about me: stella, 25y/o. i've got 5 tattoos, a love for brown sugar lattes, daisies, lilies of the valley, silver jewelry, and way too many lipsticks.
♦️ listen. not all my fics are 18+ but this is still an 18+ blog so mdni. you've been warned.
currently loving: the pitt, project hail mary, off campus
𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽
𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭 — the pitt
our beloved night shift doctor who cares about his patients and less about himself, though he covers that up with smart quips and immovable calmness during a crisis.
𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 "𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲" 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 — the pitt
our troubled and dearest chief attending who has an alarming amount of unresolved trauma and is 'getting help' yet seems reluctant to do so.
𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐰 "𝐩𝐨𝐩𝐞" 𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐲 — animal kingdom
our eldest cody brother who would burn the world down for the people he cares for. who was taught violence before he was ever taught how to be loved.
A very important snippet from Shawn Hatosy's Variety Interview about The Pitt
Part of the reason he didn’t see the interview was because he’s taken a step away from social media — something that felt necessary this season as some of the commentary became too intense.
“I’ve had to kind of step back. Because sometimes it goes into these weird places where if fans disagree about a character, they start to turn on each other. That is not what this is supposed to be,” he says. “All through my career, I’ve had a pretty good relationship with social media, but now, seeing how all this is unfolding, I’m kind of reevaluating what that looks like.”
So-called "fans" need to read this over and over until it's burned into the backs of their eyelids, and then fucking reevaluate themselves.
andrew "pope" cody — the eldest cody brother who would burn the world down for the people he cares for. who was taught violence before he was ever taught how to be loved.
masterlist — 𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 "𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐲" 𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 (the pitt)
dr. michael "robby" robinavitch — the troubled and dearest chief attending who has an alarming amount of unresolved trauma and is 'getting help' yet seems reluctant, and in the process, hurts those who care about him. including himself.
seize the moment (hurt/comfort)
scoliosis (fluff, slightly suggestive)
take a break (angst)
take a break pt. 2 (hurt/comfort)
run an ex (fluff)
green-eyed (hurt/comfort)
not just a jacket (hurt/comfort)
too old for this (fluff blurb)
isn't really real (hurt/comfort)
baby baby (angst blurb)
no, i can't forget you (hurt/comfort)
dr. jack abbot — the beloved night shift doctor who cares about his patients and less about himself, though he covers that up with smart quips and immovable calmness during a crisis.
coffee tables pt. 1 (hurt/comfort)
coffee tables pt. 2 (hurt/comfort)
she's a menace (suggestive)
what survived the fire (discontinued series)
gym crush (fluff)
i love him (fluff)
ask me again (small hurt/comfort)
the night after (suggestive)
constellations (fluff blurb)
was it ever fake? (fluff, smut)
is it too early? (fluff blurb)
pretty fucked (small hurt/comfort)
protective (fluff)
full of life (hurt/comfort)
suggestive blurb (suggestive)
a ring (hurt/comfort)
spare keys (hurt/comfort)
nanny! (fluff)
>> nanny! prequel: jack is sick (fluff)
>> nanny! sequel: date night (wip)
younger jack abbot (fluff blurb, slightly suggestive)
old bets (hurt/comfort)
sunday morning (fluff blurb)
cold feet (hurt/comfort blurb)
why are you still here (hurt/comfort blurb)
i know this dance (fluff blurb)
Summary: You finally talked Jack into ditching the hospital for a beach getaway since every other trip you've taken together has been during colder seasons, buried under layers. Stripping down to swimwear, you're reminded of how just damn good your man looks under the Italian sun.
Warning: SMUT (MDNI 18+) established relationship, language, pet names, flashbacks to so much vacation sex (descriptions of p in v sex, oral - both m&f), heavy petting/teasing, insecurity (jack's leg and prosthetic), alcohol consumption, pushy italian man not understanding you aren't interested, protective jack, lots of physical touch (dat man is obsessed with you), dirty talk, praise, semi-public smut, (fingering), risk of getting caught, possessiveness, casual dominance, its basically a story about vacation sex, but with plot and love 🙂↔️
A/N: How are there not more vacation!jack fics? Please send them all my way. I hope people have some fun upcoming vacations planned as summer ramps up! GIF by @sammy-bryant found HERE. Dividers as always by @saradika-graphics.
POSITANO, AMALFI COAST ITALY
You woke slowly, the morning light filtering through the curtains of your suite at Le Sirenuse. Jack lay on his stomach beside you, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other relaxed at his side. His face was turned toward you, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth slightly parted. You had talked your man into ditching the hospital for a sunny getaway. Jack was utterly deserving of this rest. You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, breathing in the faint scent of salt and his skin. He had been working tirelessly lately, and dating someone in such a high-stakes profession wasn’t easy, but he had recently switched to the day shift, telling you he didn’t like your opposite schedules anymore. Knowing he wanted to spend more time with you made you feel truly special.
You slipped out of bed and moved to the kitchenette, brewing coffee while the sea breeze drifted in from the open balcony doors. Once it was ready, you carried your mug outside and settled into one of the chairs overlooking the glittering water. It was Day 4 of the trip. The first day had been quiet, just wandering Positano’s narrow streets until Jack pulled you back to the suite and fucked you deep and slow until you fell apart for him. You felt his warmth flood your pussy before you both passed out after the long travel day.
Day 2 started with you going down on him, but he stopped you before things could go further. He pulled you up, his breathing heavy, and pressed you against the wall on the private terrace. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust into you with harsh rolls of his hips, the morning sun warming both of you. You came with your forehead against his shoulder, and he followed soon after, breathing hard against your neck.
You then went to the hotel pool. Jack had said he would join you after lunch, but ended up staying inside and told you he got wrapped up in a book. Later, you drove to Tramonti, toured the vineyard, and drank tons of wine and cheese for hours. You both were probably a bit tipsy by the time you came back for dinner to sober up with some food and water. Before you went to sleep, you enjoyed another round. Jack ate you out from behind before bending you over the bed, taking his time to reach that spot that had your vision swimming with tears and your voice breaking over his name while he whispered words of encouragement in your ear. His teeth bared when he pumped you full of his spend, and you continued to scream his name into the mattress.
Yesterday’s boat cruise was an 8-hour journey along a breathtaking coastline, featuring sights like Emerald Grotto, Furore Fjord, Amalfi, Maiori, Minori, Atrani, and Nerano. Despite the warm sun and the stunning scenery, Jack stayed in his T-shirt and jeans the entire time, while you relaxed in your bikini and cover-up. Both of you ended up talking with a lovely couple visiting from California. For most of the cruise, you hung out with them, sharing stories and enjoying the beautiful views together before returning to the hotel and just sleeping in each other’s arms.
You sipped your coffee and cast a quick glance back inside. Jack was stirring, still half-asleep. You couldn’t stop thinking about how something was slightly off with Jack, and you weren’t an idiot. This was the first summer (and first beachy vacation) you’d taken together in the two years you’d been a couple. The other big trips had been travelling across the Maritime Canadian provinces one autumn, and exploring Japan one winter, hopping between cities on train platforms and staying bundled in layers the entire time. In his everyday life, it was rare for Jack to wear shorts unless he was in the privacy of your shared home—he even preferred his athletic pants when he ran every day back in Pittsburgh. But here, in this quiet, sun-soaked place, you hoped he might finally feel comfortable enough to shed those layers, to wear shorts or trunks like everyone else.
The soft scrape of crutches pulled your attention away from the glittering sea. Jack stepped onto the balcony without his prosthetic, the morning light catching the smooth, healed skin just below his knee. His chest was bare, and his boxer briefs hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp cut of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. His curls were mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded from rest. God, he looked so fucking good on vacation.
"You look beautiful," he said, voice gravel-rough from sleep, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar half-smile.
Warmth bloomed in your chest. "I never want to leave this place. It’s perfect."
Jack lowered himself into the chair beside you and set the crutches aside. You reached for the bare skin of his amputated limb, fingers gliding over the smooth, warm flesh to massage it. He let out a low, rumbling groan, head tipping back against the chair, throat working as his eyes fluttered half-shut. The sound vibrated straight through you, heat pooling low in your belly.
You leaned in to quickly kiss him, not thinking it would escalate to anything, but then his hand slid up your side, strong fingers curling around your waist as he pulled you onto his lap. Your thighs spread over him, the heat of his body pressing up between your legs. His mouth claimed yours again, tongue sliding hot and deliberate against yours. He cupped your breast beneath your shirt, thumb dragging slow circles around your nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak. You felt yourself growing slick, the fabric of your underwear clinging damply as he rocked you subtly against the thickening ridge in his briefs.
"Feel that?" Jack murmured against your lips. "See how fucking hard you make me?"
"I have plans for us this morning," you whined as you began to pull away. "Stop trying to distract me."
"We’re on vacation, pretty sure this right here is the plan," his hand drifted lower, palm pressing firmly between your thighs, rubbing slow, teasing circles over the damp cotton. You whimpered softly, hips twitching forward into his touch. Your lips parted, breath coming quicker as your fingers curled into his shoulders. Jack’s eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your expression—the way your lashes fluttered, the soft sound that escaped your throat when he pressed a little harder.
"That’s it, pretty girl," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His palm rocked against your clit through the thin fabric, steady and deliberate, building the ache until your thighs trembled around him. You could smell the faint musk of his skin, hear the distant crash of waves below, feel the sun warming your back as your body grew hotter, wetter, needier.
"J-Jack," you moaned breathlessly, feeling yourself giving in.
"Keep those perfect eyes on me," he demanded, his tone making you shudder.
You made sure to listen and Jack’s breathing deepened—chest rising and falling faster, jaw tight, pupils blown wide as he watched you. A low groan rumbled from him when you rocked harder, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.
"God, you’re the most gorgeous thing. I want to lay you out right here, and taste every inch of you until you’re shaking." His free hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair as he kissed you again...slow and fucking filthy.
You moaned into his mouth, hips rolling, the wet heat between your legs growing slicker with every teasing press of his palm. Your nipples ached against the fabric of your shirt, every nerve alive and begging for more. When you finally pulled back enough to speak, voice breathy, you said:
"I booked us that Arienzo Beach Club pass for today."
"Oh?" Jack’s expression shifted instantly. The heat in his eyes cooled, the easy warmth fading.
"Yeah, it’s a short walk away."
His hand stilled between your thighs. He looked away, a deep crease forming between his brows.
"One of the hotel concierge staff told me about this little walking tour. Kind of a hidden‑gem thing. Figured we might check it out." It was a flimsy excuse, and the lie was obvious—he probably hadn’t thought about it for even a second before saying it.
You leaned closer, voice dropping into something silky. "Don’t you want to be in one of those private cabanas with me?"
He withdrew his hand with a final, reluctant twitch of his fingers, then gently lifted you from his lap and settled you onto the chair beside him. Leaning over, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.
"I don't want to take away from your beach time. You should go, and we can meet up afterwards."
Jack reached for his crutches, stood, and headed inside without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of running water soon drifted out. The frustration (and horniness) hit you hard, twisting together in your chest as you sat alone on the balcony, the morning sun suddenly feeling too bright...and too empty.
The water hit Jack’s skin hard, almost scalding, but he didn’t turn it down as he sat on his shower chair. He braced one hand against the tile with his head bowed down. He hated disappointing you. Hated the look in your eyes when he shut down.
Traveling with him wasn’t simple, and he knew it. Checking his crutches at the airport. Packing the waterproof (swim leg) prosthetic. Making sure the shower chair fit in his duffle. Calling hotels ahead of time to double-check handicap accessibility, even when they promised everything was fine. It was exhausting. It required planning. It was stressful.
And he hated that you had to deal with any of it.
What he hated more was the thought that you might be pretending it didn't matter.
He pressed his forehead against the tile, letting the fear and self‑loathing churn through him. Jack’s insecurities about his leg didn’t usually own him. Most days, he moved through the world with his usual stubborn defiance. But trips like this, where his body was on display and mobility mattered… it brought every buried doubt roaring back. He hated the way he felt less on days like this—less capable, less appealing, less easy, less fun. He hated that he had to think about terrain, distance, accessibility, and pain levels. Hated that spontaneity wasn’t simple for him.
Jack also didn't want you dealing with the stares at the pool or the beach. The curious looks, the pitying ones, the ones that stuck around too long. He didn't want to slow you down. Didn't want to be the thing you had to work around. Didn't want to be the weight dragging down your plans. The truth was he wanted the cabana, the sun, and your skin under his hands.
He stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as he reached for the towel. He dried off, sat on the bench, and reached for the prosthetic. The socket slid on with a familiar hiss of air, the weight settling against his residual limb. He flexed his foot experimentally, testing the response. Good. No pain today, at least. He dressed quickly, and when he emerged into the suite, you were already dressed. The cover-up was one of his favorites—that lavender cream-colored thing that fell from your shoulders and hinted at the curves beneath without revealing them. Your sunglasses were pushed up on your head, holding back your hair, and you were reaching for a book from the side table, your tote bag already slung over your shoulder.
His chest tightened. You'd been ready to go without him.
"No brunch together?" he asked, and even he could hear the wounded edge in his voice.
You glanced up, and he watched your expression shift—a flicker of something that might have been frustration, quickly smoothed over into something lighter.
"The beach club pass includes food and alcohol," you said, moving toward him with that knowing smile playing at your lips. "But I was waiting for you to get out of the shower to ask if you wanted to eat with me first. You know…if you have time before that 'walking tour' of yours." The sarcasm was gentle, but it was there.
He deserved that.
"I do have time," Jack said quietly. He closed the distance between you and kissed you, pouring everything he couldn't quite say into the press of his mouth against yours. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead against yours.
"I love you," he murmured. You were quiet for a moment, and he felt the weight of what you weren’t saying hang between you. He appreciated that you weren't calling him out, weren't demanding explanations or forcing a conversation he wasn't quite ready to have. But he also knew you deserved better than a man who was too afraid to just be with you at the beach.
"I love you too," you replied, and because you were perfect, you changed the subject as you both headed toward the door.
"There are rumors that George and Amal got here last night," you winked, stepping into the hallway. "They might be staying at this very hotel."
Jack followed, catching your hand and bringing your fingers to his lips as you walked toward the elevator. "I still can't believe you read celebrity gossip," he said, against your skin, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth as you pressed the elevator button. You were a highly respected wealth advisor at a massive institution managing over $7 billion in assets. Jack found it fascinating that you could dissect market volatility before breakfast and had an encyclopedic knowledge of who was dating who in Hollywood.
"It's Page Six," you squeaked in protest, as the elevator doors slid open. "It's basically required reading."
He grinned, watching you step into the elevator with that easy confidence you carried everywhere. God, he loved you.
"Oh, and Dua Lipa and Callum Turner just got married," you added as the doors closed, descending toward the lobby. "She looked so beautiful in her custom Schiaparelli skirt suit."
Jack paused. "Who?”
You gave him a look that suggested this was common knowledge as the elevator dinged softly. "You’re lucky you’re hot."
The sun blazed overhead, turning the water into liquid sapphire that stretched out in gentle rolls toward the horizon. You peeled off your cover-up in the cabana, the purple bikini clinging tighter than your usual suits, and the bottoms riding high on your hips. A quick squeeze of sunscreen across your shoulders and thighs left your skin gleaming. The beach wasn’t deserted, with couples lounging on loungers, and a few families splashing at the shoreline. But, the crowd was sparse compared to the packed stretches you had seen elsewhere. You wished Jack were here with you.
You settled into the padded chair, watching the scene unfold. A silver-haired man in linen shorts kept his arm draped around a much younger woman in a white micro-bikini; she laughed at everything he said and let him feed her strawberries from a silver bowl. Two cabanas down, another older man scrolled on his phone while his companion, maybe 22, knelt between his knees applying lotion to his calves, her ass in the air. The dynamic was clear everywhere you looked: older money, younger beauty, easy transactions wrapped in flirtation and sunblock.
A young waiter in crisp, white shorts and a polo shirt appeared at the edge of the cabana, a small notepad in hand.
"Good afternoon. Can I start you with any drinks from the beach bar?" he asked with a surprisingly Australian accent.
"A mojito, please."
"Right away, Signorina," the waiter said with a polite nod, already turning to head back to the thatch-roofed bar nestled among the palms. Less than five minutes later, the waiter was back, presenting a tall, frosty glass.
"Grazie," you said.
The mojito was perfect and just what you needed.
You cracked open one of the paperbacks you had packed, but then your phone buzzed with that unmistakable Outlook chime you had sworn you were ignoring this whole trip. You’d been doing a surprisingly good job of not checking work emails on this trip, but curiosity tugged at you until you finally reached for the phone, muttering to yourself that you were just as bad as Jack when it came to being too dedicated to your job. One new email sat at the top from a long-time client whose portfolio had taken a beating in the market downturn. The message detailed how he'd panic-sold half his positions at the bottom last week; now he was second-guessing everything and wanted to move the rest into cash. You sighed, closed the app, and tried to focus on your book instead.
After a while, the heat became too much. You walked down to the water, the first cool rush licking up your calves, then your thighs, until you dove under. The sea felt silky against your sunscreen-slick skin, the salt stinging pleasantly at the edges of your bikini. You swam lazy laps parallel to the shore, and the current tugging gently at your body. When your arms started to tire, you waded back out, droplets sliding down your stomach.
You were halfway to the cabana when a tall man in board shorts stepped into your path.
"Bella, you swim like a goddess," he said in a thick Italian accent, eyes dropping to your chest. You smiled politely and kept walking, but he matched your pace.
"You’re not from around here, are you?"
"Nope."
"That explains it," he said, grinning. "The locals don’t look like you."
"Lucky them," you muttered.
"I would love to buy you a drink," he said, stepping a little closer.
"I can buy my own drink," you said, tone still polite but firmer now.
He tilted his head, amused. "Ah, independent."
"I guess."
"Come on, bella. One drink. You’ll enjoy it."
"I’m not interested."
"Oof. You’re breaking my heart here," he said, acting wounded. You closed your eyes for just a moment, gathering patience.
"You’ll live." You sort of hated that you had to say the next part, "Also, I have a boyfriend," but it felt like he was operating under the assumption that your rejection needed a reason he would accept. A simple lack of interest wasn’t going to be one. Maybe if you referenced another man's 'claim' on you, he would take you seriously.
"If you looked like that and were mine, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, bella."
"Good thing I’m not yours, then."
He opened his mouth to fire back, but then his expression shifted. Not toward you, but past you.
A familiar voice cut through the air behind you, calm but edged with steel.
"Is there a fucking reason you’re harassing her?"
You were shocked to see Jack standing shirtless in swim trunks and a t-shirt twisted between his hands. The afternoon light was catching the scatter of freckles across his shoulders, chest, and arms. His salt and pepper curls looked so fucking luscious on this trip. His jaw was clenched, his hazel eyes fixed on the man with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavy. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. There was something about the way he looked at people…that did all the talking.
The Italian man straightened, but you could see the hesitation flicker across his face. Jack took a step forward, unhurried, and his waterproof prosthetic (swim leg) caught the light as his leg shifted beneath him with each measured stride. The man's eyes locked onto it for a fraction of a second, and his confident smirk faltered.
"I asked you a question," Jack said, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. "You deaf, or just stupid?"
"Look, I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to be a disrespectful asshole?" Jack's smile was all teeth, no warmth. The man took an actual step back. Jack didn't move; he just continued to look at him, that cold, assessing stare that suggested he had already decided exactly what he'd do if this continued.
"Listen carefully, you prick," Jack's voice was ice. "Women deal with enough without guys like you pretending that persistence is charming. She said she wasn’t interested. That’s your fucking cue to leave."
The man held up his hands and practically stumbled backward. "I'm g-going. I'm—I'm g-gone."
You stared at Jack, surprised and instantly warm between your thighs at the protective edge in his tone. He rarely swooped in, usually letting you fight your own battles and handle your own shit. But this was different; he had stepped in because someone had disrespected you, not because you were his property to protect. He did it without that ugly display of ownership and gross possessive edge some men mistook for devotion.
Jack balled up the t-shirt in his hand and tossed it into the cabana behind him before he grabbed your towel without a word and began drying you, slow passes over your arms, your stomach, the curve of your ass. The towel moved across your shoulder blades with surprising gentleness, and you realized his jaw had already unclenched.
"You okay?" he grunted, tossing the towel aside. You turned to face him, still damp, still warm from the sun and something else entirely.
"Yeah. I am."
He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Good."
"That was a little caveman of you," you murmured, the corner of your mouth lifting.
"Yeah, well," he muttered, while a faint flush crept up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones. "He was out of line."
You stepped closer, nudging his arm with your shoulder.
"Relax, handsome," you said, smile widening. "I liked it." You pulled him into the cabana, the canvas flaps falling closed behind you. The waiter appeared almost immediately to take your drink orders. Once he returned, Jack took his beer and settled on the wide lounger, pulling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. You set your second mojito of the day on the mantle nearby. His hands stayed on you, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh, fingers tracing the edge of your bikini bottom.
After the waiter left, the mood shifted. Jack’s fingers stilled. "I’m sorry about earlier," he admitted quietly. "Over the years, I’ve just… gotten tired of the stares. I didn't want you dealing with people looking at my prosthetic, wondering what you're doing with me. Honestly…" his voice dropped to a mutter, barely loud enough for you to catch. "…sometimes I wonder what you’re doing with me."
You turned in his arms, cupping his face, and his eyes that now looked green were fixed somewhere past your shoulder.
"Jack, look at me." You waited until his eyes met yours. "Talk to me."
"I can't remember the last time I went to a beach or a pool without dreading it. Years, probably. I've spent so long avoiding situations like this—all the stares, the questions people have asked, the way I've convinced myself that you probably regret travelling here instead of going with someone who could just... be normal."
"Hey." You tilted his chin up. "Stop. You are normal. And I'm not going anywhere."
"You say that now—"
"I'm not finished." You softened your tone but kept it firm. "I know you've probably convinced yourself that your prosthetic makes you less than, or that it's some kind of burden to be around." You traced his jawline. "But that's not the truth, Jack. Not even close." He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly as he listened. "I love every part of you. Your leg doesn't change that—it never could." You kissed his forehead, then his temple, then his lips. "I love you."
His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer.
"And I really appreciate you for being here, and coming to the beach," you continued, your voice soft against his skin. "But I don't ever want you to put yourself in a situation where you feel uncomfortable either. It doesn't matter if we're here or in fucking Antarctica. I just want to spend time with you. That's it. That's all that matters to me." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression vulnerable. "If something doesn't feel right," you said, brushing a curl from his forehead, "you tell me. We figure it out together. We do what feels good for us—not what you think you're supposed to do or what you think I want. Your comfort matters just as much as mine."
His eyes glistened slightly as he nodded, his jaw working like he was fighting to keep his composure.
"For the record. I’m loving this trip, sweetheart. This might be the best vacation I’ve ever been on."
"Really?" you asked meekly.
Jack swallowed, his gaze locked on your mouth. "Really."
You leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. His palm slid up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin purple fabric, before he cupped you fully, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.
"7 more days of paradise," you murmured against his lips when you finally pulled back, voice dreamy. You had an early flight tomorrow flying out to Palermo to wrap up your vacation in Sicily and spend ample time visiting the island. It was a very much needed 2 weeks off.
Jack smirked, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "I could get used to this. You, half-naked all the time. Might never let you put clothes on again." He nipped at your jaw, then kissed the spot he’d bitten. You pulled back with a soft laugh, eyeing his pale, freckled skin (and the faint farmer’s tan he would absolutely deny having).
"We’re going to need another bottle of sunscreen just for you," you said as you reached for the bottle.
"For the record, I can tan," he rolled his eyes. "Eventually… After several medical interventions."
You giggled, squeezing sunscreen into your palms and began smoothing it over his chest and shoulders, careful and thorough. His skin warmed quickly under your hands, and he stayed still, letting you work while he reached down to cover the top of his thighs. Once you were done, he tugged you closer again. His hands never left you—stroking, squeezing, mapping every inch like he couldn’t get enough. The cabana stayed quiet except for the distant waves and the low murmur of your voices, the two of you wrapped around each other while the sun climbed higher outside.
"I haven’t seen this bikini before," he said, voice low. "It’s fucking sexy on you. Those little triangles barely cover anything. I keep thinking about peeling them off."
"You don’t think it’s too revealing?" you teased.
"Baby, it’s perfect. You look incredible. I can’t stop touching you." There was something almost disorienting about the way he was looking at you… like you were the only thing in his entire world worth seeing. It was still hard to understand why Jack saw you as sexy. Past boyfriends had never made you feel that way… but Jack? He fucking worshipped you. You had never experienced this kind of adoration before. Being someone's everything.
You lounged together for a while, then swam into the ocean. The water enveloped you both in its cool, briny embrace as Jack pulled you deeper, the waves lapping at your breasts while the sandy bottom shifted beneath your feet. The scent of sea air and his natural musk filled your nostrils, heightening every sensation as his breath mingled with yours in short, excited puffs. He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, with your tongues dancing in a playful, teenage frenzy of sucking and exploring every corner of each other's mouths. Salty droplets ran down your faces, mixing into the kiss, while the smell of wet skin and ocean breeze enveloped you. His hands were on your hips, and he pulled you tighter against the hard evidence of his own arousal pressing through his swim trunks.
A sharp gasp hitched in your throat, your eyes flying wide.
"Jack," you whispered, your voice a shaky mix of awe and sudden, dizzying arousal. "What are you doing?"
A slow, utterly wicked smile spread across his lips, and his eyebrows lifted in a silent, unmistakable challenge.
"Shhh, just relax," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "I've got you."
You felt his fingers trace the edge of your swimsuit bottoms, a teasing hint that made your breath catch. "Jack, wait—" you breathed, your voice tight with a fear that was half genuine alarm, half intoxicating thrill. Your gaze shot to the shore, a frantic scan of the distant, blurred figures. "Someone could... what if someone sees."
"Half are asleep,” he whispered, his breath hot on your damp skin. "The other half are staring at their phones, trying to figure out if the weird shadow on their screen is a cloud or a notification that their life is profoundly boring." He dipped his head, his nose gliding along the column of your throat, inhaling the scent of saltwater and sunscreen on your skin.
His logic was a seductive trap.
"But..." you managed to say (not really knowing what else to say), as your hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll against his hard cock.
He hushed you gently, nuzzling into the damp hair at your temple. "I'm just finishing what I started earlier," he whispered, his voice a low, tender rumble. "Let me take care of you now."
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and your eyes went wide. A soft, surprised "oh" escaped you as he found your clit, circling with a touch that was electrifying. You could hear the distant laughter and chatter of beachgoers, the rhythmic crash of waves, but it all faded into the background.
Jack loved watching that little hitch in your breath. He loved that he could undo you like this. You were usually all sharp wit and raised eyebrows, but here…here you were just soft sighs and pliant for him. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinging for stability as your knees felt weak, even supported by the water.
"Jack," you breathed out, the name itself a plea. The sun warmed the top of your head while the underwater world remained your private haven.
"I know, baby," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss just below your jaw. "You’re doing so good for me."
You were so responsive. Every little circle, every shift of his fingers, and you were shivering. He was looking at your face… and all the tension was gone. Just pure, sweet surrender. He could do this forever, just watching you fall apart. His fingers continued their gentle, persistent torment. Then, slowly, he began to slide a finger inside you. The sensation made you gasp sharply, your body tensing for a split second at the new, fuller pressure.
"Shhh, easy," he soothed, his voice a velvet command. He stilled his hand, letting you adjust, his thumb never ceasing its soft circles. "Just relax into it, sweetheart. There you go… that’s my girl."
As your body accepted him, he began a slow, shallow rhythm, his finger moving in and out with a slippery ease aided by the water and your own growing wetness. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your mouth falling open in a silent, overwhelmed gasp. The dual sensations were too much—the focused, maddening friction of his thumb and the soft, filling stretch of his finger moving inside you. A low, helpless moan finally broke free.
Jack caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you deeply, swallowing your noises as the waves gently rocked you both. His kiss was tender but consuming, his tongue stroking yours in time with the rhythm of his hand. When he broke for air, his praise was a hot whisper against your slick lips.
"Listen to you," he breathed, his own voice rough with want. "So pretty. So perfect.”
His movements became more deliberate, his thick finger curling slightly, searching. When he found that sweet spot inside you, your entire body jolted against him. A sharp, broken cry tore from your throat.
"God, Jack, please..." you whimpered.
"There?" he asked, his voice thick with satisfaction. He pressed against it again, and your second cry was louder, less controlled, a raw sound of pleasure that echoed slightly over the water before being swallowed by a wave. Jack’s eyes, filled with lust, flicked toward the distant, indistinct shapes on the shore.
"Shhh, baby," he whispered, but there was a new, teasing edge to his tenderness. He pressed another soft kiss to your temple. "You don’t want everyone to hear, do you?"
He curled his finger again, rubbing that sensitive spot of yours. Another moan, high and desperate, was ripped from you as your hips jerked against his hand. You tried to stifle it, biting your lip, but it was useless. The pleasure was too overwhelming.
A low, husky chuckle vibrated against your skin. His lips were right by your ear. "Or… maybe you do," he murmured, his voice dripping with knowing amusement. "Maybe you like the idea that someone might hear how good I make you feel."
He added a second finger alongside the first, stretching you just a little more, the sensation making you gasp. Every slight shift of your bodies rubbed him against you.
"Fuck," he groaned, the word strained. His fingers never stopped their sinful work, pumping into you with a steady, deepening rhythm now, his thumb a consistent counterpoint on your clit.
"God, I wish I could fuck you right now. Make you scream my name so loud the whole beach knows who you belong to."
The vividness of his words, the possessive heat in them, sent a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you. Your own sounds were becoming impossible to control—soft, choked sobs of pleasure with every inward stroke of his fingers.
"Jack..." your voice, a ragged, breathless mess against his neck. "Jack... I love you. I love you, don't stop, please don't ever stop..." The words tumbled out, unfiltered and soaked in pure, delirious pleasure. You were babbling, lost in the storm he was orchestrating with his hands. He shushed you again, but it was a mockery of comfort now. He loved this. He loved the raw, unfiltered honesty of your pleasure, the way you completely fell apart for him and him alone. Hearing you babble his name and those three little words while he had you at his mercy was the most potent aphrodisiac he'd ever known.
He trailed his mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a wet, salty path to your collarbone. The contrast of his hot mouth and the cool ocean sent shivers racing over your skin, pulling you tighter against his hard cock.
"I love you too," he murmured, while his eyes held yours, with flecks of green and gold that were endless. "You're going to come for me right here." His fingers curled, pressing that perfect spot with unerring precision as he spoke. "And when you do, I want you thinking about how when we go back to the hotel room, I'm going to spend an hour between your legs, tasting you until you come over and over again, just from my tongue."
"Oh f-fuck," you gasped, feeling your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation starting deep in your belly, threatening to crest and drown you with the cool water lapping at your waist. Your hips began to move against his hand of their own volition, a frantic, shallow rhythm seeking more friction, more of him.
"And when you're shaking, when you're begging for it, that's when I'm finally going to fuck you."
He saw the panic and the pleasure warring in your eyes, the desperate clamp of your jaw as you fought to stay quiet. It only spurred him on. His thumb became relentless on your clit, a firm, circling pressure, while his fingers fucked into you with a deep, steady rhythm that hit that perfect, devastating spot every single time.
"Hard and fast," he growled, his own breath starting to come faster, his control fraying at the edges just watching you. "I'm going to fill you up so completely that you'll feel me for days. You're going to come on my cock just like you're coming on my fingers right now, aren't you, baby?"
The command in his voice, and the vivid promise, was the final thread to snap. Your body went rigid, a silent scream locked in your throat as the orgasm detonated, a white-hot shockwave of pure, shattering pleasure.
He saw it the second it hit you—the way your eyes rolled back, the tears that instantly welled and spilled over. He captured your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, swallowing every choked sob and whimper of ecstasy. His tongue swept against yours, tender and claiming, as he gentled the movements of his hand. He tasted the salt of your tears and felt the helpless tremors still coursing through your limbs.
You were a boneless, quivering weight against him, your face buried in the damp skin of his neck, breathing in the scent of salt, sunscreen, and him. His own breathing was ragged, his body a tightly coiled line of tension pressed against your stomach. For a long moment, he just held you, one arm a solid band around your back, the other hand gently cupping the back of your head.
"You did so good for me."
He shifted slightly, and you could feel him. The hard, insistent length of his cock straining against the fabric of his swim trunks, pressing into your stomach—a stark contrast to your own spent, liquid state. A weak sound of concern escaped your lips.
"Don't you worry about that." Jack gave a strained chuckle, the sound vibrating through you. "We'll take care of it later. Right now... we'll get you some water. And some shade."
He turned around, and you draped limply over the broad expanse of his back. Your cheek rested against the wet skin between his shoulder blades; the world reduced to the sound of his breathing and the gentle lap of the water as he swam. He reached the shallows where the waves gently broke. With a grunt of effort, he stood up, the water dropping from his torso. He kept you secure on his back, your legs hooked over his hips, his hands firmly under your thighs.
Jack walked up the beach in an almost casual stride, nodding at a few scattered sunbathers who glanced your way and were probably staring at his swim leg prosthetic (or his raging hard-on). You, clinging to him, were just the tired girlfriend getting a piggyback ride from her attentive boyfriend. The perfect, innocent picture. He reached the private cabana, and with a final, effortless heave, he swung you gently off his back, depositing you onto the lounger. You landed with a soft thump, your limbs still feeling like over-cooked spaghetti.
He turned and grabbed the bottles of chilled water that the waiter offered immediately. Crouching down in front of you, he uncapped it with a sharp twist.
"Open," he said, his voice low. He didn't hand you the bottle. Instead, he brought it to your lips. When you parted them automatically, he tilted it, the cold water pouring into your mouth. "Drink," he ordered, watching your throat work as you swallowed. A little trickled down your chin, and his gaze followed the droplet's path over your collarbone. You drank until the bottle was empty.
"Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. A shaky, sated smile touched your lips as you looked up at him through half-lidded eyes.
"Good girl," he said, his voice dropping that utterly intimate register of his. He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss.
"You wore me out," you mumbled, your voice thick and drowsy. Your head lolled back against the cabana bed. The sun felt like a warm blanket, and the intense pleasure had left your body feeling heavy, deliciously used, and utterly spent. "Just... gonna close my eyes for a minute..."
Your words slurred into a soft sigh as your eyelids fluttered shut. The world faded to the sound of the distant waves and the feeling of the warm lounger beneath you. You were already slipping into a contented, post-coital doze. He watched you, the bottle of water hanging loosely from his fingers. You were his masterpiece... and beautifully ruined. He sat down in the shade, the frame creaking softly under his weight, and leaned back, stretching his legs out.
"Come here," he said, his voice leaving no room for question. He patted his chest, right over his heart.
Still floating in that boneless, sated haze, you didn't hesitate. You crawled the short distance from where you were and settled against him, your head finding its perfect place on the solid pillow of his muscle. His arm came around you, heavy and secure, his hand splaying possessively over the curve of your hip. His other hand began tracing those lazy, hypnotic circles on the small of your back.
Your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open.
"I love you," you murmured.
"I love you," he echoed, just as you were slipping away.
You stirred, consciousness returning slowly, and pleasantly. The world came back in pieces: the dappled shade of the cabana, the distant cry of seagulls, the solid, warm weight beneath you. You blinked, your eyes adjusting, and glanced at your phone screen where it lay beside the lounger. 4:00 PM. You’d been out for over an hour.
You tilted your head up. He was awake, watching you from behind his sunglasses, a soft, unguarded curve to his mouth. You leaned up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.
"Mmm," you hummed against his mouth as you pulled back just an inch. "I think I need a snack before dinner. All that... 'swimming'.. worked up an appetite." His hand slid from your back to cup your ass, giving it a firm, appreciative squeeze.
"Is that right?" he said, his voice gravelly with disuse. "What kind of snack are you craving?"
"Something sweet," you teased, nipping lightly at his bottom lip. "Maybe something I can eat right here."
"Tempting.” His gaze was hot and appreciative. "But if I start feeding you here, we won't make it to dinner. Let's pack up." He gave your ass one last, playful smack before releasing you. "Up you get."
You pouted dramatically, making a show of stretching your still-tingling limbs. He stood, pulling his t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging briefly to his torso.
"Watching the people here is fascinating, isn't it?" he mused, his tone conversational but his eyes locked on you. You followed his gaze out to the beach. A group of young women were taking an absurd number of selfies a little way down the shore, angling their bodies and drinks just so.
"Right?" you squealed, playing along, putting a hand on your hip and mimicking their poses with exaggerated flair. "The struggle is so real! Do I look aspirational? Do I look like I have my life together?
He chuckled, shaking his head as he finished smoothing his shirt.
"You," he said, stepping close and pulling you to the edge of the sofa bed, "look like you just got fucked senseless. Which is infinitely better."
You laughed and swatted his chest, and wriggled out of his grasp to reach for your cover-up draped over the back of a chair and shimmied into it. The two of you stepped out of the cabana and began walking hand-in-hand, but you were surprised when Jack started pulling you closer to the shore. You saw Jack raise a hand, catching the eye of one of the influencer girls from the selfie group. She was tall and clad in a minuscule neon green bikini, her phone held up as she surveyed the light.
"Scusi," he called. He made a frame with his fingers, pointing at you and himself, then pretended he was taking a picture with an invisible camera. She immediately lowered her own phone.
"Oh! Photo! Yes, of course, I speak English," she said, her accent a pleasant, unplaceable blend, as she gracefully stepped away from her own photoshoot.
He handed her his phone, while whispering to you. "Is it that obvious that I'm American?"
"Yes," you giggled.
She grinned, positioning you both close, his arm tight around your waist, his waterproof prosthetic clearly visible in the frame. The fact that he wanted the photo with his leg showing made your eyes sting. Influencer girl took a few steps back, expertly using the natural light and the stunning views as her canvas.
"Get closer! Yes, like that. Perfect."
He pressed a kiss to your temple as the girl snapped the first photo.
"Beautiful! Now look at each other. Give me a real smile!" she coached, moving slightly to adjust the angle.
You turned your face toward Jack, and the look in his eyes stole your breath. It was open affection, a quiet joy at simply being there with you, exactly as you both were. Your smile changed, becoming real and unguarded. The camera clicked several times in rapid succession.
"Amazing! You two are gorgeous. That light is everything."
"Grazie," Jack said, the Italian word clumsy but earnest.
"Thank you," you said.
As the girl returned Jack's phone, she lingered for a moment and asked the usual small talk question about where you were from. You answered, and within seconds, the conversation shifted with the realization that you and she had grown up in the same country. What a small world. Your attention was suddenly fully on her, and you were completely absorbed talking to her in your native mother tongue and discussing the last time you had been back home. Jack took advantage of the moment and opened his messages to Robby and attached one of the many photos.
Surprisingly, Robby answered almost instantly since it was a little past 10 AM, which was usually when he sneaked in a snack.
Robby: She’s so out of your league.
Jack snorted under his breath. Out of his league? Absolutely. He’d known that from day one, and he still couldn’t believe you’d chosen him anyway. His thumb hovered over the send button for a full second before he finally tapped his next message.
Jack: I think I’m going to do it tonight.
Robby: Holy shit. About damn time, you’ve been carrying that ring around for a year.
Jack: I’m nervous as hell.
Robby: She’s perfect. Go get her, brother.
Robby then sent another quick message.
Robby: You look happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.
Jack thought about the man he’d been before he met you. He was convinced that good things weren’t meant for him. And then you showed up…and you made him want things he’d never let himself want.
When Jack looked up, you were turning back toward him, waiting with that patient little smile he loved more than he could ever say. Jack smiled, slipped the phone away, and reached for your hand as you walked back toward the hotel.
thinking about jack who catches you staring at yourself in the mirror, hunched over like a gremlin with a frown and a pout on your face.
ah, he thinks, i know this dance
"honey?" he walks over to you, circling his arms around your stomach. "what's going on in that pretty head of yours, huh?"
your frown deepens as you lean on him. "you've made me fat."
he chuckles. "me?"
"they call it happy weight." you cover yourself with your arms, "the weight you gain when you're in a happy relationship."
"isn't that a good thing?"
"the happy thing? yes." you say. "the gaining weight part? not so much."
jack hums. "i think you look beautiful like this."
"pish posh."
he laughs. "seriously. i've gained weight, too. it's okay. like you said, it's happy weight."
"it's okay for you, you're a guy!" you argue, "you gain weight and nobody says anything. i gain weight and my family— no, society, has to comment about it every time."
ok maybe i don't know this dance. jack takes his words back.
you sigh and pause before saying. "i'm skipping dinner."
"what? honey, you can't not eat dinner, you haven’t eaten all day-"
"i'm going on a diet!" you shout as you walk away.
"honey, come on," jack follows you, "you're beautiful. i mean it. i like seeing you so happy when you eat. i like taking care of you. i love you-and always will-no matter how you look."
he stands in front of you. "i don't want you starving yourself just because the world's beauty standards are ridiculous."
you look at him with a frown, but the warmth in your chest can't lie. "...fine."
yup, still got it. jack proudly thinks to himself while going to the kitchen to cook you something.
“AI fanfic sounds like it was written by a wattpad 13 year old”? WRONG!!! AI could never replicate the raw self-indulgent mischaracterization and beautifully unrealistic plot holes of an 8th grader discovering her first sad fictional man.
summary: Whirling into the Cody’s life at 16 like the hurricane you are, the permanent intertwine was instant. Younger than the four sons and a late bloomer, you were an afterthought romance wise. Right up until after you turned 20. Having never even thought about you before, a certain Cody brother can’t help but do exclusively that at your newly developed captivating looks that match your ever-present, chaotic personality. After years of being nothing more than acquaintances, you and Popes new growing bond eventually has you facing the possibility that the intimidating and guarded Pope Cody could be the first to tame the tumultuous storm inside you.
this chapter contains: MDNI as always! no use of y/n, afab reader, she/her pronouns, age gap, original characters, erection mention, drugs briefly mentioned, smurf being a manipulative bitch, bullying mentioned heavily, lots of insecurities, lots of comfort :'), unrequited crushing, r is close with her mom and has hair, thats it?
Pope has been sporting a semi for the past six days.
Even now, sitting in the living room with his fucking family, one mention of you and he had to place a pillow over his lap.
Ever since you had basically dangled a lap dance in front of his face, it’s all he can think about.
Your teasing tone, the devilish glint in your eye, your sexy fucking feet in those heels flash into his mind….
Fuck.
He shifts at his place on the red couch, with Baz between him and Deran, and Smurf playing with Craigs hair on the perpendicular end. All of the boys dawn their usual graphic t-shirts or cut offs, and jeans or shorts.
Pope's jeans, currently feel too fucking tight behind his zipper.
He needed to stop thinking about you like that.
Not even just because his family is currently discussing what to do about Jared Lyle, but because you had told him you were just friends.
Granted, he is the one who said it first because Deran had backed him into a corner, but maybe a tiny part of him didn’t think you would agree.
He thought that you had looked at him like you wanted him a few times. But clearly, he was wrong.
You probably just teased him because you can. Because you're sexy and fun. Not because it meant anything to you.
Craig had tried to kick Pope's ass the morning after you kissed him, and Pope had to reiterate the fact that you are just friends.
He was much more embarrassed than he would care to admit. Having to admit to his two younger brothers— who were sitting across the patio from him with death glares— that their even younger friend, didn’t want him like that.
Which, of course you didn’t.
Why the fuck would you want him?
You’re young, so pretty, so confident and good with people. Everything he is not, essentially.
Pope can’t even conduct a conversation without being looked at like he is the monster under someone’s bed.
You had never looked at him like that though.
Maybe that means that—
"Yo Pope. You with us man?" Baz's voice echos from Pope's right, bringing him back to the present.
“Yeah,” Pope grits out without even bothering to tear his eyes away from the wooden floating shelves across the room.
“So what do you think then baby?” Smurfs cold eyes analyze her youngest son’s tight features.
He reluctantly moves his gaze to stare back at her, as she sits in a hot pink robe thats not even trying to be tied fully, her black lace bra peaking out from underneath. A site that Pope is so used to it doesn't even make him uncomfortable anymore. Its just... there.
He squints at her, knowing that whatever is swimming around in her mind is knowing and calculated.
“Fuck that,” Craig scoffs in interruption, sipping his beer with a knuckle-white grip. “I’m not working with that prick.”
“Craig,” Smurf’s voice is laced with a warning that has Popes younger brother cower slightly back into the couch cushions after she squeezes his arm hard.
“I just don’t get why Jared wants to work with us,” Baz shakes his head incredulously and runs a hand through his spiked hair. “He has hundreds of guys in his gang that he could use to pull jobs with.”
“Jared wants people who are experienced,” she says flatly.
Pope raised a brow, “That’s what Julian told you?” in reference to her visit to Pelican Bay state prison in the northernmost part of California.
Smurf juts her chin out, pursing her lips, her robe falling impossibly more open.
What a fucking phony.
Pope knows that she must be gaining something from this. That Julian probably has something on the side for her to profit off of from getting us to work with his son that only two out of four Cody's have met and hated.
“And what’s your cut of the potential jobs we do with him, huh? What’s Julian’s cut?” Pope doesn’t even try to conceal the suspicious venom in his tone.
Smurf squints her eyes, sips her vodka cran then says tightly, “Whatever you want it to be, baby.”
Baz scoffs under his breath, Craig rolls his eyes and Deran is sitting so still he could be a wax figure.
He hasn’t said a word the entire family meeting that Smurf called.
She got back from her weekend upstate and was hush hush about it to all her sons for a few days. Didn't even discuss her visit to gang leader Julian Lyle to Baz, which Pope thought was crazy because he is undoubtedly her favorite which he didn't deserve.
Her 'perfect boy' as she liked to call him.
Ick.
Smurf must have had enough scheming after the third day, because her rounding up the Cody boys at 5 pm to talk about Jared and Julian was unplanned and non negotiable.
She scans the boys cautious and displeasured features, and her eyes flicking back and forth sharply, Pope instantly understands that she's calculating. Gears turning in her brain as she plans some way to force them into doing this for her.
Because whatever she has going on with Julian— whatever she owes him this time— its clearly something she cant get out of.
"Say no, go ahead," The boys all tilt their heads in anticipation at her loaded but breezy, knowing that her next words are going to be a sweet fucking deal they cant pass up.
Smurf takes a long sip of her vodka cranberry as the Cody's stare at her. Not necessarily stalling, never that. But monopolizing.
"I just thought you would be able to suck up whatever jealousy you have for Jared when you learned that he doesn't need a cut of the take. Just your set of abilities."
Pope barks a sharp scoff at the same time Craig does, both saying a vicious, "Yeah right."
"There is no fuckin way Jared doesn't want a cut," Craig continues, eyes narrowed and face slightly blotchy with irritation. "He's too full of himself to settle for that."
Pope doesn't know the son that took over for Julian when he went to prison. But he does know criminals. And like his brother said, there is no fucking way that a criminal would pass up the opportunity for potentially tens of thousands of dollars after contributing to a likely dangerous job.
Smurf's response is simple, tone drenched with pity as if she thinks the boys are idiots for not jumping at this opportunity, "He needs you to steal something back for him. That's his cut."
Pope huffs in disbelief. Of course Smurf knows what the first job is. He shouldn't even be surprised that she withheld information until they needed their interest spiked.
"Steal what?" Baz raises a brow.
She probably knows exactly what he needs stolen.
"Just some of his product, baby."
There it is.
The boys look to each other, not even bothering to acknowledge Smurf with a response yet.
Their eyes all convey the same thing; Julian Lyle needs them to steal his drugs back for him. The realization immediately has them understanding two things.
One: The fact that Jared needs the Cody's to do this job— veteran heist pullers— means that its in a place he can't get to with his thugs and drug dealers can't get to on their own.
Two: The fact that Smurf and Julian— the parents of the Cody and Lyle boys— are orchestrating this, means that the favor Smurf owes Julian is big. Almost as big as the amount of fucking product Jared must have lost.
The boys glare, raise brows, and furrow faces at each other in silent communication before Baz— ever the diplomat— says to Smurf in his classic cool and easy tone, "We'll think about it."
Smurfs face falls for the tiniest of seconds before a tight mask with a sensual smile replaces it.
"Thank you babies. I know you'll make me proud."
"Shit shit shit shit!!"
The sputtering of your car engine in the middle of the fucking road on your drive home from work has your jaw dropping and your grip on your steering wheel tighten.
The woman in the ugly ass mom van next to you rolls up her windows at your cursing, concealing the ears of her child in the back seat.
Well fuck them!
Your fucking car just crapped out on route— um... shit, you don't know, a main route?
Rolling to a complete stop with no signs of starting up again— due to the black smoke puffing out of the hood— you thank whatever god is out there that you're in the right side lane.
The gear creaks as it always does as you shift it to park. Once your blinkers are flick on and off, you step out of the car and onto the mini highway.
People honk from their vehicles behind you and you stick your tongue out at them as they maneuver around you.
Does everyone think you did this on purpose??
You are definitely not strong enough to push your car to the shoulder— you also don't want to get your sundress all sweaty— and you throw your hands up in despair when you realize that you left your wallet with your car tow companies card in it at your apartment.
When you left for the salon this morning, no part of you thought you would need a fucking mechanics number on hand.
Damnit!
Sighing, you round to the side of the car thats parallel to the sidewalk, where people aren't even bothering to hide their stares.
One quick sweep of your surroundings and you realize that you are at the boardwalk a few miles from your place. It's all too familiar as you see the expanse of food and merchandise stores sprawled on top of the wooden planks.
Glancing past the sidewalk and the boardwalk behind it, you see the beautiful sand covered beach thats kissing the teal ocean. The sunset is creating a pretty orange glow on the waves and if you weren't radiating with frustration over your current situation, you might have felt peaceful at the scene.
It reminds you of your teenage years that you spent with your two best friends. One of which, you're currently dialing on the phone.
Four phone calls ring until voicemail. Craig doesn't answer a single one. You are so fucked.
You know you can't call Deran, because he told you he would be 'surfing' with Adrain, his long term on and off hookup that he has kept a secret from everyone but you. You know that Adrain has been traveling for surfing and don't want to ruin his short visit back.
Their hookups are always private and hard to plan, you're not gonna bother Deran with your misfortune. He also probably wouldn't talk to you for two weeks if you did.
You definitely can not call your mom, knowing she would freak out and demand you get rid of your car, which you would never do.
Your car has been with you since high school, and yes, she is old school, but you love her to death and have spent years spending probably too much money fixing all her problems instead of just replacing her.
Spitting out your pink wad of gum you have angrily chewed all the flavor out of, you realize that there is honestly only one other person you can think to call.
Ugh.
You really don't want to call Pope.
The only reason you have his number in the first place is because of the party last weekend. Taking pity on the oldest Cody after your friends threats, you drunkenly forced Pope to exchange numbers with you and told him to 'Tell you what Craig tries to do to him and you'll flush all his coke stashed at your place'.
You were grateful that he gave you his number without being suspicious of the obvious fact that you just wanted his number. Drunk you ended the night with a kiss from Pope Cody and his number. If you hadn't thrown up all over Craigs room, it would have been a success in your book.
The phone rings twice before he picks up.
"Hello?" he sounds as confused as you are when you think about how to fix a car.
"Hi Pope," you plaster on a smile that he can't even see. "I'm cashing in my favor you owe me."
You hear him slightly scoff, "Favor?"
"Your makeover?" you say in a 'duh' tone.
"Right. That," his tone is uneven and he sounds awkward at the reminder memory, "What do you need?"
Satisfaction settles through at the fact that that tactic worked.
"My car broke down and I'm on the side of the road on..." You glance to the nearest street signs and ramble off the names to him.
Before you can even fully form your question, he cuts you off.
"Okay. I'll be there in 10."
"Wait but—" the call *clicks* off.
Okay. So he'll be here in ten.
You spend the next dozen minutes tapping your tan heel on the sidewalk, staring at your precious car who is dead and oh so tired at her place in the street.
A giant black pick up truck finally pulls up in front of your car and Pope Cody steps out of it.
God, he looks good.
His dark blue jeans hug his thick thighs as he walks towards you, his black t-shirt stretches the expanse of his broad chest that you have run your hand over, and his mouth that you have felt on yours is twisted in its usual scowl.
"Are you okay?" his question catches you off guard as he approaches, his auburn hair looks even more colorful right now, matching the sunset sky surrounding the two of you.
"Oh uh, yes. Yes i'm fine," you give a small smile.
His hazel eyes rove over you in assessment, not perusal.
Nodding once, he turns back towards your stationary car. He pops the hood and a huge puff of smoke greets him. You move towards him without thinking, kind of scared that your cars fumes just swallowed him whole.
When you get to his side, the smoke has dispersed enough to see that he has discarded his flannel to the pavement and is bent down to examine the problem.
Your eyes snag onto his vein corded hands and your mouth dries. Jesus, his arms are so big.
He starts to move through your engine with vehicle knowledge that you won't even pretend to care about. Your gaze is glued to the light tanned glow of his skin, the tiny brown freckles that dot the entirety of his body and the hard muscle that sits under every inch of his biceps and forearms.
You don't even know how long he's been digging around for and you aren't even bothered about it. Because by the time he is done, his meaty hands are coated in grease and a light sheen of sweat coats all of him.
It's probably the sexiest thing you have ever seen and you curse the fact that it's your new friend that has this honor.
"Your oxygen sensor must be faulty," He grunts as he straightens and wipes some sweat off his forehead and grease off his palms with his flannel.
"What?" your head tilt swishes your hair around you.
"Your car has and incomplete combustion cycle where the engine is receiving too much fuel and not enough air," He says as if its the most obvious thing in the world.
"I’ll just stop asking questions," A wide smile crosses your face as the deja vu that you feel.
Pope must also be reminded of the time you covered his bruises and he asked a question, because he uses the same answer you gave him, accompanied by the smallest upward twitch of his lips, "That's probably best."
A laugh slips out of you and you see him relax a bit from the default tensity that always rests in his shoulders.
"I'm gonna hitch it to my truck and I'll tow it to the mechanic," he says in his usual raspy tone.
"Thanks Pope, you're the best," you try to hide your smile at the fact that he blushes all the way to his ears at your thankful praise.
He awkwardly rubs the back of his neck and nods.
You hop into his truck as you wait for him, looking at the spotless interior and inhaling the manly scent. When he finishes hooking up your car, he slides into the drivers seat.
As he reaches to turn his key in the ignition, you turn to thank him again but your stomach rumbles so embarrassingly loud that your jaw drops in silence instead.
His head turns towards you and his gaze drops to your belly covered by your pretty blue sundress. He raises an eyebrow and even though his handsome face stays flat and serious, amusement dances in his eyes.
"You hungry?"
You throw your head back against your seat and groan in embarrassment and hunger. Seeing as this whole ordeal took over an hour, you should have eaten dinner by now.
"A little," you say sheepishly.
Pope sits back, never having turned his car on, "We can... we can eat something if you want."
Surprise zips though you, but you don't want to question it because you two are friends now. So, it should feel normal. But instead its anything but.
You beat down whatever hope springs up at the fact that he wants to spend time with you for any other reason then that he is your friend.
"Let's do it," Your soft smile has his gaze drop to your lips then look away from you with a simple nod.
You get out of his truck as you ramble about your car and tell him all the problems it's had over the years, as you walk to the boardwalk you tell him about Hattie, your lovely southern client who is truly a crazy lady, then you talk about how you ruined Craigs carpet with your beer vomit as you walk him to where you have decided to eat.
He is basically silent the whole time, nodding and offering up a few follow up questions here and there.
In the weeks you've spent more time with him, you realize he is a super quiet guy. Not bored. Just guarded.
You begin to wonder if he is ever annoyed by your rants as you talk, but every time you trail off with insecurity he asks you something or offers up a small interested response.
He never once judges you, not outwardly at least, about your bold remarks or your eccentric storytelling. Not up until right now, actually.
"This is not food," Pope grimaces at the ice cream in your hand.
"Yes it is," you giggle. "Food is something you consume. I am consuming, this ice cream cone. Therefore, food."
Pope huffs at your explanation but sits next to you anyways as you plop yourself onto a blue painted bench near the ice cream place you used to frequent as a teen.
His bow legged build has his massive thighs man spread widely, taking up half the bench next to you. The two of you settle at a comfortable distance, not too far to where its weird, but not close enough for any part of you to be ouching.
You can smell his musky, sort of leathery scent from here though, and it clenches your thighs and has you chewing at your cheek.
Forcing the attraction away, you decide to let the nostalgia of where you are overtake your thoughts instead as you lick your ice cream cone.
"I haven't been to this boardwalk in years," you didn't think you were going to say it out loud, but here you are. "I cant believe it hasn't changed at all."
"Why not?" he simply asks.
"Oh uh..." you trail off as you decide wether or not to tell the story about how you got Pope's brothers banned form the board walk.
His face tightens as he sees your reluctance, and his voice gets rough, "You don't have to tell me."
Him thinking you are uncomfortable sharing something with him has you eager to tell him, not wanting him to think that he is the problem.
"I used to come here all the time with Craig and Deran when we first became friends years ago," The memory warms you slightly before you're reminded of why you didn't come back.
Pope's eyes drop to your mouth as you take the last lick the last of your cone before putting it on the napkin beside you, and then his gaze darts away, head facing forward completely.
He isn't looking at you and you're not looking at him as you speak, you're both staring forward at the kids running around on the wooden planks and the families laughing and talking together in nearby restaurants.
"We would come here after a day at the beach, when it got dark" you continue, voice soft with reminiscence. "It was before they trusted me, or even wanted to be around me at all to be honest. So I would try to prove myself to them by accepting crazy bets or doing stupid shit with them."
You laugh faintly thinking about the time when you were 17 and you jumped off the lifeguard tower after spinning in a circle 22 times just because Deran said that you were too much of a baby to go that high up.
You fidget with your hands, embarrassment trailing up your spine as you decide you're going to admit something so personal to Pope, "I uh, didn't have anyone who liked me at all... thats why I was so desperate to be their friend." You try and crack a joke to ease your self consciousness, but it doesn't land, "No one wanted to be friends with the ugly girl with the big personality."
You glance at him and put on a fake smile, he looks back a you with a pinched face, lips pursed and eyes downturned. His focus on your words make you to continue.
You honestly don't even know why you're telling him this humiliating story, but something about the way he just listens to you makes you overshare and ramble how you did when you were younger.
"Anyway," stop now before you embarrass yourself more!! "Once, Craig bet me a months worth of his job money that I couldn't successfully beg someone on the boardwalk for fifty bucks."
Pope scoffs at the mention of his brothers dumbass personality.
"I accepted, of course, because I didn't want his ego to get impossibly bigger," you roll your eyes at the words you still live by. "So, I um... I went up to this cute guy who was a few years older than me and I started to beg for some cash and he uh..."
You look to the wood platform beneath your heels as you force the thickness in your throat downwards. This was years ago, you shouldn't care about this anymore. But it hurt you so badly that you always do.
"He told me that I should be the one giving him money to talk to him because," you hold you finger quotes and voice wobbles, "An ugly bitch should pay to talk to guys like him."
Your watery laugh is met with Pope shaking his head, exhaling a rough, "Jesus."
A genuine smile spreads on your face and the only reason you can continue is because your favorite part of the story is next, "I told Craig and Deran what he had said when they found me crying and they chased him down and beat the shit out of him."
"The cops showed up right as Craig had broken his nose and arm and Deran had smashed his phone, taken off his shoes and stolen all the cash from his wallet," You look to Pope who is still looking forward, his jaw is clenched firmly, hands balled into fists at his thighs.
He manages to nod along as you speak and for once, you really appreciate the silence someone offers as you talk about your past experiences with being treated poorly for your looks.
"They were banned from the boardwalk for two years and I never came back in solidarity. Afterwards, we sat on the beach and I cried and Deran hugged me while Craig held my hand," you shrug, feeling like you overshared way too much now, as you realize a tear has slipped down your face. "They've protected me ever since then."
You take your hand that was absentmindedly playing with your hair and wipe the tear away, your other palm resting on your thigh.
Pope is still silent and staring at your teary expression with his usual deep gaze. His face is a twisted scowl as always, and you can't tell if he is understanding or uncomfortable, so you backtrack.
"I'm sorry, that was way too—"
Your words die on your tongue when one of Pope's big hands wraps around yours on your leg. His thick fingers cup the top of your palm, his thumb resting on the inside of your wrist against your pulse point.
You stare at the embrace, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours and blink back even more tears at the sense of safety it brings you.
"Fuck that guy," Pope says gruffly.
You choke out a laugh, "Yeah. Fuck that guy."
The two of you sit like that quietly for a while, just holding hands and watching the people pass by as you sit a foot apart. Pope doesn't offer up any more words or ask you any questions about the painful memory, which you're grateful for.
He is a good friend to talk to. Maybe that's all you'll get from him, maybe you can live with that.
A teenager whips by on a colorful skateboard and Pope breaks the quiet.
"I used to skateboard," He states it as a fact and you're not sure if he wants you to ask more about to so you nod at him.
He keeps his eyes forward as he keeps talking, voice low, hand still around yours.
"I was good at it too. I would do it when no one needed me to do any favors for them," he sounds a bit faraway, as if he is transported back to whatever memory he is thinking of. It seems like a fond thought until his jaw ticks suddenly, brows furrowing. "This kid I hated when I was younger once took it to make me mad and snapped it in half. I haven't skated since then."
Your frown is deep as sadness threatens to swallow you whole.
Poor Pope.
He just wanted to skate, just like you wanted to have fun with your friends.
And he told you about it. You feel so important in this moment about the fact that you got the shielded Pope Cody to share something with you.
You decide to do what he did for you, and not offer words, but a physical act of being there for him. You close the space between your bodies on the bench, pressing your bare shoulder against his clothed one. He immediately tenses.
Shit, that must have been too far.
You go to scoot back away but his hand tightens around yours, pulling you towards him gently. Your lips tuck into a small grin as you shift to him again.
"Fuck that guy," you repeat his words from earlier. You trace your eyes over his side profile along his arrow shaped nose, his slightly wrinkled eyes and the downward pointing edges of his mouth.
He nods briskly, and swallows a little roughly, still not looking at you.
A shrill ringing cuts through the air and you both jump.
You're heavily disappointed when you realize its your phone. You reach for it with your free hand because Pope's is still tangled around your other one.
An unknown number pops up on the screen and your face scrunches in confusion.
You click accept because its an Oceanside area code and you assume Craig is using the phone of one of his hookups again to call for a ride.
"Craig, you need to stop losing your phone in every girls bed that you're in—"
"Hi baby, its me," Smurfs voice floats into your ears and your lips part in disbelief.
"Oh, uh, Hi Smurf," you can't hide the cautiousness in your voice. Why is she calling you? She never has before.
Pope goes completely still beside you. You glance to him and he is clenching his jaw so rigidly that you can see all the muscles in his cheek.
"Are you with Deran or Craig baby? I can't find any of my boys," her words have their usual sultry lilt and your skin crawls a bit because she is literally talking about her children.
"I don't know where Craig and Deran are but..." are you actually about to tell her this? You know how weird and protective she gets about her youngest sons, you don't even want to know how territorial she is over her oldest. "I'm with Pope right now." Okay. Guess you are telling her.
The line goes quiet and for a second you think that she might have hung up, you pull the screen away from your ear just to see that the seconds are still counting up.
"Smurf? You there?"
"Yeah baby I'm here." her voice is tighter than it was a second ago. Shit.
"Can you tell my son to be a good boy and answer his phone please?" You can tell she tried to raise her voice enough so if Pope was close by he could hear it through the phone.
Gross.
Based on the fact that Pope drops your hand from his and shifts out of your touch, you know he heard it.
You hold in your defeated sigh as you comply to the Cody matriarch as they all do, "Sure Smurf."
"Thank you baby."
She ends the call without letting you get another word out.
You turn to Pope and he is already typing on his phone, answering what you assume are Smurfs texts. All of the relaxedness he gained throughout your conversation is gone, his body is strung like a taut bow as he stands up.
He doesn't even look at you as he says, "C'mon, I'll take you to the mechanic. Then home."
“Pea!” Your mom’s squeal is high pitched as she throws her arms around you the second you open your front door for her.
You chuckle into the hug, warming at the sound of her sweet voice and familiar embrace, “Hi mama.”
She pulls back and examines you when she’s pushed further into your apartment.
Your mother is a woman who has never had a problem entering a space and acting like its hers.
In fact, you prepare for her to immediately do so as you shut the door behind her.
A preemptive eye roll forms as your mom walks over to the coffee. table to rearrange your trinkets there. The cute colorful ones that you thrifted two days ago when you were trying to get your mind off of a kiss from last weekend, and a held hand from yesterday with a certain Cody brother.
You blow a pink bubble and *pop* it as your mom looks at your new mini dog and cat figurines.
"These things are atrocious, Pea," Your mom picks up one of the small deformed cat that you thought looked like it needed a home.
"Wow thanks mom," Your tone is flat. "I love when you come over."
She flicks her hand at you in dismissal, "Oh please. You know I love your eccentrics. Its just this one is..." — she eyes up the tiny cat and scrunches her nose— "So ugly."
You snatch the cat out of her hand and clutch it to your chest defensively, "Oscar is beautiful in his own way mom."
You had a soft spot for weird animals and lopsided, deformed decor. After being bullied for years in high school about your looks, it sort of came with the aftermath of a sort of mutual understanding.
Your mom softens, frowning sincerely, "Oh, honey."
Setting down the one eyed cat, and aggressively chewing on your bubble gum, you brush off her mom-abilities to read you like an open book, "Relax mom. I'm not talking about me . The cat was funky, I liked it. That's it."
She nods once after eyeing you and definitively making sure you were okay. She then clasps her hands together, "What's for dinner tonight."
You and your mom have had this weekly— sometimes every other— ritual of dinner together ever since yo moved out.
You loved your mom so so dearly, but you moved out of her giant beachfront mansion the day you turned 18.
Not because you needed space from her or anything, you had spent every single day together since the day you were born. It was just that she was so fucking messy.
Seriously, her big ass house looked like a high end department store threw up all over it. There was constantly new jewelry, shoes and clothes being strewn over couches and poorly stored on top of tables.
You were a maximalist as well, but your space was cluttered with decor, not diamond necklaces and silk skirts.
So, not even two days into your first week living on your own, your mom showed up at your door with takeout from your favorite place and demanded you two shared a meal together.
The tradition stuck and has consisted of gossip, greasy food and a crappy rom com ever since.
After your mom called and placed the order from your favorite food spot, you talked for two hours as you ate together on your couch.
During the first hour, you updated her about your hair salon job and how you and your coworker Kendra were kind of friends now. How you are supposed to get a drink with her — and hopefully Hattie— sometime soon. How at the party Craig bet you that he couldn't have a threesome in under thirty minutes. You obviously didn't tell her that the bet was for a kiss, with Pope Cody no less. Because she would freak out.
Your mom tolerates the Cody boys, but she thinks they mean trouble. She's not wrong, but still, you love Craig and Deran unconditionally.
It took her two and a half of of your five years of friendship for her to like your two best friends. Once she realized they had no intention of sleeping with you and dumping you afterward, she softened up.
She has always been your protector like that, so you never blamed her or got mad about it. There just became an unspoken agreement between the two of you that those boys were in your life and that you trusted them enough to stay.
Throughout the second hour, your mom filled you in on the new cleaners she hired because she fired the last ones. She always found a problem with cleaners when they didn't meet her standards off 'don't touch my shit or your fired but clean everything at the same time'. You laughed when her eyes got dramatically teary at the fact that her new floor length gown— that was left on the living room floor— had gotten a big bleach stain on it from the last team she hired.
She is currently talking about her clients. Her long timers, who know her system of exchanging card numbers and swapping funds like the back of her hand, when she mentions a name you have never heard of before.
"Jared is thinking of doing some laundering through my cards as a way to filter through all his profit," She tells you all excited. Her eyes pretty much have the cartoon dollar symbol on them, so you know whoever this guy is has a lot of said profit. "Anyways, he contacted me last week and told me that..."
You nod along as she rambles about how Jared called her off a burner cell, saying he got her number from one of her veteran clients.
She then moved onto tell you that his dad, Julian, who's operations he took over for after he went to prison— which doesn't surprise you seeing as you've been around criminals your whole life— and how they're in the drug business— again, not surprising.
"...So, I was thinking you could see Jared this weekend and make a deal regarding percentages?"
Your head whips to her in confusion, breaking eye contact with the crappy romance film about the flight attendant and the rich asshole in first class.
"What?!" You basically shriek.
You've gone with your mom to business deals, sure, but you've never conducted one alone.
She tilts her head at you in pure innocence, "What? It's time you start doing more important work for me, Pea. I know you're ready."
You blink at her for a second, putting the pieces together.
Anyone else might have believed her reasoning, but you know this woman. Does she think you're ready to fill her shoes for a single meeting, probably. But she would never have that meeting be with a stranger who she has never even met before.
You squint at her, "Is that so?"
She nods once.
You have a stare off, something you have done your whole life when you are trying to make the other cave from a lie.
And just like how it has played out your whole life, she caves begrudgingly.
"Fine," she huffs and crosses her arms much too juvenile like. "It's just that he is really handsome honey. I looked him up and—"
"Oh my god mom!" You hop off the couch and throw your arms around as your voice goes all high and pitchy as if you were 15 again. "Are you seriously trying to set me up with some— some gang member who you have never met!"
Her head recoils and she throws a hand over her heart, her face reads that she is offended but you know thats bullshit, "Of course not!"
Crossing your arms, you raise an expectant brow at her.
Her eye roll is more annoyed than you feel she should be as she tries another method, "God forbid a mother wants her daughter to have a happy and love-filled life."
You can't even hold back your laughter at her ridiculousness, "You are unreal! I am not going out with a random criminal because you say he is cute mom."
"He is not cute, he is handsome," She looks shocked that you would question her tastes. You could pull out the obvious 'shitty father' card, but you decide against it.
Before you can even tell her you don't care even if he is cute and that you need her to stop trying to force boyfriends onto you, she pulls out her phone and clacks away at the screen.
A minute goes by and she stands as well, shoving her phone in your face with a "Ha!"
You roll your eyes so far back you're surprised they don't get stuck in the back of your head, but you take the phone, knowing that she won't let up until you look at the supposed—
"Oh."
Oh shit.
She's right, he's not cute.
He's hot as fuck.
She somehow has pulled up the instagram profile — when the fuck did she get instagram??— of one Jared Lyle.
You scroll through the first few posts and see a gorgeous guy with a wicked smirk on his chiseled face, the tattoos that run all over his big biceps, and a built body that sits on a vintage motorcycle.
"I told you so," your mom singsongs as she rips the screen away from you.
"Okay, so what if he's handsome? I'm still not going out with him" your finger quotes have her pinch your side. Your face goes tight in frustration, "I. don't. want. a. boyfriend."
Sitting back down on the couch and crossing a leg over the other, she juts out her bottom lip and analyzes you.
"Is that so?" her tone mirrors the one you used minutes earlier and it has your hackles up.
"What are you trying to say?" Your glare is lethal. But, because it is your mother you're glaring at, she continues with her challenge.
"So, it's not because there is someone else you're seeing?" Her almost predatory head tilt is the only reason you don't stomp your foot like a toddler.
"What are you talking about mom!" You basically shout, confused as all hell.
"I talked to Smurf," Her tone reads that you should know what she means, but you are so fucking lost right now.
"So?" you barely conceal the impatient bite of your words.
"She said you have been spending a lot of time with her oldest son," as interrogating and serious your mom is trying to look, you know that there is some hurt swimming in her eyes at the fact that you hadn't told her something like this.
Your chest tightens slightly at the mention of Pope, and you're not even sure why.
You sigh, going to plant yourself down next to her, tucking your feet under your legs to face her.
"I am not dating Pope. I promise," you sound almost solemn about the statement that your Mom believes you, tension in her frame easing slightly.
"He just needed my help once and I have..."— how do you word this? —"seen him around, since then," You reach forward and squeeze your moms shoulder. "That's all."
She exhales deeply in relief. Too deeply.
Um, okay?
"Oh thank god, honey," she throws you into a hug.
"What— what is happening right now?" Your pretty sure the takeout place laced your food with pot or something because of the whiplash of emotions happening.
Your mom pulls back, but keeps her hands squeezed at your forearms, "I didn't want him to break your heart, Pea. Especially after what Smurf told me."
Here we go.
You know from Craig and Deran that this is what Smurf does. She bleeds through the cracks of conversations and changes the course of all that you know to be true.
Or as you would call it, being a manipulative cunt.
Your expectant look has your mother explain her alleviation, "She said that Pope is madly in love with Catherine, you know, Baz's girlfriend? Anyways, he has loved her for years apparently and I just didn't want you to get hurt by him if he loves someone else. And you know how I feel about those boys anyhow, so..."
She keeps talking about the Cody's and that she think they're bad for you romance wise, but you can't pay attention to her words anymore.
In fact, you can't focus on anything anymore. Your mind quiets and your heart feels like its squeezing itself stupid.
Pope... loved… Catherine?
And you— you had kissed him. And held his hand.
Oh god.
A scalding wave of embarrassment crashes over you, bringing ringing to your ears and crackling tingles in your fingertips.
You are such a fucking idiot.
You thought he wanted you while he has been pining after his brothers girlfriend for years.
The thought swapped the humiliation with an uncomfortable ache of upset.
Your ears throbbed and your skin warmed, making everything prickly and overwhelming.
Sure, you had been annoyed and slightly confused that he just wanted to be your friend, but the fact that he was in love with someone else?
Your eyes stung, threatening tears, and you didn't even know why.
How many conversations have you had with Pope? Four? Five?
And your dumbass thought they were meaningful. That him sharing parts of himself to you meant more than it did.
That you sharing parts of yourself to him meant more than it did.
That him letting you kiss him and holding your hand on the boardwalk had meant that he—
Fuck.
Mortification was the only thing you could feel now. Sharp and so palpable that you could taste it on your tongue.
Pope was being sincere. He was just your friend. Nothing more.
God and here you are, making up a whole scenario in your head where you could tease him into admitting he wanted you. That you could get him to open enough for him to maybe like you more than just a friend.
You are so fucking stupid. And so obviously unwanted.
The insecurities pour in as you your mom monologues somewhere in the distance beneath the ringing in your mind, bringing back memories of boys rejecting you before you even spoke and girls laughing at you for simply existing.
"Pea?" Your mom squeezes your shoulders and you snap back into it. "Are you okay, honey?"
You plaster on a smile. The same false confident smile you have mastered since you were 15 and needed to protect your fragile heart from the cruel world.
Pushing away all pointless and unnervingly painful thoughts of Pope Cody, you nod at your mom.
She opens her mouthy to push further, because she knows you're full of shit, but you cut her off, deciding to kill your crush for the oldest Cody once and for all.
"On second thought, you know what? Why don't you give Jared my number."
authors note: HOLA MA FREAKIES! i am SO sorry for the delay i had the worst writers block oat :( but were SO BACK i promise... i liked this chapter and as much as i hate the miscommunication i lurv it with pope tbh. anyhoo i hope you enjoyed eek!
