and...perfect...so. I dunno know, guys. Hope you enjoy it!
Pope remembers when he met you for the first time, June 1st 2012. You were eighteen and bright-eyed, happy, smiling. Precious. Catherine needed time to herself, needed help with little Lena, two years old at the time and you were there. The babysitter.
He met you when he went over to talk to Baz about a job and found that Baz and Catherine were out and you were there, holding Lena on your hip.
“Hi,” you had said, your expression concerned, drawn together, suspicious, your body put between him and your charge, the door not entirely open. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for my brother, Baz,” he had replied and your eyes had narrowed in that analytical way you have, the one he didn’t know then, but he grew to know. Grew to love. “Where can I find him?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell have gone out. They won’t be back for a few hours. Should I take a message?” You were perfectly polite, but all he’d done was shaken his head, angry at the stone wall you’d put up, the impenetrableness of the force which you created.
“I’ll be back later,” is all he’d said, storming off, walk rigid like always. He’d been told by his brothers that he didn’t walk like a human and when he’d reached his car, he’d glanced back, noticing the door still open. You were watching him, making sure he left, protective of Lena. Of the girl you were tasked to look after.
That was the first time he met you, but it was not when he fell into deep, sickening love, a kind of love that others would call obsession, stalking. That time came later, after you’d been introduced to him by Catherine and Baz and he became Mr. Cody, someone okay to be around Lena.
You were always there, watching over Lena, your laugh always echoing, infectious. A college student, he’d been told. One studying science, but no one ever told him what science, only that you were quite good, quite skilled at what you did. What you were studying. He could sometimes see you doing complicated equations while Lena scribbled with crayons.
But he did not fall into his love (obsession) until October 27th 2012, a date seared into his memory. He’d been tasked with checking on Lena, a task from Smurf who didn’t like Catherine and he knew that you were watching her, most likely at the park.
He’d shown up, lurking in the trees, watching as you played with Lena in the sand, pushed her on the swings, looking for all the world like a young mother or older sister. There was just something about you that made him feel you truly cared for the girl. He watched and he felt something shift inside of him, like the compass in his chest that was always steered to Catherine now steered towards you.
You’d looked up at that moment, your body haloed by the sun, attention on him. You had noticed him and waved him over, calling out “Mr. Cody!” Lena had grown excited and he complied, standing there awkwardly, standing there unsure what to do, unsure what to say the way he always was.
He did not know intimacy. He did not know love. He knew what had paid for, had been purchased, bought, and expected of him. He did not know what it felt to have someone entirely his to be someone else’s entire. He knew what it was liked to be used, forced and hurt.
He knew heartbreak.
But you made him want more. You made him want love. Especially because as Lena fell asleep against you, the three of you sitting on a grassy knoll, watching the birds as you explained that Lena liked to do, you had been at peace. You had not been scared of him, ashamed. You had felt comfortable, safe.
And you read him like an open book.
“You’re in love with Cath,” you had whispered and he remembers that he looked at you with shock, surprise. You had smiled at him, the kind of smile that came from being used to people’s surprise. “You don’t hide it, Mr. Cody,” you continued, the smile turning sad. “I just wish more for both of you.”
“What do you mean?” he had asked and you sighed, your hand stilling on Lena’s head from where you had been smoothing down her ever-growing dark hair.
“I mean that Cath deserves someone who loves her wholly and you deserve to love someone capable of loving you back, Mr. Cody.” He had wished that you would call him Andrew, called him by his name, but it seemed like you were incapable of that, a line drawn between professional and personal. Except for Cath, it seemed.
“You call her Cath,” he had said, unsure of how to ask, unsure of what to say and you had looked at him with softened eyes and a smile, one nostalgic.
“Because she asked me too,” you’d whispered. “She said that I’m more like Lena’s older sister than her babysitter and that I should call her Cath.” He had wanted to ask you what would happen if he asked you to call him Andrew, but he understood then that he was not Cath. That Cath was Cath and he was Mr. Cody, a line forever drawn.
But he didn’t want that line there. He just wanted you. You as his and he as yours. A part of him thought you wanted that too.
And then he fell headfirst into loving you, learning your music preferences, your favourite colours and foods and days. It didn’t matter, what you loved he knew about. He just wished that he made it onto that list.
When he was arrested in 2013, you were the person he thought of, cared about. Worried for. You visited him once at Folsom, a backpack on your shoulders, your body tense and rigid as you stepped into the visiting room, putting the phone to your ear as he did the same on the other side.
“I heard Mr. Blackwell and Deran talking about you being here,” you had said and he’d swallowed hard at your words, at this admission that he mattered enough to you for you to do that. “I thought I’d come by.”
“Why?” he’d asked, watching as your face shifted, shuttered, eyes darting around, refusing to settle on him.
“Because I figured no one else was.” It was true, the truest truth he’d heard since…well, ever and it did not surprise him that it came from you. You seemed honest to a fault. “And Lena wanted me to tell you about her ballet recital.” You had pulled your phone out, putting the screen against the dividing wall so he could watch as his niece toddled around the stage in a glittery blue costume. “Made the costume myself,” you’d told him and he felt his heart pound and pound and pound harder and harder because you were so…perfect.
You came every so often for a visit, some update about Lena over the three years he was away, but you mainly wrote him letters, keeping him apprised of her daily life, but never you. It was still a line drawn between you and him and what you could be.
But in the walls of Folsom, he pretended that the wall did not exist, spoke of you to the inmates as his wife. His, his, his, his, his. He wanted you to be his. So badly.
When he got out, the first person he went to was you, your apartment number burned onto his mind and he stayed in the rental vehicle he’d gotten, watching you through your curtains, watching as you moved around. Alone.
Blissfully alone.
He knew then, that night, his first of freedom, that you would be his.
He just had to wait until the time was right.
“Are you crying?!” Lena cries, standing up from the couch, her little face twisted into an expression of shock and disgust, hands on her slim hips.
“No,” you lie, looking away, your hands pressing against your eyes, moving from in to out, wiping away your tears.
“You so are! Why? That movie’s just weird,” she says and you can hear her grab her glass from the coffee table, small feet making a surprising amount of noise as she stomps to the kitchen.
“The Notebook is not weird, you little gremlin!” you call out, your voice teasing despite the thickness still there. The movie reduces you to tears every time, the way that love wins and yet it doesn’t. The way they fight for their happy ending and yet lose it so quickly.
“He’s so obsessed with her!” Lena calls out and you roll your eyes, untangling your legs from one another and the fluffy blanket you’ve curled up under, planting your feet flat on the hardwood floor, pushing up to a stand, grabbing the popcorn bucket and your glass, walking through the living room, back towards the kitchen, the movie’s credits still rolling.
“And what?” you ask, stepping in, walking to the sink while Lena pulls a bottle of water from the fridge. “What’s wrong with him being obsessed with her like that? I think it’s romantic.”
“He never moves on,” Lena says, her spare hand held up, index finger of her right hand, the one currently wrapped around the bottle ticking down the reasons, folding each finger. “He, like, falls apart and is all unkempt because she’s gone—”
“He did survive war too, you know,” you interrupt, but she waves you away, silencing your protests with an enthusiastic wave of her hand.
“He builds the house for her,” she says. “And he fights to have her even when she’s marrying someone else!”
“That doesn’t count!” you exclaim, turning from her to the sink, running some water in your glass, the one that held you cream soda. “She wasn’t in love with him. She loved Noah the whole time too.”
“Yeah, but,” Lena continues, “she was moving on. And Noah ruined it! Besides! Lon’s way cuter!”
“You take that back!” you cry, spinning around, eyes wide as they settle on the child who has completely and totally destroyed your faith in humanity. “Ryan Gosling is way hotter than James Marsden! That rain scene, man!” Lena’s laughing so hard that it’s more a cackle, her seven, nearly eight year old body, convulsing with her laughter while you roll your eyes, leaning back against the kitchen counter, hands splayed flat on the cool, smooth granite.
“I just,” she says, now that she’s calmed down, “think it’s creepy how in love with her Noah was. You know.”
“I don’t know,” you muse. “I think it would be romantic to have someone…willing do to anything for you—like the house. I think…ah, man, I think I would want that.”
“You’re weird,” she says, tone flat and thick black brows drawn together, her expression so stern and serious that it’s now your turn to laugh, the kind of laugh that starts deep in your stomach, rumbling through you.
“Yeah,” you tell her, amidst the laughter. “Don’t listen to me, kiddo. Now, go get ready for bed.” She runs past you, up to the stairs, her feet padding on the carpet noisily despite the fact that it’s carpet and she’s no more than 60 pounds soaking wet.
You can’t help but laugh again, the sound more of an exhalation than any real laugh, as you run some water in the sink, adding soap, knowing that Mr. Cody prefers his house clean, obsessively so.
A part of you wonders what would happen if you didn’t bother to clean, what he would say, but you know there’s no use going down that path, even if you sometimes wish that he would speak to you. Look at you.
But that line of thinking leads nowhere.
It’s best to just close it down.
Pope’s heart is in his throat, pulsing and pounding erratically, his lungs tightening and clenching, constricting and burning. He heard you, those words I think it would romantic to have someone willing to do anything for you…I think I would want that still echoing around him, surrounding him, choking him.
He’s been waiting for the right time, the right way and here it is. He just has to show you that he’ll do anything for you.
And he can do that.
The club is loud, music pulsing in the air, almost in a way that you can see, the sound so loud, more noise than music. Your friends are laughing, yelling at each other just to be heard over the music, but you’re quiet, hand turning your glass in circles, a single shot of tequila downed. You’re not much of a drinker, never have been, preferring to stay present in your mind. Preferring to stay present.
“YOU OKAY?” Jonathan yells, his voice still just barely audible as you turn to him, shrugging.
“IT’S TOO LOUD,” you reply and he nods, looping his arm through yours, his touch gentle and kind, sweet in his way. Jonathan is sweet though and pretty, bright green eyes set in skin the colour of toffee, dark hair curling down his forehead and a smile even and pretty. Not crooked in the slightest. Not like…nope, you won’t go there, not even in your own mind.
“Better?” he asks, pushing out of the club, the autumn breeze cool and crisp, tinged with cigarette smoke and car exhaust, yet still better than the sweat and alcohol smell of the club that mingles with mildew and broken leather.
“Much,” you tell him, sighing and leaning against the brick wall of the club, your head falling back against it, a buzzing in your jacket pocket. “One sec,” you tell him, walking a ways away, pulling your phone out, noticing LENA in all caps on your screen. “Lena?! What’s wrong?”
“Uncle Deran fell asleep before he could help with the bedtime routine!” she cries, her voice thick and pained and you sigh, your eyes closing for a minute. The bedtime routine became sacred after Cath left, an open sore, her disappearance still a question of what? Where? Who? When? Lena needs to see her door close, needs to know someone is there, the way Cath isn’t.
You wanted a single Saturday night to yourself, with friends. You wanted to have fun, to return to a world that wasn’t full of the Cody’s and the Blackwell’s, but rather the life you could have had if you had never accepted the babysitting gig that your friend, Elizabeth, skipped out on seven years ago.
You wanted to forget and be someone young. You wanted to act your age. But you just can’t get that.
“Hey, I have to call it a night, Jonathan,” you say, tucking your phone into your pocket after assuring Lena that you’ll be there, just wait for a bit, you’ll be there, always.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, hands tucked into his jean pockets, cheeks darkening from the cold.
“My…Lena needs my help,” you tell him, your lips twisting into an apologetic smile, but he shrugs, eyebrows rising.
“I could give you a lift and then, you know, when you’ve helped her…maybe you and I could grab something to eat or…something,” he says and you can feel something inside of you, some kind of feeling that you don’t entirely know rise as you nod and he smiles, a bright kind of smile.
“That sounds good,” you tell him, mind only half here, the other part on Lena and who was supposed to be watching her.
Why wasn’t Mr. Cody there?
Where is he?
Did Lena lose another person again?
You fumble with the keys that Mr. Cody gave you, the ones needed for the days that you pick Lena up or for the occasional times that you have to take her somewhere and lock up and unlock it again to come back.
They’re slipping through your fingers, chiming and clinking against one another as you finally slot it into the door, unlocking first the deadbolt then the knob, twisting the handle and pushing the door open. You step into a quiet house, still except for the sound of snores coming from the couch.
Deran, the fucker.
“Deran!” you hiss, closing the door behind you with more force than necessary, delighting in the way he jumps on the couch, hissing shit in a startled voice, head swivelling until he sees you, standing, arms crossed, no doubt a seriously pissed off look on your face.
“What are you doing here?” he asks you, blinking, sleep still heavy in his eyes, in his voice.
“I’m here because Lena called me, fucking crying because you fell asleep before the bedtime routine could happen,” you hiss, watching as realization dawns on his face, his hand coming up, scrubbing down his face as he murmurs “shit” for a different reason now. “And where the fuck is Mr. Cody? He’s supposed to be here watching Lena.”
“He left real fast. Said he had to check on some girl,” he answers, his voice becoming more alert as he sits up and you grit your teeth together, turning to dart up the stairs, taking them two at a time, conscious of the fact that Lena’s up there, she’s sad and scared and her routine has been thrown out of order.
“Lena!” you call out when you reach the second floor landing, pushing open her partly closed door to see her sitting on her bed, face stained with tears. “Lena,” you whisper, “let’s do the routine, okay?”
“Okay,” she whispers, standing and walking over to you, her face brightening at your presence. “You look fancy,” she says, “were you out with a boy? And did he look like the love of your life Ryan Gosling.”
“Oh ha-ha, little one,” you say and she giggles, heading across the hall to the bathroom to rewash her face and brush her teeth, but in truth…Jonathan kinda does look like Ryan Gosling. But even as you think that, you swallow hard because that’s not exactly what you want. You want someone older, you want someone rougher around the edges who never looks at you and is awkward and someone you should never want, but do. Someone with dark auburn curls and hazel eyes…you blink, refocusing on the here and now and the nice boy waiting for you who has never seen the inside of a prison.
“Okay,” Lena says, bounding into her room, her face clean and words trailing minty breath. “I’m ready.” She runs across the room, leaping onto her twin bed, disturbing her piles of stuffies, tucking herself in as you cross the room towards her, kneeling down and smoothing the hair back from her face.
“I miss, Mommy,” she whispers and you can feel something crack inside of you. Something you’ve kept inside, locked up tight.
“She was a good woman,” you whisper, feeling tears in the back of your throat as you press a kiss to Lena’s forehead, tucking her blanket in tight all around her and rising, swallowing hard. Lena really does look like Cath, does carry that bit of her.
“She liked you,” Lena says and those words threaten to bring you to your knees.
“I liked her too. She was my friend.” Lena nods, satisfied with your answer before snuggling deeper into her blanket, eyes still open, watching as you click off her lamp and walk to the door, pulling it closed while you mouth good night. You know as the door clicks shut, the light flipped off that now she’ll fall asleep. Because she saw you leave.
You didn’t disappear in the dead of night.
You draw in a deep breath, shaking your head against the onslaught of tears that threaten you, bounding down the stairs preparing to rip Deran a new one, except…the living room is empty. You glance around, seeing nothing of Deran, instead just Mr. Cody standing there in the entrance way, his hazel eyes on you.
“Where’s Deran?” you call out, watching as Mr. Cody walks towards you, his presence making your mouth go dry and you swallow hard, his walk like that of a predator.
“I sent him home,” he says, his voice husky, rough. Dark, in a way that you like but wish you didn’t. You shouldn’t like him; you can’t like him. You are nothing if not professional.
“Well,” you say, nodding once and moving to step past him to the door. “I best let you get on with your night. Lena’s all tucked in, Mr. Cody.” You begin to walk, but he catches your wrist, his fingers calloused and warm against your skin in a way that feels good, feels nice, but no, stop that. You can’t think that way.
“It’s late,” he says.
“I know,” you answer, keeping your gaze trained straight ahead. “But I have a ride waiting for me outside.”
“The boy?” he asks, his voice darkening, deepening. Primal in a way, if a sound can really be primal, which, you think it can.
“Yeah, Jonathan…why?” you ask, feeling a small bit of fear like ice creeping up your spine, goosebumps spreading along your skin.
“I sent him home,” he says and you can feel his breath on the back of your neck and you know his body is far too close, but you also don’t want him to step away and god, you’ve always had that line of professionalism, but this man…since Cath disappeared, he’s been the best with Lena and you never expected to feel anything for him, but…you do.
“Why?” you whisper and then he’s tugging on your wrist, turning you around, pulling you against him, his broad chest against yours.
“Because it’s late,” he whispers, his words actually rumbling through his chest, echoing into your body. “Because you’re already home.” You swallow hard at his words, at the way he’s just said that this…his home…is yours too.
It’s not like you haven’t stayed here before on nights when you’ve been told that no one will be watching Lena and you’re needed for a few days, but calling it home…that’s different. That’s making it seem like he likes you, that he caresfor you.
“I’m not home,” you whisper, looking down at the ground where the toes of your shoes are against his. You forgot to take your shoes off in the rush to get to Lena and you never do, but he’s forgotten too.
“Eyes on me,” he says, two fingers under your chin, tipping your head up, your gaze landing on him because how could it not? Everyone else is afraid of him, but how can they be, when he’s kind and caring and sweet and he’s quiet. He doesn’t just speak what’s on his mind, he looks at a room and decides what to do from there and god, professionalism. Professionalism, you remind yourself even as his proximity is fraying the last of your control because his lips look reallysoft and kissable.
Oh god, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?
His stare is unrelenting, tracing every part of you as if he expects to find some damage on you, but you’ve been safe all night.
“Why were you gone, Mr. Cody?” you whisper, noticing the way his jaw tightens at your words, the way his eyes darken and the grip on your wrist tightens.
“Andrew,” he spits out, “call me Andrew.”
“Why were you gone, Andrew?” you ask and he drags his fingers from under your chin to trace your lips, the digits replaced by his thumb pressing down on your bottom lip, a pressure that has a fevered feeling growing beneath your skin.
“I was watching someone,” he whispers, his voice husky, watching every bit of your face for a reaction. For a response.
“Who?” you ask, the word just slightly muffled by his thumb digging into your lip.
“Who do you think?” he asks and Jesus Christ, has his voice always been this hot, this capable of getting a reaction out of you? And you really need to leave now, really need to get going, but with the way he’s looking at you, the closeness of your bodies, you press your thighs together, hoping he doesn’t notice.
But of course he does.
Because he’s Andrew fucking Cody. And he notices everything. And really, where does he get off on ruining your professionalism, on breaking that line you’ve built, a tentative wall? Where does he get his attitude? And what deity decided that making your boss look like that was fair?!
You hate your life right now, but also not because as he presses his body against yours, the hard lines of his body fitting against the soft lines of yours, you realize that everything you’ve imagined is not even close to reality.
God did not make everyone equal because Andrew Cody might be the hottest man in the entire world and you are so fired if you don’t end this now.
“I have to go!” you blurt out, pulling back and sliding your wrist from his hold, running from him to the front door, but he’s faster than you, putting his body between you and the door.
“No,” he says.
“Why?” you ask him, swallowing hard feeling both serious lust and fear inside of you, the two warring together and yet working together at the same time too.
“Because you said you wanted this,” he whispers and you can feel confusion added to the choking mix of emotions, your throat tight, lungs burning and chest constricting, heart pounding, pounding, pounding almost as odd a beat as “Edge of Seventeen”’s drumbeat.
“Wanted what?” You don’t want the answer, you’re slightly afraid of it because you really don’t know what he’s talking about, only that he’s blocking an exit.
“Someone willing to do anything for you.” His words ring in the room where just yesterday, in the kitchen, you mentioned that to Lena, how you thought Noah was romantic and Jesus! He was there the entire time.
“That’s…that’s out of context,” you tell him, blinking fast, trying to see him while also not see him at the same time.
“What context did I need?” he whispers, stepping towards you, steps slow and quiet as if he’s afraid that you’re a doe he’s about to startle before he can get off the killing blow and should that idea really turn you on as much as it does? “Because I would do for you anything that Noah did for Allie? You want a house like he fixed for her because I’ll do it, sweetheart. I’ll do anything for you.”
“What?” you whisper, confusion winning out over fear because those aren’t the words of someone who only wants one thing. Those are the words of someone in love. Those are the words of someone who wants you for more than sex.
“Don’t you get it?” he asks and honestly, not really, because this is the most he’s ever spoken to you before. “I’m in love with you. Completely in love with you.”
“You don’t talk…to me,” you whisper, turning from him, from the words he’s saying that sound pretty and honest but at the same time like lies and you walk, your shoes dragging against the hardwood floor, your steps slightly off-beat towards the kitchen, the tile floor.
“What was it that Noah said?” you hear Andrew whisper behind you. “‘So it’s not gonna be easy. It’s going to be really hard; we’re gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, every day. You and me…every day.’”
“What did you memorize the movie?” you whisper-yell, spinning around, taking note of his relentless proximity to you.
“Maybe,” he whispers and the sheepish expression on his face has you laughing, but not a laugh built of humour, more of someone delirious and surprised and horny, yeah, horny too because he has no right to look that good.
You can feel your knees giving way, this night having been too much, too much and you slide down the counter, the handles of the cabinet digging into your spine as you sink down, your head landing in-between your knees.
“June first,” you hear him say, his body landing beside yours. “Twenty-twelve. The first day I met you.”
“What?” you whisper, your head pressing against your left knee as you tilt your head, looking at him.
“Yeah,” he says, “I was looking for Baz, but you were there, Lena on your hip, watching me until I disappeared.”
“No way you loved me then,” you whisper, your arms wrapped around your knees, body folded into a self-contained unit.
“No,” he agrees. “That came later. October 27th 2012. You invited me over when I was lurking and I fell in love with you because you were the first person not afraid of me and you talked to me. And I didn’t want to live without that. And then…you visited me in prison and wrote me letters…and…you love me too. I know you do.”
“Mr. Cody,” you whisper, but he shakes his head, eyes darkening again.
“Andrew,” he hisses, “call me Andrew.”
“You’re my boss,” you cry. “I can’t be with you. That breaks every moral and ethical code I have!”
“But do you love me?” And for once, you fall silent, the answer in you truth, the answer resting on your tongue a lie and you don’t like to lie.
“I knew it,” he whispers and then his lips are on yours, his hands pulling you, shifting you, your body coming to rest on his lap, straddling him as he kisses you relentlessly. He kisses like he stares, deep and dark and predatory. It’s not a battle or a conquest, but a claiming, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip, his tongue controlling yours, sliding along it and leaving you breathless, his hands everywhere, hips moving up into yours, the bulge pressing into you, telling you just how much he wants you.
“Andrew,” you whisper, pulling back from his lips as best you can, his hand on the back of your head, holding you close to him. “We can’t do this. Lena’s home.”
“I’m sick of people telling me what I can’t do,” he whispers, voice low and dangerous and so unfairly hot. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”
“Andrew…” He’s kissing you again and you don’t want to fight this. You don’t want to stop, you want this closeness, you’ve wanted this for so long, but you need assurances. You need to know that this isn’t going to ruin the babysitting job. “Pause,” you murmur against his lips and he listens, his head falling against yours, forehead pressing against you, eyes on you.
“What?” he asks, his voice not curt, but concerned.
“What does this mean for me? You’re my boss, Andrew,” you whisper and then he’s shifting again, rising, pulling you with him and shoving your hips into the counter, the granite digging into the small of your back, his body pressing into you, caging you in.
“Be Mrs. Cody,” he whispers, one hand tracing your face with a feather-light touch. “Be Lena’s aunt…just,” he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder, “be mine. Please.”
“I don’t have a ring,” you whisper, “but alright.” And then he’s lifting his head and looking at you, deep and dark and now you understand that expression he’s been giving you for years: love. He does love you.
Then his lips are on yours again, tongue sliding along yours as he guides you up the stairs, his hands firm on your hips, guiding even as his lips trail from your mouth to your neck, to the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth sinking down onto it, your gasp muffled as you bite your tongue, skin fevered.
He pushes you down the hall, to the very last door and inside, shutting the door with his foot, hand leaving you. You can hear the lock flip and then Andrew is walking you back to the bed, his hands drifting to the front of your hips, fingers pulling open the button of your cutoffs, undoing the zipper and they drop to the floor. You step out of them and you want him now, want this relentless ache and throb to end, but he’s someone who seems to savour, his mouth trailing over your neck, teeth sinking into the skin every few minutes, tongue lashing out to soothe the bite marks.
He pushes you back, your body landing on his bed and he’s rough, but at the same time gentle as he kneels on the ground, sliding your underwear from off your hips, down your legs, set aside. He pauses for a moment, folding your cutoffs and underwear, setting them aside, his room obsessively neat, something you appreciate.
“God,” he whispers when he turns back, lifting your legs onto his shoulders, “so pretty.”
“Andrew,” you whisper and he looks up at you, eyes black with desire. “You’re too dressed up.” He stands, taking his shirt off and god you wish you’d said nothing because who made him look like that? He’s too attractive for his own good. It’s highly unfair.
He unzips his jeans, folding them and his shirt, setting them in a pile beside yours, boxers still on, just like your baggy shirt is still on. He kneels again, a coil in your stomach tight, yet not tight enough, your legs on his broad freckled shoulders. He presses a kiss against each side of your arousal slicked inner thighs before, pulling you closer to him, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe from your entrance to your clit, the fucker locking eyes with you the whole time.
He knows exactly what he’s doing and where the fuck did he learn to do this? Because the way he circles your clit with his tongue, doing figure eights, his one hand sliding along your thigh, long fingers slipping along them, into the space between. He teases two fingers between your folds, scissoring them apart before plunging both of them inside of you, sinking them up to the knuckle and scissoring you open before pulling them out, knuckles dragging along your walls.
“Jesus—Christ!” you cry as he continues to finger you, tongue never stopping its ceaseless rhythm on your clit, little figure 8s which stop every time that he pulls his fingers out, rather his tongue pressing against your clit, against the swelling pearl. “Andrew! Fuck!”
You can feel his chuckle against your clit, your pussy and you want to hit him, but also not because that coil in your belly is winding tight, tight, tighter and it’s about to burst and his mouth and hands are really unfairly good at what they’re doing right now. You’d hate to mess up his—rhythm.
He has four fingers inside of you at this point, all his extremities pumping in and out of you at a faster and faster pace, knuckles dragging down your walls one by one, each finger leaving you at different times, his index finger the last to leave always, the slowest drag against your walls, stimulating every part of you that it touches.
It’s not long before he has you coming apart, your orgasm ripping through, that coil snapping as he pushes all four fingers in again, his tongue pressing against your clit. He holds his fingers still while your cunt trembles with aftershocks.
“I’ve got you, sweet girl,” he whispers against you, his breath causing you to hiss as he pulls the four fingers out of you, slipping them in his mouth, sucking them clean, eyes locked on yours as he steps out of his boxers, cock hard and the tip leaking, a bead of precum sitting on top, sliding down, a vein bulging.
“Andrew,” you whisper, “how’d you get so good?” He comes to sit beside you on the bed, pulling you up, holding you, his lips on yours for a moment and the kiss is sinful and oh so hot because you can taste yourself on his tongue.
“When they…” he looks down at his hands for a moment, “when they paid for women to sleep with me, I learned what they liked because I…I never liked anything.”
“Andy,” you whisper and his head jerks to yours, “what do you like?”
“You,” he whispers and then his lips are on yours again and your body is flat on the bed, his cock teasing between your folds, kissing against your entrance as his tongue slides along yours and he murmurs, you, you, you into your mouth.
He slides his cock from your entrance to your clit like he did his tongue, circling your clit with his tip once before sliding back down and pushing inside, sinking into the hilt with a single thrust. He moans at the feeling of you all around him, a kind of whimper that shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but it is.
“You’re okay,” you whisper when he pulls back from the kiss, his eyes closed. “Keep going, Andy. Use me.” And he does, pulling out and slamming himself back in over and over in a brutal rhythm that has your entire body moving with each thrust, his mouth hot on your neck.
“You’re so perfect, sweet girl,” he says, his words slightly unclear, but you know what he means, can hear it, the tip of his cock slamming against your cervix. “Gonna fuck a baby into you. Give Lena a cousin, maybe?” He’s hesitant in his words, but you nod and he looks up at you.
“Go ahead, Andy,” you whisper and his pace picks up, relentless and punishing and delicious, his one hand on your waist, the other resting on your mons, thumb circling your clit, drawing you to orgasm at the same time he does. His release is thick and hot inside of you, cock pulsing and then he’s collapsing beside you, his body pulling yours tight against him and you’re not aware of much, except that he pulls the covers over the two of you and you fall asleep to his kiss against your neck.
“Good night, Mrs. Cody.”
“I knew it!” Lena screams the next morning, taking in the sight of you and Andrew both in the kitchen, making breakfast, your body in his clothes, a ring on your finger that he went out and bought for you. “You’re gonna be my auntie!” And then her stick arms are around you and holding tight.
“Yeah, bug,” you whisper, your hand smoothing down her hair, the pancakes in the pan, “I am.”
“And hopefully,” Andrew chimes in, “you’ll have a cousin soon.”
“Andrew!”
Lena giggles when you hit him with the oven mitt and his response is to press a kiss against your cheek and you feel a contentment you’ve never felt before.
Summary: Titus has gotten close with a few business people, but you've been getting a weird feeling about them.
Warning: nonconsenual touching (not by Titus), misogyny
A/N: missed writing about Impasse!Reader and Titus <3
At An Impasse | Shawn Hatosy Masterlist
You arrow flies through the air and lands right through the boar's head. The men behind you clap and Titus approaches you with a proud smile, "Nice shot," he kisses your head and he gestures for the men to follow him.
The four men accompanying him walk past you, nodding your way, murmuring praises to you, eyes prying at your form as they pass.
The Caldwell Family have recently partnered with Titus and Ursula for business. The Danforth's buying a portion of the Caldwells' banks in order to keep them afloat as well as to continue the laundering business they keep on the side.
You knew that the business Titus and Ursula take part in isn't always legal and that the people they work with aren't always trustworthy. However, the twins always know how to put people in their place.
But it seems that the Caldwells are more ballsy than other families.
The eldest Caldwell, Damien, was the boldest of them all.
"Nice shot, princess, but your form can be improved." Without asking, he stands behind you and pulls you against his chest. His hands on your hips and he grinds his crotch against you, "I can definitely help you with that." he murmurs into your ear and you pull away.
You hand flies to slap him but he catches your wrist. His dark blue eyes sparkle with amusement, "Don't forget your place, you bitch."
"Don't forget yours," you sneer at him as you pull your wrist away, "Your family would be in the gutter if it wasn't for the Danforths."
"But you're not a Danforth, so I have no reason to kiss ass to you," his eyes rake over your body, "Unless you're into that."
"I'm with Titus, so that means you also show me respect."
Damien scoffs, "You're just his fuck toy. Nothing more. Men like him don't stick to just one pussy. Best to keep that in mind," he lightly taps your cheek before moving around you, joining his family up ahead.
You could easily let Titus know on the spot what Damien had said and done to you. You know he'd take care of it, but you're so much more than what you appear. And that's something the Caldwells haven't realized...yet.
_____________________
Titus kisses the back of your neck as you scrub your arms with a loofah. The warm, bubbly water encasing your bodies, loosening them up after the hunt. The bath tinted with a pink hue and smelled of roses due to the bath bomb you placed in it.
"Did you have fun?" he murmurs against your skin, arms wrapping around your torso, nose grazing against your skin.
You simply hum, "Mhm," and Titus stops.
"Did something happen?"
You lie, "No. The Caldwells seem...interesting. But I suggest you stay cautious with them."
"Did they say something to you?"
You sigh, turning around and straddling Titus' lap. You use the loofah to scrub at his chest, eyes avoiding his, "No. I just have a weird feeling about them."
"What kind?" he looks at you with furrowed brows. He's curious. It had been a while since he'd befriended men he didn't find annoying. But with you saying you're getting a weird feeling from him, he allows himself to listen to you.
"I don't know. It's just...a woman's intuition. Be careful around them. Okay?"
"Of course," he mumbles and leans in kissing your cheek.
You turn your head, allowing his lips to meet yours. Water begins to splash onto the floor, your joint moans echoing off the walls.
____________________
You're standing beside Titus' chair. Your hand on his shoulder with your other hand holding a glass of wine.
The room is filled with cigar smoke and the smell of whiskey.
"Danforth, how about you excuse your lady so we can discuss business?" Damien gestures to you with his glass of whiskey.
"My lady stays if she wants to stay and leaves when she wants."
The Caldwells all chuckle and scoff. Damien speaks up, "Damn, Danforth. Didn't know you were that pussy whipped."
Your hand on his shoulder tightens and he places his hand atop it. He grabs it, glancing down at the promise ring he'd given to you years ago. If he had his way, it'd be a wedding ring instead.
He lets out a deep breath and rolls his neck to then glare at the eldest Caldwell, "Disrespect her again and I'll have no choice but to show you why people fear me more than my sister, Damien."
Damien has the audacity to smirk, his brothers suddenly now looking nervous.
"Damien-"
"You can't be serious, Danforth. You're really gonna let a woman like her have control over-"
Titus pulls a gun from under the table, one he always keeps there in case meetings go south. It clicks as he points it to the Caldwell.
"Think wisely about what you're going to say next, Damien."
Damien's eyes narrow, "You wouldn't-" His words get cut off as a shot goes off. A bullet going straight through his head.
His brothers all shoot up from their seats, crying out expletives and screams of confusion.
Titus sighs, setting the gun onto the table, "I'll be taking over your family's business from now on. It's clear that your brother has no respect or concern for boundaries." He stands from his seat and takes your hand in his, "Learn from your brother's mistake. No one gets to disrespect me or her," he nods to you, "ever."
"I will cover for the funeral expenses if need be. Now get the fuck out before I decide to kill the rest of you." The remaining men scramble out of the room, not looking back at their dead brother.
You stare at Damien's body. You'd heard and seen Titus' violent side before, but you never thought it'd come out because of you.
"Hey," he turns to stand in your line of sight, "Don't look at it. Look here," he gets you to look at him, his eyes soft and full of concern.
"I'm sorry you had to see and hear that."
You shake your head, "No. I'm fine. Thank you. It's just...shit, Titus. You didn't have to kill him."
He scoffs, "Yes, I did. A disrespect to you is a disrespect to me. We're one in the same. You are a part of me," he takes the hand that dons his promise ring and places it onto his chest.
"I love you."
"I love you too," he pecks your lips, "Now how do you feel about co-owning Caldwell Banks with me?"
Summary: You and Pope have loved each other since you were teenagers. And then he went to prison, and cut you off. No apology, no explanation, nothing. Just a sledgehammer to your heart and utter radio silence.
Three years later, he's out, and he wants you back.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drugs, Mentions of violence, Alcohol use, Gun use, It's Animal Kingdom there's a little bit of everything, Character death (not a main/canon character), Vague descriptions of mental illness (it's Pope), Smut!! Unprotected pinv (wrap it up guys!), Loss of virginity in a flashback, Brief Craig/Reader (they're besties though), Age gaps/timelines might be a little wonky but oh well, Mentions of abuse (reader’s dad is a bad man), Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: I hope you guys enjoy this one! I wanted to experiment with flashbacks, and then this exploded out of my brain. Special thanks to @flowersforbucky for proofreading and dealing with my indecisiveness on the pictures and layout because she is the best!! Please let me know what you think!!
Word Count: 21k
-
The bar is dimly lit. Sticky. Loud.
The guy sitting across from you has nice eyes. Pretty, even. They’re a light blue, crinkled a little in the corners and looking at you with something like adoration. You try to appreciate it, you really do, but all you can see is naivety. Maybe you’re too cynical. More likely too damaged. Whatever.
You prefer brown eyes, anyway.
Warm brown eyes looking into your own. Large fingers tucking your hair behind your ear. The ghost of warm breath against your lips and a small curve of a shy smile as he leans closer and closes the distance between you-
You blink, and force a smile.
The guy across from you, Ethan or something, clears his throat. “So, do you wanna maybe-“
A beer hits the table, loud enough to make the man - though you should really call him a boy, with that collared shirt and combed hair and those innocent eyes - jump nearly a foot in the air.
“Move it, pal.”
Craig Fucking Cody stands above you, and you bite back a groan.
The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.
“I-I…are you her…”
“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”
The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.
“I was on a date.”
Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”
“You don’t know what my type is.”
“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”
You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”
He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”
“I don’t do jobs anymore.”
He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.
“I told you, that was a date.”
“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”
You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”
Craig’s smile falls a little.
Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.
“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”
Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“
“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”
You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.
When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.
“He’s out of prison, you know.”
You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”
“He keeps asking about you.”
Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”
Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.
“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“
“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.
Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.
And then it was all over. Just like that.
Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”
“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”
You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-
“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”
Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”
-
Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.
Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.
You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.
-
“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“
“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”
“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“
“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”
Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“
“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…
Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.
“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.
“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”
-
He’s in the yard.
Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?
He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.
He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.
“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.
You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”
-
“You’re bleeding.”
You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.
“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”
Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.
“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.
He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”
You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.
“Why? Would that bother you?”
“Yes.”
You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.
His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…
“Stop looking at me like that.”
He doesn’t. “Like what?”
“Like you want to kill someone for me.”
“I do.”
“I know.”
He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.
But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.
This is not that plan.
And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-
His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.
“I’ve gotta…go inside.”
He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.
-
“We should talk.”
You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.
“Let go of me.”
He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”
“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.
You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.
As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.
But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.
The job. Focus on the job.
You can do this.
-
You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.
You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.
So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.
It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.
When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.
“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”
“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.
“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”
You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”
~
Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.
Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.
You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.
But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.
Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.
And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.
“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.
“Look at me.”
He doesn’t. You snap.
“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.
“Stop it.”
“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.
“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.
When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”
“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”
He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.
“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”
You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”
He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.
“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.
The world explodes.
His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.
You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.
And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.
His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.
“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.
“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.
His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.
“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.
It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.
His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.
Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.
You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.
The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.
After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.
He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”
“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”
He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”
-
The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.
Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know like what.”
“You look nice.”
“Shut up.”
The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.
“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”
“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.
“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.
When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.
Fine.
-
“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”
“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”
“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”
You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”
“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”
-
You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.
Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.
You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”
At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.
“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.
“What?”
“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”
“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.
“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”
You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-
He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.
That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.
-
“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”
Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…
“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.
The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-
“We need to talk.”
You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.
“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”
“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“
“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-
The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.
“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”
In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.
Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.
He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.
His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.
It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.
“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”
“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”
-
When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.
Pope punched him back.
When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.
“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.
“This is bullshit. They-“
“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”
You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.
“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”
She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”
-
“What the fuck was that?”
“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.
“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”
He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”
“And whose fucking fault is that?”
His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”
“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”
“I’m not being a dick.”
“Pull the truck over.”
He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”
“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”
He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”
“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”
“Just let me talk to you. Please.”
“No.”
His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.
You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.
-
Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.
“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.
He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.
“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”
You frown. “Then why did you…”
He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”
“I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Well, not anymore.”
“I was never-“
“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”
You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”
He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.
You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.
“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”
He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”
You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.
“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”
“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”
You snort. “Craig-“
“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”
You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.
You believe him.
-
When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.
“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”
“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”
“What?”
“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.
“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”
“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”
“Tell me what?”
“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.
“Tell me what?!”
“Just tell her.”
“I’ve been trying-“
“Tell. Me. What?”
“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”
Oh. Oh.
‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’
“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.
You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.
And then you walk into his room.
You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.
Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.
“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”
He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.
Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-
You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-
Fuck.
“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”
He watches you. You watch back, tense.
“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”
You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”
“Three years.”
Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”
“Three. Years.”
“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.
You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.
“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.
“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”
And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.
For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.
His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.
But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.
Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.
His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-
You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.
“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”
“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.
“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”
“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”
You push past him, and walk out the door.
For once, he doesn’t follow.
-
“Where is she?”
You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out.
“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.
“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”
Yeah, sounds like you.
“So, you gonna talk to her?”
Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.
But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.
When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.
Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.
But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.
He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.
He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.
Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.
Just…not yet.
But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.
-
The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.
It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.
He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-
His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.
“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.
Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”
“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”
Son of a bitch.
“He’s joking.”
“Three.”
Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.
“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.
“Two.”
And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.
“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”
“Who was that?”
“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“
His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”
You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.
It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”
Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”
“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”
“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.
“We’re leaving.”
“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.
He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”
You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.
And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…
You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.
“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”
You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…
Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.
His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”
Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-
Goddammit.
“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”
The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.
You don’t say another word.
You just leave.
-
The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.
Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.
Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.
“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.
“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…
Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”
Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.
“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”
You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.
Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.
And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.
His.
-
When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.
Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.
And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.
You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.
Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.
You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.
“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.
“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”
Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.
“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.
“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”
Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.
You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.
“Do you want a sandwich?”
You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.
“Sure.”
-
The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.
When Pope opens the door, there you are.
Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.
“You fixed my door.”
He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.
Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-
“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.
“Yeah.”
“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”
His brow furrows a little more.
“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.
“It was creaking.”
“How many times have you broken into my house?”
Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Andrew.”
You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.
“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”
“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.
“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”
“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”
“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”
“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”
“You don’t know that I still love you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”
You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.
“You fucked up my job.”
“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”
Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”
You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”
“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.
“Coffee?”
You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”
And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.
-
Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.
Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.
Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.
But you did well. Really well.
And then, after dinner, you disappeared.
Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…
“Hi.”
Shit. “Hi.”
“Wanna sit down?”
Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.
He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.
“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.
He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…
“So what’s wrong?”
You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”
“Too well?”
“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”
He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.
“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”
Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.
His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.
“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.
And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”
-
It’s a fucking whirlwind.
You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.
He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.
The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.
“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.
“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.
He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.
“Tell me you want this.”
You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.
You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.
You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.
“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.
And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.
It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.
“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”
You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.
For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.
“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.
And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.
“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.
He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”
-
Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.
At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.
“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.
“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.
-
The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.
Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.
“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.
“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”
“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”
“I didn’t.”
You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.
-
For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.
And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.
He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.
There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.
Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.
He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.
You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.
And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.
You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.
He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.
You’re not ready for that.
So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.
“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.
You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.
Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”
He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”
“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”
“Or both.”
You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.
Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.
“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”
Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.
“Sure. Where are you?”
-
Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.
Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.
“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”
“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.
Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.
He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?
“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”
“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.
“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“
“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.
“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.
-
Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.
You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.
And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.
You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.
“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”
“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.
And then you smash the glass against the wall.
“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.
“Gimme another.”
He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.
And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.
And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.
That is, until Pope Cody shows up.
You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.
That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.
“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.
“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.
“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.
“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”
Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.
But you’re too late.
“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”
Pope punches him in the face.
You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.
Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.
You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.
The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.
Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.
You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…
And puke on his shoes.
You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.
“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.
He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.
You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.
You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.
It feels like home.
-
“Look who finally decided to come home.”
Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.
“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.
You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.
Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”
It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.
“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”
That hits you. Harder than it should.
No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.
…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-
No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.
Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.
And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.
And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…
You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.
That’s love.
And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.
“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”
Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.
You walk out the door, instead.
-
He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.
He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.
You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.
“You’re mad at me.”
You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.
His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.
“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”
You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.
He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.
“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”
You curl a little closer.
“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”
He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.
“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”
Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”
And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”
-
The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.
And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.
“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.
“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”
You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”
Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”
Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.
Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.
“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”
“You broke up a bar fight.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“It was…between me and Craig.”
You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”
“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”
Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…
“Have you slept?”
He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”
Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-
“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.
His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”
He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.
“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“
“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”
He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”
“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”
Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”
“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”
He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.
“You two back together?”
“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”
You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”
His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.
You scoff. “Shut up.”
-
That’s the problem with good things. They always end.
You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.
“Do you wanna go home?”
You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.
You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-
Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.
“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”
You leave before he can follow.
-
“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.
“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”
“What the fuck do you want this time?”
“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”
“Pope had nothing to do with that.”
Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”
“Fuck you.”
“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”
You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”
You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.
“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”
He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.
-
“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.
You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”
“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“
“I need it now.”
He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.
His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.
“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”
“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”
His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”
“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.
It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.
Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”
He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”
-
Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.
God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.
Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.
“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.
“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.
“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”
You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.
“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.
“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”
“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”
“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”
“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.
Fuck.
“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”
Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”
You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”
“He’ll just take it off.”
“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“
You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.
“Get. Away. From. Her.”
Shit.
“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.
Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.
“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”
He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.
“Where is he?”
“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”
And he does.
One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.
But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.
And you let him.
Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.
You’re waiting for him in the hall.
You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.
“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.
“No.”
You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.
“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”
He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.
-
A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.
When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…
To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…
He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.
You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.
When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.
“What was that for?”
He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”
“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.
He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”
You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.
You believe him. You really, really believe him.
“Take off your clothes, please.”
He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”
“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.
Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.
Well, not anymore.
“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”
“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.
“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”
“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”
“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”
“Like father, like daughter.”
“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.
It all happens so fast.
In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.
This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.
The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.
You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-
And then the gun goes off.
-
You wake to an empty bed.
Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.
Huh.
The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.
Naked. Staring at the moon.
He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.
“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”
“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.
“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”
When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.
“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.
“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”
Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”
You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.
“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”
“I’ll do anything for you.”
“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”
He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.
“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”
“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.
“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”
-
For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.
It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.
You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…
Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.
“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”
You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.
You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.
Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.
“No. No no no no no!”
Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.
There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.
Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”
Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.
“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.
When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.
Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.
“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”
He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.
-
“Holy shit. What happened?”
Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.
He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”
“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.
“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”
You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”
“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”
“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”
He does. He looks like he might have been crying.
“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m not lying.”
He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”
“Too late. You done puking?”
He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.
And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.
“I love you.”
You stop, and furrow your brow.
“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”
Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”
“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”
You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.
Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.
“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”
He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.
“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.
He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.
“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”
-
Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.
Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.
“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.
“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”
He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.
“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”
“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”
There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…
-
“I love you.”
The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.
You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.
“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.
You shift, and he goes very, very still.
“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.
“…Hi.”
“You just said you loved me.”
“I…thought you were sleeping.”
You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.
“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”
He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.
“Andrew?”
“…a while.”
You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”
His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”
“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”
-
A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.
“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”
“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”
Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.
But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.
“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”
You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.
Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.
“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.
“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”
You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…
-
When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.
You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.
Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.
“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.
He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.
“I thought…I thought you were-“
“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”
He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“
“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”
“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.
“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”
“Since I first met you.”
“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”
“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”
“Never found a perfect time.”
“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”
He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”
Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”
“I’m glad I did it.”
“I know.”
And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.
“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.
“When the drugs wear off.”
You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”
“When they say you can.”
Hm. “Can we have sex?”
He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”
“I like where this is going.”
“I’ll never leave you again.”
“Keep talkin’, Cody.”
“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”
“Take me now.”
The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”
-
You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.
He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.
It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.
But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.
A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.
His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.
“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”
He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-
And pulling back.
You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.
“I have another idea.”
“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”
His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…
And pulls out a ring.
“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.
“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.
summary: Baz hires you as Lena's nanny...but you and her want to spend more time with Pope
content/warnings: NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY! violence towards reader, smurf, daddy kink, unprotected sex, light stalking (it's pope ofc), oral sex (f & m receiving), no use of y/n
wc: 4k
notes: Set between season one and two, I'm only on season 3 of Animal Kingdom, so apologies for the ooc of it all. pics used just for aesthetic purpose, not a reflection of what the reader looks like.
You always loved working with kids. Always knew that you were going to work with kids. You worked as an au pair around Europe in your early twenties. But after almost a decade raising rich brats in France and Italy and Spain, you decided that it was time to come home. Or close enough to home.
That's how you end up sitting looking out at the sea in Oceanside waiting to meet your new kid. Lena.
Her father, single dad, Barry Blackwell had put out an advertisement for a nanny. And you needed the job. You could handle a rich American brat too. The Strand was being gentrified. But Mr Blackwell seems more rough-and-tumble than hedge fund manager.
If you're being honest, he makes your skin crawl. But you need a job.
"This is a live-in position?" you clarify as you sit at the breakfast bar in his home.
He nods his head, "Yea, um, with my job I have to be away from home a lot. I don't like leaving Lena alone."
You blink, "Well yes, she's six. I wouldn't leave her alone either. That's fine. I'll just take Saturday afternoons until Monday mornings off."
The man before you frowns, "What if I need you to work weekends?"
"We can discuss overtime, Mr Blackwell. But I will be taking weekends. I'm being generous with Saturday mornings," you say with a frown.
His frown deepens but he nods.
"Lena's mother would do a grocery run-"
"Mr Blackwell, I'm not a maid. Of course, I'll cook for Lena. But I don't clean, I don't cook, I don't grocery shop."
"If I paid more?" he asks then.
You cock your head to the side, "If you paid more, then we can discuss that, of course."
So that's how you end up working for Barry Blackwell.
You don't mind living in the house by the beach. You get Lena up every morning, you make breakfast, bring her to school. You go clean the house when she's away, even do the damn grocery shopping with the wad of money he leaves on top of the microwave each week. When you pick Lena up from school, you always bring her to the beach.
"Daddy never takes me to the beach," she tells you one day as you eat ice cream.
Yea, you gather. You really don't like her dad. But he's rarely at home like he said.
"Uncle Pope brings me," she says. "We go to the swings."
You stroke her curls and smile, "Your uncle? Does he live around here?"
Lena shrugs, "I think so. Sometimes he's at Grandma Smurf's. But he was away for a really long time. I don't know where. But he's nice."
One morning after you drop Lena to school, you walk into the house to find a blonde woman sitting in the kitchen. You jump when you see her. Nobody has been in the house bar you and Lena since Baz left at the start of the week.
She sizes you up and down, "Where's my son?"
"Mr Blackwell?" you ask.
You've never seen this woman before. Baz told you not to let anyone into the house when he was away. Fuck. The older woman softens at your tone.
"Who are you exactly?" she asks, pursing her lips as she eyes you up.
"I'm Lena's nanny," you explain. "Mr Blackwell hired me a few weeks ago. He needed the help after his wife left. I just dropped her at school. Sorry, he never mentioned any family."
She frowns at your words, "Well that would be why I haven't seen my grandbaby in so long. I didn't know what Baz was doing with her. But he's got a pretty girl like you taking care of her.
"You can call me Smurf. Everyone else does. How about you bring Lena over to my house after school?"
"Oh, sure. I, well, don't know where you live," you confess.
Smurf smiles, "Well why don't you come over now. And we can go get Lena together. We have a pool," she tells you.
You brighten up immediately, "Oh! I was trying to teach Lena to swim. She loves to go to the beach but she can't swim. You think I could teach her in your pool?"
Smurf is delighted by the idea. Let's you gather your and Lena's things before driving you over to the Cody house. You've never been to this area of Oceanside. You don't expect the huge house. And you don't expect to meet Smurf's other sons.
Craig and Deran are making noise by the pool when you walk in. Smurf just ushers you into the kitchen.
"Have you had breakfast?" she asks you.
"Um, no I usually eat after I come back from dropping off Lena," you respond.
Smurf immediately starts cooking for you. You hate being doted on like that. You haven't been in so long. So you try to help but Smurf tells you to sit.
"Can I make you coffee at least?" you finally ask.
Smurf allows this, and you get to work with making fresh coffee for them. You look up when you hear heavy footsteps approaching. Your heart skips a beat when you look up to see a man storming into the kitchen handsome, auburn hair, hazel eyes and sun-kissed skin.
"Who's that?" he asks Smurf, ignoring you.
"Baz hired a nanny for Lena," his mother responds, introducing you.
He frowns as he sizes you up, "What did he do that for? We can take care of her."
Smurf scowls at him, at the suggestion. She doesn't want him to say something stupid in front of this stranger. She puts her arm around you, squeezing you gently.
"This is my eldest boy, Andrew," she tells you. "He's a bit rough around the edges but I promise, he's a sweetheart underneath it all. Now you go eat your breakfast while I speak to him."
You do as you're told. A part of you knows better than to go against what this woman says. It's a gut feeling. And you don't go against gut feelings.
When Smurf leaves you and Lena back to Baz's, Smurf grips your wrist, stopping you from getting out of her car.
"Let's not tell Baz about this visit. I think it's best if we just keep it between us," she says.
You nod your head. You're not stupid enough to disagree with her. And anyway, it's just swimming lessons.
Since Pope learned about you, he knew he needed to keep an eye on you. He spent a week following you. Watching as you brought Lena to school. Where you do your grocery shopping. He watches you when you go to the beach before you have to collect Lena. He likes watching how your body moves in the water when you go for a swim. He tries to ignore how his body reacts to you when you walk out of the sea, water sliding down your body.
You have no idea about Pope Cody. One morning, when you go to wake Lena up to get her ready for the day, you go into her room, and she's not there. Your heart drops. She's not watching TV. She's not in the bathroom. You search every inch of the house.
You're about to call Baz when the door opens and Lena walks in. You rush over to her, falling to your knees and cupping her little face in your hands.
"Where were you?" you ask. "You know you can't just wander outside on your own."
"I wasn't alone," she says as the door opens wider.
You look up from where you're kneeling on the ground to see a man come in. Andrew. The man who you met briefly at Smurf's house.
"Uncle Pope brought me to swings."
You lean back on your kneels with a frown as you look at him. He stares you down and you can't help the way your heart races. You blame it on the stress of Lena going missing.
"You shoulda woke me up," you say to her, stroking her cheeks again before standing up.
Andrew, Pope, looks at you. Cocking his head to the side.
"Where's Baz?" he asks, his voice rough.
Lena answers, "He's away..."
"And is he away a lot?" Pope asks, his eyes flicking to you.
"Lena, can you get ready for school, sweetie. I'll make you breakfast in a second," you say.
As soon as Lena rushes off you turn your attention to Pope.
"You can't just break in here and take off with her," you tell him. "I thought she was kidnapped. Mr Blackwell woulda killed me!"
Pope sizes you up, "She's my niece. I can see her whenever I want."
You look at him like he's crazy. He has to be crazy. It's barely 6am and he thought he'd pay a visit?!
"I knew Baz wasn't around. I was worried about Lena. I thought she was here alone."
"And you didn't call your brother?" you ask, folding your arms in annoyance.
"He didn't answer. Where is he?" he retorts.
You shrug as you turn to the kitchen, Pope's eyes fall to the swell of your ass under your sleep shorts.
"He told me he travels for work. Is that not true?" you ask as you pull out bacon from the fridge.
Pope just sniffs in return. He knows his brother is probably with Lucy in Mexico. Leaving his daughter with a stranger.
"You're a nanny?" he asks then.
"Yea, I worked in Europe as an au pair. I've done all my courses. Everything is above board, if that's what you're tryin' to get at," you say as you start making breakfast.
"And you live here? With Baz?"
You shake your head quickly.
"I'm a live-in nanny. But I don't live with Baz," you say, maybe a bit harsher than usual. "You want coffee?"
Pope's lips twitch, as close to a smile as you'll get. He likes you.
You don't expect Pope to still be there after you get home from dropping Lena to school. But he's there, cleaning the kitchen.
"Lena really likes you," you say. "When she goes to her grandmother's she's always asking if you'll be there. I'm teaching her how to swim. I can't believe she's a Cali girl and she can't swim!"
Pope just shrugs. He's not much of a talker.
"Look, I have no problem with you seeing her but I'd appreciate if you told me first."
He takes another minute before looking at you.
"So I need your number," you say offering him your phone.
That's how you end up texting Pope Cody.
Pope Cody: Hello. I can pick Lena up from school today. I'm in the area.
Pope Cody: Good Morning. I can take Lena for breakfast, she likes a pancake place on the way to school.
Pope Cody: Hello. I made too much spaghetti, I can bring some over for Lena and you if you'd like.
You smile whenever your phone vibrates. You like talking to Pope. Even if it is just about Lena.
Whenever Baz is there, the texts don't come in. Sometimes Pope will come over to hang out with Baz. But you never get to say too much to him as Baz suggests you take Lena somewhere else.
Although one day you walk in as Baz snarls in Pope's face, "No one is ever gonna have a kid with you."
Pope can't meet your eyes as he walks past you to leave.
You spend your Saturday afternoons and Sundays out of Oceanside. Unless Baz has requested that you stay. He pays you in cash beforehand, and you just spend the weekend with Lena. Sometimes at Smurf's. Sometimes with Pope.
You're on the beach one Saturday with Lena, Pope is pushing her on the swings and you are watching on. A woman comes up to you and smiles.
"Your little girl is so cute and your husband is so good with her," she says. "I have to drag my husband out with them."
You should correct her, but you don't. You want people to think that you're a family. It would be nice...
Soon you find yourself texting Pope, not just about Lena.
You: I watched a documentary about wolves I think you'd like
You: I was going to go to the beach tomorrow did you wanna come? Deran said you used to like surfing!
Baz comes in all flustered one afternoon. He hasn't been home in almost a month. It's the longest that he's been away. He rushes over to Lena and she's so happy to see her Daddy. You go back to cleaning as she babbles about everything that has happened since he's been away. You smile.
She's a great kid. One of the best you've taken care of.
You hear Baz ask her to repeat herself and your head shoots up.
"She's teaching me how to swim in Grandma Smurf's pool," you hear her say.
It's not her fault. She's just a kid. And even though you had told her not to say anything about Pope or Smurf, you can't blame her for spilling details. But the colour drains out of your face nevertheless. Especially when you hear Baz telling her to go to her room. She does as she's told.
You continue cleaning as you hear Baz's footsteps storm into the kitchen. He grabs your hair and pulls you backwards. He's pressed against your back and you're looking up at him, fear coursing through your body.
"I thought I told you not to let anyone in the house. And now I hear Smurf has been sniffing around. And you're bringing my kid around to her house," he hisses at you.
You whimper as his grip on your hair tightens.
"She's her grandmother. I didn't think-" you being before Baz slams your head against a cupboard.
"Yea, you didn't fuckin' think. When I tell you something, you fuckin' listen. You stupid bitch," he snarls, hitting your head against the cupboard again.
You're bracing yourself for another slam, but you're suddenly falling to the ground. Baz has been hauled off you. You collapse. You turn to see Pope dragging him off you. He punches him once before pushing him to the other side of the room.
You whimper when you hear footsteps coming towards you but it's not Baz. Pope scoops you up into his arms and carries you out of the house.
"Lena," you breathe shakily.
You don't wanna leave her alone in that house.
"She'll be okay. Baz isn't gonna hurt her," Pope promises as he brings you to his car.
He puts you into the passenger side and drives you to his home. You've never been to Pope's house before, even though you spend most days with him now. You start to get out of the car, but Pope once again gathers you in his arms, bringing you into the house.
"Are you okay?" he finally asks, his face a mask of anger.
He places you down on the couch. He strokes the cuts on your face, he can already see where the bruises will come up. Baz at least hadn't broken your nose.
"Let me clean you up," he breathes after you nod that you're okay.
You're shaken but it wasn't the first time that you've gotten hit. It's just been a while. Fuck, you thought you were over that stage of your life. Shouldn't have gone to fuckin' Oceanside to mind some kid.
"You promise Lena'll be okay?" you ask him when he finally returns with water and cotton pads.
Pope grunts as he cleans you up, "I wouldn't have left her there if I thought Baz would hurt her...I'll get her in the morning and bring her here. Is that okay?"
"Thank you, Andrew," you say softly. "You didn't have to do any of this. And thanks for being there."
You don't query how he knew you needed his help. You're just glad he was there. His large hands are still holding your face and his rough thumb slides over your lower lip. He is well aware that he shouldn't do this. But he can't help himself. You gently kiss the pad of his thumb, your eyes never leaving his.
He brushes his thumb slowly over your cheekbone. His eyes never leave yours. Pope has never been good with eye contact but he holds yours for what seems like hours. He doesn't want to push you. Not after what Baz did to you. But you're the one who finally breaks and presses your lips against his. Pope tentatively kisses you back but when he hears your little whimper, he's a goner. His hands drop from your face to your waist, pulling you onto his lap.
You've been waiting for months to run your fingers through his auburn curls. You tug at his curls as you deepen the kiss. You're suddenly dry-humping with Pope Cody on his couch like two teenagers. And you couldn't stop if you tried.
That is until his hands slide up your shirt and grasp your tits. You moan into his mouth as his rough palms press against the swell of your breasts, squeezing and releasing. He pulls your shirt over your head, breaking the kiss for just a second to do so. He doesn't even undo your bra, just pulls the cups down so your breasts fall free. He flips you onto your back. He kisses down your neck and then to your tits. He spends what feels like hours laving at your nipples. Whichever tit isn't in his mouth is being played with by his rough hands. Your arousal is all but rolling down your thighs when he finally pulls away from your tits.
His eyes are so blown out they're almost black. He pulls your jean shorts and panties down in one move. He groans at the sight of you.
"Lemme see that pretty pussy, baby," he tells you as he spreads your legs. You've never been this turned on in your life.
"Andrew Cody, if you don't fuck me right now," you whine out.
Your whines only result on him smacking you hard on your weeping cunt. Your back arches off the couch. Fuck you need him.
"Now lemme see that pussy."
Pope crawls between your legs, getting eye level down with your pussy.
"So pretty," he praises as he spreads you open, his eyes scanning you. He blows on you, causing you to shudder. His thumb teases your clit watching how you clench around nothing.
"So, so pretty," he praises.
Finally he presses kisses up your thighs and eventually presses his tongue inside you.
"Fuck, yes, right there," you whine out in pure need, grinding against his face.
Pope decides he needs to have you ride his face next. But not yet. He wants to play some more. He focuses his attention on your clit, hooking your legs over his wide shoulders. And within just a handful of ministrations, you're coming undone over his tongue. Your orgasm hits like a freight train. You're painfully turned on. You've been wound up for so long. And Pope Cody is just so happy to help you let loose.
Once you come down from your high, you pounce on him, pulling his clothes off. Desperate to see him. He chuckles softly as he helps you take his clothes off.
You follow his lead, kissing over the freckles on his neck, down his chest and stomach. He tenses under your movements and you smirk, nipping over his abs. His cock is leaking, standing to attention. And he's fucking huge. You should have expected that.
"Wanna fuck my face, daddy?" you coo up at him.
That name sends Pope wild, he grabs your hair and guides you down onto him. Once you've gotten used to him, he starts rocking his hips up. He holds onto you as he starts fucking into your mouth just like you asked.
"Fuck, sweetheart. Shit," he grunts after just a handful of thrusts. "I can't take this anymore. I need to be inside you. I need to fuck that pretty pussy of yours."
Pope grips you, flipping you back onto your back so he's on top of you again. He teases your clit with the head of his cock, smirking as you start to squirm.
"You want daddy's cock, huh? You gonna be a good girl and take my cock?" he growls in your ear.
You nod desperately, dumbly. Finally he's pressing inside you, inch by inch. You lock your legs around his hips as he finally bottoms out.
"Just like heaven, baby girl," he breathes in your ear.
He should be gentle, sweet, slow, after what Baz did to you. But he's desperate. So he starts jerking his hips in and out of you. The snap of skin on skin fills the room. Your pussy is so wet you can hear it just as well. You're so desperate for him.
"You gonna cum on daddy's cock?" he breathes as he fucks you. His hands palm at your tits with each thrust.
And as if on command, you cum again. You soak him and Pope looks victorious. But he's not finished with you yet. He pulls out to flip you onto your stomach and press inside you again.
"Fuck, so big, daddy," you whine for him as he pounds into you.
Pope kisses over your neck and down your spine, as best as he can from this angle. He buries his face into your neck as he hits that sweet spot inside you over and over again. Your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm hits you.
This time you clench so tightly over his cock, Pope can't move. Your cunt literally milks his cock, forcing his orgasm out of him. He hasn't cum in so long that his release his hot and thick. It starts sliding out of you as your abused pussy can't take it all.
And Pope, you hates mess, marvels at the sight. After you've both come down from your highs, he gathers you in his arms.
"Sorry...was that too much?" he breathes.
You shake your head, "No. It was perfect. Needed it. Needed you."
"I can sleep out here," he says suddenly.
You look at him in shock, "Oh no baby. I wanna sleep right next to you. What if I need daddy's cock in the middle of the night?"
Pope gives you a wolfish grin as he kisses you again.
Baz thinks everything is alright when he wakes up the next morning and sees that Lena is already gone to school. But then he realises that all your shit is gone. And he sees red.
He drives straight to Smurf. Planning on spreading some bullshit about the nanny. Some sly bitch you tried to swindle him. He walks into the house, crocodile tears at the ready so mommy can fix his mess.
He frowns when he sees Pope sitting on the couch looking like a fucking king and you curled into his side. He's running his hand up and down your arm as the cuts and bruises Baz left on your face are on display.
"Baz," Smurf tuts when she sees him. "We need to work on your temper."
a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated. requests open
Lee hadn’t been married to your mother for a long time. Only a year and a half, she was nice but he only married her for his convenience. He wasn’t getting any younger and he certainly didn’t want to stay by himself. Nor did he want to spend the rest of his money paying prostitutes to give him half assed handjobs in his crusier.
He had no idea your mother had a daughter, you, from her first marriage. Your mother didn’t even bother to mention you the whole time they’ve been together. So when she told Lee you were coming to live with them, it caught him off guard. At first he didn’t care, he figured you were just gonna be another rebellious teenager that he was going to have to put up with.
Your mom had yet to be home and it was nearing 6:30 pm, the time she was going to be picking you up. Lee was raiding the cupboards trying to find his sweets when the phone rang,
“Lee could you pick y/n up? I’m working late again and my boss won’t let me go.”
“Uh sure thing,” He scratches the back of his neck silently goraning. “Where is she?”
“She’s at Arvin’s house and if she ain’t there then she’s at church.”
Lee hung up the phone and grabbed the keys to his cruiser. How does she know Arvin? Was all he could think about the whole drive. He didn’t even realize he had already arrived, so he turned off the cruiser and stepped out of his car.
“Arvin put me down!” The girl over his shoulder playfully yelled followed by an array of melodic giggles. Lee couldn’t help but stare at the sight in front of him, it was playful and full of life. Arvin put the girl down once he noticed Lee was standing there.
“Hey sheriff, how are you?” Arvin asked, walking closer to Lee. The girl was right behind him almost as if he was hiding her.
‘Doin’ just fine boy, I’m here to pick up y/n, her mother said she would be here.” Lee was expecting a hormone raged teenage girl but instead was faced with an angel created by Aphrodite herself.
“That would be me,” You came behind Arvin and stuck your hand out for Lee to shake, “pleasure to meet you Sheriff Bodecker.”
Lee’s calloused hands encapture yours and shocks of electricity surge through him. You look at him with kind eyes and a genuine smile, things even your mother didn’t give him. As much as he wanted to let his eyes shamelessly wander your body he couldn’t, not with Arvin right in front of him.
“See you tomorrow Arvin,” You bid Arvin goodbye with a small wave and a toothy grin.
Arvin put his hands in his front pockets, giving you a sly smirk “See you tomorrow darlin’.” He turns to look at Lee and nods, “Have a nice evening Sheriff.” Lee acknowledges his goodbye by lifting his hat and guiding you back to the cruiser.
Him being the gentleman he is, he opens the door for you, mumbling a ‘watch your feet’ before going to the driver’s side. Awkward silence fills the air on the way back. Not even the radio helped fill the uncomfortable silence.
“So y/n…” Lee internally cringes at the tone of his voice. “How’s Knockemstiff treatin’ you?”
You shrug your shoulders, humming. “Well it ain’t bad so far. Tryin’ to get used to it again, been a real long time since I’ve been here.”
‘You’ve been here before?” Lee questions.
“I moved here when I was 13, stayed here for 2 years, then my momma sent me to the city to live with a relative.” You answer, clasping your hands in your lap. Lee hums at your response.
Lee turns his head to face you,“If anyone starts botherin’ you, you come to me and I’ll take care of it.” He mentions giving you a tight lipped smile.
“Thank you, sheriff.” You softly said.
Another silence falls upon the both of you. After a while you speak up, “Listen Sheriff Bodecker I ain’t trying to offend you but how old are you?”
“That came out of the blue,” Lee laughed, “mind me askin’ why?”
“Plain curiosity,” You answer, “don’t know much about you and it gives us a start.”
“Well if you must know, I'm 36.”
“36? Wow,” You gawked, turning your head quickly to meet Lee’s eyes. “You could be my daddy.”
During the first week of your stay, you didn’t see much of your mother. But you did see Lee more often than you thought you would. You guys were starting to get familiar with one another. At least enough to be able to carry a full conversation without there being any awkward silence.
It was Sunday morning, Lee had the day off and planned on staying home the entire day. Your mother on the other hand had to go to work and wasn’t coming home until late. For the third time this week.
You never left the bedroom in your pj’s, usually getting ready early in the morning to be able to go out by the time you finished your chores. But today was a completely different story. You walked out your room in your rose colored gown with roses covering the hem. The nightgown fit around your thigh perfectly, showing every curve and dip you had to offer. You wore a black cardigan to give you some warmth.
Lee’s eyes almost popped out of his head when he saw you walk out in your nightwear. If he were a cartoon his jaw would’ve hit the floor. All those nights he would walk past your room, not letting his eyes wander in fear someone would catch him
“Mornin’ Sheriff,” you drawled, walking over to the kitchen. “How’d you sleep?”
“Just fine Dove,” Lee turns his head away from the t.v, “and you?”
“Just fine as well.” You pick up a peach from the fruit tray, taking a bite and letting the juices ooze from your lips. You let out a hum of satisfaction, rolling your eyes back. “God these taste like heaven.” Lee gulps and turns his head back to the t.v, avoiding your gaze.
“Have you eaten breakfast yet?” You ask, setting the peach down and walking over to the living room.
“No,” he mumbles. “Your mom didn’t have time this mornin’”
“You hungry?” You turn around, walking back to the kitchen, grabbing the apron and putting it on.
“A little bit but you don’t have to cook Dove,” He replied, getting up from the couch to follow you. “We can go to the diner and ge-”
“Nonsense!” You cut him off. You open the fridge, bending over to grab some eggs. Your dress rides up revealing the bottom of your white cotton panties. You set the eggs on the counter and place your hand on your hips. “That food ain’t good for you, all full of grease, cloggin’ up your arteries.” You rant, theatrically moving your hands around.
You place your hands on his shoulder, guiding him to the dining table, “You just sit down,” you pull out a chair and let him settle in. “And let me take care of it.” As you headed back to the kitchen, Lee pushed the chair back enough to be able to fully see you in the kitchen.
Lee had thought about you, once. Or twice. Or just about everyday since you’ve gotten here. He would often drift off thinking about you, especially during work. He would often have to bring himself back to reality and tell himself to stop, you were his step daughter.
But right now, his daydreams were becoming reality.
He bit his lip to contain a groan as you bent over to grab a pan from the lower cupboards. You were trying to kill him, he was sure of it. The soft hums coming from you, the small swaying of your hips, all while cooking. He found his pants getting tighter with every second.
Relief washes over him for a split second as he adjusts himself under the table. He looks back at you and then at his hand. If he didn’t get relief soon, he was going to explode.
“Dove?” His voice falters, he emntally curses himself as he clears his throat.
“Yes sheriff?”
This time his voice didn’t falter and couldn't have been more clearer. “How long ‘til the foods ready?”
You look down at the food, moving it around with the spatula. “I’d say about 7 more minutes, sorry I’m takin’ long.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout that Dove, take as long as you need.”
He fixes the tablecloth to make sure it was covering himself. Once he made sure the coast was clear, Lee quietly unzipped his pants. Then he lowered his pants along with his boxer down to his thigh, his cock springing up and hitting his stomach. The breeze from the window made him shudder.
He looks back at you one last time, making sure you aren’t turned around. Using his thumb he spreads the bead of precum and uses it as lube. The motion makes his breath hitch. He starts with slow firm strokes. His breaths get uneven with every stroke as he watches you in the kitchen.
He could feel the heat pooling in his stomach as his hand subconsciously goes faster. If he could, he would spend all his Sunday imagining you playing housewife for him. He watches you go on your tippy toes to grab the pitcher that was centimeters away from your fingertips. The groans and whimpers from your effort spur him on. The dress rides up and shows the curve of your ass.
He ruts into his hand as the heat becomes hotter and hotter. His release is coming faster than he imagined. You turn around with a pitcher of orange juice but Lee couldn’t stop his actions that you somehow didn’t notice. You place the pitcher in front of him, your tits coming right up to his face sent him over the edge. His eyes flutter shut and bites his lip hard when he cums.
Just as he was about to get up and clean the mess he made, you came sauntering over to the table with a hot plate of food. The smell of pancakes and eggs fill his nose as you place it in front of it, steam coming from the plate.
“I’m sorry if it tastes bad, I ain’t much of a cook but I sure did try.” You stand in front of him with your hands behind your back, watching him take a bite. You await for his approval as he downs the food with the fresh orange juice you made.
“Dove this is the best thing I’ve had in years,” He compliments, taking another bite of pancakes. “You ain’t gonna eat?”
“Not much of a breakfast person,” you admit. “Made this all for you, figured you needed it after workin’ so hard this week.”
He was sure he heard you wrong. The fantasy that was playing in his head as he jerked himself off mere feet from you actually happened. He pinched himself to make sure it wasn't a dream. All he's left thinking about is what other dreams can come true.
☆ SUMMARY: Whenever Brendon Park is pulled out of surgery for an emergency consult, the ER always holds its breath– only this time, he doesn't wreak havoc. Could it be that you, the new, bright-eyed resident, has somehow managed to soften the shark's bite?
☆ CONTAINS: Younger fem!reader, medical inaccuracies. Reader is so sunshine coded here.
☆AUTHORS NOTE: A very small, cutesy one-shot for my first Brendon Park fic! Based on this request.
☆ PAGE DIVIDERS BY: @cafekitsune
“Who the hell called me down for this?”
Brendon Park’s voice thunders as he stands in the middle of trauma room one, hands on his hips.
He had been elbows deep in a procedure, only to be pulled away from it since the ER had requested a consult. Everyone in the department knew better than to bother him, so for the call to actually be made— to pull him out of surgery—meant it must be important.
Only that when Brendon had made his way downstairs, the patient was not only stable, but also had all his limbs intact and in their respective places.
A hush falls over the room, nurses and residents alike avoiding eye contact with him and looking around nervously at each other. The truth was, they’d strongly advised against calling him down for a consult, even going as far to suggest bothering Robby instead, but it had all fallen upon deaf ears.
“Doctor Park!” your chipper voice calls out when you walk back into the trauma room, a bright smile on your face, unaware of the warzone you’d just entered.
You, the new emergency department resident– so kind, so helpful, and so happy.
Brendon had seen you around before, when you’d followed a frightened little girl up to the operating room. You’d insisted on staying by her side, claiming that you’d made a promise, and that you’d ”never ever” went against one. So for the entirety of the procedure, you’d held her hand, all so that she wouldn’t feel alone.
And for the first time, Brendon Park had allowed an outsider into his OR.
From then on, it gave him shivers whenever he saw you practically prance around the ER, that trademark big smile on your face as you try your utmost to be helpful.
In fact, you tried to be so helpful, that you’d gone ahead and asked for an orthopedic consult for a dislocated shoulder.
Brendon clenches his jaw, eyes locked on your figure as you obliviously bat your eyes at him, before they land on your patient again.
“Oh, look at that– the swelling went down again!” you gasp, poking softly at the area to try and assess, then giving the patient a reassuring smile.
Brendon drags a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying very hard to stay tethered to reality.
Where was that familiar feeling that usually bubbled in his stomach at being inconvenienced like this? He’d gotten angrier over getting called down for much, much less idiotic reasons than this, and yet, all he could do was watch as you turn to give him a sheepish smile, and a regretful look.
In the corner of the room stands Dennis Whittaker, looking ready to spring into action at any given moment. He’d been on the receiving end of his verbal humiliation once, and the last thing he wanted was for Park to dim the warm light you’d shone over the ER when you started your residency.
Any time now he’ll have to step in and take the blame for you– to accept the wrath of Park the Shark–
“Next time, confirm that the swelling hasn’t reduced before calling me out of surgery,” Brendon mutters through gritted teeth, looking like he’s physically holding himself back from saying anything else.
Then, he turns around on his feet and storms towards the exit, looking ready to tear the doors down. Before that can happen though, he stops, broad shoulders squared.
“…And stop poking injuries,” he adds without looking back. “You’re not testing bread dough,”
The doors slam shut behind him, and the room is still eerily silent, though now for a different reason.
You let out a soft giggle, glancing obliviously between your colleagues' petrified faces.
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”
“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”
“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”
“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”
“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”
“You’re leaving? Why?”
“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”
Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”
“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”
Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”
“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”
His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”
“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”
You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”
“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”
“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”
You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”
You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”
Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”
“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”
“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”
“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.
Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt – just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”
“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”
“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”
“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”
“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”
“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”
“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”
“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”
The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”
“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”
“I don’t think I’m-”
“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”
You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”
“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”
Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”
His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”
“I have work to do, Frank.”
“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”
Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”
“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”
“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”
“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”
“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”
Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”
“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”
Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”
Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”
You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”
“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”
Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”
“Look.”
Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“We get along great, actually.”
“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”
Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”
“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”
“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”
You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”
“Give it a period.”
“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”
“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”
“No gym buddies to gab with?”
“No gym buddies,” he confirms.
“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”
“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”
“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”
“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”
“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”
“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”
“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”
Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”
You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”
“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”
“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”
“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”
He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”
He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”
“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”
With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”
“He said, frowning.”
“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”
“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”
“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”
“Whatever you say, big guy.”
If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”
“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”
You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”
Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”
“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”
Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”
“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”
Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”
“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”
“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”
“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”
Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”
“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”
“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, you’re an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”
“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”
“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”
“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”
You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”
“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Park’s pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”
‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”
“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”
Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”
“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”
At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”
“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”
He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built not like an Abercrombie model but more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”
“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”
“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”
“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”
“Really?”
“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up a sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”
You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”
“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”
“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking under him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”
“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, “Good girl.”
Fuck, you’re soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”
“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”
“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”
“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”
Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.
“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.
When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”
“Shut up; yes, you did.”
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”
“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”
“Well, they do say he was hung.”
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.
“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”
You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”
All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”
“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”
“That I’m a crybaby?”
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over your mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.
“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”
You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”
“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”
“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”
You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”
“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”
“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”
You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”
“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”
“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”
“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”
Construction worker!Bucky who collapses on the couch after a particularly hot day at work. No shirt. Jeans tossed somewhere. Just a pair of boxer briefs across his thighs. He's debating if he's going to leave them on or not. Trying to will himself to get a cold drink from the fridge but its so far away (not even ten feet).
He feels a cool breeze on his heated face. Pure bliss. It gets even better when a cold piece of ice slides across his lips. Bucky groans your name, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. His eyes slowly open to find your pretty face staring down at him. A glass of water in your hand, condensation rolling down your fingers, splashing on his chest. You're too good to him.
"Marry me."
"The heat really got to you didn't it?" You laugh but he's serious. He'll ask again, once he peels himself off this couch.
Park the shark x sunshine!reader. Her ex is admitted to the hospital due to an accident/injury. He was a toxic ex that would make her question her self image and shy and positive personality. Didn’t end on good terms and Park secretly has a soft spot for the reader. She somehow wormed her way into his heart (not that he’s complaining).
Asshole Ex | Brendon Park | The Pitt
Your life was good.
You had an amazing job, wonderful friends, an adorable cat named Thomas, and you were back on your own two feet. For a long time, you had been stuck in a relationship with a man who seemed to want nothing more than to bring you down with him. The relationship had taken seven years of your life, and you were determined not to let that God-awful man have a second more of your time.
And for six whole months you had managed to do just that.
You had left in the middle of the night, changed your phone number and any contact details. Accepting a job offer had been easy, a national shortage of doctors had multiple hospitals bidding for you. So you did what anyone would do; you packed up your car, and started your new life in Pittsburgh.
Not once did you hear from your ex, Jason. You weren't sure if it was because he couldn’t find you, or that he had not bothered. Not that you cared anyway. Life was so much better without that asshole in it. And you were determined to keep it that way.
Until today.
You heard him before you saw him. His voice rattled through the Emergency Department and he called Jesse an idiot for not giving him enough morphine, and how he would sue Dr Park and ‘everyone in this goddamn department for neglect.’ Six months ago, you would have frozen in fear, now you just wanted to get him out of your way as soon as possible.
“You alright, doll?” You heard Dana from behind you. “South 15 certainly is a screamer.”
You leaned back onto the counter of the nurses station, letting your head fall, trying to find energy to go and face the music. “Yeah, he always was.”
Dana cocked an eyebrow, “You know him? Seems like a nice guy.”
You let out a small laugh. Nice guy. That's what he used to say after putting you down ‘I’m only saying this to be kind, I’m a nice guy.’ “Yeah, he’s a real class act.”
You didn't wait for her to respond as you made your way over to South 15. Although you did allow yourself a final second of calm before you entered the room with a fake smile and sarcasm dripping from every word “Jason, what brings you here today? Broke another leg playing golf did we?”
“Well, look, someone’s gotten cocky. How are you, sugar? Miss me already.” His smug tone didn’t match the look of surprise on his face. He looked you up and down, and his gaze made your skin crawl. “Besides, I’m the victim here. I was attacked.”
“You started a bar fight. At 2 p.m. You are not the victim.” Dr Park scoffed, before turning to you and Jesse “He has a broken nose, and possibly a fractured rib where he fell onto the sidewalk. I’ll need to check it, though.”
Jason looked offended at Brendon’s words, although he kept his gaze on you. “I wouldn’t have started the fight if that bitch of a bartender would’ve given me another drink like a good girl. Although, you know nothing about that either, you never listened to me and now look at you. You think you got it made. You’re nothing; you’re just some doctor’s gopher- Ow! What the fuck-”
“Just checking the ribs. Hold still” Brendon did not look apologetic as he poked and assessed Jason’s ribs, grip much firmer than what could be considered necessary. “All good here. Jesse, stay with our patient here. Keep him in line.”
As he stepped away from the patient bed, Brendon gently grabbed your arm and brought you out with him. “What the fuck was that.”
“That was Jason. My ex. He is not my biggest fan.” You kept your voice straight. You weren't ashamed, not anymore.
Brendon looked at you in surprise, he couldn’t imagine someone as bright and happy as you with an asshole like him. Unfortunately, the shock of it all didn’t help stop him from saying that out loud. “You, seriously? You can do so much better than that jackass."
You nodded, but didn't say anything, listening out to Jesse telling Jason to behave or he will be sedated. You were definitely on Team Sedation, not that you would admit that aloud.
After a moment, you finally spoke. “As you can tell, Jason wasn’t the best boyfriend. He didn’t like that I had a more successful career than him. He wouldn’t accept that someone like me was a doctor. He would tell people I was just a receptionist. Not that there is anything wrong with-”
“I know, honey, but still.” Brendon rubbed the back of his neck, trying to pick his words carefully, “You didn’t deserve that.”
“I know. I left him six months ago. I moved here, I got a cat. All is good. I’m good.” You tried to reassure him, but the look on Brendon’s face was not reassuring. “It’s in the past. I’m moving past all the things he said.”
“What did he say?”
“Do you want it alphabetically or chronologically?” You then tried to joke, but it didn't land. “Just drop it, Brendon, please, for me?”
And he did.
For now.
He watched you slip away into the chaos that was the ED, glad that you’re not working one-on-one with this Jason. He would be the buffer between you and him all day if he had too. He would do anything for you in a heartbeat. Always.
Brendon park feels terrible, not only was he rudely awoken by an accident that forced him to come in at 2 in the morning; something that forced him to sweetly kiss you back to sleep before driving to the hospital.
But now, when he’s finally back home. Finally throwing his scrubs back onto the floor- usually. Always. He runs his hands across his side of the bed; making sure that if you are there he can ease you back to your side of the bed.
Tonight he forgets, rubbing his eyes as he sits down against the bed. All 287 lbs of him land against your fibula and fibula. You’re instantly kicking and screaming at him, “OFF! BRENDON OH MY GOD FUCK GET OFF!” You scream. He shoots off the bed in an instant, suddenly pumping with adrenaline as you writhe around in the bed, “oh my god”
Brendon stares at you, watching you clutch onto your leg as you wail out in pain, “shit baby, oh let me look at it”
He pries your hands off your lower leg, the force of his fingers against the bones make you cry harder, “stop! Stop!” You whack your pillow against his head, “BRENDON!”
“Fuck I just broke your leg” he breathes out, “come on baby ‘gonna take you to the hospital”
It hasn’t even been a full hour away from the hospital before he’s back, this time with his wife. His very- very angry wife, the two of you bickering against each other, “I can’t believe you sat on my leg and broke it”
Brendon groans, “why were you on my side of the bed?”
You cross your arms over your chest, “I was cold, you left in the middle of the night?” you face away from him. He knows it’s all bluff because you’re still tightly holding onto his hand.
“I know baby, I’m sorry. Is the morphine kicking in?” He asks, that draws you back to him. Hiccuping slightly as you nod, tears drying against your cheeks, “I’m really, really insanely sorry”
“Is it broken bad?” You ask, turning your head back to face him, “I haven’t wanted to look”
“Yeah baby, don’t look. It’s not pretty. They’re gonna probably operate on it in a minute”
You stare at him with scared eyes, “I hate anesthesia” you mumble. Brendon Park has known you for over a decade, he’s seen you scared, sad, angry, happy, but this is different. It’s primal discomfort; raw fear and emotion. Something he views every day, but it’s you. And he caused it.
“I know; but I’m gonna be right here. Promise”
Brendon park is an honest man, holding your hand as you’re wheeled into surgery, compliant as the nurses guide him to your room on his floor. And he holds your hand as you come too. Groggy and miserable. He holds your hand as you beg for a puke bag. Keeps your hair up as you throw up.
Disposes of it for you, “how do you feel?” He asks once you settle back against the pillows, “how’s the pain?”
You grunt at him, exhaling softly, “good?” You look over at your cast, “I didn’t get a fun color?”
Brendon exhales lightly, “no baby, once you’re out I’ll get you the prettiest pink out there okay?”
Brendon park feels terrible, not only was he rudely awoken by an accident that forced him to come in at 2 in the morning; something that forced him to sweetly kiss you back to sleep before driving to the hospital.
But now, when he’s finally back home. Finally throwing his scrubs back onto the floor- usually. Always. He runs his hands across his side of the bed; making sure that if you are there he can ease you back to your side of the bed.
Tonight he forgets, rubbing his eyes as he sits down against the bed. All 287 lbs of him land against your fibula and fibula. You’re instantly kicking and screaming at him, “OFF! BRENDON OH MY GOD FUCK GET OFF!” You scream. He shoots off the bed in an instant, suddenly pumping with adrenaline as you writhe around in the bed, “oh my god”
Brendon stares at you, watching you clutch onto your leg as you wail out in pain, “shit baby, oh let me look at it”
He pries your hands off your lower leg, the force of his fingers against the bones make you cry harder, “stop! Stop!” You whack your pillow against his head, “BRENDON!”
“Fuck I just broke your leg” he breathes out, “come on baby ‘gonna take you to the hospital”
It hasn’t even been a full hour away from the hospital before he’s back, this time with his wife. His very- very angry wife, the two of you bickering against each other, “I can’t believe you sat on my leg and broke it”
Brendon groans, “why were you on my side of the bed?”
You cross your arms over your chest, “I was cold, you left in the middle of the night?” you face away from him. He knows it’s all bluff because you’re still tightly holding onto his hand.
“I know baby, I’m sorry. Is the morphine kicking in?” He asks, that draws you back to him. Hiccuping slightly as you nod, tears drying against your cheeks, “I’m really, really insanely sorry”
“Is it broken bad?” You ask, turning your head back to face him, “I haven’t wanted to look”
“Yeah baby, don’t look. It’s not pretty. They’re gonna probably operate on it in a minute”
You stare at him with scared eyes, “I hate anesthesia” you mumble. Brendon Park has known you for over a decade, he’s seen you scared, sad, angry, happy, but this is different. It’s primal discomfort; raw fear and emotion. Something he views every day, but it’s you. And he caused it.
“I know; but I’m gonna be right here. Promise”
Brendon park is an honest man, holding your hand as you’re wheeled into surgery, compliant as the nurses guide him to your room on his floor. And he holds your hand as you come too. Groggy and miserable. He holds your hand as you beg for a puke bag. Keeps your hair up as you throw up.
Disposes of it for you, “how do you feel?” He asks once you settle back against the pillows, “how’s the pain?”
You grunt at him, exhaling softly, “good?” You look over at your cast, “I didn’t get a fun color?”
Brendon exhales lightly, “no baby, once you’re out I’ll get you the prettiest pink out there okay?”
MIRI'KAI 1/5
orc!bucky barnes x female human!reader [7.7k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: unable to provide for another mouth at home, your brother trades you into an arranged marriage. alone in the forest, fear and uncertainty follow your every step as you wait for the man you are bound to. you never expected him to be quiet, unnervingly gentle… and far from human.
— ⟢ CHAPTER WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; european middle ages-inspired setting; strangers to lovers; slow burn; she/her pronouns for reader; use of orc-ish language; mentions of reader’s family; mention of violence and death; reader wears dresses; orc!bucky (he is huge & it is mentioned he has tusks & grey skin); size difference; soft!bucky; protective!bucky; heavy yearning; arranged marriage (reader is literally sold); societal pressure on women; traditional gender expectations; minor knee injury.
A/N: I just love orc!bucky so much ❤️🩹 the first chapter is a little slow and boring imo, but once they reach the village is going to be a yearning feast, don't worry. hope you'll enjoy!
series masterlist | next chapter
The cart stops in a small clearing where the road dissolves into little more than a strip of packed dirt swallowed by the forest. The trees here grow tall and close together, their dark trunks rising like silent pillars toward a sky you can barely see through the tangled branches above.
You remain seated, your fingers fidgeting nervously on your lap as you peer around. There is nothing here. No house, no smoke curling from a chimney, no narrow path leading to some distant cottage. Only dense trees, through which the late afternoon light filters in thin, pale streaks that never quite reach the ground, carrying the stale smell of moss and damp bark.
“Why are we stopping?”
Your brother climbs down from the cart, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. He stretches his back and rolls his shoulders as if the journey has been a long and unpleasant chore.
“This is where you need to wait for him.” He says simply.
The words make your stomach churn with unease.
You slowly climb down after him, grimacing as your shoes sink slightly into the soft ground. Leaves crunch faintly beneath your feet and you look around again, trying to spot any sign of the man you are supposed to meet.
“But… What if he doesn’t see us?”
“He will.”
Your brother speaks as though the matter is already settled. He doesn’t even look at you while he checks the harness on the horse, adjusting a strap with rough, practiced movements.
“I thought…” Your voice falters. “I thought we would meet him in the village.”
“He doesn’t go to villages much.”
That answer does nothing to settle your nerves.
“Why?”
Your brother shrugs, pulling himself back onto the cart. “Does it matter?”
You stare at him in disbelief. “You’re not staying?”
He finally glances at you, brows drawing together in faint annoyance.
“For what? I’ve already wasted half a day to bring you here.”
Your blood runs cold at his harsh indifference. With a wary glance back at the forest, you notice how the silence presses in around you in a way that feels almost unnatural, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves somewhere high in the trees.
“But this place—” You murmur.
“You’ll be fine.” He waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll be here soon.”
“I just thought…” You trail off, suddenly unsure how to explain the tight knot of dread that has been sitting in your chest since the news of your marriage. “I thought you would at least stay until he arrived.”
Avoiding your eyes, he exhales heavily, the same way he did when he was fourteen, back when you would pester him to take you along to the market square. As a child, you never failed to test the last thread of his patience.
For a brief moment, his expression softens just a little.
“Look,” he starts, voice less sharp now. “The man paid fairly. People from his village said he’s decent. You could do worse.”
He clears his throat with an awkward, impatient sound at your lack of answer.
His words, meant to soothe, fall upon you like stones, pressing you down until you feel no taller than the dust at his feet
Finally, you whisper. “Then I… I suppose this is a goodbye.” Letting the words drift into the still air, your brother hesitates for the briefest moment, before clicking his tongue at the horse.
“Good luck.”
The horse turns back toward the narrow road you traveled together only minutes ago. You remain rooted in place, shoulders hunched against the chill, your eyes following it until the trees swallow the cart whole and its creaking melts into silence.
You draw your shawl tighter around your form, suddenly aware of how alone you are.
A husband.
You know almost nothing about the man you are supposed to marry, only that he lives somewhere beyond these woods and that he was willing to give your brother enough coin to make the journey worthwhile.
After your parents died, the responsibility of your life had fallen entirely on him. At first, things were manageable, but the years had not been kind. Poor harvests, mounting debts, and too many mouths to feed at the table. You had seen the strain long before he ever spoke of it. His wife counted sacks of grain with tight lips, quiet arguments carried through the thin wooden walls late at night, bitter glances were sent your way whenever food ran short.
You had become something disposable in their eyes.
So when a stranger passing through the village asked about you, offering enough coin to lift the debts that had hung over the household like a storm cloud, your brother accepted.
Not cruelly. Not happily. But so effortlessly that the ease of it stabbed at you, a sharp reminder of how little your own voice seemed to matter.
Girls get married every day. Only this time, the union came with payment instead of a dowry. With a contract instead of courtship.
With men shaping your fate while your own voice went unheard.
You sigh softly, allowing your gaze to wander back to the forest.
Perhaps he is simply shy. Perhaps he lives somewhere deeper in the forest and prefers not to travel far. Perhaps—
A dull thud echoes faintly from somewhere beyond the clearing.
Your body tenses.
You are quite certain you had imagined it. Then it comes again, and the ground beneath your feet trembles ever so slightly, low and heavy, the rhythm sinking into your bones.
Your breath catches in your throat.
That is not the sound of human footsteps. They are heavier. Slower. As if something... Beastly is moving through the forest.
A shiver runs down your spine. You fold your arms across your chest, palms feeling slick and useless as they twist and curl, clutching the fabric of your sleeves, seeking something solid to hold onto.
The branches sway with a force you cannot see, until a twig snaps abruptly to your right, and you whirl around.
Could it be a bear? A wolf?
You take a step back— no, two— your eyes darting wildly, straining to locate the source. The forest seems to close in: every shadow writhes in your vision, bursting into a thousand uncanny shapes; every rustle of leaves has you twisting in apprehension, forcing your body to shrink into itself.
Thud.
Closer.
Thud.
Perhaps it is only a deer.
But no deer would make the ground quake. No deer would carry weight like this.
Another step, another tremor shaking you. Your throat tightens, your mind screaming for some kind of explanation, some sign.
And then, a massive figure rises among the low-hanging branches. His broad shoulders stretch beneath dark clothing, his arms thick and knotted, capable of felling trees as easily as a child might snap a twig. His skin is the grey of stone, and from his jaw curve two tusks, pale and frightening.
An orc.
He stops when his gaze falls on you, his expression shifting into something that looks suspiciously like surprise.
But you do not linger long enough to process it.
Terror floods your body so swiftly it tears the air from your lungs.
Your shoes skid over loose dirt as you bolt toward the road your brother took, your heart hammering like a drum beneath your ribs.
Behind you, the forest falls unnervingly silent.
Then it comes. Heavy footsteps shattering the quiet.
Fast.
Too fast.
“Wait!”
The voice echoes behind you, low and rumbling, causing your limbs to momentarily freeze. Fear hits like a bucket of icy water, the world shrinking to nothing but the pounding of your heart and the tremor of the ground beneath him, as if the earth itself fears the beast. Branches claw at your arms, sleeves catch on rough bark, roots rise like hands to grab you. Every step is a plunge into a dark well, cold and endless, threatening to squeeze the air from your lungs.
Your legs wobble, muscles screaming, but they force themselves forward, straining against the terror, until you nearly collapse within a few trembling strides. A slip on damp leaves pitches your body forward. Your heart slams violently in your chest as you imagine for one terrifying moment that you are already on the ground, already caught, already feeling those enormous hands closing around you.
Somehow you manage to catch yourself, arms flailing wildly before forcing your legs to move again, faster. Behind you, the pounding reverberates, its ominous rhythm thrumming through the air like a herald of doom.
“Please, don’t run from me!”
His voice trails after you, strained with something that almost sounds like panic, but you cannot bring yourself to care. Your brother left you alone in the heart of this forest with nothing: no knife, no stick, not even the small blade you used to carry when gathering firewood. The bitter thought slams into you with painful clarity.
Why would he imagine you needed protection? Why would he think danger might touch you, when he had already decided that whatever became of you was no longer his concern?
The realization hits harder than the sting of branches scraping across your skin, and a desperate sob claws its way up your throat as your legs threaten to buckle.
You cannot fight a monster.
You cannot outrun something so imposing.
And yet you keep running, because the fear in your heart leaves no room for reason.
Your foot catches again, this time on a thick root hidden beneath the leaves. Your ankle twists, causing you to stumble forward with a startled cry, barely regaining your balance. Pain explodes up your leg, sharp enough to blur your vision, but the roaring of those massive footsteps behind you drives you onward, forcing your body to keep moving even as every muscle screams in protest.
“Stop— please!”
The voice is closer now.
You risk a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him barreling through the trees— huge, relentless, impossibly agile— sends another surge of panic through your veins.
And this time, when your foot trips over another hidden root, your exhausted body simply cannot recover.
The world tilts and you fall forward with a cry. Your knee violently slams against the ground, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Dry leaves scatter beneath your palms at the impact, the taste of dirt bitter on your tongue.
For a moment you can do nothing but gasp, your chest heaving desperately as you struggle to regain your breath.
The footsteps behind you stop so abruptly that the silence afterward feels almost unnatural. Dread coils tight around your ribs, thick and suffocating: the creature no longer needs to chase you. By collapsing before him, you relinquished all hope of escape. Fingers dig weakly into the fallen leaves as you force your head up, though every instinct screams not to look at the thing that followed you like a nightmare made flesh.
He stands only a few paces away.
Up close, he is even larger than your panicked mind imagined while you ran, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the ground where you lie miserably. His shoulders calmly rise and fall beneath his shirt, untouched by exertion. The sheer size of him is overwhelming, hands large enough they could likely close around your wrist with humiliating ease.
Yet he does not move the way you expect.
Instead of advancing like a hunter closing in on a wounded prey, he stands strangely still. His expression shifts from alarm to something that looks disturbingly like distress, eyes sweeping over you and taking in the way you struggle to breathe, the twisted angle of your leg, the tremor that rakes your body with terror.
“Oh.” The sound escapes him like a startled breath rather than a proper word. When he finally moves, his hands do not reach toward you in violence but rise slowly into the air, palms open and empty. Your mind cannot reconcile it with the monstrous shape looming above you.
“I did not mean to scare you.” His voice softens, rough with worry as though the sight of your fear unsettles him as much as it horrifies you.
But the words barely reach you through the haze clouding your mind.
Your pulse thunders in your ears, loud enough to drown out everything, except for the memory of him crashing through the trees. It haunts your thoughts cruelly as your vision begins to blur at the edges, dizziness creeping in, your surroundings tilting strangely while the pain in your knee pulses without mercy.
You try to push yourself backward, crawl away even a few inches, but your shaky arms cannot hold your weight. The effort only sends another wave of darkness over your sight.
The last thing you manage to see before your strength finally abandons you is the alarm on the orc's face breaking the cautious distance he had kept until now. He reaches toward you with desperate urgency when the forest spins. Shadows deepen, and the world slips quietly out of your grasp.
At first, there is only a dull ache in your body, a deep soreness that settles sharply somewhere in your leg, followed by the feeling of a soft surface beneath you. This is not the hard, uneven ground you remember collapsing onto.
For several seconds, you lie perfectly still, your breathing slow and shallow, trying to piece together fragments of memory floating at the edges of your mind.
The forest. The running. The monstrous figure chasing you.
Your eyes snap open.
Panic claws at your chest before your mind has time to catch up. You push yourself up with a startled gasp, wincing as pain shoots through your injured knee. The abrupt movement makes the world tilt unpleasantly, a dull sting hitting your temple. Beneath you, a thick patch of moss and dry grass cushions your weak body, carefully cleared of stones and twigs. Draped over it is a broad piece of rough cloth— perhaps a cloak, or a traveling blanket— spread wide enough to keep the damp soil from touching your dress.
The realization that someone must have placed you there sends a fresh wave of fear crashing through you.
You look up frantically, eyes immediately landing on an imposing figure.
The orc sits several paces away. Even in the shifting shadows of the forest, his form is impossible to mistake: his back rests against the trunk of a tall pine, long legs stretched before him. Despite the distance he keeps, his presence dominates the clearing effortlessly.
When your sudden movement catches his attention, he straightens at once, shoulders tensing as if he had been waiting for this moment, and dreading it at the same time.
For a few heartbeats, neither of you speaks.
You stare, frozen, and though his hands rest quietly on his knees and his posture does not threaten you, the sight alone is enough for tears to gather at the corners of your eyes.
Why are you still alive? Why does the creature that chased you now sit there, watching you with what looks like anxiety instead of malice? Why move you to a softer patch of land instead of leaving you there?
The helpless uncertainty only causes your breathing to grow uneven.
He notices the tears almost immediately. Exhaustion on his face gives away to unmistakable concern. He does not move closer, but when he speaks, his voice is still careful.
“Please, don't be afraid.”
The tenderness in his tone lets the first sob slip free from your throat before you can stop it. You slap a hand to your mouth, horrified by the sound, but it does not halt the tears spilling down your cheeks.
The orc’s brow furrows deeply, his large hands curling slightly where they rest on his lap, as if restraining himself from stepping forward.
“I am sorry for scaring you earlier,” the words are gentle. He fears that even speaking too loudly might frighten you further. “I did not mean to chase you. I only wanted to introduce myself. I was coming to meet you.”
You inhale sharply.
“To… Meet me?” You manage weakly, voice trembling.
“Yes.” He nods once, though the movement seems hesitant now that he notices your growing bewilderment.
“I came to fetch you. Your brother told me he would bring you this far.”
You stare at him as though he has spoken another language.
“Why?” The question leaves your lips in a broken whisper.
The orc blinks, worry shifting into something uncertain as he studies your face.
“Oh,” he breathes after a long moment, the small sound carrying its own hint of confusion. “Did—Did your brother not tell you about me?”
Your heart stutters painfully.
Staring at the creature, the thought feels so absurd it steals your ability to respond.
Your brother arranged a marriage to a stranger, perhaps a secluded man who lived beyond the town, someone wealthy enough to offer money in exchange for a wife he barely knew.
But an orc?
You shake your head slowly, fingers trembling where they clutch the edge of the rough cloth.
“No,” you whisper hoarsely, disbelief shining in your glassy eyes. “He never mentioned…”
The rest of the sentence dies on your tongue as the horrifying truth hangs between you.
Why would your brother send you here if he knew this was the creature waiting for you? And why, of all things, would an orc want you at all?
The silence stretches like a thread pulled too tight, and the orc across the clearing seems as uncertain as you are. The confusion on his face lingers a moment longer, before his brow furrow, his gaze landing on your leg, genuine concern taking over his features.
“Your knee…”
The words are hesitant, chosen with great precision. And when his eyes lift again, they stop short of meeting yours, opting to watch the ground between you.
“You fell rather hard.”
Only then does the dull throbbing in your knee make itself known. Your skirt is torn where it scraped against the forest floor, a dark stain soiling the fabric where skin beneath has broken.
The orc shifts slightly.
“May I… Look at it?”
The question is gentle, yet your entire body goes rigid.
The unspoken meaning rings in your mind, loud and undeniable. He would be closer, looming over you as you lie on the ground, unable to run.
He notices instantly, reading the widening of your eyes as if you had spoken your fear aloud.
His movement dies at once, large frame settling back against the tree. “I apologize.” His gaze drops shamefully. “That was foolish of me to ask.”
He seems to consider something, fingers brushing absently against the small leather pouch tied to his belt. Then, very slowly— making sure you can see each motion— he unties it and places it carefully on the ground beside him. He does the same with the water flask hanging at his hip.
Without standing, he nudges both items forward across the ground, until they stop somewhere close to you.
“There are herbs in the pouch, and a clean strip of cloth. They should help… If you wish to tend to it yourself.” His voice softens further. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “The water is fresh.”
Then he leans back again, hands lifted in a gesture that makes it painfully clear he has no intention of approaching.
You remain still for what feels like eternity, warily observing him, expecting that he might close the distance the moment your guard lowers.
But he does not move. Beneath the tall pine, shoulders hunched slightly as if to make himself smaller, he simply waits.
Cautiously, you finally reach forward.
Your fingers close around the pouch first, snatching it before retreating quickly to your spot. Your eyes flick immediately back to the orc. He has turned his head slightly, enough to keep you in view but no longer staring at your injured leg.
The unexpected kindness leaves you momentarily disoriented.
Trembling, you open the pouch. Inside are crushed herbs wrapped in a scrap of cloth, along with the promised strip of clean linen. The scent rises distinctly, earthy and familiar, stirring memories of scrapped knees and innocent laughter.
As you pour the water from the flask, you fight not to flinch at the sting on broken skin. You then press the herbs carefully, clumsily binding the cloth tightly around your knee as you glance toward the orc every few seconds, checking that he has not moved.
He keeps his unspoken promise, immense and patient.
The restraint unsettles you more than if he had simply stared.
Pieces of memory shift and rearrange themselves in your mind, small details you had dismissed earlier. Your brother said the town was too far, that your husband rarely visited villages. He told you he preferred to meet you here instead.
At the time it sounded odd, perhaps even rude, but nothing more.
Now the meaning feels like a knife in your chest.
He never goes to villages.
Of course he doesn’t. Why would an orc walk openly among humans?
Your brother never spoke of him beyond a few careless remarks; you knew he was a carpenter, for instance.
A carpenter.
Your gaze drifts hesitantly to the massive hands resting on his thighs. Hands that could snap a spine with a flick of the wrist, yet capable of carving wood with intricate precision.
If this creature truly is the man your brother intended you to marry… Why hasn’t he forced you to come with him? Why didn’t he seize you the moment you fell? Why hasn’t he dragged you deeper into the forest to have his way with you?
The stories you grew up hearing painted orcs as brutal, merciless creatures. Raiders who stormed villages at night, wielding massive axes and clubs, smashing through doors and snatching livestock— or worse, people— before vanishing into the wilderness. Mothers whispered warnings over supper about what would happen if you wandered too far from home, eyes nervously darting to the tree line. Travelers passing through told tales of children stolen from gardens, farmers dragged screaming into the woods, entire homesteads left burning by creatures that moved like shadows and hit like hammers. They were monsters with jagged teeth, gray skin, and tusks curving from the lower jaw. Tainted souls who carry death wherever they go.
Every whispered warning, every hushed tale from the corners of your village, had carved one truth into your mind: orcs are to be feared, avoided, and never trusted.
But the one sitting across from you has done nothing but keep his distance. He gave you water, herbs, time to catch your breath. And now he sits quietly, staring at the ground as if afraid of frightening a wounded animal.
At last he exhales, long and quiet.
“I think,” he says slowly, his voice carrying a strange heaviness. “That perhaps something has gone… Wrong.”
You find the courage to look at him, yet he still does not meet your gaze. Instead, his eyes linger somewhere near the ground between your feet, hands clasped loosely together as if to steady himself.
“I believed your brother had explained the arrangement to you.” He continues. “When we spoke, he seemed certain you understood.”
His voice is measured, but there is a thread of disappointment buried somewhere beneath, faint enough that you almost miss it.
“If that is not the case… Then I have no wish to force anything upon you.”
Slowly— almost reluctantly— he lifts his head. When his eyes finally meet your wide ones, there is no anger. No impatience. Only a quiet sadness that softens the sharp lines of his face.
“If you would prefer to return to your brother,” he swallows. “I will take you back to him.”
The words settle over the clearing heavy and strange in their gentleness.
This creature, this enormous being who could easily overpower in an instant, is offering to bring you home. Not demanding obedience, not claiming what he paid for. Simply… Giving you a choice.
You stare stunned, though the weight in your chest grows almost unbearable.
You cannot go back, not after everything.
Your brother had welcomed you into his home without hesitation, even though he already had family of his own to care for, even though another mouth at the table stretched their household thinner than either of them liked to admit. You cooked, cleaned, mended clothes, watched the children when they cried at night. Yet the guilt never left. Because no matter how much you tried to make yourself useful, the truth was undeniable: you were another burden.
And if this marriage would ease the strain on his family— even a little— then perhaps it was the least you could do in return for everything he had given you.
Now, the tears return before you can stop them. But this time you swallow them quickly.
You lift your head, finding the orc watching you, his expression unreadable as he waits for your answer.
Your voice wavers when your lips finally part.
“I cannot go back.”
A knot sit heavy in your throat, and you swallow around it, even if it hurts.
“My brother has done too much for me already.” Your fingers tighten slightly in the fabric of your skirt. “He has his own family to take care of.”
The admission comes quiet, almost ashamed.
“If he arranged this marriage…” You sniffle, lifting your chin. “Then I will honor it.”
Your voice trembles at the edges, but you refuse to divert your gaze.
“I will go with you.”
For a moment the clearing falls completely silent. He studies your face carefully, as if trying to discern whether these words are truly yours or spoken out of obligation alone.
At last he sighs softly, thoughtful, and after a moment, he nods.
“Very well.” He answers quietly, before his gaze drifts briefly toward your injured leg. “Do you feel well enough to walk?”
You glance down at the bandage around your knee. The pain has dulled somewhat, though the joint still throbs unpleasantly whenever you shift your weight.
“I think so.”
The orc hesitates. Then, a little awkwardly, he gestures toward you.
“I could carry you,” he offers carefully. “If walking becomes too painful.”
Your head snaps up instantly, eyes widening in alarm, and the refusal spills from your lips before you can even think about it.
“No!”
The word bursts out louder than you intended. You rush to soften it, your explanation tumbling over itself.
“I—I mean, I can walk,” you add quickly. “Truly. It will be fine.”
The panic in your expression is unmistakable. You are almost certain something akin to disappointment flicker in his eyes, but it vanishes at once.
“Of course.”
Clearing his throat, he rises to his feet. The movement is smooth and unhurried despite the sheer size of him.
Your knee protests sharply when you place weight on it, but it holds. The orc watches silently, making no attempt to approach, even when you sway slightly at first.
Only when you steady yourself does he incline his head toward the deeper stretch of forest behind him.
“The path is this way.”
You hesitate only a moment, taking a deep breath before following.
And so, beneath the quiet canopy of the trees, the long journey toward your new home finally begins.
You expect the orc to walk ahead, him striding forward with those powerful legs while you struggle to keep up behind him, forced to hurry despite the pain. It would make sense. He is the one who knows the path, the one leading you somewhere deep within this unfamiliar forest.
But that is not what happens.
Instead, he walks beside you. Not close enough for your arms to brush against, yet close enough that you feel his presence with every step. His pace is slow— so slow, in fact, that it takes you a moment to realize he has matched it deliberately to yours.
At first you assume it is a coincidence, then the truth becomes impossible to ignore.
His stride alone would easily cover twice the ground you manage with your limping steps, yet he never moves ahead, never urges you forward, never shows even the slightest sign of impatience.
You keep your gaze mostly on the ground, watching where you place your feet, though every so often curiosity gets the better of you and your eyes flick briefly to the towering figure at your side.
His shoulders are broad enough that low branches brush against them when he passes, and his arms swing slowly at his sides with the steady rhythm of someone accustomed to long journeys on foot.
Yet despite the size of him, his movements are careful, measured. As though he is constantly aware of the space you occupy beside him.
Another detail reaches you gradually.
At first you think it is simply your mind playing tricks, but the faint scent drifting through the forest air grows clearer whenever the wind shifts between the trees.
You glance at him again.
He smells… Good.
The realization surprises you so much that you nearly miss your footing.
No heavy musk, no sourness of sweat or damp fur like the animals kept in village barns.
Instead there is something clean about it. Fresh like the forest itself. Pine, perhaps, or the faint resinous scent of cut wood, mixed with the crisp sharpness of cold air and something earthy beneath it, like soil after rain. It reminds you strangely of the men who worked the lumber yards near the edge of your old village, returning home at dusk with the smell of sap and sawdust clinging to their clothes.
Except even they rarely smelled this clean.
You glance at him again, eyes lingering longer this time.
His clothes are simple but well-kept, sturdy fabric worn by someone who works with his hands. Faint marks dust the sleeves and shoulders where wood shavings must have settled earlier in the day, and the leather belt around his waist holds several small tools you do not recognize.
The silence stretches further, until eventually the question pressing at the edges of your mind grows too heavy to hold.
Your voice comes out small when you finally speak.
“Where do you live?”
The orc’s head turns toward you, surprised enough that he almost stumbles over his own feet.
“Ah—” He clears his throat quietly, caught off guard by your sudden composure.
“My village is called Oakshire.” Warmth seeps into his tone. “It lies not far beyond the edge of the forest. We should reach it before nightfall if your knee does not trouble you too much.”
Oakshire.
The name rolls gently through your mind.
You hesitate before asking the next question, unsure whether you truly want the answer.
“Is it… An orc village?”
The moment the words leave your mouth you brace yourself, expecting him to take offense.
Instead his face brightens.
“No, oh no.” He chuckles, a small note of enthusiasm slipping into his voice. “Not only orcs.”
He glances toward you again, clearly pleased to have something to talk to you about.
“Humans have lived there for a very long time. The town was built generations ago when traders from both sides began traveling through the valley, and over the years the settlements grew together.”
A faint smile touches his mouth as he continues. “Now the two communities are simply… One.”
You blink in surprise.
“Humans and orcs live together?” You ask quietly, eyebrows shooting up.
“For centuries,” he nods amused. “Some families have lived there so long no one remembers who came first.”
The image forms slowly in your mind: humans and orcs walking the same streets, sharing the same markets, living side by side without fear or violence.
It's preposterous, and yet the quiet pride in his voice makes it sound perfectly ordinary, as though it had always been his reality.
When your eyes land on him again, something other than fear flickers in your chest for the first time.
The change in your expression is small, barely visible, but his sharp eyes catch it without fail. The tension that had been sitting heavily in his shoulders loosens just slightly, relief softening his features. He looks almost hopeful. Seeing even the smallest spark of interest in your eyes means more to him than you can imagine.
You notice the way his gaze lingers, and that awareness diverts your attention back to the path.
Silence returns soon after, but this time it is not as grim.
The road leading toward Oakshire stretches quietly ahead, and you manage several careful steps before the pain in your knee flares again.
You stagger, clutching at a low branch as your foot catches on a hidden root tangled in fallen leaves. Your breath hitches as the wound pulses again, sharper this time, forcing you to slow even further. Every step becomes a careful negotiation: foot over root, heel pressing against moss, knee bending in protest.
You stumble once more, almost falling, causing your fingers to scrape against the rough bark of a nearby trunk as your legs shake beneath you.
“We can stop,” he says gently. “We walked a lot, and you could use some resting.”
You bite your bottom lip, stubborn despite the ache twisting through your leg.
“I can keep going.” Your voice comes out tight, refusing the admission even to yourself.
The forest seems to close in as you push forward, and then, inevitably, your foot catches again in another root, and this time a sharp cry tears from your throat as you lurch forward, clutching at the air. Before your mouth can taste the dirt, a hand promptly closes around your forearm, lifting you upright with surprising gentleness. The strength behind it is immense, yet the grip itself is careful, steadying rather than dragging.
You blink up at him, breath hitching and chest tight with a mixture of fear and helplessness, but he adjusts his hold at once, supporting your weight without crowding, or touching no more of you than necessary.
“Easy.” He murmurs, his voice a calm tether in the dizzying chaos in your head. “There’s a soft patch up ahead. Lean on me if you need.”
He does not urge, does not pull you forward. He simply waits, letting your body find its own balance, guiding rather than commanding.
You stumble the final few steps, leaning lightly against his strong arm, and when you finally reach a small patch of land where the moss grows thick beneath the trees, he reaches over his shoulder.
“Wait a moment.”
Before you can question him, his fingers nimbly unfasten the traveling blanket he carries rolled among his things. The familiar piece of rough cloth— the same one you vaguely remember waking upon earlier— unfurls in his large hands before he bends and spreads it carefully across the ground, smoothing the edges so no stones or damp earth press through.
“There,” he clears his throat, stepping back immediately to give you room. “It will be more comfortable.”
You hesitate only briefly before lowering yourself down, a shaky exhale escaping your parted lips. Your chest heaves as your hands press into the fabric of your dress, trying to stop the trembling that refuses to leave your limbs.
The orc kneels nearby, just far enough to give you space. Still aware, still watchful.
You know, in a way that both frightens and fascinates you, that he could easily do anything he wanted, yet every gesture, every pause, every soft word communicates respect. It is a patience so quiet, so deliberate, that your mind struggles to reconcile it with the monstrous shape beside you.
Because nothing in the stories you grew up hearing ever spoke of an orc choosing gentleness over dominance.
A small bundle is pulled from his pack and placed on the moss beside your hand, intentionally within reach.
“You should eat something.” His eyes flick briefly to yours with a weight you cannot name, so intense it feels almost tangible, as though he is memorizing you.
You hesitate, unsure whether to accept it. So he breaks off a small piece of bread and extends it toward you, the gesture so delicate it makes your chest tighten.
“You don’t have to force yourself, but you need the energy.”
The faint scent of pine and earth clinging to him seems to wrap around you, calming, grounding, and against your better judgment, you take a small bite. The warmth and simplicity of it almost makes you forget the exhaustion in your bones, though the reality of your situation constantly gnaws at the back of your mind.
He produces the same flask he gave you for your wound, and a folded leaf, tipping a small amount of water gently into it.
“Here.”
His eyes study your face as you drink, lingering on the way your lips curl around the edge of the leaf. They take in every detail without letting it disturb you, patient, almost reverent, before his thumb absently brushes the edge of the leather strap of his pack, adjusting it as though he suddenly remembered something needing attention.
You decide to ignore the faint pink on his cheeks.
He does not touch you once, yet in his small, careful movements— in the way he leans slightly forward to ensure you are comfortable— you sense the quiet undercurrent beneath it all.
When your stomach settles enough to ease the tightness within it, your gaze absently drifts to the carvings tucked inside his open pack— a tiny fox, and a bird mid-flight. Slowly, you reach out, lifting the fox in your hands.
His gaze follows the movement, softening as you turn the little figure over, tracing the smooth curves with a tentative finger.
“I make these.” He shrugs, almost shyly. “For children, sometimes for travelers. They are like… Little reminders.”
Unexpected tenderness is threaded through his words.
Your thumb follows the careful curve of its tail, the tiny ears, the delicate indent that marks the eyes. The work itself is simple, yet there is patience in it— patience and quiet attention, the kind that can only come from someone willing to sit for long hours shaping wood without tiring.
You glance up without meaning to.
The moment your eyes meet his, he looks away almost immediately, lowering his gaze toward the forest floor as though he has been caught doing something he should not. One of his large hands rubs absently at the back of his neck, a small, awkward gesture that feels strangely out of place on someone so imposing.
You look back down at the carving.
For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The forest hums quietly around you, leaves stirring overhead while somewhere deeper in the trees a bird chirps.
“There are always children running through the market.” He hums, almost thoughtfully. “They like to watch when I bring new carvings. One of them— little Tomas— tries to guess what animal each piece will become before I finish it.” A quiet huff of amusement escapes him. “He is wrong most of the time, but he insists he will learn.”
Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitches faintly.
The image forms in your mind without permission: a market square, smiling children weaving through the stalls, and this enormous orc sitting somewhere among them with a knife and a block of wood, patiently shaping animals while a little boy peers over his shoulder.
Monsters are not supposed to carve toys for children.
You shift uncomfortably at the thought, your knee protesting as you move, and his head lifts immediately, attention snapping back to you.
“Does it hurt?”
The concern in his voice makes your chest tighten.
“It’s… Manageable.” You cough, the words coming out weaker than you intend.
His gaze drops briefly toward your leg before returning to your face just as quickly, careful not to linger.
“There is a baker in the market,” he steers the conversation somewhere gentler. “An old woman. She pretends she does not like me very much.”
A small smile tugs faintly at one corner of his mouth.
“But every time I bring her a carving for her granddaughter, she gives me a warm loaf of bread.”
Your fingers continue to fidget gently with the little fox, feeling the faint ridges left by the carving knife.
“Do the children ever try to steal them?”
The soft breath that escapes his nose might almost be a laugh.
“Not steal,” he grins gently. “But they do try to claim them before they’re finished.”
Your head tilts curiously.
“Little Rose insists every carving I make is meant for her. She follows me around the market until I promise to bring her another the next week.”
“And do you?”
“Yes.”
You study him for a moment, unsure what to make of that simple answer.
“She names them.”
You blink. “The carvings?”
He nods once with a faint smile.
“She says they should have names once they’re finished, because that’s when they’re born.”
Your thumb brushes over the carving’s tiny ears again.
“You must spend a lot of time there.” You murmur.
“When I’m not working.”
“What do you build?”
“Furniture, mostly.” He straightens slightly without seeming aware of it. “Tables, cupboards, doors. Whatever people need.”
Your attention falls briefly on his hands.
The knuckles are broad and scarred in places, the fingers thick and calloused— hands that would be suited for lifting beams and splitting logs, not for carving animals small enough to fit in a pocket.
“You work alone?”
“Most days.”
“And the rest?”
“Sometimes people ask for help,” he shrugs. “Fixing a roof. Replacing a broken step... That sort of thing.”
The simplicity of it throws you off balance.
The things he describes sound… Ordinary. Peaceful.
You lower the figure into your lap, glancing around, and you notice that the forest has changed.
The golden light of afternoon has faded into something cooler. Shadows have lengthened across the ground, stretching thin and dark between the trunks, the canopy above slowly swallowing what remains of the sun.
You shift again, testing the leg without quite meaning to. The movement is small, but the orc notices it anyway. His head lifts, though he glances past you, focusing on the trees surrounding the clearing, and for a moment his eyes linger there.
Then, he rises to his feet.
The motion is decisive, his tall frame straightening as he firmly observes the perimeter, as though seizing something only he can see.
“It’s getting late.”
When he looks back down at you, his expression is pensive rather than concerned.
“We won’t reach Oakshire before nightfall, and traveling through the forest in the dark wouldn’t be wise. Not with your knee in this condition.”
The words are spoken calmly, without pressure, but there is certainty in them.
“We should stop here for the night.”
Your fingers twitch once around the wooden toy.
The thought of spending the night out here— alone in the forest, with him— sends a weak ripple of unease along your spine that he seems to notice right away.
“I’ll make a fire,” he adds gently. “There’s a stream not far from here as well. You’ll be safe with me.”
Then he turns, already stepping toward the trees in search of wood.
For a moment you simply watch him go. And then it strikes you, oddly and belatedly, that through all the confusion, the fear, the stumbling journey through the forest, there is something absurdly simple you have not asked.
“Wait!”
The word escapes you before you have fully decided to speak.
He stops at once, turning back so that his full attention returns to you. The fading light filters through the branches above him, catching briefly on the curve of his tusks and the dark strands of his long hair, leaving the rest of him in soft shadow.
Your fingers tighten once again around the little wooden fox resting in your lap.
“What—” You pause, unsure why the question feels so difficult. “What is your name?”
Something shifts in his expression, almost startled.
“My name?” His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
You nod faintly. “Yes.”
As he observes you, his features soften in a way you cannot quite decipher, a surprised warmth touching his eyes before he seems to remember himself.
“Bucky.” He says at last.
The name is simple. Human, almost. Not what you expected. You repeat it silently in your mind, testing the unfamiliar shape of it, and when you lift your gaze again, he is still watching you.
That's when he clears his throat, the spell of the moment breaking.
“I won’t go far,” he gestures toward the trees with a small tilt of his head. “Just enough to find some dry branches.”
Then he turns again and disappears a few steps into the dimming woods, leaving you sitting on his blanket with the little carved fox to keep you company and the weight of his name lingering softly in the evening air.
He did not ask for yours.
END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
March is falling for you, but he sees how you act around Olric and knows you'll never return his feelings. His solution is to bottle up his emotions and drop kick it as far away from him as possible. Somehow, he doesn't realize what happens to glass when you kick it.
March x Reader
Word count: 2.7k
Warnings: Angst (with a happy ending), assumed unrequited feelings, minor swearing, drinking as a coping mechanism, a slightly toxic confession scene
Note: This took a lot longer to write than I thought it would, but I love it, so that's okay. Please let me know if you like it! Tagging @atoltia because she asked so nicely
The bell ringing above the door of the blacksmith’s prompts March to turn from his spot at his desk to see who entered, greeted by your bright smile and sack of ore from your latest trip down to the mines. He ignores the clenching in his chest as you beeline to him, procuring a perfect piece of iron ore and holding it out to him.
“Hey, I found this and thought of you.”
He hates it when you talk to him like you want to see him. It could be so easy for him to trick himself into thinking that’s the case. The increased visits to the shop when you don’t need any new tools, the gifts, the attention — when he’s feeling particularly delusional, he wonders if it truly is all for him. But the illusion breaks after he takes the ore and gives the only response he’s capable of under your expectant gaze, something lukewarm to disguise the warmth rushing to his cheeks, and you move on to who you’re actually here for.
Olric.
It’s annoying, hearing Olric tell the same stupid story about his most recent part-time shift around town for the third time in two days. It’s even more annoying when he has to hear you laugh at it, because now instead of focusing on his work, he’s distracted by coming up with ways to hear your laugh for the rest of his life.
“I’m trying to concentrate. Don’t either of you have work to do?” His voice comes out harsher than he intends, but he can’t bring himself to amend it. His position at his desk is a convenient cover from your gaze as you pause. Do you see the white-knuckled grip on his pencil? Do you notice the redness in his cheeks?
He doesn’t have to look at you to know your expression. Raised brow, a wrinkle of confusion and annoyance. He hasn’t snapped at you like that in a while, hasn’t deemed you a nuisance. You thought you were past this with him.You purse your lips and side-eye Olric, who only gives you a guilty shrug. “Sorry, March. I’ll get out of your hair.” You shoulder your bag and say goodbye to Olric, pausing at the door. “I’ll see you both at the inn tonight?”
“Yeah, totally!” March gives a flat grunt following Olric’s enthusiastic answer, and continues scribbling out blueprints.
The door closes behind you, leaving a tense silence as Olric decides whether or not to question him. Before he can, a gasp escapes him. “I have a shift at the general store!” He rushes out the door, and March turns in his chair to see him walk past the window with you smiling brightly at him.
The rip of paper brings him out of his thoughts. March looks down at the blueprints to see a large tear where the pencil had ripped through the paper. With a frustrated sigh, March balls up the paper and tosses it into the wastebasket before pushing himself up from his desk, grabbing his hammer and heading out the door.
Get a grip.
Why do you care who the stupid farmer talks to anyway?
Why do you think they’d ever smile at you like that?
Each passing thought is channeled into March’s swing, punctuated by the loud banging of his hammer against metal. The shop needs a new sword on display after he gave you the last one in exchange for all the ore you’ve been handing over. He can’t let himself be in debt to you. Can’t let himself owe you anything. Because then you’d just give him that smile you have whenever you think you’ve made progress with him, the one that drives him insane. You drive him insane. Every laugh when he brags about his skill, every smile as you hand over a gift from the mines, every new scar from your journeys down there… he can’t tell if he admires you or is worried about you when you act like nothing happened after passing out in the mines. Seeing his sword strapped to your back as you run around town helped after the last time Valen had to heal you — it also made it worse. It made you keep talking to him; it made him keep responding. And now… now it just makes him confused. Frustrated. Annoyed.
Angry.
Angry when you smile at him as though he deserves it. Angry when he messes up and snaps at you. Angry when you just roll your eyes and give it back to him, making his stomach twist in guilt — both because you don’t deserve his attitude and because he likes it when you return his energy. You don’t coddle him like Olric does. You don’t defend him when he’s being a jerk. You don’t insist he’s secretly better than he is. You see him for who he is, and you like him for who he is.
But you like Olric more. You like Olric in the way March wishes you would like him. Not that he blames you, though he can certainly pretend to. Olric is better than him. Maybe not at blacksmithing, but at everything else. Everything you deserve. And it pisses him off.
“Are you, uh… trying out a new technique, bro?”
March forces his glare away from Olric to the anvil. The sword he’d been taking his anger out on now sits in pieces, the metal ruined from sitting in the forge for too long before he started working on it. He sneers down at his failure. “No. I’m screwing up.”
“I’m sure it can be reused… somehow.” Olric reaches up and scratches the back of his neck as he attempts to be reassuring.
“It can’t.” March swipes the metal into the scrap bucket that’s been steadily becoming more and more needed the longer you’ve been living in his head. Maybe it’s for the best that you like Olric. That way, he can finally force his feelings to the back of his mind and get back to his standards of perfection. Maybe it’ll actually work this time.
Olric is saying something about not worrying about the waste of metal when him saying your name brings March’s attention back. “— and I are going down to the tide caverns of the mines tomorrow, if you want to join?”
The offer makes March roll his eyes. He’s never been a miner. After the earthquake, sometimes he’ll go a few levels down in the upper mines for copper if he’s really desperate, but otherwise, he relies on Olric and Balor for supply. Not to mention, he’d rather look for worms after it rains than be a third wheel to you and Olric in the mines, working together, protecting each other with his sword on your back—
“March?”
He grits his teeth and tears off his gloves. “I’ll pass.” He storms past Olric into the shop, slamming the door behind him.
~~~
As soon as you walk into the inn, March feels the room brighten, and he watches you make your rounds. You first visit the Dragon Guard, who are conspiring on their next hit — March overheard them ‘whispering’ about Juniper earlier, the kids aren’t subtle. Next, you check in on the latest session of Dragons & Drama that Celine is running, and after that, you stop for a round of cards. March observes you sitting next to Olric, consulting each other about your hands to the annoyance of everyone else playing. And when you win instead of Olric, he cheerfully congratulates you, his arm around your shoulders causing March to grip his glass tighter.
You finally sit next to him at the bar, and the sinking feeling in his gut disappears with your smile. Hemlock slides a drink to you over the bar, and you thank him before turning to March, your voice low. “You seemed a little off this morning, are you feeling better?”
“Now that you’re here,” He drawls with a smile, propping his head up with his hand, his elbow resting on the bar.
You bite back a smile, and March suddenly has the strong urge to cup your cheeks in his hands as your face takes on a warmer hue and you laugh softly, hiding behind a sip of your drink. “Did Olric ask you about the mines tomorrow? I wanted to ask you myself, but thought you might still be… moody.”
He frowns — if he’s being honest, it’s more of a pout. “‘S’not fair.”
Your brow furrows. “Sorry, I just didn’t want to bother you.”
“You are bothering me.”
Your face twists in confusion and offense. “I can leave—”
“Noooo.” It begins to occur to March that drinking does not make him magically better at expressing himself. He reaches forward as you start to get up, but you’re closer than he’s prepared for, so he holds your wrists when he means to take your hands in his. “I mean… ‘s’not fair that you hang out with Olric all the time. ‘S’like you like him or something.”
“I do like him.”
You say something else, but the blood is already rushing in his ears. “You… you do?”
Your confusion doesn’t let up. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
No. There isn’t. Because Olric is everything March isn’t. He’s nice, and humble, and respectful. His compliments aren’t backhanded, and his praise doesn’t have to be earned. Olric doesn’t have to hide behind alcohol to express how he feels. He doesn’t have to drink to be happy.
You like Olric. March already knew, but to hear it from your lips makes the sting burn. The warmth of your skin under his hands turns to ice, and he pulls back quickly. Too quickly, as his elbow hits his glass and sends it crashing to the ground.
Everyone turns at the sound of glass shattering, and March’s face burns under their gazes as he pushes himself to stand. You reach out to steady him as he stumbles, avoiding stepping on broken glass. “I’ll pay for it,” He manages as Josephine approaches, ready with a broom and dustpan.
“There’s no need. You didn’t get nicked or anything, right?” Josephine waves him off with a smile that he can only read as pity.
“I’m fine.” He backs away, keeping his head down, and shoves his hands in his pockets before leaving. The cool night air does little to help the burning in his cheeks as he stalks over the bridge to get home.
On the way, a hand is on his shoulder. And he turns to see you, your concerned gaze under the moonlight doing nothing to help his inner turmoil. “March? What happened?”
“I said I’m fine!” He wrenches himself away, glaring at you. “Just go be with your boyfriend!”
You hold your hands up to placate him, only angering him more. “What are you talking about?”
“Olric!” He steps forward, closing in the space between you. “You said you like him, so how about you go do something about it instead of being a useless coward?”
Your face falls for a moment before hardening, and you straighten. “Get some sleep, March,” You say coolly. “It seems like you need it.”
You head back to the inn, and March glares over the side of the bridge, debating the merits of a night swim when Olric finds him and brings him home.
~~~
March is occupying himself witht he inventory books the next morning when the bell above the door rings. He looks up to see you enter, dressed for the mines, with his sword strapped to your back. Despite the pain relieving tonic from Valen, his head throbs. “Olric left already,” He bites out, forcing himself to look down at the book.
“I told him I’d meet him there.” You set a paper cup on the sales desk and push it towards him. “Fresh from Darcy. She said she hasn’t seen you today.”
There was no chance in hell he was going to the market today. Everyone would just ask him how he was, and what was wrong, and he might just throw himself over the bridge for sure. His headache forces him to take the cup, despite never wanting to accept anything from you ever again. It’s a mocha. At least he can pretend it’s from Darcy knowing his order instead of you. You watch him expectantly as he takes a drink, an edge in your gaze. You’re expecting him to lash out at you again. He just might. “You should go. Wouldn’t want you to be late for your date.”
Your eyes narrow, and he pointedly returns to the inventory lists. “It’s not a date,” You reply.
“But you want it to be.”
“No, I don’t.” You reach forward and close the book, bringing it over to your side of the desk. March glares at you, but you don’t waver. “So, let’s talk about it.”
It’s times like these when March wishes you would treat him like everyone else. Give him a wide berth when he’s upset, only bother him when necessary, and treat him like a ticking bomb just waiting to go off. Stop being so… you. Maybe then he wouldn’t like you as much, and you wouldn’t be forcing this conversation on him in the first place. “If you want to talk so bad, then talk to Olric,” He grits out.
“You are such a child!” You round the desk, removing the barrier between you. “I’m not dating Olric, I don’t want to date him—”
“You said you like him—”
“I thought you meant as a friend!” You throw your hands out in exasperation. “And you know what? Even if I did like him romantically, why do you care? Why is it any of your business?”
He balls his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “It isn’t.”
“No.” You step forward again, closing the distance between you. “It’s not rhetorical. Why do you care so much about who I like, March? Because I have a feeling, but I’m not gonna make it easy for you after you’ve been treating me like shit for no good reason. So how about you do something about it instead of being a useless coward?”
For the first time in a long time, he does something about it. The kiss he pulls you in for is bruising and awkward, but that doesn’t stop you from returning the intensity with equal fervor. His drink sits forgotten on the table as he holds the back of your neck, his other hand gripping your hip. You clutch the front of his shirt tightly, arching your body closer into him. His lips part, and you capture more of him, causing him to gasp against your mouth.
When you finally part, neither of you let go of the other, both breathing heavily. “Why… why did you think I liked Olric?” You ask softly, still catching your breath.
He knows his face is red, but he’s close enough to see that your cheeks are a deeper hue as well. “You always come by to see him.”
“I always come by to see you.” Your palms flatten against his chest and you laugh. “Do you seriously need me to tell you how disgustingly obvious it is that I like you? Because I will. And it will be disgusting. And slightly stalker-y. And you’ll feel really stupid that you got it wrong.”
He purses his lips to hide the smile threatening to surface. “So, what, you’re so smart that you’ve known I liked you all along and did nothing about it?”
“I had no idea until you freaked out on me last night.” Your hand trails up to his cheek. “So I guess we’re both a little stupid.”
“Can I kiss you again?” He asks, dipping his head down. “I didn’t do it right the first time.”
“It felt alright to me.” Your gaze falls to his lips. You can still feel where your teeth had knocked together, and your lips sting.
“‘Alright’ isn’t good enough.”
“You’re such a perfectionist,” You laugh, leaning in so your lips graze against his. “But I’ll allow it.”
He closes the distance, and vows to perfect his technique as long as you’ll let him.
March was drunk one night at the inn and compliments you. Over the course of time March finally confesses his feelings for you.
WC: 1863
Masterlist
Fluff
The inn was dim, beers slinging across the table, and people singing shitty Karaoke. On about his third beer March sat at the bar. Face completely flushed, and drunker than usual. You sat next to him, in the only open seat in the . You were convinced March, the guy with the red hair, and aloof attitude couldn’t stand you. He turned his head, noticing you right away.
“Hey farm girl.” He waves his speech slightly slurred.
“Hey.” You were utterly exhausted from going down to the mines tonight. March noticed your disheveled appearance almost instantly even in his drunken state.
“You alright?” He asks with a soft tone, something you’ve never heard before. Nodding slowly you took a sip of the cold beer that was placed in front of you. March’s trademark scowl turned into more of a nervous smile, you knew he had to be wasted.
“Farm girl. You know you aren’t half bad?” He mumbles. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. Okay?”
Surprised at his sudden admission you figured he must be pretty drunk. Quickly you managed to flag down his brother Olric.
“I think your little brother is wasted. Need some help taking him home?” You whispered. Olric nodded.
“Hey… March. Time to go home alright?” He was resting his forehead on the bar about half asleep.
“Mhmm. Sleep here” he mumbled almost incoherently. Olric sighed, dragging him off the bar stool. You each got on one side of him essentially dragging him back to his place. March was groaning in his half asleep still drunk state. Once his head hit the pillow soft snores erupted from the drunk blacksmith.
“Thanks for your help (Y/N). Dude is like dead weight when he gets wasted.” Olric chuckled. After a few minutes you began the trek back to the farm. The thought of march complimenting you stuck in your mind the entire walk back. Drunk or not it was something that was definitely out of character. You paused while walking, releasing a sigh before continuing to the farm.
About a week went by, nothing between you two changed since that night. Why would it? Especially when he doesn’t remember it. Walking past the forage you saw March in the middle of a project. Sweat dripping down his forehead as his bangs moved with every hit of the metal. He noticed you staring.
“Kinda busy right now.” His tone was firm.
“Just passing through. I gathered some ore for you.”
Reaching into your bag pulling out some gold ore from your trip to the mines that day.
“Thanks.” He took the ore, putting it into his pockets quickly before returning to his work. You felt a little disheartened by his lack of response, but you tried to keep it lowkey before walking off. March did notice the subtle change in your mood when he responded so bluntly. March also remembered what he’d said at the bar that night, something that was plaguing his thoughts ever since that moment. Deciding to push down those thoughts he went straight back to work, that surely had to keep the nagging thoughts at bay.
“Oh was that (Y/N)?” Olric’s chipper tone broke the silence between his hammering.
“Yup. Sure was.” March continued his work.
“It wouldn’t kill you to be a little nicer to her March. I know you have this whole persona to maintain, but she’s really kindhearted.” Olric was always trying to get March to let his guard down a bit.
“Keep it in mind.” March was getting annoyed at this point. Olric took it as his time to leave.
Day after day you worked yourself to the bone trying to navigate the mines. Without a break for weeks. Since you were the farmer of the town they expected quality produce shipments as well. There was truly no time for a break. This could only go on for so long before your body used every available source of energy. Struggling to even leave the mines one step after the other, draining your energy bit by bit just trying to make it to the farm. One second later you were lying on the dirt path going into town, clothes torn, a plethora of small cuts and bruises adorning your entire body. You finally succumb to the inevitable lack of energy.
March had been taking an evening stroll after he finally finished the metal piece he’d been working on for months. His mind was plagued with thoughts, specifically about that night at the inn. The way your face looked when he complimented you, the slight red hue covering your round cheeks. Catching a glimpse of something on the path ahead he rushed over realizing it was a person, more specifically you.
“Shit. Farm girl you alright?” He asked, almost sounding annoyed, but secretly he was internally panicking. You didn’t say anything besides a soft groan when he tapped your hand with his foot. Sorting through his thoughts he decided to drag you back to the blacksmith’s shop, it was only a little ways away.
“Come on farm girl…” he was already exhausted from dragging you a small way. Once he finally reached the final destination he managed to situate you onto his bed. You were still passed out rolling over once you were on his bed. He scoffed before making his way over to the couch. Olric arrived home as soon as he got comfortable.
“You know your bedroom is right there?” Olric smiled.
“Yeah.” He scoffed, not wanting to reveal your presence. His mind was plagued with ways on how to help you, Olric sat down in the chair next to the couch.
“Then why are you trying to sleep out here?” Olric was prying. March gave no response just rolled over on the couch.
“Is there a monster under your bed? Should I go check?” Olric made his way to March’s bedroom door, opening it up before March could stop him. Olric turned his head, before he could say anything March harshly interjected
“She passed out on the path. Just brought her here to rest.”
Olric smirked “you didn’t take her home?” March felt his face get a little hot before harshly explaining.
“She’s heavy when she’s asleep. The farm was too far away. Better here than on the path.”
Olric rolled his eyes before retiring to his room for the night. March caught himself shortly after cracking the door to his room to just check on you. He never stopped to take a look at really anyone but you, he saw the signs of exhaustion present on your face. Like you’d been working yourself to the bone, without realizing it his hand gently came to rest on your cheek. March was going to make sure this didn’t happen again. He was sure of it.
After you woke up the next morning highly apologetic, and quite embarrassed you made your way back to the farm. March was trying to think of a way to help ease some of your workload while struggling to manage his. On a rare day off he decided to go visit the farm bearing a gift. He saw you from a distance sweat pouring down from your face, a pile of fresh produce you’d just harvested, the exhaustion evident on your face. Then as he approached you noticed him, the usual spark prominent on your voice faded.
“Hey March. What brings you by?”
March felt his heart begin beating faster, something that only happened when you were around.
“Farm girl. I wanted to bring you something.” He pulled the wrapped up item from his bag. Stunned, you took it before unwrapping it to see a small cake.
“Thank you.” Was all you could manage to say.
“Don’t mention it.” March nodded before turning around to leave.
“Wait.” You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Would you like to eat this with me?” March could feel his heart skip a beat.
“I bought it for you farm girl.” He was having a tough time keeping his composure. You softly smiled
“No, I insist. Think of it as a thank you for not letting me freeze to death on the path that night.”
He sighed “Fine. Only because you are insisting.”
You softly smiled as you walked towards the farmhouse glancing back at him “I thought you hated me.”
“I never said that.” He shot you an almost surprised look even when his voice sounded so cold.
“For the record, I don’t hate you. Actually the exact opposite.” He sighed, his normal demeanor shaken for a moment. You paused taking in what he just said. March nervously kept rambling like he didn’t mean to say that last part outloud.
“Like friends is what I mean, you bring me more all of the time. It’s helped out with a ton of my projects…”
You looked back at him once more, his bright red hair was a contrast to the farm behind him blowing in the wind. He looked so soft, unlike his normal guarded presence. You realized how hot your face was, figuring it was a bright shade of red at this point. You made it back to the farm house. Setting a pot of tea on the stove, then setting out two plates for the cake.Sitting at the table you both reached for the knife your hands slightly touched garnering a reaction out of the two of you.
“Sorry.” you mumbled as he reached for the knife cutting two slices out of the small cake.
He shook his head “Don’t be” You could tell he was getting nervous like he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure if he could muster the courage.
“Remember that night at the inn?” March stated you nodded and he continued “I haven’t been able to erase that moment from my mind.”
“Oh. In a good or bad way?” You nervously asked.
“In a good way.” He states without hesitation.
“If we’re being honest. I haven’t stopped thinking about it either.” As those words left your mouth his eyes widened slightly. March wasn’t typically this type of man, acting on his thoughts before thinking all possible scenarios through it. He stood up walking over to where you were seated. Bending over the top of you, his face less than a centimeter from yours, he broke the small gap between you. Pressing his lips onto yours, then deepening the kiss once you started kissing back. He pulled away staring into your eyes, his hand under your chin before placing a peck on the tip of your nose.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers before standing up fully looking down at you.
“Don’t be” You responded in a very March way, but it was true. You were shocked, yes, but this was something you wanted as well. March’s face was almost the same color as his hair.
“You are cute.” Teasing him.
“I am not cute.” March slightly pouts in his own way
“Sure.” You stood up, placing a soft kiss on his lips. His hands rested on your waist as he pulled away looking into your eyes. This was definitely a view you could get used to.
A/N: Hehe. I was feeling in a bit of a fields of mistria mood. Hope you enjoy :3 Much love for the grumpy blacksmith.
Idea? The bachelors pop up to ask you if you two were still on for one of the festivals, only to be told that they already have a date for it. (How do you have a date? We're dating...)
Turns out their "date" is one of the kiddos! You volunteered to keep them so their parents can enjoy the festival!
I went with more of a drabble style for this! I hope you enjoy this was super fun to write!
Balor:
When he spotted you running up toward his cart from your farm, his heart skipped a beat. He was always so happy to see you, hear your voice. It just so happened to be the Spring Festival coming up and he wanted to make sure that you’d be joining him.
“Ah, hello darling.” He says in greeting, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “And where are you off to this morning?”
“Oh! Just grabbing some seeds from the Shop, then maybe heading over to the Mill for some feed.” You tell him.
“Mmh,” He nods, running his hand up and down your arm. “So, will you and I still be on for the Spring festival? I do want to steal you away at some point.”
“Oh!” He watches you blink, shaking your head. “No! Sorry, I can’t be your date.”
Balor blinks at you, tilting his head as he mumbles. “…but we’re dating…?”
You can’t help but laugh at him, “I forgot to tell you! I agreed to help watch the dragon guard so Nora, Holt, Hemlock and Jo can actually enjoy the festival. They’re pumped.”
Balor laughs warmly, “Ah I see.” He pulls you into his arms. “Well in that case, I suppose we’ll have to keep them busy. And maybe after a while, we can pawn them back off on their rightful owners so we can have a drink?” He smirks, raising an eyebrow.
You quickly kiss him, “I think that sounds perfect.” You giggle.
Eiland:
He had been so sure, so sure you’d be his that you couldn’t ever think about someone else? But he watches you deny his confirmation of your date. Something in his twisting into bitterness. “Wait- what?”
He stops digging, where you had joined him. “I can’t be your date, I already promised that i’d help with the kids.” You sigh.
Eiland feels a breath of relief fall out of him. “You’re watching the kids?”
You give a nod. “Yeah! I figured that Nora, and Holt especially could use some help watching Dell. So when they asked if i’d dance with her at the Harvest Fest, I couldn’t really refuse.” You smile.
“Ah.” Eiland sighs, then as much as he tries not to pout- he does. “…can I at least have one dance?”
That gets a good laugh out of you. “Of course, you’ll have be my dance partner.” You tell him, leaning over and kissing his cheek.
March:
He was so nervous to ask you, waiting for the moment that you ran up to his forage. He knew you’d have no reason to say no, but still. You’d asked him last year to go to the Shooting Star festival. He had been a little bit of a jerk about it, but he wanted to make it up to you tonight…
And sure enough, you come bounding up to him. “Hey.” He says, giving a little nod. Handing you his Star broach. “You wanna go to the festival tonight with me?”
“Oh! I can’t.” You pout, “Sorry…”
March’s brow furrows. “What do you mean you can’t?”
“Someone already asked me-“ You sigh. Only to be cut off by March.
“Who? They all know where dating! Besides, it’s kinda a romantic holiday thing?” Now it’s March’s turn to pout.
“March,” You laugh, cupping his cheek. “Maple, Luc, and Dell asked me. So our destiny’s could be fulfilled as dragon guard members. I said yes, because I know how sweet a holiday like this could mean for their parents.”
Well now, he feels stupid. “So you’re watching the brats for a little bit?”
You give a nod, “And then we can watch them together.”
He pulls you into him, kissing your temple. “Good…” He mumbles.
Ryis:
Everyone in town knew that Ryis was in a good mood. He had a pep in his step, was whistling while he walked. Practically lit up when he saw you. "Hey babe." He grins, pulling you in for a quick kiss.
"I can't wait to dance with you tonight." He sighs wistfully, looking at everyone setting up for the Harvest festival.
"Oh!" You blink, "About that actually we can't."
Ryis's demeanor immediately changes, shoulders dropping. Pout coming on. "What? Why?"
Before you can even get out a reply, Dell comes running up to you. "Y/N!" She tugs your arm, pulling you away from Ryis. "C'mon the Dragon guard is preparing the special dance for the Harvest Festival! We need you to come practice!"
Looking apologetically at Ryis, you sigh. "Okay, okay Dell. I'll be right there. Hold on." You smile.
Ryis smiles at how gentle you are with her. "I see, so that's why you can't be my dance partner?" He teases.
"It is very serious work." You smirk, leaning in for a kiss. "Maybe though, we can steal one later." You hum.
Ryis gives you a quick kiss. "I think we can manage."
A/N: This was so much fun to write, I tried to go with more romantic festivals. I also- have admittedly not gotten to play much since Unlocking Calderus and I haven't gotten to see the animal festival yet. So I left that one out.
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