Jet

i heart men i cant have | 18 | side blog

[angelika555]

making him ride my strap while I watch him struggle to take it all 😍 making him eat me out while he’s throbbing and about to burst 😍 choking him and watching his mind break 😍 slapping his cock and making him wince 😍 holding his hands throughout it😍

[collectingoldmen]

scrummy

[collectingoldmen]

bratty character fic recs??

any fandom

any gender character #imqueer

female reader preferred but oc of any gender works too

i really want to read a bratty character fic 😋

[ladybuggirlll]

john tucker isn’t backwards hat frat boy enough for you people so i guess more for me. my man stays underrated by you ungrateful people.

[collectingoldmen]

i get that renee rapps evil ex had a glow up or wtv but what about this baddie

[in-ky]

at the foot of your bed (guard dog!pope)

for my lovely @valleyanimalz. i hope this is good for u oomfie <3 this might be one of my favorite things i've ever written im not even gonna lie to you LMAO

pope isn't a bad dog. he doesn't know why he bites. but he knows he does. and because of that, you need to stay away from him

masterlist

warnings: smut (18+), hard fuckin with a side of petplay hell yea, pope being himself w.c.: 2.4k

You weren’t even supposed to be at the Cody house, really. Smurf was throwing a party that night and asked you to drop off some beers. When you rounded the corner of the yard, you saw him. Pope Cody. Straddling a man with his fist raised and blood dripping from his fingers. Smurf sat in a chair, lazily watching the scene unfold. You stumbled to a halt. You knew who Pope was. You’d been working with the Codys for a long time, running little errands they didn’t feel like doing. You had gotten especially close to Pope, bringing him food on surveillance missions and staying to talk with him. The two of you had a friendship, and by the way he looked at you, you assumed there was a spark of something more. Smurf had noticed, too, and she wanted you to see first hand what Pope was capable of. She thought it would scare you away, leave her son alone so he could remain indebted to her. 

When you let out a little gasp, Pope instantly looked up, pausing the beating and locking eyes with you. Emotion washed over his features, but only for a moment. It was long enough. He looked scared, guilty, hurt. You didn’t say anything. Your expression was enough: wide-eyed and uneasy. Your gaze flicked from him, to his fist, to the pulpy face of the man he was holding up by his shirt. Pope immediately let go of the man and he fell to the ground with a grunt. He pushed himself up and stalked into the house, shaking out his hand. You followed after him, setting the case of beer down next to Smurf, who was trying and failing to hide her smirk. 

You found Pope in his bedroom, leaning against his dresser with a wide stance. His face was drawn tight and his eyes were wattery, like he was trying not to cry. He pressed his lips together and they moved with words he was saying in his mind. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” He told you. His voice was wet. “You…you shouldn’t have seen me like that.” A tear slipped from his eye and he sharply turned his head. You entered the room calmly.

“It’s okay.” You assured him. You placed your fingers on his forearm and he just lowered his head and clenched his fist tighter. He was shaking. “You didn’t…you didn’t scare me. I know what you do.” He eyes flicked to yours, a small simmer of rage behind them.

“What I do?” He repeated. “What I do. I scare people. I hurt people. You should be terrified of me.” 

“Maybe.” You said and cast your eyes down. His face fell a little. “But I’m not.” When you looked back up at him, your eyes were blazing.

You crashed your lips onto his, fisting his shirt to pull him even closer to you. At first, Pope reciprocated, clashing his tongue against yours and letting out a little moan into your mouth. But a few moments later, he roughly pushed you away. Not harsh enough to hurt you, just to get you off him. You stumbled back, blinking in surprise.

“Pope, what-”

“Stop!” He barked, turning sideways so he didn’t have to look at you. “Just…stop.” His breathing was ragged and his hands came up behind his head, tugging at his own hair. Pope paced around the room like a caged animal. You watched him nervously. Your heart cracked at the rejection, tears prickling at your eyes.

“I…I thought that…” You whispered, afraid that your voice would break if you raised. “I thought you wanted me.” Pope’s eyes snapped to yours, confusion building behind them.

“I do want you.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Then kiss me.” You took a step towards him but he stepped back.

“No.” 

“Why not?” You hissed, hands curling into a fist. “Why won’t you let yourself do this one thing? Fuck’s sake, Pope!” Pope glared at you. He took a deep breath and marched over to you, getting close to you without actually touching.

“Because I don’t deserve it.” He seethed through gritted teeth, looking down at you from over his nose with crazed eyes. “Because you’re perfect and I’m some miserable mutt. All I know how to do is steal and kill. I can never get the blood out from under my fingernails, you know that? No matter how hard and how long I scrub them. It’s always there. And I know that if I get too close to you, one day that blood is going to be yours. I would rather die than live long enough to see myself hurt you. So, yea, I want you. God, I want you more than the oxygen in my lungs. That’s why you need to stay the fuck away from me.” Pope pointed a finger in your face. And you don’t know why, but you kissed the tip of it. Not in a sexual way, but in a gentle way. The care your lips brushed over his calloused, bloody skin shocked Pope so much that his resolve faltered. He lowered his hands to his sides, squaring off his shoulders and looking down at his feet. He breathed hard through his nose and pressed his eyes together. 

“Pope,” You called softly, and you saw his lip quiver. He was bracing himself, waiting for you to scream horrendous insults his way. Instead, you reached out a hand and brushed it against his chest. He tensed, but didn’t move away. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” Pope’s eyes snapped open. 

“What?” 

“The fact that you care that much about me. That you would deny yourself happiness, just to keep me safe.” You explained. “Anyone can beat someone up for me. But you’d dedicate your life to me. Only you could reach that level of devotion. And that’s why you’re the only one worthy of my love.” Pope swallowed uneasily. What were you getting at? “Would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Would you dedicate your life to protecting me?” You saw a flash of pure loyalty cross his face.

“I would rip out a man’s throat with my bare teeth if he touched you.” Pope growled, stepping towards you, walking you towards the wall. His pupils were blown and the muscle under his eye was twitching. “I’d sit at the foot of your bed all night to make sure you sleep soundly.” Another step. “I’d follow you around all day waiting for you to ask me for something.” Another. Your back was fully against the wall, chest touching his. Pope’s lips ghosted over your nose, still making searing eye contact. He lowered his voice. “I’d fuck you so hard you’d never want to leave my bed.” He was trying to be scary. Intimidate you into leaving his life before he allowed himself to get too entangled with you. Before he allowed himself to let down his guard and show you that he wasn’t a bad dog. Not really. He’d just been beaten so many times that baring his teeth was his first instinct. But the dissuasion wasn't working. You swallowed thickly and held his gaze. Your eyes reflected the fire he was feeling. You cupped your hands around his cheeks and Pope’s eyes fluttered shut. 

“Prove it.” You challenged, huffing the words over his lips. Pope’s hands gripped your hip and spun you around before you could truly comprehend what was happening. He pressed your front to the wall and dipped his head to be level with your ear.

“Yea?” Pope huffed. “You getting turned on by how fucked up I am? I kill people.” You let out a moan at his words and Pope laughed cruelly. 

“You’d kill someone for me?” You asked and Pope’s grip tightened.

“Anyone.” He growled. “All you have to do is ask.”

“Good, ‘cause I got a list.” A hand smacked your ass.

“I’m not kidding.” Pope kneaded the flesh between his fingers. He got to his knees and pulled down your pants. “You want me to prove it, huh? You want me to show you why you need to be careful about what you say? One taste of you, I’ll be addicted. I won’t be able to stop myself.” You looked at him over your shoulder and widened your legs.

“Please, Pope.” Who was he to deny you? You were his everything. Even if in the morning you might be horrified by your own actions, sobbing to him saying how much of a mistake it was. Maybe he would allow himself this one moment. Because by the way you were rutting onto his face, Pope considered for a moment that maybe you did mean it.

The moment his mouth was on your heat, he was a goner. The first swipe of his tongue through your folds was sinful and it drew a deep, breathy moan from the bottom of your chest. He lapped at you like a starved man, coating the entirety of his lower jaw and the inside of your thighs with his spit and your arousal. His tongue slipped in and out of your cunt repeatedly, stretching your walls when he added a finger. 

“Touch yourself,” Pope told you, voice deep and commanding. You slipped a finger down your navel and rubbed tight circles around your clit. It wasn’t long before you felt your release creep into your belly. It took you off guard, how fast he got you there, and when he added another finger into your pussy, you exploded, clenching around his fingers and squirting onto his chest. You came with a cry of his name. Not ‘Pope’ but ‘Andrew.’ You had never called him that before. The sound of his real name from your throat sent painful claws of yearning into his heart. How could he let you go? How could he push you away? When it was so clear how much you loved him. How much you needed him. A new sense of purpose swelled in his chest. He got up off his knees and pulled off his shirt, wiping his face with it before discarding it on the ground. You swayed against the wall of the bedroom. Your brain was foggy from the intensity of your orgasm and you didn’t notice Pope had picked you up until you landed on his bed. 

Pope crawled over you, fondling your breast as he kissed at your neck.

“M’so sorry,” He choked out, taking a shaky inhale. “I love you so much. Please don’t leave me.” You swallowed dryly, fingers curling in his red hair and tugging him up to look at you. Those brown eyes, wet and round, made your chest flutter with fondness.

“I could never leave you, Andrew.” You told him, kissing him softly. And you meant it. Seeing a man brutally beat up a stranger would scare anyone away- except you. Your personal guardian. It made your pussy throb. “I love you. You’re mine.” Your claiming made him whimper, a high-pitched keening. He bucked his hips against your center. “Fuck me. Show me what a good boy you are.” Pope quickly shimmied out of his jeans and boxers. You laid on your back patiently, grabbing at his shoulders to steady yourself as he aligned himself with your folds. The head of his cock brushed against you, and he let out a pained noise when he felt your wetness against him. He was shaking. “Hey,” you pulled him back into the moment and brushed a curl from his sweat-slicked forehead. “It’s okay.” Pope’s eyes were wide with uncertainty, but he gave a small nod and he pushed into you.

You let out a sharp gasp at the intrusion and Pope immediately stilled. You dug your fingers into his biceps as you took a few deep breaths. He was big. Not specifically long or girthy, but big in general. You gave him a nod and he bottomed out. Breath was punched from your lungs and it took a few moments before you could inhale. Your eyes went wide, locked on his, and you saw his gaze turn from uncertainty to something darker. A shift from Andrew back to Pope. He gave a roll of your hips and you moaned at the sensation. You were so full. “F-fuck.”

“I know,” He cooed, kissing along your jaw and cheeks. “You’re doing so good. I’m gonna take such good care of you.” The rhythm of skin slapping filled the bedroom, mixed with your breathy moans and Pope’s growls after every thrust. He pressed your knees to your chest, causing your eyes to roll back at the new sensation. One of your hands dug into the meat of his shoulder and the other wrapped loosely around his neck, pulling him up to kiss you. A small show of dominance over him that he readily indulged in. You gave a light squeeze and he responded with a sharp snap of his hips. He stayed like that, kissing you sloppily with your hand around his throat, until his pace began to falter. Pope humped his hips into you desperately, eagerly finding his release. He slowed only for a moment to whisper against your lips. “Where?”

“Need you to cum in me, Pope.” You begged, words uneven because of the feeling of his cock inside you. “Please.” You thought he was wounded with the sound he made. Low and broken and needy. His fingers dug into the fat of your thighs, holding you impossibly close against him. His head dipped to the crook of your neck. You settled one hand on the back of his head and the other you dragged in a slow line down the freckled plane of his back. He panted against your ear and you felt his teeth nip at your skin. You pressed a kiss to his sweaty temple and that sent him over the edge. He came with an open-mouthed whimper, hips stilling impossibly deep inside of you, coating your cervix with his cum. Pope rested his weight on you and you pressed your heels into his ass to keep him still. You petted his hair soothingly and whispered praises to him. His heart was directly above yours and when you both caught your breath, they were beating in sync. 

“I love you.” he whispered to you. “I wanna be your guard dog forever. Wanna be your good boy.”

Pope isn't a bad dog. He doesn't know why he bites, but he knows he does. And he’d rip anyone to shreds if you just gave the command.

[collectingoldmen]

yummy yummy andrew

[collectingoldmen]

when i see a man about to cry- i can tell his eyes sting with the pressure of holding the tears back and they're slightly red and glossy, some part of him is trembling, his lip, his hand, eyebrows furrowed- i feel things

like come here baby i'll make it all better

[rr-after-dark]

trauma based ED pope cody x sexually repressed virgin reader send tweet

[bunnicakee]

we almost broke up again last night !

andrew “pope” cody x f!reader smau

mdni !! 18+

summary - you’ve been best-friends with craig and deran cody since you were 4 years old, your dad being one of smurf’s “business” partners helped with that. though, as you grew older, you found yourself catching feelings for the eldest cody boy, andrew. and to everyone’s surprise, he reciprocated those feelings. your relationship was one filled with a possessive type of love (mainly on pope’s behalf), and a shocking touch of softness.. well as soft as you could get in the world you were living in. so it came as a huge shock when the two of you broke up, and it became an even bigger problem when andrew got sent to prison just two days after your breakup. now, 3 years later, he’s out of prison, and as much as deran and craig try to keep him from seeing you, he always has a way to make you come crawling back.

warnings - not lore or plot accurate, canon violence, profanity, sexual jokes, age gap (about ten years, reader is around deran’s age), some characters may be a bit ooc (sorry), spoilers for animal kingdom seasons 1-4 (I need to lock in and finish the show already </3), mentions of drvgs + alcohol, mentions of past abvse, I’ll add more as I write !!

chapters..!

01. welcome back

02. hallucination

03.

04.

05.

06.

07.

an - I’ve been seeing soooooo many animal kingdom smaus and I was inspired to make my own !! I’m currently working on a pitt smau and other projects, so my schedule is all over the place right now, but I’ll probs get the first few chapters out later tn or tmrw !! taglist is open ofc

[andrewmiinyard]

— fate.

pope cody x fem!reader

summary: the three times you decided to flirt with pope cody and the one time you decided to take it one step further.

content/warnings: in my mind this takes place like during s4 but there's nothing really specific about it, pope calls himself andrew in his mind, canon typical violence/drinking/drugs, all the cody boys are here but mostly craig, reader is drinking alcohol and has hair/wears dresses/heels/perfume, sub!pope, fingering, a good ol handy, a little dirty talk, unprotected piv, creampie, really just an unseen amount of fluff from me tbh NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!

wc: 10.2k (oops)

notes: omg my popey.... i love him so much. i got carried away with the plot (kinda a first tbh) but i wanna take care of him so bad. i need to bite his arms. only slightly proofread so proceed at your own risk

credit: gif taken from this set by @wesandresons :)

—

The first time Andrew met you, it was in his bedroom.

Throughout Andrew’s life, many people have come and gone through the doors of Smurf’s house. It would take another lifetime just to count them all. 

The parties started when he was young and never ended. The faces blurred together for Andrew now, not that he could really bring himself to care all that much in the first place. Just like Craig’s girlfriends or Smurf’s boyfriends, nobody was ever really a permanent fixture in Andrew’s life. Not if they weren’t family.

He knows that everyone thinks that he’s different. That he’s weird. He notices their looks when he lingers around the pool, in the kitchen, when he’s just sitting on the couch. His own brothers even, a lot of the time. Everyone eyes him like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for him to go off.

Andrew doesn’t really mind, though. Or, if he did, he'd become numb to the feeling a long time ago. In fact, he’s probably become numb to a lot of feelings. But Andrew doesn’t know any other way to be. He’s just Pope and he has been for a very long time.

This party in the Cody household wasn’t different from any other. Booze, drugs, and a big mess Andrew would definitely have to clean up later. The music is loud, bass turned up too high, and Craig is attempting to jump off the roof into the pool again. Amidst the cheers, Andrew thinks about the rest of his brothers and wonders for a moment where exactly it went so differently for him, or if he was just simply born that way.

His brothers seem okay with being in the spotlight. Even his nephew seemed to fare better than him, assimilating perfectly into every situation that arose, especially when people were involved. Andrew was never like that.

J must have gotten it from Julia.

Andrew was never a people person. He was always out of place, like the Cody that just didn’t quite belong, all jagged edges. The parties always send him into the corners of his mind that he didn’t really like venturing into.

The pounding of the bass is getting to him.

He pulls open the door to his bedroom hoping for a moment of silence, when he’s greeted with a pair of bare feet hanging off the edge of his bed. The figure doesn’t stir when he enters, so he creeps in further and shuts the door quietly. He turns his head, scanning now that he has a better view of who exactly is in his room.

You’re laid on his bed, eyes shut, hugging your phone to your chest like a stuffed animal. You’ve clearly come to escape the crowds of the party, same as him. Andrew can’t help as his eyes drag up your legs all the way up to where your short dress shows just a little too much of your thighs. He notices your heels as well, placed nice and neat beside the bed.

“Who are you?” It comes out a bit more gruff than Andrew anticipated and your eyes finally flutter open. It takes you a minute to notice him but when you do you’re shooting up to your feet, spine rigid. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you panic. You startle like a small puppy.

“Oh my god,” you squeak, clearly embarrassed. Your hands fall to adjust the hem of your short dress, much to Andrew’s disappointment. He gives you a once over; it’s half assessing what exactly you’re doing in his room and half just taking you and your skimpy outfit. “I’m so sorry. Is this your room?”

Andrew gives a small nod and you wring your hands nervously. You’re taking him in now, a Cody brother here in front of you, live and in the flesh.

“So which one are you?” you ask, head cocked. Now that you know this is his room, he notices you assessing him in a different light. People always do —it didn’t bother Andrew much anymore but with you he feels a twinge of shame in his stomach. “Deran? Or, um…”

Andrew knows that you’re searching for his name. His nickname. It had to be since there was a short list of people who called him by his real name. Pope Cody is known by everyone in Oceanside. Andrew Cody, on the other hand, is not.

“Andrew.” he supplies, voice softer than before. Now you’ve been added to that very exclusive list. You repeat his name back to him, voice a little warm, no doubt from one of the many drinks that the Cody’s provided. Then you introduce yourself and Andrew attempts to burn your name into his memory.

“Okay, Andrew. Are you hiding too?” Now that he hasn’t kicked you out, you take a seat on the edge of his bed. He notices the compression of where your body laid just a few minutes before on his neatly made and pressed sheets but doesn’t say anything. He likes the sound of your voice too much to interrupt you. “Or just making sure nobody is defiling your room.”

“I’m not hiding,” he replies, crossing his arm over his chest. The strap of your dress falls and Andrew tries not to get distracted. “This is my house. I’m free to go where I please.”

“Fair enough. I’m hiding,” you shrug. A beat of silence passes and you pat the spot next to you, inviting him to sit on his own bed. Andrew is curious enough to oblige, sitting on the other end of the bed, putting distance between you. He doesn’t miss how your shoulders drop slightly in disappointment. “My friend is here with Craig and they’ve conveniently disappeared... I don’t even want to know what they’re doing.”

“I have a few guesses.” Another one of Craig’s girlfriends. The giggle of a girl coming from Craig’s room that Andrew had heard when he was walking by suddenly made a lot more sense. 

He wills himself not to flinch when you scoot closer to him, closing the distance he deliberately put between the two of you. Andrew was interested, too interested, and that worried him.

Pope Cody wasn’t allowed to want.

“Is it okay if I stay here with you?” you ask, and Andrew’s heart flips. He clears his throat, hoping that you don’t see the blush that’s creeping it’s way up his neck. “I’m just not really sure how long it’s going to take and I would much rather be in here.”

With you, hangs unspoken in the air.

“Sure.” Andrew likes the way you smile when he answers, a small flash of teeth. You scoot even closer and tuck your bare feet under you. You’re so close now that your knee is nudging his thigh. He can smell your perfume from here and it’s heavenly compared to the sweat and chlorine laced air outside. “I don’t really want to be out there either.”

“So, Andrew,” His name sounds like honey when it’s falling from your lips and he wonders how often he can make you say it. The feeling that settles in his chest when you say it is too addicting for him to live without it now. “Not really a party person?”

“No. But my brothers are.” He gestures vaguely to the door, the music pounding on the other side of the wall and then his hands retreat back to his lap. He can feel your eyes on him, but not in the usual way he always tends to notice. You scan him with a kind of curiosity that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“I’m not really a party person either,” you agree, glancing at the door he had just gestured towards. You look a little sad, even. It makes Andrew’s fingers twitch.“My friend said she needed some moral support coming to meet this guy. So I came, and then she ditched me like an hour ago.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a shitty friend.” Andrew says plainly and he’s caught off guard when you let out a laugh. 

“Yeah, I guess,” You shrug, shoulders still shaking with remnants of laughter. Andrew has turned his head fully now to look at you but he doesn’t really understand why you’re laughing. “But maybe it’s like fate, or something.”

“Fate?” Andrew echoes, even more confused than before. You lock eyes with him and he has to resist the urge to break it, enthralled enough by your gaze to ignore the awkward feeling settling in his chest.

“Yeah. Like maybe it’s fate that she left? Because then I wouldn’t have hidden in a cute guy’s room and got to talk to him.” He can tell that your mind is elsewhere, but his eyes are still on you. There’s a dreamy look painted on your face and he’s so distracted he almost misses the fact that you called him cute. Almost.

He opens his mouth to respond but your phone beats him to it, the shrill sound of your ringer filling the empty room. You look at him sheepishly and turn your head to answer as if that would give you the privacy you were looking for. It doesn’t work because as soon as you hit accept, he can hear what he assumes is your friend’s voice on the other side of the line. 

You get up and he watches you nod along to the conversation. You’re not doing a lot of talking, but your friend definitely is; he can tell by the murmur of her drunken chatter and the sound of the music pulsing on the other side of the line. You’re kind enough to let her continue on for a bit longer before you let her know that you’re coming, don’t move! 

Then you’ve turned back to Andrew, tapping your phone on your palm as you try to find the right words to say. You look genuinely apologetic —for what, Andrew doesn’t know. The silence stretches long, and Andrew is the first one to break it.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says plainly. You don’t really owe him anything, although the look on your face makes him feel otherwise. You take a step closer, poised like you want to take a seat next to him again. Andrew wants you to, but he won’t admit that part out loud.

“I know. I want to-” you start, but your phone starts buzzing like it’s possessed, cutting you off. A quick glance is all it gets; you’re quickly scanning the messages before returning your attention to him. Your phone doesn’t stop vibrating. “It’s hard to leave when you’re looking at me like a lost puppy.”

Andrew chooses to ignore that comment, instead turning to grab your shoes from the side of the bed next to him. He offers your heels to you, arms outstretched, closing the distance between you just like you had before. You give him a small smile as you take them from him, fingers brushing his just a beat too long. The way it sets his nerves alight is also something that he chooses to ignore.

“Thank you,” you say, slipping your strappy heels back on. Andrew looks everywhere but you as you bend down to tie them up, feeling the blush creeping up once again. Once you’re straightened up he gives you a small smile in return, watching as you pull your phone back out again. “Sorry for messing up your bed. I’ll make it up to you next time.”

You say it so definitively, like you somehow know there will be a next time. Before he can reply, you’re giving him a shy wave goodbye, sliding out the door. The music leaks in for a moment when you open it, blending in with the cheers of partygoers outside. When you close it he’s back to the silence of his room, alone. He had come in there looking for a moment to himself but now that you’re gone, he can’t help but want the opposite.

Andrew really hopes that there will be.

—

The next time Andrew met you, it was in Deran’s bar.

He could count on one hand the amount of times he actually sat at Deran’s bar for any other reason besides work. It was rare that he ever got to enjoy a beer, much less have a moment of free time. But between Deran’s insistence and Craig’s staggering frame, Andrew agreed to stay for one drink.

He’s on the dregs of his beer when he notices Craig straighten up in his seat and saunter over to the front door of the bar. Andrew’s head turns and suddenly he’s glad he came, perking up the same way his brother had just moments ago. A girl comes out to greet Craig, looking like his usual type, and he slings an arm over her shoulders, steering her towards the bar with a sly smile.

Then you walk in and Andrew almost falls off his stool in surprise. You’re dressed differently than when he first met you, softer and more casual. Both of you look like you’ve just come from the beach, donned in shorts and tanks, hair curled from the salt water in the air. It makes his heart skip a beat.

You walk in far more hesitantly than your friend, like you’re not too sure if you belong or where to put yourself. Andrew can empathize with the feeling. He watches as you scan the bar; maybe for your friend, or maybe for another place to hide. You lock eyes with him once you finally notice his presence at the bar and you begin to make your way over. Andrew isn’t sure if he should break eye contact but he can’t help it, eyes darting away before they make their way back to yours.

“Fancy meeting you here,” You take the seat next to him, flashing him a grin. Andrew mumbles something under his breath, but you’re not deterred. In fact, you scoot your stool closer to his. You’re laying it on real thick, but he has to admit that he kind of likes it. “You come here often?”

“You know Pope?” The moment is interrupted by Deran, who sets down a full glass of beer in front of you. He’s got a bemused look on his face, eyes darting between you and his brother. Andrew tries his best not to frown, especially at the use of his nickname when you only know him by Andrew. From the expression on your face, he can tell that he’s failing. Your eyes flicker with some kind of recognition, like you were suddenly recalling the name that you had forgotten the last time you met.

“Yeah, I do,” you nod, not even acknowledging the fact that his own brother had just called him by a completely different name. You gesture to his empty glass, the one that he had set aside to fully focus on you when you approached. “And I think I owe him a drink.”

“You do?” It slips out of both Deran and Andrew’s mouths, disbelief on both their faces. It comes out a bit rougher for Andrew, while Deran inquires like you just told him that unicorns were real. You handle both questions with grace.

“Well, I said I’d make it up to you next time,” You smile, pulling the glass that Deran set down closer to you. His brother leans in closer, clearly interested in what exactly was going on between the two of you. Andrew tries to shoot his brother a glare before you look back at him but he doesn’t have enough time. “So, are you going to have a drink with me, or what?”

“Yeah.” Andrew says, perhaps a bit too eagerly as Deran snickers under his breath. He slides him a beer as well, a knowing look painted all over his features. Andrew takes it with a scowl, but his expression softens when he looks back at you. You bring the beer to your lips with a smile and Andrew can’t help but smile back. 

Two and a half beers later, Andrew’s face is a lot warmer and you are a lot closer. You’re so close that he can feel your shoes scuffing the edge of his newly polished boots, but he can’t bring himself to care. He likes when you giggle at his jokes; the way that your eyes shine. Andrew can feel his brothers’ eyes on the two of you; he even catches his nephew looking his way a few times. 

But for the first time in a while, Andrew doesn’t really want to shrink away. He’s tuned out the background noise, even your friend’s obnoxious drunk laughter at Craig’s pretty mediocre jokes. Because, in reality, Andrew is not the type of guy that a lot of girls like. And Pope especially, is not. But here with you, he lets himself believe that maybe just this once, he’s allowed to have something just for him.

“I like your smile,” You break the silence the two of you were sharing once the conversation you were having earlier came to an end. Andrew hadn’t even realized that he was smiling. He had really just been using the silence to soak in your presence; you still smell the same as you did when you met the first time. Wearing the same perfume that you left on his sheets and pillows just a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to admit how many times he shoved his face into them, chasing your scent before it faded. “It’s cute. I like your teeth.”

There it was again. That word. Cute. It’s not a word anyone used to describe Andrew, probably not since childhood. Or possibly maybe never. He almost wants to swing his head around to see if the rest of his family had heard.

“You really think I’m cute?” He can’t help but ask. It might be the beers or the way you look at him or the fact that he can feel your body heat, but his brain is a bit fuzzy. You look over at him, eyes a bit glazed over from the alcohol. Now he can feel you examining him again, looking him up and down.

“I guess cute isn’t really the word for a guy like you.” His heart sinks at that, wondering what you really think about him now that you know Pope and not just Andrew. He knows the stories that circle around Oceanside about him and he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear the ones that you’ve heard.

“A guy like me?” Andrew echoes, trying his best not to sound so sad. His mood perks up when he feels the heat of your gaze taking him in, seemingly a bit unguarded, presumably from all the alcohol.

“Yeah. You’re all built and…” You look around, trying to place a word to describe him. Then you lay a hand on his arm and Andrew stiffens for a moment but he softens quickly, leaning into your touch. You look pleased that he allowed you to do that, smiling like you’re ready to take a bite of him right then and there. “I don’t know. Strong. Thick. Handsome.”

Andrew is sure that he’s red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He’s also pretty sure that he saw Craig choke on his drink at your comment a few stools down from you, but he decides that’s a later problem. 

“Thanks,” he says gruffly and it’s really the only word that he can get out of his mouth, embarrassingly. You shoot him a smile, and it’s all sweet and a little too enticing. Andrew wouldn’t be surprised if he was leaning into you, ass halfway off his stool.

“Sorry, I’m being a bit forward, aren’t I?” you say, swirling whatever was left of your beer. He tries to shrug nonchalantly but it doesn’t really work. “I just get flirty when I’m tipsy.”

“So you don’t think us meeting again is fate?” He’s teasing, half smile tugging on the edge of lips. You giggle and Andrew basks in the sound. He can’t remember the last time someone made him feel like this. The last time he wanted to be so close to someone.

“I never said that,” You’re hiding a cheeky grin behind your glass and Andrew desperately wishes that he could see it. “You do believe in fate then?” 

Andrew has to think about it for a moment. He’s not sure, really. Lots of fucked up shit has happened in his life and it would be cruel world if that was the fate that the universe had in store for him. Then again, he’s done some terrible things as well, so maybe it was what he deserved.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. Andrew stares into his drink and reflects on all of the things he’s done, the crimes he committed. Julia. Cath. They swirl around in his mind, weighing on his conscience. Then he looks at you and they all seem to float away. “Maybe.”

“Well, let me know when you decide.” He thinks that you can probably sense his hesitancy or the spiral that it sends him down when he thinks about it too hard, so you pump the breaks. He almost can’t stand the way you’re looking at him, eyes wide open and curious. Andrew is unsure of which version of him that you’re seeing or what exactly is going through your head. He doesn’t have the courage to ask.

“Okay.” he says, a bit too distracted by the pieces of hair that have fallen in front of your face as you turned to take another sip, shielding his view. His hand flexes as he resists the urge to push them away.

Then, like you could read his mind, you tuck them behind your ear and shoot him another look. You open your mouth to say something, but you’re interrupted by Craig, who is steering your friend in your direction. Andrew’s hand flexes again as this time he suppresses the urge to hit Craig for cutting in.

“She just puked in the plant over there, and I’m pretty fucked up, so…” Craig isn’t subtle in what he’s asking and Andrew notices the worry flicker across your face as you take in your friend, who can barely stand up on her own without his brother gripping her shoulders. You mutter under your breath and he thinks he hears you basically cursing out Craig.

“Okay, just… take her outside. I’ll be out in two minutes.” you say, and Craig stumbles off, your friend in tow. Then you turn to Andrew, an apologetic look on your face that’s becoming all too familiar to him now.

“Is she going to be okay?” His gaze wanders to the door swinging shut behind the pair. You wring your hands nervously, standing up from the stool. Gathering your things a little frantically, you shrug. Andrew deflates a bit as he watches.

“Yeah, I think so. She’ll probably just puke into her purse on the way home or something,” Once you’ve gathered everything in your arms you give a deep sigh, turning your full attention towards him. He notes that you seem a little deflated too, but he’s not sure if it’s because you’re leaving him or because your friend and Craig seem to be deeply irresponsible individuals. “I’m sorry. Again.”

“It’s okay.” Your lips curl with a small smile, still tinged with a bit of anxiety. It’s cute when you lift your free hand up in a small wave, the same way you did last time, and then you’re gone. Your perfume is still lingering in the air when Andrew turns back around and it’s his turn to smile. It melts when he sees Deran standing behind the bar, a smug look on his face.

“You got it bad, man.”

—

After that, Andrew sees you a lot more often.

Your friend and Craig seemed to have made things very exclusive, because now she’s basically living at Smurf’s house. Which means that, since you’re her best friend, she invites you over quite frequently.

You two haven’t been able to have a moment alone since that night at the bar, much to Andrew’s disappointment. The brothers have been busy planning a job, which meant that he was in and out pretty often. His mind was elsewhere though, distracted by the way you brushed arms in the hallway on his way out or when your eye contact lingered longer than usual.

So, maybe that was why the job went a little awry.

They got what they needed to, but not without a fight. The boys trail into the backyard one after the other, everyone bruised and cut up. It always annoyed Andrew when his brothers were impulsive; he was the one that was always suffering the consequences.

He quickly notes that you’re laid out next to the pool in your swimsuit, your body shimmering with sweat under the sweltering sun. Andrew watches a bead of sweat drip from your neck to the valley between your breasts. Time slows as he watches, licking his lips. He barely has time to drag his gaze away before Deran is wheeling on Craig. 

“Why are you always pulling this crap?” Deran almost has a finger in his face, gesturing angrily. Craig just rolls his eyes in response, pushing past him and giving him a glare. Andrew can see the tension tight in their shoulders as they both seethe.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude.” Craig shoots back, making his way back to the house. Tension has been high between the two lately, just like always, trapped in a toxic cycle.

It seems to snap for Deran, especially after the job, and he jumps on Craig’s back, knocking him over. The commotion is loud, Craig hitting the ground with a loud thud. Deran throws the first punch and Craig’s skull cracks hard against the pavement. Craig is quick to recover though, probably due to his size, and it’s a full blown fist fight in seconds.

The two exchange blows for a minute before Andrew and J rush forward to pull the two of them apart. They don’t put up much of a fight and the two of them stalk off in different directions; Craig into the house and Deran out of the yard. J shakes his head and follows after Craig, hands shoved into his pockets.

A quick glance proves that the pool chair you were on just moments ago is left empty, your drink still sitting on the ground next to it. He assumes that you snuck out once his brother hit the floor, probably wise enough to know how the situation was going to unfold. He can see your figure in the window padding around the kitchen, blurred from the distance.

Andrew closes the sliding door behind him when he enters the kitchen and he finds you there, skimpy bikini and all. You’re rummaging through the fridge and he takes the opportunity to take in the view before you shut the door.  

You’re holding the carton of orange juice when you turn, finally taking in Andrew’s state. The cut on his eyebrow, the bruise beginning to bloom on his cheek and his torn up knuckles. You make your way towards him, your brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay?” He hides his hand instinctively when you ask, which you definitely notice. You rub the back of your neck with your free hand, a bit sheepish. “I heard, uh, your brothers fighting.”

“Oh.” Andrew frowns as embarrassment clouds his thoughts. Will this deter you from coming back? He really hopes not. He’s silent as his eyes follow you as you grab yourself a glass and begin pouring.

“Yeah, oh.” You shoot a glance in the direction of J and Craig’s rooms, eyebrows raised. “So, back to my question. Is everything okay?” 

Andrew contemplates his answer for a second, not sure how much detail to go into. You eye him in the same way that you always do and he is suddenly keenly aware that this is the first moment alone you’ve had together in ages. Pushing that thought aside, he settles on two words: “It’s complicated.”

“Right,” you scoff, making your way around the kitchen island. Andrew can’t help but watch you move, all bare shimmering skin and he shifts a little as all his blood flows downwards. He sucks in a sharp breath as you settle in beside him, resting your arm on the counter. Your sweat and tanning oil smears all over the stone island but he’s too focused on how close you are to be bothered by it. “That’s why you guys all look like shit. Did you guys get in a fight or did you guys do that to each other?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated,” he repeats and you set your glass down, a serious look on your face.

“Andrew, I know who you guys are,” you say and now he’s shifting uncomfortably instead, the sentence shattering any sort of lust filled haze he was just on the precipice of falling into. “I can keep a secret, don’t worry. I just… want you to be careful, okay? That’s all.”

“I’m always careful,” he replies and you huff in disbelief, but it also seems like you can’t help but smile. It’s a nice sight and it even makes him brave enough to take a step closer to you, finally being the first to lessen the gap between you two.

The proximity and the way you look up at him has the haze settling in once more. Andrew wants to reach out and toy with the strings of your bikini bottoms but he thinks better of it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he almost has to physically shake his head to rid himself of the thought.

“I’m sure you are,” You scan him up and down, examining his cuts and bruises. Though, Andrew swears that he can feel your gaze linger on his arms and his chest. It makes a shiver run down his spine. “But if this is you careful, I’d hate to see when it gets messy.”

“I don’t do messy,” he emphasises, his mind wandering back to the oily smudge you’ve left on the counter. You give a familiar giggle and your hand comes to rest on his arm, and he immediately forgets all about it again. This is the first time you’ve broken the touch barrier between the two of you on purpose and Andrew’s stomach flips at the thought. The heat of your hand is searing through his shirt and he’s glad you can’t feel the goosebumps that are rising under your palm.

“I know, Andrew. I’ve watched you clean,” you joke. Andrew loves hearing you say his name, his lips parting as you do so. He tries to pull his mind away from all the different things he would do to you to keep hearing it slip from your lips. 

“Where’s your friend?” he asks, desperate to change the topic to anything but him and his family’s line of work. You let out a sigh, making your way back to the fridge. The door swings open and you start rummaging through the freezer like you lived at the house. Really, at this point, you kind of do.

“I’m not sure,” you say, voice a bit muffled from behind the freezer door. “Her and Craig are probably doing lines off each other’s chests or something.” 

You pull out a bag of frozen vegetables, shutting the door behind you and approaching Andrew once more. You hold it out to him and he cocks his head in confusion. Rolling your eyes, you grab his bad hand and place the bag on top of his knuckles, still bloody. The cold dulls the stinging that Andrew had learned to ignore too early on in life.

“Why do you hang out with her?” He all but blurts out, but he can't help it. There was plenty of time for Andrew to watch you two interact when you were over, and you seemed more like a tired mother than a best friend. Plus, Andrew figured that if he could keep you distracted with conversation, you wouldn’t let go of his hand just yet.

“She’s been my best friend since, well, forever…” Pressing the bag into his knuckles further, your hand grips his gently and he can’t help but look at you while you fiddle with the frozen bag. “And if I don’t take care of her, who will?” 

“I know the feeling.” Andrew says sincerely. He can’t remember a time in his life when he wasn’t a protector, an enforcer, a guard dog. You look up at him now, eyes soft. He feels his gaze soften in return, lips parting.

“I can see that,” you hum like you’re contemplating his words. “Is there someone taking care of you?” The question catches him off guard and he almost jerks his hand back reflexively.

“I don't need anyone to take care of me.” It's a statement that doesn't fully ring true; he thinks about the people who have tried and what he’s lost. It's better off this way, perhaps. But he also thinks you probably wouldn't like that answer.

“Everyone needs someone, Andrew.” Coming from anyone else, he thinks he would refuse. But from you, he feels a bit more inclined to agree. You sound sincere, he feels. Or he just likes you too much to think about disagreeing.

Maybe he does need someone, but no one was ever up for the job. At least no one that knew him —all of him.

A door slams in the distance and you flinch at the loud noise. Not a moment later your friend is rushing past the pair of you, clad in a similar bikini to yours. She’s crying though, mascara streaking as she pushes her way into the backyard. Andrew watches as your head turns to follow her, eyebrows pinching in concern. She sits down on one of the lounge chairs outside, shoulders shaking as she cries silently. You look back at Andrew with a frown and just like always, he knows you have to go.

Maybe his fate is that the universe just wants to cockblock him forever?

“She and Craig probably got into another fight,” you sigh, chewing your lip. You take his uninjured hand and place it on top of the bag, looking up at him. Your face is stern as you speak, like he’s a dog that got caught chewing on the couch legs. “Keep it iced, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”

You pat his hand gently, soft smile on your lips. You always say that. Soon. Like you know that you're going to cross paths again. That he’s a permanent fixture in your life.

He watches you walk away, eyes on your swaying hips in your cheeky swimsuit bottoms. He’s still staring when you sit down next to your friend, rubbing her back comfortingly. 

Andrew stands alone in the kitchen, half hard, frozen bag of vegetables still pressed to his torn knuckles. The worst part is, he’s not even sure what exactly had made him hard; the sight of your body in your tiny swimsuit and the feeling of your hand in his or watching you take care of your friend so tenderly.

Yeah, Deran was right. He is so fucked.

—

If Andrew thought that he couldn't get you off his mind before that afternoon, now you were all he thought about. 

When he was making lunch, when he was cleaning his guns, when he was fisting his cock in the shower, trying to keep quiet. All he could think about was you. Your perfume, your smile, your body. Your touch. He wanted to feel it all over his body, soft skin against the raised bumps of all his scars. 

So the fact that you weren’t around as often anymore made things more difficult for him. Your friend and Craig seemed to be on the rocks, which means she was around less and less. Which means that you were barely around.

You said you’d talk to him soon and then promptly stopped being invited around, and the thought of how exactly he would get to see you again had him pacing. He didn’t want to scare you off, so he had to pivot towards more conventional methods. Which meant waiting around until Craig had finally got bored enough to start texting your friend back again. 

Weeks passed and he rarely saw you, just in flashes; by the pool, walking through the front door, lounging on the couch. He barely had the chance to look in your direction lately, much less have any type of conversation with you. The distance made him hungry, desperate enough to try to flip the odds in his favour.

“What about a party?” He suggests to his family one afternoon, all of the Cody’s crowded in the living room. All three of them turn their heads, looking at him like he’s grown an extra limb. The room is silent as they all try to process the words that came out of his mouth. “What?”

“Pope wants to throw a party.” Deran states, like saying the words out loud may help him truly understand them. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about it,” He crosses his arms over his chest, aware that he’s become a bit too defensive just a beat too late. All pairs of eyes are still on him and he shifts on his feet uncomfortable. “Just do it.”

“You won’t hear me complaining, man.” Craig says on his way out, clapping a hand on Andrew’s shoulder before he goes. The remaining Cody’s watch him go, and then eyes are back on him. He doesn’t want to answer any other questions, so he turns on his heels before they can ask any and follows his brother out.

So that’s how he ended up here.

This party was the same as the rest. Andrew wasn’t around for most of it; he had some loose ends to tie up for his family and he always elected to be out of the house whenever there was something going on, especially now that he had the choice. When he returns, he sees the same damage as always; trash in the pool, people passed out on the lawn, empty solo cups and wet footprints littered across the hardwood floors.

And Andrew does what he always does. Starts cleaning up. He wasn't really sure what his plan was, if he's being honest. He knew you always liked to linger once the parties were done, to make sure your friend was okay. Andrew was hoping that you were a creature of habit with this idea. Seems like right now, it's just delegated him to the role of janitor with no reward.

He starts out by the pool; toeing the stragglers to wake up and get off his property, sifting the garbage out of the pool and throwing the random discarded bikini tops into the trash bag right after it. It’s already the late hours of the morning when he finishes up outside. The neighbourhood is silent besides the sound of the chlorine water softly lapping at the tiles of the pool. Then he makes his way inside and starts tossing out everything in the kitchen, trying not to think about exactly what was occurring when he was gone to make this sort of mess.

“Do you need some help?” A small voice asks and he whirls around on instinct. He turns to face you and he almost wants to drop the black trash bag he’s holding out of shock. Andrew gives you a once over and you look so similar to the first night that he met you that it makes his heart skip a beat in his chest. A short dress and barefoot, except this time your heels are nowhere to be seen. You seem a bit groggy, dark make up smudged around your eyes. He oscillates between dwelling on how beautiful you are and wanting to get on his knees to see exactly what you got on under your dress.

“It’s late.” Is what he says instead, continuing his job of cleaning up. There’s a thousand unsaid things with those two words and it seems like you somehow know him well enough to answer all of them.

“Craig said I could crash on the couch,” you say, beginning to collect some of the empty cans off the kitchen counter. Andrew tries to level a look at you, to let him do it, but you give him a look straight back and continue. “And I want to help you. Doesn't seem like anyone else is.”

He accepts that and you two clean in silence for a few moments, working alongside each other. His eyes can’t help but follow you as you flounce around the kitchen, picking things up and tossing them into the bag into his hand. And then you speak. “So, why am I the only one helping you?”

He furrows his brows, pausing for a second as your words catch him off guard. Andrew glances over at you once more and you’re looking at him expectantly. He can’t help but feel compelled to answer, although your big fluttery eyes may play a small part in that. Trying to ignore the blood rushing downwards, he answers. “What do you mean?”

“Um, I mean there’s like, at least two or three other people who live in this house,” He can basically hear your frown as you speak, unceremoniously throwing another piece of trash into the bag. “Why am I the only one helping you clean up? The mess of a party that they threw?”

Andrew has never really thought about it before. He supposes this has always been his role, cleaning up after his family. Solving their problems. Making the bad things go away. Doing the messy work.

“I don’t need any help,” he says simply, voice gruff. He tries to ignore the heat of your disappointed eyes on him as he turns around, but he can still hear your loud sigh. You notice that he’s trying to avoid your gaze, so you catch his forearm in your hand. His muscles twitch under your touch, warmth seeping through your skin. Andrew slowly drags his gaze up from your hand on his arm to your face and he can’t help but soften. “I got it.”

“I just meant that you’re always taking care of everyone else, Andrew,” you explain, hand still on his arm. Your voice is soft in the way that he likes; a tone that seems to be reserved just for him. “Cleaning up after everyone. Making sure they don’t kill each other. Craig’s told me that you’ve bailed him out plenty of times.”

Andrew frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of his brothers talking about him when he’s not around, especially to you. He scowls at the thought, tying off the full garbage bag and placing it aside. He tries to pull away to grab another bag and continue, but your grip tightens on his arm.

“I’m serious. Just leave it for them to deal with for once,” You pull him back towards you, but he feels conflicted. He doubts anyone would actually do it if he left it for them to do —he’s seen the state the house gets into when he’s gone. Andrew hesitates for a moment, but all thoughts fade from his mind when your hand slips from his forearm into his palm, fingers twining with his. All he can do is stare while his brain tries to catch up to what’s happening. “Come on.”

You pull him along and it doesn’t take much effort to have him following. Continuing to stare, he’s got half a mind to hope that his mouth isn’t hanging open. He realizes where you’ve taken him in Smurf’s just a beat too slow as he enters the room.

His room.

He turns to face you slowly and the expression on your face is unreadable as you shut the door behind you. It reminds me of the first time that he saw you all that time ago. The room is silent for a moment as you two take each other in. Andrew hopes that you can’t hear the shaky breath that he lets out from across the room.

“Sit,” you command, gesturing to the bed. Andrew doesn’t waste any time obeying, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor. His hands rest on his thighs, clenching and unclenching anxiously. You approach him slowly, closing the distance until he’s face level with your torso. The position has him blushing —he’s sure his face must be red. He tilts his head up to look at you and you take one step closer. His legs part naturally to accommodate you, bracketing your figure.

“Will you let me take care of you, Andrew?” you ask, hand sliding into his hair. He struggles to not let out a groan, blood rushing straight to his dick. He’s so distracted by the feeling of your nails scratching along his scalp as he leans into your touch that he barely even registers the question.

“Okay.” It comes out quiet and breathy, but it feels loud in the silent room. He watches the ends of your lips curl up into a smile, his eyes fluttering. You take the hands that were settled on his thighs and place them on your hips. Taking the opportunity to appreciate your body, his hands run over your curves slowly as he sucks in a sharp breath. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as he does so, too enraptured to take his eyes off you. It makes him twitch in his jeans when you lean a little closer, breath fanning over his face.

A few moments pass as you let him feel your body; he’s practically drooling at the feeling. Once you’ve decided he’s had his fill you climb into his lap, straddling him. He’s sure you can feel how much he wants you, the heat of your clothed pussy on his jeans making him all the more hard.

You barely give him a second to breathe before you’re catching your lips in his, your mouth parting instantly. The kiss is slow and sensual and it has him letting out a broken whimper into your mouth. That seems to spur you on, fingers gripping the front of his shirt to kiss him even deeper. 

Andrew doesn’t even know how many times he imagined doing this with you. At this point he’s lost count, but this was beyond anything that his mind could ever put together. The smell of your perfume envelopes him and your body is so warm under your thin dress that it sets his nerves alight.

He can’t help just taking a bit more, big hands gripping your hips and grinding you against him. The small moan you let out as he does so has his hips bucking. Hands still roaming, he instinctively slips his tongue into the kiss. The fact that you continue to rock your hips against his once he lets go of your waist makes him dizzy. The kiss is wet and desperate and all Andrew wants is to get closer, greedy hands grabbing.

Then he feels your fingers drift to the hem of his shirt and he lifts his arms, allowing you to pull it off. The sensation of your nails dragging across his chest sends a shiver down his spine. His hands had settled on your thighs, gripping so tight that he’s sure he’s leaving marks. He feels bad, but then he decides that he’ll kiss them as an apology later, if you’ll let him.

You stop grinding and scoot backwards a little, moving further down his lap. He opens his mouth to ask why, but then your hands are at his belt buckle and the words die in his throat. You’re quick to undo his jeans, wasting no time in pulling him out and taking him into your hands. Your hands are much softer than his rough and calloused ones, warm against the hot flesh of his length. His head tips back as you begin to stroke him slowly, eyes to the ceiling as he lets out another shaky breath.

He had always imagined what your touch would feel like wrapped around him like this, letting himself imagine it was you touching him instead of himself when he was alone. The way you twist your wrist languidly, like you know exactly just how to get him going, has his mind going blank.

“Do you like that?” You mutter, tucking your face into his neck now that he’s made the space. The way you kiss slowly up the sensitive skin of his neck makes his mind fuzzy. He can’t seem to get the words out, so he gives a slow nod instead. “Good.”

The praise makes his hips stutter, fucking into your fist. You let out a small laugh, presumably at how desperate he is for you. A low moan escapes his mouth as you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, swiping away the precome leaking from the tip. Your touch disappears for a moment and he tips his head back forwards to you, looking at you through hooded lids. He watches as you spit into your palm and resume your actions, his jaw dropping open ever so slightly. Andrew feels drunk, the slick shlick of you stroking him filling the room.

He thinks you can tell that he’s getting close. He knows that his hips won’t stop rising to meet your touch: a dead giveaway. It’s almost embarrassing how fast you get him there, cock leaking in desperation as he whines. Your hand slips away and he groans out loud at the loss of sensation. His mind is still fuzzy and he almost misses your fingers wrapping around his wrist, guiding his hand across your body and under your dress. Looking down at where your hands meet, his breathing almost stops when you dip his fingertips past the waistband of your lacy panties.

“Don’t you want to feel how wet I am for you, Andrew?” you breathe into his ear. The words affect him deeply and he lets out a strangled noise, but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed with you on top of him like this.

“Yes,” he says, voice hoarse. He sounds absolutely wrecked as he swipes a finger along your wetness, sickly slow, brows furrowing as he watches your lips part at his touch. You’re dripping for him; he can feel the wet patch you’ve left on your panties against his knuckles as he slides a finger into you. It’s your turn to moan, and he swears at the sound, “Fuck.”

He pumps his finger in and out slowly, basking in the feeling of you sucking him right in. You surge forward and capture his lips in yours, kissing him breathlessly. You let out a whimper into his mouth as he slips another finger alongside the first. His breath catches in his throat as he feels you flutter around his digits, velvet walls pulling him in even deeper.

Andrew loves having you like this, your dress bunched around your hips, giving him a full view of your pussy covered in lace as you grind your clit into the palm of his hand. It’s all too much for him; he drops his head to your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your perfume. He thinks of all the times he’s touched himself to the scent of you; whether that be from the sheets from the first time he met you or the way that it lingered in his room after a conversation with you, long after you’ve gone.

His pace quickens and he can feel your legs shaking against his while your hips buck, practically riding his hand. You’re mewling now, coming apart on his fingers the same way you do in his dreams. He feels you clamp down around him and he can tell you’re going to cum seconds before you tell him. He can barely hear it, words lost in your soft whimpers. A rush of wetness is slick against his palm as you let out a moan so loud that Andrew remembers there are other people in the house.

Eyes never leaving yours, he pulls his fingers out from your panties and brings them to his mouth. The way you taste has his eyes almost rolling back into his head, licking up the cum that had dripped down his fingers. He wants to get his head between your legs real fucking bad and eat you until the sun comes back up or until you’re begging him to stop. His cock aches with the desperate need to fuck you, eyes trailing down to your chest as you pull off your dress and toss it aside. He decides to save it until later. Maybe round two?

He’s appreciated your body countless times as you tanned by the pool, but the view of you on top of him, being able to touch you the way he wants, has his blood running hot in his veins. He could die under you right now and he’d die a happy man.

You push him down onto the bed with a soft push and his back lands against his freshly pressed sheets. Lifting your hips, you pull his jeans and boxers down, leaving them to pool at his ankles where his feet are still planting firmly on the floor. He kicks them off and moves further up the bed, loving how you giggle as he jostles you.

Your tongue swipes across your lips and you settle yourself into position, the lace of your panties scratching intoxicatingly against his cock. Mesmerized, he watches as you hook your fingers into your panties and pull them aside, not even bothering to remove them before lowering himself down onto his length.

The two of you let out a needy noise as you sink down, taking him to the hilt. You look absolutely beautiful, the sight of you absolutely fucked out for him making his cock impossibly harder. His hands fly to your hips as you begin to grind again, much like you were earlier.

He lets out a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes hungry. You’ve spread your cum across the short hairs at the base of his dick, whining as you chase your high. You get tired of the grinding and lift your hips, bending forward and resting your forehead against his. His eyes are on yours as you slam your hips back down, eyes fluttering shut.

The pace you set is brutal, hips pistoning as you ride him. The force of it has the frame of his bed swaying, headboard making impact with the wall every time you drop your hips. That combined with the volume of both the noises you two make as you ride him is more than enough to hear through the wall or the door. 

“So good, baby. Feels so fucking good,” he coos, lost in the way you fuck him. The wet slap of skin on skin is absolutely sinful, echoing in the room and mingling with the heavy breaths you let out. He’s got one hand on your ass and the other on your breast, overwhelmed with the need to memorize every part of your body. “Been fucking dreaming about your pussy.”

“Oh my god, Andrew,” you whine, hips moving fast. He can feel you clenching around him, trapping him in your cunt like a vice. He can barely keep his eyes open, lids low from the pleasure. You’re squeezing him so fucking tight that he swears his vision is going white. You straighten up and place a hand on his broad chest, using it as leverage to hit a whole new angle.

Andrew feels himself brush against your walls and it has his jaw dropping open as his entire body shaking at the feeling. He’s close but you’re closer, nails digging into his flesh and your moans grow more high pitched, picking up the pace. You don’t stop moving your hips when you cum around him, barely able to keep yourself upright. The feeling of you tightening around him and the sight he catches of your cum glistening around the base of his dick has him moments away from falling over the edge.

“M’gonna cum,” he slurs, hands around your waist to hold you in place as he fucks up into you now. Still sensitive from your second orgasm you squeal, falling even farther forward into his chest. Soft grunts are punched from his chest every time his hips meet yours, taking what he needs from you.

“I want it so bad,” you babble mindlessly, voice dripping with pleasure. He’s never heard you like this before, but now he can’t imagine ever living without it. His thrusts are messy now, determined to hear you beg some more. “Please, I need it.”

“Yeah?” He barely even notices himself speak, too busy fucking into your pussy to think of anything else. He’s so close that his arms are shaking, thick muscles twitching in anticipation. He almost wants to cry, overwhelmed by the way he’s buried so deep inside you. “You want me to pump you full of my cum, baby?”

“Please,” you whine, voice cracking with need. The sound of it has Andrew’s hips faltering as he does exactly that, swearing sharply as he does so. His entire body jerks from the feeling, so wracked in pleasure that he can’t control it. You let out a moan alongside his as he fucks him cum back into you, nice and slow. Once the overstimulation gets to him his hips come to a stop, sweat beading on his forehead.

You fall limp on top of him, the deep rise and fall of your chest matching his. He wraps his two big arms around you instinctively, pulling you closer against him. Andrew basks in the quiet, punctuated by nothing other than your quiet breathing, closing his eyes.

“You okay?” Your voice is muffled against his chest, warm breath fanning over his skin. He’s got a hand running absentmindedly up and down the bare skin of your back, still sticky with sweat. “That wasn’t too much?”

“No,” he rumbles, voice soft. His fingers are still skimming as allows himself to take in the moment for just a beat longer. Then he’s got you under him, flat on your back. He loves the way you look up at him, legs still wrapped around his waist. He noses his way into your neck, noticing that his scent is intermingling with yours the more time you spend with him. His hands begin to roam once more and he can feel his blood rush downwards when you look at him with your big curious eyes. “Not enough.”

If Andrew had any say in it, you two were in for a long night.

—

In the morning, Andrew is the first to wake up. He always had trouble getting to sleep, sometimes staring at his ceiling for hours in the night, but the warmth you brought to his bed had pulled him under within minutes.

He turned his head to face you, eyes flicking over your face as the amber light of the sun painted your face. You were clad in one of his shirts, the plain black looking much better on you than it ever did on him. Andrew shifts slowly so as to not wake you and slides out of bed.

The walk to the kitchen is quiet, like it usually is in the morning considering the fact that the rest of his family regularly kept late hours, so he was surprised to find Craig, already seated at the bar, tucking into a bowl of cereal. He looks up and sees who it is, his face twisting into something much more smug as he takes another bite. 

Andrew is quick to pull a face back, not interested in hashing out his night with Craig, who clearly wants to hear all the details. Instead, he starts to clear the mess that his brother had left out while he assembled his breakfast. Craig waits a beat, like he expects him to change his mind, but Andrew stays silent.

“Pope, man-” he starts, but a door creaks shut in down the hall that distracts him, leaving the unfinished sentence in the air. Then you turn the corner, still only in his shirt, and Andrew realizes that it wasn’t the noise that caught Craig’s attention. Your hair is still mussed and you’re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you approach him. You wrap your arms around his wide torso and his arm settles at your waist. Natural as if you’ve done it a million times before. Andrew allows himself to smile at the feeling, not even caring that his brother is watching with a shit eating grin on his face.

Maybe Andrew does believe in fate after all.

[rr-after-dark]

Puppy-Dog Eyes - Andrew “Pope” Cody x Reader

Chapter Two: Somewhere By Your Heart

Series Summary: Taking Lena under your wing leads to you developing a relationship with her Uncle Pope. You might be just the thing they've needed to feel like a real family.

Chapter Summary: You make good on your promise to help Lena out with makeup and it makes Pope pay much closer attention to you.

Tags/Notes: retconning (pope didn't do That Thing He Did), fluff, parent!pope, slow burn, girly girl reader, tall reader (not specific but taller than pope in everyday heels)

Content Warnings: discussions of canon-typical content

Author's Note: nobody be mean to me about the skincare/makeup i wash my face with a 3-in-1

Word Count: 4.2k

For reasons you aren’t necessarily ready to unpack yet, you get extra dressed up on Friday before your shift. Even though you always go to work in something cute with a full face of makeup, today you take extra time with your hair, add a bit more sparkle to your eyes and cheeks, and pick out a baby blue skirt that might show off more of your plush legs than usual. And, when you see Pope and Lena stepping through the doors right around closing time, you double-check yourself in the closest makeup mirror you can find.

Lena clearly also dressed up, adorably enthusiastic, wearing a summery yellow two-piece set that’s so much more fashionable than what you wore at her age. She’s also rocking a pair of crisp white shoes with chunky speckled yellow laces that you immediately clock as Lanvin curb sneakers, which means Pope definitely gives her carte blanche when it comes to shopping. Even though he’s accompanying a preteen wearing a four-figure outfit, today Pope’s dressed in jeans and a basic white tee, looking much less intimidating than he did wearing all black in that big-ass car of his.

Buzzing with a huge smile as soon as she spots you, Lena skips over and nearly bowls you onto your ass with the force of her hug. She squeals, “I’ve been so excited about this all week!”

“Lena, hey! Me too; this’ll be super fun.” You duck down to return her hug and then address her uncle, too, “Thanks for bringing her. I’m sure this is a little out of your comfort zone.”

“What, me? C’mon, I know all about-” Pope squints at a nearby wall of products with an adorable wrinkle between his eyebrows, which go up in true confusion “-serums. And balms. Right up my alley.”

You snicker and give his arm a squeeze. “You’re so cute, Pope.” Then, as the apples of his cheek tint pink because it’s been a very long time since a girl called him that, you wave toward the lounge part of the store and offer, “Now you can go sit in the corner with all the dads and boyfriends while us girls have our fun.”

But he shakes his head and insists, “No, I wanna learn, too. So I know what stuff she likes and what’s good.”

Lena’s unfazed by the fact that her uncle just said something that sets him apart and above 75% of father figures, so you know that Pope must always be like this with her. The picture of care.

So you tenderly agree, “sounds good,” and lead them over to the skincare section, where you explain to Lena, “To start off, you need a solid skincare routine; that’ll help you keep your face healthy while you grow up, which is super important. Even though you don’t have pimples or anything now, building those habits will help you keep your skin glowy and soft no matter what. I always say ‘the best routine is the one you stick to,’ so it’s not about using tons of products. Really, all you need is a good gentle cleanser, moisturizer, and especially a nice lightweight sunscreen living down here.”

While you answer Lena’s questions about different products and let her try out samples, Pope removes a small Moleskine notebook from his back pocket and takes notes on what you’re saying, writing down details about sustainable makeup removing wipes, cleansers for sensitive skin, and the benefits of cream vs. gel moisturizers. Honestly, you might as well shove him into a corner and start making out with him because it’s just so endearing. His expression is so soft and so intensely focused on Lena’s every reaction that your heart skips a beat.

Once you’ve helped Lena pick out a solid basic routine, you lead her through aisles of makeup, saying, “Okay, now let’s focus on getting you a wide variety of fun things you can play with since you really don’t have to worry about foundation or contour or anything like that for now.”

Toying with a bottle of thick foundation, she furrows her brows and asks, “Why not? You always do those in your videos.”

“Here, come look in this mirror.” You bend down over her shoulder so your faces are at the same level. “You have perfect skin, Lena. Covering it up right now would just be silly and clog up your pores unnecessarily.”

From behind, Pope can see up your skirt to the lacy pink panties beneath. It takes all of his willpower to focus on the parenting moment in front of him instead of the way your huge heels make your calves and thighs look. God, he didn’t realize how tall you are until now. In the heels, you probably have an two inches on him, and he wants you to step on his

“Right, Pope?”

You’re looking at him with expectant eyes and he rips his eyes from your body. He has no idea what you’re talking about, but he’s pretty sure you’re probably right, so he nods. “Yeah, exactly.”

“See? In the next year or so, you can start with something gentle like a tinted moisturizer to even out any redness you might get, but you definitely don’t need to worry about things as heavy as contouring yet.”

Lena asks you reluctantly, “But wouldn’t contouring make my cheeks look less fat? Maya Jenkins says I have fat cheeks like a chipmunk.”

Pope growls under his breath, but you’re quick to argue first: “Well she sounds like a mean girl and you should never listen to mean girls because they’re always wrong and they’re ugly down to their souls, which is the worst kind of ugly.” You touch her chin, tilting her face to the side in the mirror. Hoping she’ll see what you see, you tell her, “Soft features are really pretty. They’re timeless like women in classic paintings. And versatile. You can look cute and you can look elegant.” Her expression softens as she looks between her face and yours, so you add seriously, “As for her calling you fat? There’s nothing wrong with being any different size. Skinny girls and big girls can all be just as pretty as each other. We girls need to lift each other up, not tear each other down.”

Considering it seriously for a moment, Lena meets your eyes and decides, “That makes sense. I don’t like how Maya talks about my friends, so she’s probably wrong when she talks about me, too.”

“You’re really smart, Lena.” You give her arm a quick squeeze and continue, “Alright, after-school-special time over. Let’s get shopping.”

Pope lets out an amused little snort as your demeanor flips back into the bubbly light one you usually have on.

“So, when I think about makeup,” you tell Lena as you show her different brands oriented more toward girls her age, “I think about two things: Spending time taking care of yourself and having fun being creative with self-expression. You don’t need to be glam all the time or learn all these crazy skills right off the bat. Showing up to school with a full face is honestly no fun anyway because it’ll get cakey and sweaty and you don’t want to be worried about reapplying during lunch or after gym and stuff.”

Lena explains the kind of things she wants to learn to do – mainly fun eye looks with lots of glitter – so you pick out some palettes in colors you think would complement her eyes and make her personality pop. You choose a handful of mini eyeliners so she can try different applicators. A few times, you try to check with Pope to make sure it’s okay when you reach for nicer products, but he just waves you off with a gruff ‘whatever you think’ every time. So eventually you stop asking, getting used to the ease that comes with not having to worry.

After about half an hour, Lena’s got enough makeup in her bag to satisfy any tween’s Pinterest board goals – plus, more importantly to Pope, a huge smile on her face and buzzing with energy to get home and start trying things out. As you ring up the sale, internally cringing at the price even though you know Pope is okay with it, Pope leans forward across the check-out desk and asks quietly, almost bashfully, “Do you make commission on sales?”

Reading him wrong, you quickly reply, “Um, yes, I do, but that’s definitely not why I’m-”

“That’s not what I meant,” he cuts you off, equally as nervous to make sure you understand each other. With his hands in his pockets, he drops his gaze and orders, gentle but still stern, “Pick some stuff out for yourself, too. So I can say thank you.”

“I have plenty of makeup already,” you assure him, trying to ignore how the soft intensity in his hazel eyes has heat creeping up your chest. “I’d never want to take advantage of how generous you’re already being.”

Flummoxed by that response because he’s used to girls mostly being receptive to him because of money, Pope offers with a nod toward the men’s section, “Okay, then get some of this skincare stuff for me. My skin’s shit.”

“Well, I’ll never say no to an opportunity to turn a man on to skincare, you giggle. Coming around in front of the register again, you ask, “What’s your current routine?”

“Ah,” he replies, clearly embarrassed by the truth, “I wash my face in the shower, usually, I guess.”

Horror draws slowly across your features. “With your body wash?”

“The way you said that makes me think it’s wrong.”

“Very, very wrong.” You rest your hands on his shoulders and make deadly eye contact, “Like, mortal sin wrong.”

He smirks and shrugs. “I’m sure I’ve done worse.”

“Impossible.” You hold his face between both hands and murmur, “Here, let me look at you up close.”

When his eyes flick upwards, you catch a quick, fleeting innocence in them. It goes away as soon as he settles, but it was definitely there. Something sweet and wholesome inside him. As you scrutinize his T-zone, Pope can’t deny the way his heart rate climbs in his throat.

“First of all,” you announce like you’re admonishing him, “you really need to start putting on sunscreen every day. Red hair and freckles. No excuse.”

He pouts, “I don’t have red hair anymore.”

“It’s auburn and it’s as handsome as the rest of you.” Then, before he can process the compliment fully, you collect a few products for him. You can’t meet his eyes even though you feel them watching your every move; it’s not like you to be confident and flirty, really, especially not with someone who you already know has a kid and a dark side. But you can’t help it. He’s just so fucking handsome and so good with Lena. When you turn back, it’s with full hands. “Dr. Barbara Sturm sunscreen because it’s lightweight, long-lasting, and hydrating. Wear it every single day. Seriously. I’ll be able to smell it on you; if you skip it, I’ll beat you up.”

A laugh punches out of him. “Couldn’t have that.”

Inspecting him very closely, you order, “Now, tell me what you do for work.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Trying to figure out if I’d be a good sugar daddy?”

“Trying to figure out how you have so much skin damage when you’re, what, 35?” Turning his face side to side in your hands, you muse, “Construction, maybe? Landscaping?”

“I own a skatepark,” he says, searching your expression to see how you’ll react. “Half inside, half outside. We do outreach for kids who’ve been in juvie, no parents, shithead parents, whatever. Kids like me and my brothers were. If they show me that they’re in school every semester, they get in for free. I try to keep ‘em fed, help with whatever I can. A lot of the time that means sweating in the sun, which I guess isn’t good for my face.”

God, does he have to be so perfect? Rugged and sexy and soft? That should be illegal, to be frank. You swallow hard, trying not to get flustered at how big your crush is getting all of a sudden, and present him with, “Paula’s Choice toner and exfoliant every other day to get all that outdoors and sweat off your skin and Medik8 peptide serum to prevent even more damage.”

He nods seriously, treating your word as law, and asks with a furrowed brow, “What the hell is a peptide?”

“They’re amino acids that build collagen,” you explain, “so they act as, like, a tiny blueprint to tell your skin to make more of the good stuff and less of the bad stuff.”

He examines the bottle and murmurs, “You’re smart.”

“The boutique owners paid for me to take a couple cosmetology classes,” you tell him with a modest shrug. You’ve never been comfortable accepting compliments, so you quickly hand him one more jar and say, “Finish with this La Mer cream; it’s nice and light for summers here, but it’ll still make sure you’re smooth and soft and touchable.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Touchable?”

Your lip twitches up into a smirk. “Yeah. Touchable.”

“I guess that’s a good thing.” With an adorably furrowed brow, he asks, “Do I need anything else? Be thorough.”

“That’s a good basic routine to start,” you assure him. “But, y’know, if you want to be fancy and impress someone now that you’re going to have such nice skin, this-” you pick up a classic amber bottle of YSL’s Tuxedo “-is my absolute favorite scent for men.”

He doesn’t even glance at the $300 price tag, stuck staring at the way your lips mold around each word and smile. “Sold.”

All the while, pretending to look at magazines by the checkout, Lena sneakily watches with a small, mischievous smile on her face. She’s never seen Pope look at a girl like this and she’s already daydreaming about ways to meddle.

Pope and Lena live in a beautiful house right on the shore. It has four bedrooms; Lena has the primary suite with a walk-in closet and en-suite bathroom while Pope sleeps in the smallest room closest to the front door. Another bedroom is Pope’s ‘home office,’ which consists of free weights and a laptop. The last bedroom is completely empty save some boxes and plastic totes for storage; Pope explains that he didn’t care how many bedrooms the house had because, quote, Lena picked it out. He just wanted her to be happy – to the tune of a couple million dollars.

It’s an easy evening between the three of you. Pope insists on ordering a veritable buffet of food from your favorite local place, which Lena then insists on actually eating around their dining room table. She says that was her mom’s rule before she died, so they still do it now. You’re surprised how easy it is to talk to them both at once. Pope is an amazing listener, Lena is an absolute chatterbox, and you land somewhere in the middle.

Once you’ve all eaten, Lena gives you a tour of her huge walk-in closet and bathroom, clearly proud of how everything’s color-coded and organized. You just keep throwing Pope incredulous looks, which he responds to with sheepish shrugs. For how absolutely spoiled she is financially, Lena is still a normal, insecure preteen looking for approval from adults and friends alike, so she takes your first makeup lesson deathly seriously.

For two full hours, you teach Lena a few basics about blending colors, pulling straight eyeliner lines, and taking care of her skin. All the while, Pope watches absently. He’ll stand in the doorway for a few minutes in between cleaning the house and making phone calls or he’ll actually come in, sit on the edge of the bathtub, and ask about what you’re doing. He’s particularly nervous about Lena putting so many pointy things near her eye, but you remind him that women have been doing this for thousands of years, so he can calm down. And he grunts. You’re growing to quite like all his little grunts. It seems like most of the time it’s just too much work for him to find the right words while also making eye contact with you, which is clearly a bit of an effort for him, so he makes some absent noise to fill the space of a response.

You can tell he likes you. It’s obvious in the way his eyes can barely hold yours when you can tell he’s usually big into staring. Or, at the very least, he thinks you’re hot, which is a much lower bar since you’re perfectly aware that you are. Still, though. You’re definitely not going to be the one to make the first move because you don’t want to make things weird for Lena, but it’s a fact you file away close to your butterfly-filled stomach, somewhere by your heart, for safekeeping.

After Lena’s in bed (with very clean and dewy skin, thank you very much), Pope drives you home in his ridiculous, huge car. There’s a few beats of awkward silence after he backs out of the driveway before he says, “Thank you again. I know hanging out with a tween and her weird uncle probably wasn’t your ideal Friday night.”

“I actually had a lot of fun,” you promise. “Lena’s a great kid. And you’re not as bad to be around as you think.”

“Thanks,” he replies, sounding almost choked up with his eyes trained forward on the road so he doesn’t have to look at those pretty lips of yours again. “It means a lot. To, ah, to have a woman to- for you to- Fuck.” He shakes his head and tries again, “I just- I’ve got no idea how to do this. Being a girl’s only parent when she’s starting to get into makeup and shit. She asked me for a bra last week. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

You snort and shove him on the arm. You swear he flexes his bicep when your hand lingers, but you don’t point it out. “Buy her a bra, genius.”

He scoffs, “Like it’s that simple.”

“It is that simple. They sell training bras at, like, Target. It’s not rocket science.” But he looks at you like it is, in fact, rocket science, so you roll your eyes and add, “You’re useless; I’ll go shopping with you two. They’re just T-shirt sizes. You won’t even have to talk to anyone or go to a Victoria's Secret or anything.”

“I’m not useless,” he pouts adorably, eyes flicking briefly over to yours, “but your, ah, your, y’know, feminine touch-” You crack up laughing at how foreign the words sound on his tongue and he does, too, shaking his head at himself. He smiles and corrects, “That would be great. Thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” you assure him once again. You can tell the burden of parenting is heavy on his shoulders. Something about him and about Lena makes you want to help. It’s nice to feel like your knowledge matters. Like you’re not just some pretty brainless thing the way so many guys have treated you. Softer, knowing how good it would be for all three of you, you tell him, “It’s really nice to be around a family like you and Lena. I’ll watch her any time you need, Pope.”

He considers that, huffing, “It’d definitely be good to stop pawning her off on my brothers.”

“I overheard you saying they’re, ah, maybe not the best role models.”

“Craig’s a burnout idiot with a newborn,” Pope confirms, “and Deran’s…fine, I guess, but he’s always at his bar, and I’m not going to risk my custody dropping a kid off there.” He runs a hand through his curls and sighs out, “Half the time Lena has to come to the skate park with me to do her homework and shit because she’s not old enough to stay home alone yet and I can’t- I can’t handle the idea of her being home alone, anyway. She never complains about it because her dad didn’t exactly set good standards, but that doesn’t make it the best thing for her.”

There’s a beat of heavy silence, then. His fear of Lena being alone. His fear of failure. His fear of opening up the cracks in his family that you might be able to fill. As Pope pulls into a space in front of your apartment complex, you turn to him and tentatively ask, “Would you mind walking me up? It’s getting awfully late to be alone.”

He swallows hard and nods tightly. As if he would’ve let you walk out of his sight by yourself. “Of course.”

While you collect your bag and jacket, Pope hops out first and opens your door, offering his hand because it’s basically a fifty-foot drop. You take his hand tightly in yours and clamber down, telling him with a huff as you wobble on the dismount, “You should really get a smaller car if you’re gonna be driving pretty girls in high heels around.”

He chuckles stiffly, hand on your lower back a few moments longer than necessary as you stabilize, “If a pretty girl in high heels ends up in my car a few more times, I’ll consider it.”

You giggle and shove him with your elbow. “How the hell does Lena even get in this thing?”

Pope holds his ribs in mock pain. “By helicopter.”

“Oh, so you’re rich rich,” you tease. Then, dropping your voice a bit more seriously, you press, “Where’d you get all your money anyway? Don’t tell me you think I’m dumb enough to believe you own a house like that with your skate park that’s basically a non-profit.”

He follows close to you as you head into the building and toward the elevator. Reluctantly, he admits, “I own a couple properties, too.”

You gasp dramatically, “You’re a landlord?”

“Yes,” he goes on hastily, “but I actually do all the repairs and I follow the local union’s cost guidelines and-”

“I can tell you’re a good man, Pope, don’t worry.” The two of you drop into silence for a few moments as he fights not to disagree with you. That’s something he’s worked on in the court-mandated therapy to keep custody of Lena as a felon and he’s been trying to comply, trying to play by the rules for once, trying to be good. For her and for the world he wants to create for her. Behind the elevator’s closed doors, you ask, “What happened to them – Lena’s parents? Your brother?”

Pope shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do.”

“It’ll scare you off.”

“It won’t.” When he still stays quiet, you needle, “If I’m going to be part of her life, you should tell me this kind of stuff. What about her dad?”

Pope just shrugs. “He left.”

“He’s still alive?” You balk, “Shit, what an asshole. Does she know anything about it?”

“Yeah, she does.” Pope glares at his shoes as he remembers aloud, “He packed his shit and dropped her off at my apartment. Middle of the night. Out of nowhere. She was half asleep and he was high as fuck.”

You let out a long breath; somehow, you can still be surprised by how people will treat their children. “You don’t think there’s any chance he’s coming back?”

“No. He’s got a new family down in Mexico. His son’s around Lena’s age.”

“Jesus.” At your floor, you slowly walk down the hall toward your apartment. “What about her mom?”

Pope winces like he’s picking an old wound open. “My mother happened.”

“Smurf, right?”

“Yeah.” Pope wrestles with how to put it for a while. He wants to be honest. He wants to let you in. But that doesn’t make it easy. “Well, she’s…I don’t even know how to put it. She’s not a good person. And we all grew up with a lot of illegal shit happening. Stealing, drugs, prostitutes, all sorts of things.” He leans on your door frame and says quickly, “Anyway, she didn’t like Lena’s mom. Thought she was betraying our family and working with the cops. So she, ah…”

His voice trails off in a way that makes it clearer than words ever could.

With your heart slamming against your ribs, you whisper, “Does Lena know?”

“No,” he sighs back. His eyes are far away and glassy. Lost in memory and lost in the future. “Maybe when she’s older. I don’t know. I don’t want to ruin even more things for her. She doesn’t ever want to talk about it; I don’t even know what the hell her dad told her.”

“You have one hell of a life, Pope Cody.”

“Yeah. I do.” Then he shakes his head as if he’s pushing thoughts away by force. After a beat, he lifts his eyes to yours and murmurs gently, like it’s a secret, “My name’s Andrew. My real name.”

Nibbling your lip for a second, you check, “You prefer to be called Andrew?”

“By you, yeah.”

“By me?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” You bend forward and press a soft kiss to his cheek that he’s going to feel the rest of the night, if not the rest of his life. “Thanks for getting me home safe, Andrew.”

In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.

[collectingoldmen]

my precious baby angel andrew pope cody

[collectingoldmen]

lost a fic i was about to read!! it was robby x reader

trinity and reader decide that they are going to get back at their situationships for being the way that they are

PLEASE HELP ME FIND IT I WANNA READ!!!!!!!!

[collectingoldmen]

bought a bag of monster cookie dough that has peanut butter in it bc im a dumb dumb idiot who cant read apparently. so now i have to either force myself to enjoy peanut butter or not eat cookies

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

under your skin

summary: 10 things you hate love about frank langdon

pairing: fem!reader x frank langdon 

warnings/tags: abby and kids do not exist in this universe, enemies to lovers!!, frank is a bit of a dick in this (but in a hot way), mention and description of a patient death and the events of pittfest, mysoginistic interns!, reader gets black out drunk in this, swearing, fluff, angst, usual medical descriptions that you’d expect from the pitt!

notes: i love the concept of this fic sm, I haven't written enemies to lovers in a hot minute

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

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one.

Frank Langdon was arrogant.

Every doctor and surgeon had a little bit of an ego, sure. It was practically a job requirement.

But Frank Langdon had somehow mastered the ability of getting under your skin in a way no one else did, possessing a particular kind of arrogance that crawled in and nested there.

The kind that smirked at you across lecture halls.

The kind that leaned too close over your shoulder during labs.

The kind that always, somehow, knew exactly which buttons to press.

It had started in med school.

You’d been paired together for a semester-long assignment during your second year, a fact that had nearly made you consider dropping out on principle alone.

"I graduated summa cum laude, you know."

Frank said it casually, leaning back in his chair like the statement was an objective fact rather than an insufferable introduction.

"That's nice."

You didn’t look up from your textbook spread across the library table between you. Highlighting and neatly scribbled notes littered the pages in organised colour-coded sections. Frank’s side of the table, meanwhile, looked like a tornado had swept through it.

His brow furrowed slightly.

"Oh yeah? What were you, valedictorian or something?" He drawled.

"Actually yes." You answered smoothly, flicking over the page. "I just don't feel the need to announce it to anyone that will listen."

He blinked, staring at you for a moment before he let out a low whistle.

"Geez, alright Ace."

You finally glanced up at him at that, irritation pulling at your brow.

"Don't call me that."

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

And judging by the way his lips twitched, Frank knew instantly he’d struck gold.

The nickname stuck.

It followed you through the rest of med school like a disease. Across lecture halls and internships and far too many crowded house parties.

Sometimes it was murmured under his breath when you answered a question before everyone else. Sometimes it was tossed across a room with an infuriating grin. Sometimes, rarely, it softened into something almost fond when the two of you were the last ones left in the library the night before an exam.

And like the nickname, you couldn’t seem to shake Frank Langdon either.

You thought graduation would finally free you from him.

And for a short, glorious period of time, it did.

Until the two of you matched at PTMC. Both in the emergency department.

"Long time no see Ace."

You looked up from the chart in your hands and felt genuine despair shoot through you.

"You have to be fucking kidding me."

Frank’s grin widened immediately, blue eyes bright with something dangerously close to delight.

You felt like you were right back at med school, the two of you instantly competing over everything. In particular, the attention of Dr Robby, who seemed to have decided that one of you could be his favourite, he just annoyingly refused to pick who.

And as your residency dragged on, Frank Langdon's arrogance never waned. He never got a humbling that you so desperately hoped for.

If anything, it only got worse.

Because -

two.

Frank Langdon was good.

Like, really good.

The kind of good that made senior attendings pause to watch him work. The kind that made nurses trust him instinctively during traumas. The kind that made you grit your teeth every time he pulled off something impressive with that smug look still plastered across his face.

Which only made his arrogance more unbearable.

Because the asshole actually had the skill to back it up.

"Did you hear about Langdon's intubation today?"

You barely glanced up from your chart as Samira fell into step beside you.

"No, but I'm sure he'll find a way to tell everyone himself before the end of the shift."

Samira ignored the jab entirely, completely unphased due to the volume of them she'd heard over the years.

"There was so much swelling you literally couldn't see anything."

You paused, your pen stilling against the chart. "So what, you're saying he did it blind?"

"Completely." Samira nodded. "Robby said he did it perfectly too."

A reluctant pulse of admiration twisted in your chest before you shoved it back down where it belonged with a small huff.

"Nice."

The word came out clipped.

You dropped the chart onto the counter and headed toward the break room before Samira could catch the grimace on your face.

Hour ten of your shift was always when the headaches started.

Like clockwork, tension coiled up the back of your neck and settled at the base of your skull. The fluorescent lighting suddenly became too bright. The overlapping conversations too loud.

You shut the break room door behind you with a quiet exhale and reached for the medicine cabinet.

The door opened again just as your fingers closed around the Advil.

"You hear about my intubation today Ace?"

You rolled your eyes automatically before even turning around as you shut the medicine cabinet.

“I did.”

You grabbed a mug from the cupboard, acutely aware of his gaze following you across the small room.

“Nice work.”

The words were stiff, rolled unnaturally off your tongue, said with an attempt at forced casualness which instead resembled something pained.

Frank blinked.

Then slowly, his mouth curved into a grin.

“Wow.”

You finally looked over at him at that.

He was leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, scrubs stretched tight over his forearms, a smirk present on his face.

“Was that a compliment I just heard? Are you feeling ok?”

This time you rolled your eyes openly as you threw the Advil down your throat.

“I’m mature enough to acknowledge when a peer does something impressive, Langdon.”

His brows lifted slightly. “A peer? Is that all I am to you after all these years?"

He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Describing you as a peer is my way of being nice.”

You could see that a laugh was threatening to spill from his lips.

You turned toward the sink before your own expression betray you. You rinsed the mug beneath lukewarm water, missing the way his eyes tracked down your figure.

“Or maybe you just don’t want to admit that you’re jealous I practically performed a miracle.”

You let out a humourless laugh.

“Don’t worry, I perform miracles too.”

You set the mug down harder than necessary before glancing back at him.

“I just don't feel the need to announce it to anyone that will listen."

You saw his jaw tick slightly, indicating that you’d finally penetrated his thick ego shield.

“You’re a real ball of sunshine today Ace.”

You smiled sarcastically. “Only for you Langdon.”

three.

Frank Langdon loved to rest his arms on things.

Whether it was one arm leant lazily against the nursing station, both folded across his chest when he was thinking, or both braced on either side of your monitor as he loomed over you while you dictated.

His arms were always….there.

It was irritating and more importantly, it was distracting.

Like right now, as a team of you prepped a trauma patient for transport to the OR.

Frank stood on the other side of the gurney, his gloved hands curled around the metal rails as he leant forward. His forearms flexed as he adjusted his grip, the veins there straining, just visible in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Your gaze lingered, traitorous and immediate, tracking the movement of his hands as he tightened his hold on the bed frame. Your eyes ghosted upwards at the shift of muscle beneath fabric, his biceps straining slightly with the motion.

A flurry of images hit you.

His arms around your waist.

His arms flexed as he held his weight above you, steady and controlled, while he-

“Think she’ll make it?”

His voice cut through your thoughts cleanly.

You blinked, snapping your head up too fast.

He was already looking at you, with that infuriating, calm focus fixed directly on your face like you were the only thing in the room that required dissecting.

His tongue brushed briefly over his lower lip. A habit you first observed in med school and had never successfully un-noticed since.

You despised how your body reacted to it.

You turned away too quickly, hiding your burning face under the guise of discarding your gloves into the bin.

“50/50.” You answered, praying your voice was even as you spoke.

You shook your head slightly as you tried to shake yourself out of whatever this was.

You could not find Frank Langdon attractive.

That was not an option. Not a consideration. Not a thing your brain was allowed to do.

You wanted to slap yourself.

“I’m thinking more 70/30.” You heard him remark.

And just like that, mercifully, the fantasy collapsed.

four.

Sometimes, it felt like Frank Langdon could read your mind.

“Incoming trauma, two minutes out.” Dana announced in the middle of the pitt, red phone pressed to her ear. “MVA involving a single car and a motorcycle. The rider’s in a bad way.”

“What’s free?” Robby asked.

“Trauma one.”

You glanced up at Robby as he called out your last name.

“-and Langdon, with me.”

Frank didn’t answer - he was already following you.

You were already scrubbing in as the ambulance bay doors burst open. The gurney rattled violently over the polished floors.

“What have we got?” Robby asked.

“Rider unhelmeted. Found unconscious on scene. Hypotensive en route, tachycardic. GCS eight.” The paramedic answered as they wheeled the patient into the bay.

The room shifted and swelled around you - fluorescent lights too bright, the hum of equipment, the controlled chaos snapping into place like muscle memory.

“C-spine?” Robby asked.

“Immobilised.”

The patient was a young man. Early twenties. Dirt and road rash smeared across his face and chest, chest rising unevenly beneath cut fabric and exposed skin.

“Alright, transfer in three, two-“

Everyone moved together, sliding the patient onto the bed in one practiced motion.

“Airway appears patent but compromised.”

You leaned forward, placing your stethoscope on his chest.

“Reduced breathing sounds on the left.”

Frank was already there on the opposite side, his hands steady as he moved his fingers across the rib cage.

“Subcutaneous emphysema.” He said. “Likely pneumothorax.”

“Pulse-ox is dropping.” Perlah announced. “Eighty-eight and falling.”

“Alright get ready to intubate.” Robby ordered.

“Wait.”

The word left your mouth before you could second-guess it.

Every head turned slightly.

You leaned closer, eyes moving over the monitor, then the uneven rise of his chest, the subtle shift in breathing effort.

“He’s compensating.” You said. “This isn’t primary airway failure yet. If we intubate now without addressing the thoracic injury he'll drop further.”

“Ace is right.” Langdon agreed. “We should do needle decompression first.”

“Left second intercostal space, midclavicular line.” You added. “If it’s tension physiology, that’s what’s driving the instability.”

Everyone turned to Robby, waiting for his call.

The smallest of nods, the slightest flicker of approval.

“You heard them.”

You moved instantly, prepping the site, antiseptic swab snapping across skin, fingers precise as you located the rib landmarks through trauma and swelling.

Frank held the patient steady as the needle went in.

The hiss came instantly.

The patient’s chest expanded easier this time.

“Stats stabilising.” Perlah confirmed.

“Better.” Frank observed.

You exhaled through your nose, already shifting focus. “We still need definitive imaging. He’s not out of the woods, we’re likely dealing with associated haemothorax or pulmonary contusion.”

“Agreed.”

Frank didn’t look at you when he said it.

But somehow, the two of you were entirely in sync anyway.

“Chest tube tray.” Robby ordered. “Let’s move.”

The rest of the procedure blurred into controlled motion - scalpel, incision, blunt dissection, the familiar gravity that settled over a trauma room when everyone locked into the same rhythm.

And through all of it, Frank moved instep with you.

When you moved, he made space like it was instinct. When you reached for instruments, they were already halfway to your hand. When you spoke, he didn’t interrupt - he simply factored your words into the next step.

It was infuriating how seamless it felt, dangerous how easy it was.

“Tube’s in.” Frank said finally.

“Bilateral breath sounds confirmed.” You spoke.

A beat.

Then Robby stepped back, stripping his gloves off.

“Good call both of you.”

You looked up as he pushed open the swinging doors.

“You aren’t staying?”

He gestured between you and Frank.

“I know when I’m not needed.”

Your eyes met Frank’s briefly.

A smile flickered between you before either of you could stop it.

-

The ambulance bay was quieter than the pitt, but not by much. The afternoon sun glared off the cracked bitumen, the distant echo of monitors still lingered in your ears like a phantom rhythm.

You rolled your shoulders back, trying to shake off the adrenaline that always persistently lingered after a trauma.

“Good work in there.”

You glanced out of the corner of your eye to see Robby.

“Thanks.”

Silence stretched between the two of you.

His gaze shifted between you and the doors leading back inside.

“You know.” He said slowly after a moment. “You and Langdon work well together.”

You scoffed lightly. “When we’re not at each others throats, you mean.”

Robby’s eyes twinkled with amusement, dipping his chin down to conceal it. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

You exhaled, leaning back against the brick wall.

“Yeah." You admitted. "We do.”

It came out quieter than you intended.

You knew immediately that Robby noticed.

“But if you ever tell him I said that, I’ll deny it completely.”

Robby’s mouth twitched.

“Noted.”

“And, I’ll tell everyone about the time I caught you nearly in tears over a cockroach in the break room.”

Robby turned to you. “It had wings.” He said flatly.

"You still screamed like a little girl.”

five.

Frank Langdon could be thoughtful, when he wanted to be.

It was never loud. Never performative. It didn’t announce itself the way everything else about him did. No smug commentary, no pointed remarks, no expectation of recognition.

It was quieter than that, easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

You saw it in fragments over time, tucked into the spaces between the chaos.

The way his voice would soften when he spoke to patients. Or the way he’d comfort them when he thought no one else was listening.

You’d seen him pay for taxi fares out of his own pocket. You’d seen him quietly remove hospital cafeteria food from a patient's tray and replace it with sandwiches from the deli over the road.

None of it fit easily with the version of Frank Langdon that lived in your head.

And that was the problem.

Because the longer you worked with him, the more difficult it became to keep those versions separate.

You were on hour nine of a shift.

School holidays had transformed the ER into something louder, hotter, more chaotic than usual. The kind of chaos that didn’t spike cleanly, but accumulated in layers until the entire department felt stretched too thin.

The air carried a constant noise of beeping monitors, overlapping voices, crying kids, the scrape of gurney wheels against linoleum.

Like usual, your shoulders had started to tighten without permission, creeping up to your ears no matter how many times you tried to square them.

A slow, familiar clamp at the base of your neck. The kind that crept upward until it turned into something debilitating behind your eyes.

You half-heartedly tried to do your physio exercises in the breakroom before eventually giving up and opening the fridge instead, reaching automatically in for the Red Bull you knew was stashed behind someone’s abandoned lunch bag.

You paused.

A ziplock bag sat neatly on top of your lunchbox.

A plain glazed donut stared back at you through the plastic, alongside two Advil.

You stared at it.

You’d heard that upstairs had sent their usual trolley of unethical donuts down earlier. You’d been drowning in back to back traumas, only resurfacing long after all of the plain glazed, your favourite, were gone.

Or so you'd thought.

You looked over your shoulder. Was this meant for you? Surely not. Someone must have just accidentally chucked it on top of your lunchbox.

Your stomach grumbled.

Although, it looked intentionally placed. Maybe you could eat it and if the owner came asking for it later you could just-

You turned slightly at the sound of your name to see Perlah standing in the doorway.

“Robby’s looking for you.”

You hesitated only briefly before placing the bag back into the fridge, all thoughts of the donut dissolving as you heard the trauma code ring out over the loud speaker.

An hour later, the headache had settled in fully.

You leaned against the desk, elbows planted either side of the computer as pain pulsed behind your eyes. The words on the screen blurred at the edges.

You blinked rapidly, rubbing at your temples as you tried to massage some of the thrumming away.

“You need to take your Advil earlier.”

The voice came from above you.

You looked up to see Langdon towering over you.

“What?”

He slid something towards you.

The donut and Advil now sat on a napkin, a cup of water beside it.

"Your shoulders always start tightening around hour nine." He said. "Which means the headache peaks around now because you never take the Advil early enough."

You stared at him for a moment, then your eyes flickered down to the napkin.

"What's the donut for?"

His mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly.

"Increased blood sugar helps stabilise headaches." He answered smoothly. "And you haven't eaten lunch today."

You surveyed the donut suspiciously.

“Jesus Christ I haven’t poisoned it.” He huffed as he nudged it closer to you.

“Eat.”

You hesitated for a moment.

"...Fine." You relented as you pulled it in front of your keyboard.

"...thank you."

His eyes lifted sharply at that.

"Don't thank me. This is entirely for my own benefit."

You frowned.

"When you've got a headache you're somehow even more annoying than usual."

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

"You're welcome."

He was already stepping away before you could respond.

You stared down at the donut for a second longer, your stomach tightening hopefully at the smell of sugar.

What you didn’t see was Frank lingering at the end of the corridor just long enough to make sure you actually took the Advil.

Just long enough to watch you finally take a bite, observing the small act of compliance like it mattered more than it should.

You didn’t know that he’d had to almost physically fight Donnie for the last plain glazed donut because he knew they were your favourite.

You didn't know that he'd been buying the double strength Advil and sneaking it into the medicine cabinet for the last six months because he'd noticed your headaches getting worse.

What you did know, was that it was irritating when he did shit like this without explanation.

Because it reminded you that there was more under all of the bolstering and ego. Something softer, something complex.

Something that made you want to peel him apart layer by layer just to understand what lived underneath.

Even when you absolutely shouldn’t.

six.

You couldn’t escape Frank Langdon’s eyes.

It wasn’t just that he looked at you often, it was the timing of it. You would glance up from a chart, be mid-sentence in a handover, reach for a new pair of gloves, and there he would be. Already looking. Already watching.

Those piercing blue irises never seemed to settle on you for long, but they always found you again. It was infuriatingly precise. Like some internal compass had been set to your presence without your permission.

“Are you going to knock off drinks tonight?”

The voice pulled you back into the present. You blinked, realising you’d been staring blankly at your tablet for long enough that the screen had dimmed.

Holland was leaning against the edge of your desk, casual in a way that was unique to interns, half confident, half desperate for approval.

“Oh uh, I don’t know. Maybe.” You said half heartedly.

“Oh c’mon doc, it’ll be fun.” Holland’s grin widened as he studied you, searching for a crack in your resistance. “Especially if you’re there.”

You huffed a small laugh.

“Nice try Holland, but this one here likes to be in bed by 9pm.” McKay smirked as she walked behind you.

Your brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with that?“

“Nothing, if you’re like 80.” Holland shot back, making you roll your eyes.

“I do go out.”

McKay let out a snort that was entirely unconvinced. “Sure you do.”

You straightened slightly, feigning offence. “I just like to keep my work and personal life seperate, so I can avoid doing things like oh I don't know..." You trailed off, pretending to ponder.

"Falling off a table in front of my coworkers in the middle of a drunken rendition of Mamma Mia?" You suggested, raising a brow pointedly at McKay.

McKay flipped you off cheerfully without even slowing down.

Holland, undeterred, was still hovering like a persistent shadow over your desk.

“So… is that a yes?”

“You interns are nothing if not persistent.” You grumbled.

“I prefer passionate.”

You studied him for a moment.

“If you leave me alone to let me finish my charting, I’ll consider it.”

“I’m taking that as a yes.” Holland grinned, tapping the table once triumphantly, like the matter was closed. “See you tonight doc.”

You exhaled through your nose in reluctant amusement as he finally backed away.

Only then did you look up properly.

And, like you always seemed to do, your eyes met Langdon's from across the room.

Something unreadable flickered across his face - too fast to catch, too controlled to decode. It vanished before you could even decide whether you had imagined it.

-

Later, you found yourself alone with him in the trauma bay.

You were halfway through de-scrubbing when his voice cut through the sterile hum.

“Didn’t realise you had a thing for interns.” Langdon remarked as he yanked off his gloves, the latex snapping softly against his wrist.

You glanced over at him as you united your gown.

“Huh?”

“Holland.” He clarified, like it should have been obvious.

You frowned. “What about him?”

“He was flirting with you.”

You scoffed immediately. “No he wasn’t.”

Langdon stopped mid-movement, staring at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“There’s no way you’re that oblivious.” He said flatly.

Your brow knitted. “I’m not oblivious.”

“You are if you don’t notice the way he looks at you.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How does he look at me?”

“Like-“ Langdon cut himself off. His jaw tightened once before he looked away.

“Never mind.” He muttered, scrunching his gloves into a ball and lobbing it into the trashcan with practiced aim.

“Well if he’s flirting with me, maybe I can wrangle a free drink out of him.” You said lightly.

Frank stilled. Not dramatically, but enough for you to notice the tension settling across his shoulders. The brief curl of his fingers before he forced them open again.

You weren’t sure what reaction you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one you got.

When he looked back at you, his expression had hardened slightly around the edges.

“So you’re going tonight?”

You lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I might.”

He shook his head slightly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He pushed open the glass doors, holding it open for you to pass through first. “Just thought I’d be free of you in a few hours.”

Your eyes narrowed as you stepped past him.

“Don’t worry." You shot back, "I’ll make sure to sit at the opposite end of the table.”

-

The bar the pitt crew frequented was already too crowded for your liking by the time you arrived.

It was loud in a way that pressed against your skin. The kind of place where conversation blurred into overlapping noise and every surface felt slightly sticky.

You’d been nursing a wine for the better part of an hour, perched on the edge of the booth, perfectly content listening to everyone else talk.

"I'll be back." You murmured to Samira beside you, sliding your unfinished glass toward her.

"Don't get lost." She teased.

You threaded your way through the crowd toward the bathroom, shoulders brushing strangers, the air growing hotter the further you moved from your group.

“I can’t believe she’s here.”

“Who?”

You froze when you heard the sound of your last name.

It wasn’t spoken loudly, but it cut through the noise anyway.

“I know, Holland actually managed to convince her.”

You slowed instinctively.

A cluster of interns stood near the bar, half-leaning into each other, already loosened by alcohol and confidence. All oblivious to the fact you were only a few feet away.

“It wasn’t hard, just had to smile at her and call her doc.”

A few of them laughed.

“She definitely has cat lady energy."

"In all fairness." Someone else said. "She is hot. Just way too fucking uptight."

"Seriously." Another voice added. “You can tell she’s never relaxed a day in her life."

The laughter swelled again.

The words landed like barbs in your chest.

The air felt suddenly too thin, too sharp. Your fingers curled instinctively around nothing.

“Holland, honestly, do everyone a favour and take care of her tonight so maybe she chills the fuck out next shift-"

You turned before you could hear the rest, not sure if you'd be able to bear hearing more.

Heat burned behind your eyes as you pushed through the crowd, swallowing the emotion down so aggressively it turned sharp inside your chest. You rerouted, diverting your course to the bathroom back to your table.

There were plenty of other doctors at PTMC who had sacrificed their social lives for this job. Robby and Langdon were self professed life long bachelors because of their obsession with work. But the difference was, they were men.

By the time you reached the booth again, anger had replaced humiliation almost entirely.

As you approached your table, Samira glanced up at you.

"Hey, you ok?" She asked.

"Never better." You answered smoothly, sliding back into the booth as you let the anger spark into something different.

You gestured to the bar.

"Want to get wasted?"

-

What neither you or the interns had realised was that Frank had been standing further down the bar waiting to order. And he had heard every word.

"Hey."

The interns turned.

Frank stood there holding two untouched beers, expression unreadable.

“Maybe be careful of how you talk about your seniors.” Frank said, too calmly for it to be genuine.

Holland, who’d already had one too many, snorted.

“Come on man, you of all people know what she’s like.”

Frank’s jaw ticked.

“I know that she’s a brilliant doctor who deserves your respect."

"Respect?" Holland laughed. "We all see the way you talk to her." Holland continued, the alcohol flowing through his veins hindering his ability to realise that he was walking into a death trap.

Frank stepped forward just enough that the space between them shifted.

"Don't ever try and conflate your working relationship with what her and I have." He spoke evenly, his voice lowering just enough.

A hush descended over the interns.

"And from now on I suggest you watch your fucking mouth." He continued, his eyes moving from Holland to flit over the group. "Because if I hear any of you breath another bad word about her, I'll personally ensure that none of you make it through this internship."

No one dared to speak or move.

"Are we clear?”

Holland swallowed. “Crystal.”

-

You had never been one to hold your alcohol well, and tonight was no exception.

Three shots and four drinks in and your vision was blurring at the edges. You and Samira had managed to convince Dana and a few of the other nurses to join in, the group of you giggling and slurring like a bunch of underage teenagers.

And still, every so often, despite the bodies and the noise and the light, Frank's eyes would find yours.

You had no idea what time it was when you stumbled out of the bar.

The night air hit your face like relief and exhaustion all at once. You dropped onto a bench without fully deciding to, legs slightly unsteady, head tipping back toward the night sky. The music from the bar seeped out into the quiet street, carried by the faint breeze.

You could hear foot steps approaching.

You didn't need to look to know who it was.

"How's your night going?"

You blinked slowly up at him.

"Was going great until about two seconds ago."

Frank studied you carefully. "How much have you had to drink?"

"You tell me." You squinted.

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he sat beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth that radiated off his body.

"I'll answer for you." You continued, hiccupping as you folded your arms over your chest. "Not enough."

"You should have some water."

You let out a fake a gasp. "Is Frank Langdon worried about me?"

Despite himself, a small smile tugged at his mouth. "Worried about dealing with you hungover tomorrow? Definitely."

That pulled a laugh out of you. "Don't worry." You said as you leant back. "I've got the next two days off so you'll get a break from me."

He didn't answer you as you looked back up at the sky, your eyes settling on the full moon hanging above the two of you.

Instead, he watched you for a moment longer than necessary, like he was trying to place something unspoken.

"Do you think I'm uptight?" You blurted out.

Frank's brows jerked upward.

"Is that a trick question?"

The teasing disappeared immediately when he saw your expression shift.

"Maybe I should just go adopt some cats and embrace it." You mumbled, barely audible as you hugged your arms around yourself.

"Hey." He said, making you look up at him.

"So what if you're uptight?" Frank asked. "It means you care. Means you don't half-ass things."

A pause.

"Because uptight implies...I don't know.." You let out a small sigh as you glanced down at your hands. "That I'm boring or annoying, or both."

"You're definitely not boring." He said immediately.

"But yes." He added after a beat. "You are definitely annoying."

That loosened a real laugh from you this time.

Frank watched it happen carefully, something softer flickering across his face.

"But I like that about you." He added quietly, almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

You shot him an incredulous look. "Sure you do."

"I do." He insisted.

"Uh huh." Your lips pursed in amusement. "Don't pretend like you wouldn't give me a personality transplant if you could."

"I wouldn't." This time he sounded firmer, too focused on proving you wrong to realise that he was giving away too much.

"I wouldn't change anything about you." He repeated, his eyes locking onto yours.

"I like you. Just as you are."

The words hung between you for a moment.

You stared at him as your body suddenly completely still.

And then the espresso martinis and tequila shots reminded you that they were still swirling around in your stomach, causing a wave of nausea to rip through you.

The colour drained from your face as the alcohol, the heat, the exhaustion - everything surged through you at once.

Frank noticed it instantly.

"Come on, let's get you home."

-

The walk up to your apartment was a blur of stairs, half-coherent instructions, and Frank’s hand steadying you at your elbow whenever you swayed too far.

By the time he guided you inside, you were well beyond the point of being able to remember anything.

Too drunk to notice the way Frank's eyes trained on the interior of your apartment, gaze lingering on family photos, books, decorations, anything that provided him a glimpse of who you were outside of work.

He got you into bed, moving around your space with a familiarity that made it feel like he'd been here a hundred times before.

You watched as he placed a glass of water and a packet of painkillers on your bedside table.

Then he paused.

Your pink bedspread was patterned with tiny cherries.

A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth.

"Try not to vomit all over your fancy bedspread." He remarked.

You looked up at him blearily.

There was something dangerously fond in his voice now.

You watched him hover for a moment, like he was trying to convince himself to leave.

"Thank you."

A smile, small and private, broke through.

"Don't mention it Ace."

He turned to leave when your hand caught his forearm lightly.

He stopped immediately.

"Hey." You whispered.

"What's wrong?" He asked, already shifting back toward you instinctively.

You studied him for a long moment, as if something about his face had changed shape in the quiet. Frank suddenly became aware that your hand was still on his arm.

"Your eyes have a little green in them."

Frank froze.

The words had been spoken so softly he almost thought he imagined them.

He swallowed, glancing down at the floor as he tried to reconcile the emotions flooding his nervous system, tried to formulate a response.

But when he looked at you again, you were already gone - head tilted slightly, lashes fluttered close, breath even, asleep mid-thought.

He stayed there for a moment longer than he should have.

Then he left quietly, closing the door behind him like he was afraid to disturb whatever had just changed between the two of you.

seven.

Frank Langdon could make you laugh like no one else could.

It wasn’t just the words he said. Like everything else, it was the timing of them.

The way he seemed to sense the exact moment your thoughts started tipping somewhere too heavy and quietly redirected them before you could sink too far into yourself, like he refused to let it stay there too long.

Ever since that night out at the bar, things had shifted between the two of you.

Not dramatically. Not in any way anyone else would have been able to point at and name.

But there had been a change in the space between interactions. Less friction. Less sharpness for the sake of it. The edges of your usual back-and-forth softened into something that almost resembled ease - like both of you had, without discussion, agreed to stop pressing on eachother’s bruises.

You couldn’t remember much from that night. Couldn't even remember how you'd gotten home. You only had fragments to analyse - warmth, noise, Frank’s voice close enough to feel like it belonged somewhere under your skin.

"I like you. Just as you are."

That part, unfortunately, you remembered perfectly.

The words had settled somewhere deep and stubborn inside you, resurfacing at the worst possible moments. Mid-shift. Mid-sentence. In the brief seconds before sleep when your brain stopped pretending it wasn’t still at work.

And now, weeks later, you were still carrying them around like something you hadn’t figured out how to put down.

The unspoken truce between you and Frank held anyway.

Sharper jabs were replaced with quieter ones, almost always softened with half-hearted eye rolls and almost-smiles neither of you acknowledged.

If anyone else noticed it, they didn't say it out loud, careful not to disrupt whatever delicate peace treaty had been formed.

You’d been having a good shift, until hour eleven.

Your patient, a young woman with a soft, girlish face that made her look even younger. She’d come in complaining of vague chest discomfort with a documented history of anxiety. No other significant past medical history. Stable vitals on arrival.

She'd been sweet, telling you all about how she had finally worked up the courage to book flights to Italy for the summer.

Then she crashed.

Chest compressions were already underway when you arrived, the rhythm of them loud and brutal in the confined space. Someone was bagging her. Someone else was calling out time intervals.

"Epi’s in." Jesse confirmed.

You were already moving, hands automatically checking rhythm on the monitor, eyes scanning for anything reversible.

Nothing.

Still PEA.

"Again." You said, voice steady in a way you didn’t feel as you swapped in for compressions.

The bedframe rattled faintly beneath the force of it.

Time stretched in that strange, distorted way it always did during arrest, both too fast and painfully slow at once.

You all paused again, stepping away to look at the monitor for another rhythm check.

"Call it."

Robby's voice cut through the room.

"We can still try-" You began.

"You've been going for twenty minutes." Robby voice stayed calm, firm. "Call it."

The room shifted like it always did when a resuscitation failed. That invisible collective acknowledgment that the line had been reached.

You reluctantly moved your hands away from the patients chest, your gaze lingering on her glassy eyes that would never blink again.

You felt your chest tighten.

You glanced down at your watch. "Time of death, 5:17pm."

Your voice remained clinical despite the way your throat had started closing around the words.

Silence settled over the room.

The monitors still beeped softly in the background, almost offensively alive compared to everything else.

"Does she have next of kin listed?"

Robby glanced down at your hands that had started to tremor slightly. Something soft flickered across his face.

"I'll do it."

You shook your head before he even finished the sentence.

"No." Your voice tightened slightly. "She was my patient. I can do it."

A pause.

Robby studied you for a second longer than necessary, then nodded once.

"Ok."

The room began to reset around you, people stepping back, lowering their voices, the clinical transition from emergency to aftermath already beginning.

But your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

-

The wind up on the roof of PTMC was colder than expected. Sharp against your skin, grounding in a way that almost hurt.

You sat curled against the wall with your knees tucked to your chest, staring at your shaking hands.

“Heard you had a rough one.”

You turned your head.

Frank was standing a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets.

“She was only 19.” You murmured, shaking your head. “I just had to tell her parents that their daughter isn’t coming home.”

You turned your head away as he sat down beside you, wiping at your face quickly before he could fully register it.

“I’m sorry.”

"I should have checked for a PE risk or a structural issue or-"

"She presented exactly like most young patients with anxiety do. None of us would have done anything differently." Frank interrupted gently.

You inhaled sharply. "But if I'd just-"

"Ace."

Your nickname, said like that, cut through the spiral before it could finish building.

You looked at him.

His gaze dropped briefly to your hands.

Then, slower, like he was deciding rather than acting, he reached forward and wrapped his hands around yours.

"This wasn't your fault."

The contact grounded you in a way that felt unfair.

The warmth of him grounded you instantly in a way that felt deeply unfair.

You swallowed hard and nodded once.

"I don't know how Robby and Dana are still here." You admitted quietly. "How they just keep... showing up."

Frank raised a brow. "Have you met them? They're both completely unhinged."

Despite yourself, a small sound escaped you - half laugh, half broken exhale.

"I didn't realise unhinged was an official medical diagnosis."

"It is according to me.” He nodded solemnly. “Right alongside basketcase and whacko."

That got another laugh out of you, sharper this time. More real.

He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was checking whether it had actually worked.

"There we go." He said quietly.

You looked down then.

His hands were still around yours.

"I’m scared to know what you'd diagnose me with." You said after a moment, voice steadier now.

A corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"You're your own medical condition entirely." He answered. Pausing as he tried to think of the best way to describe it.

"Ace-itis."

That made you laugh again, properly this time, breath catching slightly at the end, the heaviness in your chest loosening just enough for you to breathe deeper.

Frank watched it happen like it mattered more than it should.

When the laughter faded, the silence between you felt strangely easy.

After a moment, he shifted slightly but didn’t let go of your hands.

“You want to go get a drink or something?”

The question was casual, but it didn't feel like it.

You blinked at him once, processing it slowly through the fog of adrenaline and exhaustion.

A joke rose automatically to your tongue, something defensive, something sharp, but you swallowed it as you studied him.

“Only if the first rounds on you.”

He smiled faintly.

“After the day you’ve had, I’ll even get the second.”

eight.

Frank Langdon could also make you cry in a way no one else could.

Because when he turned on you, it felt like being shut out of something you hadn’t realised you were standing inside of, something that you suddenly didn't want to leave.

It was the day of Pittfest.

It was also the day for new interns and residents, which meant a whole slate of fresh faces trying too hard while the rest of the ER oscillated between mentorship and survival mode.

The halls were louder than usual. Too many voices overlapping, too many unfamiliar footsteps echoing off the linoleum floors.

And through all of it, there was Frank.

You noticed it within the first hour.

Something was off.

He moved like his body was running half a step ahead of everything - conversations, people, decisions. His voice came too quickly, clipped at the edges. His attention snapped between patients and staff with an intensity that didn’t feel controlled so much as driven. Like his nervous system had been turned up too high and forgotten how to come back down.

His pupils were slightly too wide under the fluorescent light, sweat gathered faintly at the back of his neck despite the air conditioning.

And worst of all - his arrogance, usually carefully calibrated, was unfiltered.

Loud.

You caught yourself watching him repeatedly throughout the shift.

Each time, you told yourself you were imagining it.

Then another hour passed.

Then another.

Eventually, you found yourself avoiding him entirely, because something about the way he looked today made you think of a system running too hot right before it failed.

You just hoped that whatever was going on with him would settle and he wouldn’t sweep up too many people in his chaos.

That hope lasted until you heard raised voices coming from trauma two.

You were already moving before you consciously decided to.

Even from the doorway, you could tell the atmosphere was off. A room holding its breath in the wrong place.

Frank was at the centre of it.

One of the new interns, Trinity, stood across from him, her body rigid, eyes wide. You had a brief thought that she resembled a frightened lamb.

Frank’s voice cut through everything.

“-stupid or arrogant, you need to realise that you are a beginner.” His voice was loud and unforgiving.

“Which means your job is to shut up, listen, and learn, because so far today the only thing you have been successful at is proving repeatedly that you know nothing.”

Trinity’s eyes widened slightly when she spotted you over his shoulder. You couldn’t decide if it was a silent plea or a warning.

Frank turned slightly at that movement.

For one brief second, his expression faltered when he saw you, like seeing you had been pulled back into himself.

Then immediately it hardened again, too fast to hold onto.

You swallowed, attempting to regain your composure as you glanced between them.

“Santos.” Your voice was level as you tilted your head towards the exit. “Dr McKay needs help in Room 4.”

Relief crossed Trinity’s face so quickly it was almost painful.

She nodded once, eyes darting between the two of you before escaping the room like she’d been given permission to breathe again.

The moment she left, the air changed again.

You turned back to Frank slowly, taking a few steps toward him so you were fully enveloped by the room.

He was still standing there, hands half-curled at his sides, like he’d been interrupted mid-impact and didn’t know what to do with the energy still in him.

“What the fuck was that?”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“What the fuck was what?”

His tone made you bristle.

“Don’t do that.” You said sharply. “Don’t stand there pretending you don’t know what you just did was completely out of line.”

“Have you worked with her yet?” He shot back, words tumbling out too fast. “She’s arrogant and-and completely incapable of-“

“It doesn’t matter.” You interrupted. “That is not how we talk to rookies. Actually, it’s not how we talk to anyone.”

Frank scoffed, sharp and humourless.

“Didn’t realise you were the tone police.”

The agitation radiating off him made you instinctively want to step back.

Your gaze sharpened.

“What is going on with you today?” You demanded. “You’re all twitchy and acting completely fucking manic-“

You stopped when you caught it.

Because you saw it properly now you were up close. His pupils were too dilated, not situational, not lighting, not stress.

Something else.

Something your brain immediately started assembling pieces around before you could stop it.

Sweats at his hairline, restless movement in his jaw, the uneven pacing of his breath.

And then the memory surfaced - uninvited, unwelcome.

Back pain from when he’d helped his parents move. Been too cheap to hire movers, he’d joked.

A prescription.

You remembered him mentioning it offhand weeks ago - something about weaning off them, something about not needing them anymore.

The realization hit so hard it almost made you feel sick.

You went still.

Frank noticed immediately.

Something defensive shifted across his posture like he’d followed your thoughts to their conclusion before you even spoke.

“Frank.” You said slowly.

Your voice softened involuntarily. Careful in a way that didn’t match the argument anymore. Weeks of quiet moments and softened edges bleeding into the argument without permission.

“Are you having withdrawals?”

There was a beat of silence.

Something flickered across his face.

Not denial first, not anger.

Something closer to pain, mixed with a semblance of something like surprise, maybe at the sound of his first name leaving your lips, or being caught, you weren’t certain.

And then it vanished.

“What?” He said, voice sharp enough to cut, “are you seriously trying to ask me if I’m a drug addict?”

“No, I-“ You started immediately, stepping forward again.

But he was already unraveling faster than you could catch.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Bitterness curled through every word now. “Get your competition shipped off to rehab so you can be the only golden child of the ER.”

Your breath caught painfully.

“That’s not fair.”

"Isn't it?" He studied you for a moment, his eyes intense and unblinking. "This place isyour whole life, it makes sense that you'd be dying to have Robby's attention all to yourself."

The words, slung like arrows, found their mark with deadly accuracy. They penetrated your thick skin, embedding themselves somewhere deep behind your rib cage.

Not because they were true, but because they were thrown like they were, like they were designed to hurt you.

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you.” You said quietly, voice shaking now despite your efforts. “But I seriously suggest you stop talking before you say something you can’t take back.”

For a moment something in him wavered. A crack.

Like he could suddenly see you again instead of whatever he was fighting.

Your bottom lip was quivering now.

For a second, he looked horrified by it.

And then his expression closed again, like a door slamming shut.

“Don’t worry.” He said flatly, void of any emotion as he stalked past you. “I was just leaving.”

You stood there frozen for a few seconds before the tears finally came, sliding down your face in hot, fat tracks.

Anger crashed through you almost instantly afterward.

Not just at Frank, but at yourself.

Because you hadn’t cried when you heard interns say horrible things about you, hadn’t cried when you’d lost a patient. You’d been on the brink, but never quite fallen off the ledge.

But somehow, Frank Langdon was the one to push you off it.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Because it meant you’d let him get under your skin in a way that you never thought he would. And now, you didn’t know if you could ever scrub yourself clean of him.

nine.

Frank Langdon left without saying goodbye.

You stood in the descrubbing bay long after your gloves had been peeled off and discarded, staring at nothing in particular. The curtain that separated you from the trauma bay still fluttered slightly, like the room itself hadn’t settled yet.

You didn’t want to move. Didn't want to pull back the curtain and see the blood soaked floor beyond it.

Because if you did, it would become real in a different way. Not just something you survived, but something that stayed.

A dull headache pulsed steadily behind your eyes. Your shoulders ached with tension. Your body felt disconnected somehow, like part of you was still moving even though you’d stopped minutes ago.

Your mind was struggling to process what you'd just witnessed. How many people you saved. How many you didn't.

You swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat.

For one strange second, you genuinely thought you might pass out.

The curtain shifted. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

“Sorry.”

The voice was quiet and all too familiar.

Your stomach dropped before you even turned.

Blue eyes met yours.

Frank stood in the doorway, still in scrubs. Hair slightly dishevelled. Exhaustion carved into his face in ways that you were sure mirrored yours.

The mass casualty had left no room to think about him as anything other than another set of hands beside you. But now, standing here with him again, every emotion you’d shoved aside came flooding violently back.

“What do you want, Langdon?”

Your voice came out flatter than intended as you turned away again, like movement alone might protect you from whatever this conversation was about to become.

"I came to apologise... about earlier." He said quietly. "That was fucked up."

"Yeah. It was." You said.

A humourless breath escaped you.

"Although now it feels kind of trivial after-" You stopped yourself before your brain could drift back toward everything you’d all just witnessed.

You turned back properly then - freezing when you saw the raw emotion on his face.

"I'm really sorry."

This time, you weren’t entirely sure he was only talking about the argument anymore.

You took a step towards him.

"What happened Frank?" You asked quietly.

His jaw tightened.

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

"I fucked up Ace." He admitted, his voice cracking slightly, like it cost him something to say it out loud.

"Really badly."

Your expression softened before you could stop it, and that seemed to break something in him further.

"I think I need help." The confession came out barely above a whisper as tears pooled in the corner of his eyes.

You took a step toward him instinctively.

"Ok." You said immediately, nodding slowly. "Ok. We can get you help."

"Jesus-" He cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut for a second like he was trying to physically reset himself. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you... like you pity me."

"Jesus Christ Langdon, I don't pity you I-" You stopped yourself, breath catching slightly as you realised what you were about to say.

"I care about you."

The honesty of it startled even you.

Frank went still.

"You do?" He asked.

There was no teasing in his voice now. No arrogance. Only something small and uncertain underneath it that made your chest ache unexpectedly.

"Yeah." You said, softer now. "Even though it pains me to admit it."

That got the smallest flicker of something, his eyes never leaving your face.

"Which is why we're going to figure this out." You continued, stepping closer again without thinking about it. "Whatever this is, we can sort it out, we can-"

You never got to finish your sentence.

Because Frank Langdon kissed you.

It was sudden - like something inside him had snapped beneath the weight of everything he’d been holding back.

You froze completely at first. Hands half-raised, breath caught, brain refusing to process the shift from conversation to collision.

Frank pulled back abruptly, eyes wide, mouth parted.

“I- oh my god." He breathed heavily. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I-”

You grabbed the front of his scrubs and pulled him back down before he could finish.

The second kiss wasn’t hesitant.

It was years of tension collapsing all at once into something sharp and immediate and impossible to take back.

Frank made a quiet sound against your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were kissing him back.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back. His breathing uneven, chest rising too fast.

"I'm sorry." He shook his head as he took a step away from you, like he needed the physical distance to stop himself. "I can't- I can't do this."

"Frank-"

But he was already gone.

You didn't see him again after that.

Not in passing, not in corridors, not in all the strange little spaces where the two of you had somehow built an entire relationship out of arguments and eye contact and timing.

You found out a week later from Dana that Frank had admitted himself into a treatment program that same night.

And then he disappeared from your life for ten months.

ten.

The thing you hated the most about Frank Langdon was that you didn't hate him.

Not even a little bit, not even at all.

You’d known it long before you admitted it to yourself. But that moment - that kiss- had made it undeniable in a way you couldn’t pretend to ignore anymore.

And that was the problem.

Because hatred would’ve been easier than this constant, aching awareness of him existing somewhere just beyond your reach.

Fourth of July shifts were universally hated at PTMC.

Too hot, too loud, too many fire-work related disasters waiting to happen.

You could already feel a faint film of sweat start to coat the back of your neck as you opened your locker that morning.

Footsteps approached behind you.

You peered around the locker door out of habit, ready to say good morning to whichever poor colleague was stuck with you on this shift.

Your brain short circuited.

Frank Langdon stood there.

Cap on. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Like he belonged somewhere casual, somewhere outside of this building entirely.

Like he hadn’t disappeared from your life for ten months without a word.

You stared at him for a moment.

Then he opened his mouth, your name formed silently on his lips.

You slammed your door shut with finality, then walked straight past him without saying a word.

Your pulse roared in your ears, your heart bashed against your ribcage.

You knew he’d be coming back, you knew you would have to see him again eventually - you just didn’t think it would be today.

You didn’t think it would hurt this much either.

-

The shift was unbearable in the quietest possible way.

Every time you turned a corner, you expected him to be there. Every time you reached for a chart, you expected his voice behind you.

Every time someone called your name, your body reacted before your brain caught up - a stupid, pathetic flicker of hope you immediately hated yourself for.

And then there were the moments he was there.

Hands steady, voice controlled, face carefully neutral in the way only Frank Langdon could manage when he was actively trying not to look at you.

Even then, you could feel his eyes on you wherever you moved.

It made your skin feel too tight.

By hour four, you had already done two traumas with him. Your body slipped back into your old rhythm together so naturally it made you feel sick.

By hour eight, your scrubs were starting to cling to you in a way that felt suffocating.

By hour ten, your tension headache had made itself home again.

By hour fourteen, you thought you might scream if you stayed in the same room as him any longer.

The stairwell was empty when you found it.

Quiet in the way hospital spaces rarely were - concrete walls absorbing sound instead of reflecting it. The air was cooler here, industrial and slightly damp, smelling faintly of disinfectant and metal.

You pressed your back against the wall and closed your eyes for half a second.

Just one breath.

Just one moment where you didn’t have to think about him.

Your eyes snapped open when you heard the door open.

Frank stood in front of you, his chest rose and fell slightly faster than usual, like he’d decided to follow you on impulse and was only now catching up with the consequences.

You straightened immediately.

"I just want to talk." He spoke, taking a step toward you slowly like you were a wild animal he didn't want to spook.

"There's nothing to talk about Langdon."

He paused. "You know that's not true Ace."

"Don't call me that."

Your voice came out sharper than you intended.

His expression flickered.

“Please Ace just-"

"I said stop." You cut him off again, stepping back slightly without meaning to. "You don’t get to call me that anymore. Not after-"

You stopped.

The words jammed in your throat.

Because saying it out loud meant making it real in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.

His gaze didn’t move from yours.

"Not after what?" He asked quietly.

Something in your restraint finally cracked, frustration pouring out of you.

"I wrote to you in rehab." You said, voice tightening. "Even after everything, I wrote to you. And you didn't write back."

Pain flashed openly across Frank's face.

"I'm sorry."

You shook your head.

"You kissed me Langdon. And then you disappeared without a word and then you just - just appear without any warning, like nothing happened." Your voice grew louder as you spoke, trembling despite your best efforts.

"I didn't want you to get caught up in any of this."

"That wasn't your call to make." You snapped back. "I can make my own decisions."

"You don't think that I know that?" He answered, his own tone sharpening. "There's more to this then my addiction."

"I know."

Frank's eyes flared in surprise.

You exhaled shakily.

"Robby and Santos have been glaring at you all day. And I saw the way he looked at you last year before you left.” Your jaw clenched. “It doesn't take a genius to figure it out."

Frank watched you for a moment, his surprise morphing into one of disbelief.

"And you're saying what? You wouldn't have exiled me too?”

"No. I would have been there for you, if you'd given me the chance to."

His expression faltered as he shook his head slightly.

"What?" You challenged, taking a step towards him. "You don't believe me?"

"You hate me." He countered.

You stared at him, then let out a breath somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief.

"Jesus Langdon, I don't hate you.” You snapped. “And that's precisely the problem."

A pause.

He took a step closer.

"I didn't plan on kissing you like that."

You swallowed as you looked at him, all your frustration seeping out of you.

"Then why did you?" You murmured.

For a moment he didn't answer.

"Because I don't hate you either."

This time when he looked at you, there was something different. Like he wasn’t looking at you as competition, or a colleague, but something more exposed than either of you had ever allowed before.

"You're all I thought about in rehab."

Your heart stuttered violently.

Frank laughed softly under his breath, humourless.

"You're all I've thought about since med school, really."

"That can't be-"

"It is." He cut in gently. His eyes dropped briefly toward the floor.

“Ever since you sat across from me with your colour coded textbooks and looked at me like you wanted to kill me.” A small smile tugged briefly at his mouth.

Your breath caught.

“That's probably why I was always such a dick to you.” He glanced back up. “Because it was the only time you ever really looked at me."

The stairwell felt too small suddenly. Too warm, too honest, too vulnerable.

"It's always been you Ace.” His voice softened. “I just didn’t know what to do about it.”

You swallowed hard.

"You left." You said quietly.

"I know." He said immediately. No defence. No excuse. Just truth.

“I panicked. I wasn't thinking straight."

A beat.

"And I’ve regretted it every day since."

He took another step towards you.

"The kiss, or you leaving?” You whispered.

His eyes heals yours steadily.

"You know which one."

Now he was close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to keep eye contact. Close enough that you could see the small flecks of green scattered through his eyes.

"I don't think I can keep pretending that I don't want you anymore." He admitted.

Silence hung between the two of you.

"Say something." He said quietly. "Please."

The space between you was nothing and everything at once.

"Frank.." You breathed out.

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to pretend anymore either."

Frank swallowed, his eyes flickering down to your mouth.

"I'd really like to kiss you again.”

Whatever restraint you still had left finally broke.

You fisted his scrubs in between your fingers, guiding him down to your mouth.

The kiss wasn’t careful this time.

It wasn’t confused.

It was real in a way that almost hurt.

Like years of wanting each other had finally run out of places to hide.

Frank’s hand came up immediately to cradle your jaw, anchoring you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

You pulled him closer against you, one hand threading through his hair. You felt your back hit the wall, a small breath escaping your mouth at the impact.

The stairwell door creaked somewhere nearby.

You both broke apart instantly.

You turned, but there was no one there.

Frank looked back at you, breathing unevenly now, a grin slowly pulling at his mouth.

"You know what I just realised?”

"Oh god.” Your fingers scraped lightly against the back of his neck. “What?”

“I never got to tell you I performed a closed cervical reduction like thirty minutes ago.”

Your eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

"Completely." His smile grew as he ghosted his thumb over your jaw. "Guess that's two miracles I've performed today."

You snorted despite yourself. "That was terrible, even for you."

"I know." He smirked as he leant forward, his mouth hovering over yours. "You love it though Ace."

Your smile widened helplessly as you rolled your eyes.

"Just shut up and kiss me Langdon."

-

Robby glanced over his glasses to see Abbot making his way towards him, his face slack like he was trying to process something.

“Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?” Robby asked.

“Because I’m traumatised.”

“I think we all are.”

“No.” Abbot shook his head gravely. “Somehow this was worse than anything I’ve seen in here.”

Robby raised a brow as Abbot shuddered.

“I just caught your two protégées making out in the stairwell.”

“Huh.”

Robby glancing down casually at his watch.

“Well I'll give them credit."

Abbot's eyes narrowed. "For what?”

Robby shrugged as he turned back to his screen.

"They lasted longer than I thought they would.”

As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍

[livfastdieyoung69]

flirty!reader continues her mission in trying to reel in park the shark. (og post)

It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long week, a long month. You truly do enjoy the time you’ve gotten to spend with the dayshift, but the night will always call for you. It makes you feel like goddamn Batman, or something, with the need to help people under fucking darkness. With a hot, sexy lady in a leather bodysuit with you.

Anyways, the point is you miss it so much that you’ve been doing double shifts just to keep up your promise of bagging body parts for your new favorite orthopedic surgeon while still getting to see your usual crew. It’s exhausting, but worth it.

Especially on days like this where you have to hide in the break room to space out and eat a shitty protein bar. Doesn’t help that it’s your “shark week”. Ironically, you think with a scoff, you haven’t seen the Shark all week.

“Hey,” Whitaker softly interrupts your thoughts from the cracked open door. “Trauma 2s asking for you — amputated leg, from the knee down.”

Speak of the devil.

“Alright,” You sigh, shoving the rest of the bar in your mouth and crumpling the wrapper in your palm. “If I must.”

“You-you don’t have to, I can get someone else—“ He tries, the sweetheart he is. You shake your head, tossing the wrapper as you pass through the door.

“You know, you’re very cute. Like a guppy.” You poke his bicep as you both take the trip back to Trauma 2. “Too bad I like great whites, huh?”

You pass through the door, leaving him red in the ears and bashfully smiling to himself to follow after you.

“No need to worry,” You hold your hands out. “Your savior is here.”

The Shark is already there, you realize, when you look over to him blankly staring at you from where he had been reviewing the X-Rays.

“Well would you look at that,” You grin, and send him a wink while you throw gloves on. “I get somethin’ nice to stare at while I work.”

While he doesn’t say anything, you see the little upwards twitch his mouth gives, and afterwards, once you start working you feel his eyes on your back. You do so quickly, and efficiently. You’ve gotten pretty good at this since the first one, with how many you’ve done over the weeks.

“All set and ready for ya, handsome.” You snap the gloves back off. Somehow you hadn’t noticed said handsome man moving to stand directly behind you and watch over your shoulder until you spin around and find yourself inches apart.

“Oh!” You jerk back an inch, placing a hand on his chest. Bad choice — not because of the way his stern eyes look down at you, or glance at your hand, but because of the thoughts all that muscle brings with it.

“Well aren’t you eager, today,” You mutter, patting his chest before you pull back. “Have fun with your bones, Great White. Don’t be afraid to reel me back in for help.” You blow him a kiss as you leave, and watch his lips twitch again. It’s more noticeable this time, and accompanied by a shake of his head.

There’s a pep in your step as you leave, and Jesse watches you practically skip down the hall with a grin stretched across your face.

“What’s got you all happy?” He calls out.

“The Shark.” You state, stopping to watch him grab the equipment he needed. “I accidentally felt him up and he totally liked it.” He shakes his head at you, scoffing.

“He’s gonna eat you alive, girl,” He jokingly warns with a smile and a finger pointing at you.

“Yeah, I sure hope so,” You start back off down the hall, listening to Jesse cackle.

The rest of the day was pure hell, unfortunately. After being puked on twice, barely missing a dude trying to pee on you then getting peed on by a different dude five minutes later, and a countless amount of angry people yelling at you about wait times, you sit on a bench close to the ambulance bay with a Diet Coke and half a sandwich.

“You’re bleeding.” A man, somewhere near you, says. It pulls you from your zoned out state in between bites of your kind of gross sandwich.

A good fifteen feet away, stands Dr. Brendon Park in normal clothing. His hair isn’t slicked back, but curly in a way that’s going to haunt your mind for the rest of your life. There’s a car key dangling from his fingers, and a backpack across one of his shoulders.

You perk up against the bench, pointing at yourself.

“Me? I don’t think so-“

He’s walking closer now, fast. Those pretty blue eyes are looking down at your leg. It makes you follow his gaze, looking down at your own leg to realize — fuck. Yes, you are bleeding.

“Oh my god,” Jumbles from your lips. You’d thrown some comfy shorts on when your shift ended to enjoy the nice weather for a second before you had to go back inside. Now, there’s a trail of period blood halfway down your thigh. How the fuck did you miss that?

“That’s — fuck — i’m fine,” You manage to get out, trying to stop yourself from crying for stupid reasons in front of the hottest piece of ass you’ve ever seen. He stands in front of you now, with his usual plain expression gone. His eyebrows are scrunched, and the worry that covers his face is kind of hot. “I don’t know how I didn’t feel that — fuck, this is so embarrassing, i’m on my period.”

He puts a big hand on your shoulder and lets his backpack fall from his other shoulder and to the ground.

“I’m a surgeon, trouble, blood doesn’t scare me off. Nothing to be upset about.”

“I know, I just—“ You suck in a shaky breath, and before you know it everything is spilling from your lips. “This sandwich really sucks, and my day turned really shitty, n’ all I want is some chocolate and like, a pint of ice cream and my heating pad, and i’m so tired, but I told Jack i’d work another night shift and now I’m crying to you about all this stupid stuff and you’re so hot—“

He’s sitting down next to you now, when you cut yourself off. He’d been digging through his backpack, and now there’s a pair of scrubs in your lap.

“Sorry,” You rub the wetness from your eyes with a pitiful laugh. “It’s been a really hard week.”

“What’s your locker code?”

“Hm?” You question, holding his scrubs to your stomach. “You should take these back, I’m gonna get blood on them.” He pushes your hands back down.

“Your locker code — i’ll get you new bottoms. Stay here.”

He stands, and you can do nothing but stumble the numbers out. He nods, and walks away. The ER parts as the Shark marches to your locker. Theres a sticker of a lipstick mark on it, and when he opens it, a silly polaroid of you kissing a cat on the cheek hangs on the inside of the door.

He closes the door after finding your spare scrubs. On his way back out, he spots Dr. Abbott getting ready for his shift. Instead of making his way back to you, his big frame clears through the rest of the Emergency Room and all of the murmurs that follow him, right to Jack.

“Dr. Abbott.” He makes himself known from behind the man. Jack turns, confused, and greets Park right back. He states your name, shaking his head, which furthers Abbotts confusion.

“She won’t be working tonight.”

“Why? Is something the matter?”

“Yes. She’s menstruating and spilling her life story and a few tears to the first person that tells her she’s bled through her pants while she sits on a park bench. Luckily it was me, and I am bringing her new pants.”

“Oh, wow.” The older man’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t look too surprised. He starts fiddling in his pockets before pulling out a couple Hershey Kisses. “Give those to her for me then — running joke. That girl doesn’t know when to stop, huh?”

Brendan comes back after a suspicious amount of time, and tosses the new pants in your lap while sitting next to you again.

“Thank you,” You sigh in relief, giving him his worn scrubs back. “I’m gonna change in the back of the ambulance while no one’s here, I think. This means a lot, really.”

He shrugs.

“You don’t have to work. Abbotts been made aware of…this.”

Your bottom lip starts wavering a bit out of pure relief, but you manage to get a grip on yourself.

“Park the Shark is propaganda so people don’t fall in the love with you, I swear,” You shake your head in disbelief. “You, Dr. Park, are a dangerously handsome, wonderful, angel.”

The smile that plasters on his face is unbelievable, and will be in your dreams tonight.

“I don’t tolerate unintelligence that may hurt my patients. You have proved to be both competent and…sly.”

“I’ll take that.” You grin back, reddening as your gaze moves to settle on the new pants in your lap.

“Would you like a kiss?”

Your head whips back up.

“What?” Yes. Yes, you want a kiss. His hand moves out, and his palm opens to show you a bunch of shiny, drop shaped chocolates. Hershey Kisses.

“Who are you and what have you done with my Great White?”

“I prefer Brendon.”

[collectingoldmen]

my baddieeeeeee

[love-quinn]

have to, get to — pope cody

you feel a deep affection for the little girl who wanders into the store you work at unaccompanied and a deep vitriol for her seemingly neglectful father. when she is given over to the custody of her uncle, it's easy to see he's way out of his depth. less easy to see how completely obsessed with you he is.           ( 9.6k words )

warnings : gun mentions, clear neglect of lena on baz's part, reader has an extremely strained relationship with her father, parental abuse, food insecurity, age gap (reader is twenty eight, pope is thirty-nine), mandatory tag for employee/boss relationship but mostly not really 18+mdni cw smut, reader is a bit of a perv (just a bit!!), female masturbation, voice kink/voyeurism? not sure how to tag it? inappropriate use of a platonic voicemail?

note : back to my roots with a long pope fic this is the first full length fic i've written since valentine's day why did nobody tell me???? i do intend for this to be a multi-part fic but that depends on if anybody reads this so if you like it please consider reblogging/commenting i actually worked so hard on this one and i'm really proud of it so i hope you enjoy!!!!

The craft store on Fern Road has been there ever since you could remember. Nestled between a hair salon and a bakery right in the middle of Main Street, it doesn’t get a whole lot of natural light once you venture past the huge open windows. Surrounded by a U-shape of shelving around all three of the back walls, most of the middle of the store is taken up by display tables or large metal crates of stock. There’s a system, so meticulously organised you could probably recreate it with your eyes closed. 

Notebooks go on the left wall; A5 bullet journals on one end and A2 canvas sketchbooks on the other and everything else in between. Planners, calendars, to-dos to stick on the fridge, everything had a place. On the right wall were the art supplies, paint at the back and crayons at the front, organised by skill level, price point and colour. The back wall was for the more novelty items, mostly things that you only buy one or two of. Hot glue guns, easels, even a sewing machine that’s been collecting dust since you were in high school.

It had been there the day you got the job; fourteen years old and itching for something to keep you occupied outside of your house. Mrs. Rayskel had been a lot more involved in the operations of the store back when you had first started as its only other employee, but now she mostly leaves you alone. 

The middle sections are the ones most likely to entice a child, you think. Huge metal crates of stuffed animals, short, open cabinets of bracelet making kits and paint by number books. There’s a table right as you walk in that has hundreds of different types of pens in dividers on the outside, the entire area of the surface taken up in thick sheets of paper meant for testing pen types, but really just being a place for kids to draw. 

You’re assuming that’s what brought in the little girl sitting on the carpet now. It’s pouring with rain outside, early afternoon in the middle of the week, and you haven’t had anyone come in all day. You don’t mind the slow periods. You keep your work station clean and organised (one of the perks of being the only employee is you don’t have to worry about someone else fucking up your shit), you have your crochet projects to keep you company at the desk. Most of the time you put on a calming playlist of royalty-free music and mind your business until the early evening when you close. Mrs. Rayskel only works weekends now, so you’re in every other day from 8:30am to open until 3:30pm to close. You’ve got about two hours until you need to start your sweep (assuming anyone comes in at all), checking the pen caps have been put on, replacing sample paper, rotating stock for visibility, when you spot her. 

She’s quite small, can’t be older than seven, sitting on the plush rug by one of the windows. You hire a carpet cleaner every three months to treat the floors here, and you know it hasn’t been very long since the last time. Still, when you approach, you only bend down on your knees. “Hi.”

You hadn’t heard her come in, and you’re not even sure if you were in the store when she did. You could’ve been in the bathroom, or taking a few minutes out the back door, or completely zoned out at your desk. 

“Hi,” she says back, shy. She’s wearing a purple raincoat that seems to have done a very good job of protecting her from the downpour, her dark hair sitting loose around her shoulders. In her hand is a stuffed unicorn toy, and discarded in front of her is a pegasus. “Am I in trouble?”

You frown. “No, of course not. You’re not in trouble.” Where are her parents? You’re not sure if she’s old enough to be in school yet, but it’s close enough to midday that she should be there if she is. It’s not particularly cold outside but water is flowing down the gutters like rivulets, and you haven’t seen anyone walk by in almost an hour. “What’s your name?”

She shrinks in on herself slightly. “I’m not supposed to say.” Right, don’t talk to strangers and all that. That doesn’t help you. 

You nod slowly, careful not to come on too strong. She’s quiet, most unaccompanied kids you get in here are little hurricanes, impossible to miss. You’re not even sure how long she’s been here. Surely not longer than ten minutes. 

You tell her your own name as a gesture of goodwill, pointing to the name tag clipped to your sweater. “I work here,” you wave your hand awkwardly at the rest of the store. 

She likes knowing your name, you can tell. She says it softly, stuttering over one of the syllables, before eventually shuffling in her seat and speaking up again. “I’m Lena.”

Okay, you can work with that. Step one is establish trust, step two is locate her guardians. Step three might be call CPS if you can’t get those two done before you close but the likelihood of that happening is extremely low. You have kids wander in here by themselves all the time, just not usually quite so young. 

“Hi Lena,” you say gently. “Can I sit with you?”

She nods politely, still looking like you might scold her, and your heart aches for this girl. “I’m sorry for touching your toys,” she says as you cross your legs. 

You couldn’t care less. “That’s okay. Do you want to play?”

Lena perks up, still hesitant. “Can I?”

“Sure!” You try to give her your softest, kindest smile. “Do you want me to play with you?”

That’s what really gets her, like she hadn’t been expecting you to offer your time. “Can we play with the ponies?” When she smiles one of her bottom teeth is missing. You never want to let her go. 

“We can play whatever you’d like.”

Lena carefully gathers the unicorn and pegasus into her lap, examining them with great care. She hands you the pegasus. “This one is yours,” she says, smile threatening to take over her entire face. 

You accept it seriously. “What’s her name?”

Lena looks at you like you haven’t been paying attention properly. “She doesn’t have one. Her name got taken by the evil magic unicorn.” She holds up the unicorn for emphasis. “She has to get it back.”

You haven’t played pretend like a little girl since you were one, but it was pretty easy to get back into the swing with Lena. Never just a game, always a full world with rules that spring forth fully formed, buried beneath layers of stories of princesses and ghosts. You remember how it felt to hold all of that in your head all at once, never about good prevailing over evil and instead how it felt to be betrayed, or forgiven, or loved. 

You let her hold onto that for the next thirty-eight minutes until the bell above the door rings again. 

“Lena.” 

Lena smiles up at the man dripping onto the welcome mat just inside the door. “Hi, Daddy.”

Pretty much all bravado you’ve had about tearing Lena’s guardians a new one, simmering and stewing the longer this poor girl sat here with only a stranger for supervision, disappears immediately when you look up at Lena’s dad. He smiles politely at you in a way that scares you more than anything, barely glancing at his daughter. You’ve been yelled at by customers before, but based on the lump on this guy’s left hip you think this man might not be the yelling type.

“I thought I told you not to wander off,” he says, uneasy smile on his face. You think you might have read him wrong; not the type of man to yell in front of someone else. 

Your metaphorical grip on the little girl in front of you tightens in panic. You had thought this entire time that what you wanted was for Lena’s parents to come and collect her, and of course you don’t want for them to have abandoned her. But there seems to be no secret third option where they just misplaced her and they’re worried sick and they took their eyes off her for a second and when they looked back she was gone. “We need to get home.”

Lena looks up at him like for a second she doesn’t recognise him. 

This man is clearly her father, or at least another relative. They bear a striking resemblance, the features Lena is still growing into looking sinister and cruel on the older man. You wonder briefly if he’s always looked like that. If there had been a time when her father had been a kind and loving man. 

Right now at least she looks like she knows different than to argue with him. “Okay, daddy.”

She looks at you, the same smile on her face that he’d given you. It looks lovely and gentle coming from her. “Thank you for playing with me.”

You don’t want to let her go - least of all without offering some big act of kindness. You want her to remember you, if she ever needs something to hold onto.

“Do you want that one?” You gesture at the unicorn in her hand and hold out the pegasus. “You can have them both.” You’ll take it out of your paycheque. Hell, you’d give her the whole damn crate. She had been so excited to have someone to play with.

Lena’s dad is already halfway out the door as she stands up, brushing her knees off. “No, that’s okay.” She leaves the pony on the floor. “Thank you for playing with me.”

She’s gone before you can figure out what to say. 

You close up quietly, doing all your normal checks. You’re not quite sure what to do with yourself, mind stuck on the little girl with the purple coat. You don’t know what’s going on between her and her father. There’s a high likelihood that he’s just having a bad day, that he’s usually warm and affectionate and not someone his daughter has to be scared of. You don’t know this man, and you don’t know his daughter. 

But you recognise the look on her face when her father showed up. She’s so small, barely up to your hip. You can’t imagine being her parent and not being obsessed with her. She’s clever, and articulate, and the story she dreamed up with those two stuffed toys shows that. Her father had a gun on him on a Thursday afternoon, in the middle of Main Street. She’s so little, she can’t comprehend cruelty. 

She has to make up evil creatures to process things. 

You think about her for a few days after she leaves. You kept both the stuffed animals behind the counter; it felt wrong to put them back on display. Who knows, maybe you could have been reading way too far into it anyway. 

——

You never really learned how to shop. It wasn’t really a skill that you thought you’d have to learn, you supposed. Adults know how to do it, you’ll probably figure out how to eventually. At twenty-eight, you figure it’ll come to you any day now. 

The store is always too bright, even though you always come in the evenings. Harsh, fluorescent lighting makes you feel like you’re somewhere more important than in your body. You’ve been standing in the cereal aisle for longer than you need to, one hand down by your side holding your basket against your calf, the other hovering over a box you’ve already picked up twice. 

$4.49

You turn it over, reading the nutritional label like you’re expecting anything called ‘Cinnamon Raspberry Crunch’ to be even a little healthy. Most of the other cereals, less sugar, sit right beside it, all about a dollar cheaper. 

You put the first box back. 

Your basket has exactly three things in it: bread, milk, and a packet of penne that goes on sale every two weeks. You don’t need anything else, you never really plan on getting much. But you’ve been thinking about this stupid cereal for days now, since you last came in and passed it on your way out. You could just buy it. You’re almost thirty. 

You can’t explain it, can’t verbalise, can’t even articulate for your own peace of mind the unease that comes from that box of cereal. Your chest constricts and you can’t form any rational argument other than the fact that thinking about buying it makes your head hurt. 

Your phone starts ringing. The timing is almost funny. 

You let it ring two full times, trying to control your breathing. You never understood how some people can just take a deep breath before doing something and feel braced for impact. It’s never really worked for you.

“Hi, dad.” Your voice wobbles. 

Your father doesn’t bother saying hello on the other side, instead waiting. You think it might have been the amount of time it took you to answer the phone, but you don’t bring it up because you hear how ridiculous it sounds even in your own head. “You took your time.”

You shift your weight, glancing the other direction down the aisle to make sure there’s no one else around. “I’m at the store.”

“At this hour?” You can practically hear him deciding what version of himself he wants to be today. “I suppose you are a busy girl.” You don’t know what to say to that so you say nothing. 

He doesn’t need you to talk to keep the conversation going. “Making good choices?”

“Yes, dad.” You feel like a little girl. Your father never knew what much to do with a girl. He’d call you sport and drag you places like fishing. “I know.”

“You have a few bad habits,” he says, like he’s spoken to you face to face even once in the last five years. You don’t think he could pick you out of a lineup if the cops asked him to. “Never quite grown out of them,” he says gently. 

You stare at the shelf in front of you like it might save you from this conversation. “I know.”

There’s that silence again.

“You don’t have to stop,” he says, voice dripping. Disappointment slides into his tone like it knew it was expected. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I didn’t mean to snap.” It’s been a long day and you know you have a pile of laundry to fold when you get home. “I’m sorry.”

Your father exhales, long and slow. You have the entire time to ruminate while he’s making his mind up. There really is no rhyme or reason to him sometimes, it is left purely up to his whim. Sometimes a mood you think is a good one can sour in an instant. You’ve known him for how long and you just can’t get a read on him. 

“Anyway,” he breezes past it. “I called because I realised you never paid me back for your electric bill last month. Remember? I covered it because you were short.”

Your car had died and you’d blown most of your savings on getting it fixed, leaving you short on your electric bill for the month. Your father had been practically a last resort, first spending hours researching all possible public transit routes to see if there was any way you could make it work. You’d given him the money back immediately when you’d been paid. Asking your father for anything has always made you feel like you’re disappointing him and when it comes to your dad disappointment can look like a lot of things. 

One time when you were really little there had been a party at your house. You don’t remember what it was for — just that it had been really important because your dad said it was, and that meant everything had to be right. You remember more of the buildup than the party itself if you’re honest. The air was tight, so quiet that not even the house dared settle. Every day you would take the school bus home and every day you’d drag your feet longer and longer, anything to avoid getting home. 

Your father is a perfectionist, you tell people now. Highly strung. Particular. 

You remember being made to eat dinner on the porch that week, plastic plates balanced on your knees. You weren’t allowed at the table, your dad insistent you would make a mess. You didn’t think you were a messy child but your dad isn’t the kind of person you argue with. He hated cleaning up after you — that part, at least, had always been made clear. 

The night of the party, the house filled up in a way it never had. There had been too many people, all too loud, all of them laughing like your house wasn’t riddled with landmines intentionally set to detonate around your father. You stayed outside, sitting on the stoop, watching the older boys from the neighbourhood ride their bikes up and down the street under the orange glow of the streetlights. 

You could hear everything going on inside. Glasses clinking, voices rising, your father’s laugh louder than you had ever heard it before. Then a sharp sound, one that you knew could only come from the vase on the dining table being knocked over. 

You had known what that meant, even back then. Something small goes wrong and everything else follows. The night would fold in on itself, people would leave too quickly. 

You could hear someone inside begin apologising and all you could picture was your father standing there, shoulders tight the way they would always be right before he snapped. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, like it was nothing at all. 

You didn’t come inside until you were sure the last person had left; nobody came to make sure you were in bed. You have never been sure of where you stand with him.

So you’re careful when you speak up again. “I did pay you back.”

He hums. “I don’t think so.”

You’ve barely been able to afford gas this month because of the extra money being taken out of your account. Your job is consistent and pays you pretty well but you still work retail

“I did, I transferred it. I’ll check-”

He cuts you off with your name, sharp and steady. “Okay, calm down. You don’t have to get upset. If you say you did then I’m sure you did.” He clearly doesn’t believe you. You don’t mind him being wrong, but to assign you facets of yourself that don’t really exist is what spikes your heart rate. 

“Dad-”

He doesn’t let you cut him off. “No, I won’t keep you. If you can pay me back when you get paid, I’d appreciate it. Maybe this will take you to be a bit more responsible with your money, hey? Love you, kiddo.” He hangs up after you repeat the sentiment weakly, leaving you staring at the cereal, burning up under the fluorescent lights. 

——

You’ve become somewhat of a creature of habit as you enter your late twenties. You have your small, solitary hobbies — your crocheting, your crafts, your scrolling through social media and seeing which of your high school friends are getting engaged. Spring breaks into summer and you spend the next couple of weeks preparing for the summer rush. The rain settles, giving way to a dry heat that has you grateful your car’s air conditioning hasn’t gone yet. 

The store’s air conditioning is fairly reliable and since you’re the only one who works no one ever messes with your settings. The store is kind of a hangout spot for some younger kids who have clearly been set loose for the first time. They come in for the ever-rotating collection of board games, and you become somewhat of an unpaid babysitter.

You don’t mind, though. Most of them are polite and well-behaved, and you’ve always loved being around children. Most of the time they’re a lot nicer to be around than adults. There’s no small talk, no worrying about filling the silence, or being annoying. Most of the time, the type of kids who want to come into a quiet store and draw or play chutes and ladders for hours, they just like when adults pay attention to them. You hope you can make them feel important, even if it’s just for an afternoon. Education had been something you’d considered going into once you graduated high school but the workload and the student loans and the decisiveness of the whole thing had been too daunting and eventually you’d put it off for so long it didn’t seem worth pursuing anymore. 

You keep the two ponies under the counter, kept safe from stock rotations and curious children by your careful hands. You protect them from dust, keep them safe. It feels a bit silly to keep them there, keep them clean and ready. You can’t bear to separate them.

The summer rush comes and goes and with it comes the back to school rush. You end up paying your father back a second time, too busy with work to have the energy to deal with the stress of it. You don’t think he has your address, but you also didn’t think he had it the last time he’d shown up at your place. 

It’s perhaps the first day of the slow season, early in the afternoon, right after all the kids have gone back to school. You’ve done all the restocking, you’ve done all the normal cleaning, all the normal admin. You’ve even gone as far as to dust all the baseboards, you’re that desperate for something to do. Muscling through the boredom, you’ve finally settled in your comfy chair behind the desk, crochet project on your lap and calming music playing through the speaker connected to your phone. 

The bell twinkles as the door is shoved open and you don’t even really have the time to look up before your name is being called, bright and warm. She’s not wearing her purple raincoat but you would recognise Lena anywhere. She looks at you sheepishly, like she’s just considered the idea that you don’t remember her. 

You’re sure it must be something awry with you. So desperate for connection, to find the innate good, to understand everything in your life, you’ve always been incredibly quick to attach. Perhaps not attach exactly, you think, you’re probably less attached to Lena than perhaps the idea of her. You don’t have the best memory, it’s not photographic or eidetic or anything, but you remember faces and names. You remember people in your kindergarten class, and adults who showed you kindness, and customers you had completely mundane interactions with. You wonder often what it says about you the memories your brain has decided to latch onto, what has shaped you into who you are. Your preschool teacher scolding you for talking during nap time when you hadn’t been, being abandoned at the bus stop by a friend who promised she’d wait for your bus before beginning her walk home. One time, you had been maybe seventeen, down by the waterfront after a vicious fight with your father. You don’t recall what the fight was about, but you remember the little boy you had seen by the water’s edge. He had a bucket filled with seashells, and his grandmother was sitting on the sand helping him decorate a sandcastle with his findings. Eventually she’d stood up, dusting herself off, and told him they had to head home for dinner with his mama. The boy had cried something awful, tears and sobs, begging his grandma to just help him find one more shell. One more, just one more. Is it odd you can recall the moment with perfect clarity, feeling your own heart split in two just at the sound of his upset?

Lena has grown since you last saw her, and if she hadn’t referred to you by name you would’ve thought you’d projected her likeness onto a new girl. She beams at you with a missing tooth, skipping forward as if it’s been five minutes instead of five months. 

She’s flanked by a man who is new to you, not the same guy who had come to collect her last time she’d been in. He’s staring at you when you look away from her, holding the door open for her to come inside and making sure he catches it before it slams. Blue eyes stare straight into you deeper than you think you’ve ever really looked into yourself, and he doesn’t look away at being caught. 

He’s thick, broad in the shoulders and stocky in the chest. You squirm under his gaze, feeling suddenly like you’re doing something wrong by looking at him. Your chest stirs and you’re completely aware of every single one of your limbs. 

“Hi, Lena.” Her smile widens impossibly far for such a small face. Your heart does the same thing. “How are you?”

She seems more forthcoming this time, telling you all about how she’s just started second grade, the friends she’s been making, how hard the classes are. She talks with a level of familiarity about her life the way only a second grader could, like it would never even occur to her that you wouldn’t have anything to compare it to. You discard your crochet project, scooting your chair forward and leaning over on your elbows to make sure she knows you’re giving her all your attention. 

Well, almost all of your attention. The man she came with stands directly behind Lena, arms crossed as if he’d expect you to try and hurt her, and his eyes stay trained on you. You’re not sure if he’s just a starer — some men are; how creepy it is depends on how long it goes on before he tries to talk to you — or if he’s watching for something. 

You kick off where you’re leaning, wondering if he might stop if you move. “I have something for you,” you feel foolish already. Chances are she’s forgotten, or she doesn’t even like horses anymore, or she didn’t even at the time but they were her only option. “People bought all the other ones but I remember you liked these ones.” You look like a fool holding out the two stuffed animals in your hand, not even knowing if she wants them. Lena’s eyes light up at the sight of the ponies but she doesn’t move towards them. 

Instead, she looks up at her bodyguard. “Can I, Uncle Pope?”

Lena’s uncle Pope finally tears his eyes from you, looking down at her. His mouth pulls into a small smile, strained like he’s not used to doing it but fond like he can’t help it anyway. “Yeah,” his voice is crackly and quiet. “How much are they?” He looks back to you. 

You wonder if he thinks you’re going to quiz him on your eye colour or something. You shake your head, practically tripping over your own actions to get ahead of yourself and skip through the first part of interactions. “No, it’s fine. They’re for her.”

Lena gasps, collecting them both into her chest with an iron grip. She thanks you and doesn’t have to be reminded, eyes shining. You get the idea that Pope has heard about the two of them before. He watches her glee, affectionate an albeit untrained smile widening on his face. “Do you want your pen things?”

Her eyes widen to saucers. “I can still have them?” Pope nods and Lena practically shoots off towards the stationery section, leaving the two of you alone. He turns to orient his body towards her instinctively, but he’s standing so close to you that you can smell his aftershave. It sends a hot feeling from your chest to your stomach. 

His hair is thick and unruly, such a rich copper it almost looks brown in the warm lighting of the store. His curls look well loved but less well maintained and you find your mind stumbling forward again; what hair products does he use? Does he like it touched? Does he have anyone there to touch it? What would it feel like?

“She talks about you a lot,” Pope says, sounding like whatever the opposite of conversational is. He speaks like he regrets it retroactively, aching for solitude but subjecting himself to small talk with strangers. “Practically begged me to come here since she has a half day. I told her if she did all of her homework she could get some of those pens.” He mimes using a pen. “Y’know the ones, they smell like all the different stuff? Bananas and apples and crap?”

You nod. They’re just called scented markers, but you don’t feel the need to correct him. You picture him at a kitchen counter, trying to coax his niece into finishing a reading log with scented markers. You know Lena has a father, a man that she at least called ‘dad’ five months ago. What happened to him? Why isn’t he bringing her to get sniff pens? Is he still around, with his concealed carry and his seemingly cold indifference? That’s probably unfair, you don’t know this man, and Lena had clearly loved him. 

But she looks far happier today than she had the last time you saw her, you can’t lie to yourself about that. 

“She’s a good kid.” You have to assume. She’s lovely, incredibly easy to be kind to, but you don’t know her when it really comes down to it. “Seemed like she was having a hard time last time I saw her.” You shrug with an indifference that feels completely unnatural. “I wanted to do something nice for her.”

Pope looks over at her, taking the caps off the sample markers to smell them, then down at you. You feel real juvenile with your little crochet stars in your lap, you’re planning on making bunting out of them, sitting there in your work outfit. He’s clearly older than you by a significant amount, he’s probably got a respectable job, maybe a wife. You wonder what kind of family they are, both of them so different from Lena’s father. Perhaps you’re being unfair, maybe it wasn’t a gun, and maybe he’d just been having a bad day. You want to ask Pope about him, but you bite your tongue. 

“You didn’t have to,” he says gruffly, looking down. He doesn’t have a wedding ring on, and the fact that you have noticed makes your cheeks warm. “Lot to do for someone else’s kid.”

You feel a little bit scolded, shrinking into him. This man clearly cares a lot about his niece, perhaps more than her father, you want him to think you’re good for her. Want him to like you. 

You’re sure it has nothing to do with the fact that his biceps are too big for his shirt and when he’d been staring at you all the blood in your chest had stalled. 

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” you say cautiously. 

He blinks at you. The expressions that he’s shot your way have been nowhere near as emotive as the ones he’s given Lena which is to be expected on a certain level, but he’s really been giving you nothing.

He looks at you for so long you have to be the one to break eye contact. Lena bounces up to the counter, marker pigment around her nose with a pack of scented felt tip pens. “Oh, Lena,” you say, eyes darting back over to her uncle. He’s looking down his shoulder at her. “You’ve got pen on your face.”

“Sorry,” she frowns, scrubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. “’S’it gone?” She juts her head back to present to you. 

You bend down to rummage through your purse, fishing out a pack of face wipes from the bottom. “Here,” you pull one out of the package and present it to her. “Do you mind if I wipe it off?”

Lena shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly. She’s got beautiful, dark hair, and she clearly didn’t get that from her dad. She doesn’t look much like Pope at all, and you don’t remember her father’s face with as much clarity as you’ll recall her uncle’s, but you don’t see much of a family resemblance between the two of them. He could be from her mother’s side but given that Lena is clearly mixed you’d made an educated guess that the two of them were brothers. 

“Thank you,” she enunciates, nodding slightly on each word. You wipe away the pigment gently, catching sight of the way Pope watches you out of the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if you’d been overstepping when you’d brought it up but you’re pretty sure it qualifies now. You finish up, curling the wipe in your hand and sitting back. Lena looks up at Pope with a toothy smile. “All better?”

He nods at her. “Be careful with them. We can’t go to grandma’s if you’ve got pen all over your face.” 

He doesn’t have that way about him that people who spend a lot of time around kids usually do. None of the fake niceties in the voice, there’s clear affection there and he’s good with her, but there’s a level of clumsiness there. The love had come naturally but the mannerisms are still forming themselves. Easy and wrought with the deception of labour in the same breath. 

He’s holding a twenty out to you and you realise with a start it's for the pens. “Right.” Your face gets hot and you stand up to escape the feeling. You take the twenty, your fingertips tingling where they’d connected with his. They’re rough, calloused, and they don’t shy away from yours. You reach for the key to unlock the cash drawer in the till to get him his change. 

“Keep the rest.”

He says it in a way that makes you not want to argue with him. You ignore that instinct. 

“They’re four dollars.”

He stares at you again. “You have a tip jar, don’t you?”

Technically, sure. There’s a jar there that’s labelled for tips, but people rarely leave cash in it. You know his name but you feel wrong saying it. Yours is displayed on the badge you have clipped to your top. You tell him anyway, changing the topic. 

Pope blinks, eyebrows furrowing. “Everyone calls me Pope.”

“Well, Pope,” you say as if you hadn’t collected that and tucked it away the second that Lena had referred to him. “That’s like a two hundred percent tip, so.” You turn the key and the drawer pops out. You tuck the twenty away and hand him back a ten. $5.15 with tax, $4.85 tip. "Happy?” You dump the coins in the jar. He frowns, which is more of a reaction than you’ve gotten the entire rest of the time, so you take that as a success. 

Lena tugs on his sleeve. “Are we going to Grandma Smurf’s now? She said I could go in the pool, s’long as I wear sunscreen.”

Pope’s frown deepens slightly but he manages to fix his face before he looks down at her. “We can go now. You sure?” Lena nods resolutely. 

You watch them go, Lena turning around to wave at you at the door. Pope looks right at you and raises an arm in goodbye. There’s a vein that runs down his arm and you have to duck behind the counter, mortified. When you make your ascent they’re gone but your face is still hot. 

You spend the rest of the night thinking about Lena’s uncle Pope. You wish you’d introduced yourself with your surname so he’d been inclined to do the same. He hadn’t given you any indication that he had liked you in any way, so you’re not sure exactly why he’s got you all hot and bothered. He’s at least a decade older than you, if not more, but you can’t argue and claim that’s not your type. 

He probably wouldn’t have captured your attention so severely if he hadn’t been so good with his niece. It had been something that you’d realised rather suddenly a few years ago; that you were no longer a girl but rather just a woman. You’d felt your whole adolescence that you were too young to be an adult. Mrs. Rayskel had hired you two days after you had turned fourteen, so when you woke up one day and realised that you were actually an appropriate age to be working, in your mid twenties. That you’re not a young adult, instead, an adult. An adult who thought she would’ve been in a relationship secure enough to at least be thinking about having children. Men your age don’t want to settle down, at least none of the ones you’ve ever met have. 

But an older man with a niece he clearly adores? You have to slap yourself in the middle of stirring your pasta to stop yourself from perving on this poor man. You wonder if he’d mind.

——

You spend maybe two weeks having your heart race every time the door to the shop opens, and are rewarded for your diligence when eventually Pope does return, this time without Lena in tow. 

You’re actually working this time, restocking the board games in the corner. You’re mostly hidden behind a shelf so you’re able to pretend you haven’t seen him and thus, act adequately nonchalant as he finds you. 

“Oh, hi.” You’re kneeling on the floor restocking the bottom shelf and despite the fact that your skirt ends at your calves you tug it down self-consciously. “Lena’s uncle, Pope, right?”

He nods slowly, so slow it’s like it’s something he needs to process. He looks marginally less happy this time and you know it’s probably because his niece isn’t with him but there’s a small spark in the back of your head that whispers his frown is directed at your outfit. You’re being ridiculous, he doesn’t give a shit what you’re wearing. He offers a hand and you don’t even think before taking it. His hand is so much bigger than yours, and the vein on his arm bulges as he helps you stand. “Everything okay?”

You dust yourself off, looking down at your ruffled socks against your boots. It’s still been fairly warm during the day but you have errands to run after sundown. You’ve come to the conclusion about Pope that he might just be a quiet man. It’s not any disdain for you or anything you’ve done, he’s just a pensive man. 

“What…” he clears his throat. Pope leans up to tug on a patch of his hair at the back, centring himself and speaking up again. “What do you do when you’re not at work?”

You perk up a little bit. There’s no way… he’s not asking you out, right? It’s probably that he wants to know which crafts you engage in, maybe he needs gift ideas for Lena. The answer is embarrassingly sparse, and you definitely paint yourself as a bit of a homebody. “Crochet, drawing, I watch documentaries sometimes…” you need to work on how you present yourself. If he wanted to go out with you before he probably won’t after this. “Then errands mostly.”

“You don’t have a boyfriend? Kids?” He asks bluntly. 

“Uh… no. Why?”

He has the good sense to look sheepish at his abruptness. “Lena’s my brother’s daughter.” You can hear every breath he takes, heavy and with a heaving chest. That answers that question then. “I don’t know how to take care of her, thought this shit was meant to be easier. Thought all the hard parts about parenting were diapers and tantrums and she’s got neither of them. All I had to do was make sure she ate and did her homework and said please and thank you.” He lets out a hot rush of air. “’S not like that at all.” He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling. 

You have no idea what he wants you to say. Did he come to vent — for parenting advice? Did he assume you must have kids based on how you acted with her? 

“All that shit was fine when she had her mom and dad but now,” he looks down at you, and for the first time since you first met him there’s a different emotion behind his eyes. You don’t have very much to go off, can’t even name his baseline, but from the fluttering eyelashes and the furrowed brows this looks very much like a man out of his depth finally confiding a fear. “Now I have to look after her. Have to, get to.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how he did it. But I have to work, and she needs someone to watch her after school, and the sign out there says you guys shut before four in the afternoon.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, more surprised than anything. “You want me to… babysit her?”

Pope seems to realise that this is an odd request. Perhaps not the most appropriate, either. He clears his throat and pulls again at the curls on the nape of his neck. “You can tell me to get lost.”

“No, just…” you feel like if you don’t shut your mouth he might realise how strange this is. Most people would like to vet a babysitter, I’m a random adult you’ve met once, how do I know you’re not insane and won’t just dump her here and run away? “You want me?”

Pope gestures to you, your pretty skirt, your general disposition. “She likes you.” He shrugs stiffly like the action is something unfamiliar to him. 

“When would you need me?” As much as you like Lena and as much as the thought of having him in a position where you’d need to see him every day makes your heart palpitate against your ribcage, this is your job. You can’t quit it for this, definitely not before you’re sure it’ll shake out. “Like after school? I’m usually here until four-ish.”

“She finishes school at three forty-five, it’s only three blocks. You have a car?” You nod. “Good, a license?” You nod again. “If you need to stay here to finish up she can take the school-bus here, stops down the street.” He points out the window, you’re too preoccupied looking at the way his shirt strains at the arm to see the bus stop. “If you can, you pick her up from school, bring her back here or to your house or the park or my apartment or wherever. Keep her entertained, make sure she does her homework and eats her veggies. Sometimes I’d need to work late, so she’d need to spend the night with you and you’d have to take her to school. You can do it at my place or if you want to keep her at your apartment that’s fine. School starts at nine but she can go in at eight if you need to be here. Plus weekends. Not every day, and not always that late. I just…” he looks almost embarrassed to need the help. “I can pay you.”

You’d hope so, for all that. 

“Lena mentioned her grandma?” You ask gently. “Do you think Lena could stay with her some days?”

He looks at you as if he’s surprised you would bring her up. “No, I don’t want her around my mom.” He sniffs, looking away from you. “If you don’t want to just say it. Don’t have to make shit up to help me. I could give you fifty bucks an hour — what do you make here?” It’s not fifty bucks an hour, you can say that right now. “Double on weekends and for nights. Plus money for anything she needs, gas money for you to pick her up, money for dinner and whatever.” He’s almost breathless. “I can pay you.”

What the hell does this man do?

“Pope. It’s a lot to ask,” you say. “I can definitely take her on the weekends, and probably a couple of days after school. I don’t know about nights, but depending on where you live I could maybe swing by in the morning and help her get ready for school, drop her on my way?” 

Pope looks back at you, some semblance of a smile twitching the corner of his lip upwards. It’s the kind of smile that makes it impossible for you to not smile as well, which is surprising considering it still doesn’t make him look particularly happy. For a guy this steely, you suppose any amount of joy on his face makes you smile. 

“Why don’t I give you my phone number, and we can talk about this while I’m not at work?” What Pope and Lena probably need is a nanny, or at least someone who can full time devote themselves to Lena. You have a job that, while it awards you a lot of freedom, is something  you couldn’t live without. And while you adore Lena, and you’re sure that’ll only grow with time, you need the money desperately. 

Pope reaches for you and after drawing a complete blank, you realise he wants your phone. “Oh, sorry. I left it on the desk.” Your father has been calling you, upset that you’d fallen asleep last night and forgotten to reply to his message. You know what it’ll be, either asking you for something or scolding you. You haven’t the energy to entertain him at the moment. The two of you swap information and when he hands you your phone back he lingers. 

“Do you like this job?” He asks quietly, cocking his head and studying your face. You nod, lost for words with him so close. One step further in and you’d practically be chest to chest. “When you were a kid you wanted to be a… craft girl?”

You can’t hide your snicker, ducking your head, and he frowns like you’d yelled at him. 

“No,” you admit. “This isn’t what I wanted to do when I was little. I wanted to be a teacher.” You’ve never really told another person that, never had another person to tell. By the time you graduated high school you were lucky if your father noticed you hadn’t been home in days, and when you finally moved out at twenty he’d looked at you like he’d forgotten you even lived there. Now he calls you every week, which is nice of him, but you wished in the decade it’s been since you last saw his face you’d developed a thicker skin. Or at least the ability to not cry whenever he hurts your feelings. 

Pope’s eyes light up. “See, you’re perfect.” He tilts his chin down to mirror yours like the two of you are sharing a secret. “This is basically like being a teacher.”

You laugh again and this time he doesn’t seem so offended. “Goodbye, Pope.”

This time when he leaves he doesn’t turn to wave at you, but it gives you ample time to watch him cross the street to his car. There’s a man there who snickers and punches Pope’s chest when he gets in, but Pope doesn’t even bat an eye, pulling the car out and meeting your gaze right as he reaches the edge of the window. 

You look down at your phone. “Pope Cody…” you muse, looking at his contact information. You’re surprised he offered his surname at all, the longer you speak to him the less he seems the type. You smile down at it and startle, caught, at the sound of the bell. Your phone slips from your grasp and you bring up your other hand to catch it before it hits the floor. The app closes in the fuss, and with it goes his unsaved contact information. “Shit.” You hiss, looking up at the customer, a mom and two little boys who thankfully don’t look like they heard your expletive and put your phone down on the counter. You can only hope that he texts you first, you suppose you’ll find out if he expects you to make the first move. 

——

It’s late when your phone rings. So late, you know it’s not Pope. So late you’re going to regret this in the morning when you have to get up and clean your apartment in the morning. You’re not not going to sleep, you’re just not trying very hard. You’re sprawled out on your bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, trying to fight off a headache. 

It’s your father, he’s the only man with the audacity enough to call you at midnight on a Friday night. You’ll call him back in the morning, he has no way of knowing you’re awake to ignore him. You’re so exhausted, your sheets are so warm and smooth, you’ve been teetering on the edge of consciousness for a while now. The vibrating doesn’t even catch up to you until it’s almost finished ringing. 

Your phone screen goes black again, plunging the room into the sub-darkness that only comes from the whole city being asleep. Then, it lights up again with a text. 

Huffing, your face pressed against your pillow, you slap the mattress on your side until you finally wrap your hands around the device. 

You have 1 New Voicemail. 

Your father has never left you a voicemail. Spam callers might, but usually they’re unintelligible. Your phone will have taken a transcript as best it can, and you squint at the brightness. It streaks right past your retinas and into the core of your brain, making your headache worse. 

Uh hey it’s pope Cody—

You scramble up until you’re on your knees, heart rate spiking. You can’t be laying down, not with your ears ringing the way they are. Based on the paragraph it’s not a super short message, and you bite your lip with delight when you see it’s almost a full minute. 

There’s a feeling in your chest you can’t get rid of, can’t deep-breath or count-to-ten away. Itching for movement, you feel your hand start wandering up of its own accord from where it’s resting on your thigh upwards, slipping under the hem of the big t-shirt you’d been intending on sleeping in and finding your nipple. You toy with it almost distractedly, stuck in limbo of being desperate to rake your eyes over his words and wanting to hear him. 

God, how tragic are you? Your nipples are both hard already and perhaps it’s just from the breeze drifting through the open window but you also feel a throb of neediness light up your core. You roll onto your back, clenching your thighs together. This is a line you shouldn’t cross. Sure, it’s late, you’re horny, whatever. But this guy is about to be your boss, you should be able to listen to a voicemail without needing to touch yourself. 

He’s such a serious man, you can’t imagine what he’d say if he saw the state of you, shirt lifted just below your breasts, soaking a damp patch into the front of your panties. The only way you’re going to be able to get through the message is going to be to get yourself off first like a teenage boy trying not to get a boner on a first date. 

Pope’s also painfully awkward and it really does it for you. From the way he moves, to the faces he makes, to the way he talks. Fuck, the way he talks. You let your phone rest on your chest and your other hand finds its way down underneath your panties. 

You haven’t been fucked in a while but you’re way more turned on than you have any right to be. You don’t bother teasing yourself, pressing the flat of two fingers against your clit. Your hips buck at the feeling, clearly more untouched than you thought. 

Your fingers aren’t as thick as his, and you can’t help the perversions that cross your mind at the thought of Pope. How would he touch you? Would it be clumsy? He’s pretty assertive, perhaps that would overtake the awkwardness. You let a whine escape your bitten lips into the darkness of your bedroom as you rub your clit. 

Fuck this, you reach for the phone blindly, half blinded with the vision of his hand shoving yours out the way. You fumble for the button, but after a little while his voice rings out in your bedroom. 

“Uh,” he coughs. “Hey, it’s Pope Cody.” Two of your fingers slide inside, your other hand coming to replace the fingers at your clit. The position is awkward but you can’t focus on anything but the sound of his voice, already humiliatingly close. His voice is low and the phone quality crackles but it mimics the grooves of his voice well enough you don’t even care. “Look, I know it’s late but do you think you can call me in the morning? I don’t know how this thing usually works, the whole babysitter thing.” His fingers would probably get deeper than yours, but you curve them slightly until they hit your sweet spot. 

Frustrated with the limitations the fabric is giving, you pull both your hands out and shove your underwear down your legs, letting it slip off your foot and onto the floor of your bedroom. “And you sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“Fuck,” you hiss, drawing your fingers from your hole and fucking them back into yourself slowly. He seems like the type of man who would take his time, or maybe that’s just you projecting for slowing down so you don’t cum before he’s even done talking. 

“And I’m sorry about ambushing you at work, it felt like the best place to come talk to you. I won’t come by again, if you don’t want. But I want to see you.”

You’re only halfway through it and you can already feel an orgasm forming. It’s downright sinful the things you want him to do to you. 

“I need to talk to you, I mean. About Lena. And about… yeah. I know this is probably stupid as shit but I’m way in over my head here so… Whatever it is you want to do, I’ll do it. You want more money?”

You bring the hand rubbing your clit up to your mouth to sink your teeth into the back, instead grinding on the palm of the hand you’re using to finger yourself. The walls in your apartment are thick enough you don’t have to worry about making a small amount of noise, but you don’t need Erin and Carlos from next door to hear you whining. “Anything you want. Anything.” You can practically feel him breathing into your ear. Anything you want. 

He says your name, low and deep and you tip into your orgasm, back arching against your sheets and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. They’re clenched shut, white filling your vision, and his face lives on your eyelids. Those big, sad eyes. Thick fingers and thicker arms. 

He’s gruff, and unsmiling and awkward and stiff, but Pope doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to get hung up on rules. He’s older than you, and he’s about to be your boss, and you realise with a thrill that you don’t think that would stop him if he wanted you. 

“Or if you don’t want or, or you can’t or whatever. Then if you know anyone, or like, a way I can find a babysitter? I don’t fuckin’ know… Thanks for the help. I’m around, if you want to call me when you’re not asleep. Okay.” He ends the message without a goodbye. 

Your eyes are practically glued shut, walls fluttering around your fingers as your breathing slowly returns to normal. How the fuck are you meant to work this job? You can’t even listen to the man talk for a full minute without soaking through your underwear. 

You don’t remember falling asleep, you wake up with a rumpled shirt and a new pair of panties you must’ve slipped on in a daze. It’s a Saturday, so you don’t have to get up if you don’t really want to. You have chores to do and sleep to catch up on, you can hear the faint sound of rain picking up outside. Perfect circumstances for a day at home, resetting and fixing yourself up on one of your two days off. 

Instead, you roll over and immediately reach for your phone. 

Hey, sorry! I fell asleep and didn’t get your call. I’m free today, I’d love to see you. You chicken out and tack onto the end and Lena! I can come over to your place or we can meet somewhere else?

You barely have time to close your eyes again before your phone is vibrating in your hand, once, then twice. The first message is an address. The second: give me an hour. 

You roll back onto your stomach and try to stop yourself from screaming into your pillow. 

[collectingoldmen]

i want that cookie

[collectingoldmen]

just saw an ortho bro irl. he was driving a yellow vintage jeep with skeletons hanging from it and skull flags flying with the license plate "FRACTUR" in blue scrubs and matching hey dudes

who thinks this gives park the shark??

[rr-after-dark]

Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader

Chapter Four: Gonna Make Our Own Lightning

 Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?

Chapter Summary: How Brendon Park realizes you're his with a first kiss that triggers his rut.

Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, first kiss, oncoming heat/rut, fluff

Content: canon typical medical content

A/N: just a wittle more fluff before we properly get down to business next chapter uwu

Word Count: 2.6k

If you asked Brendon Park when he realized the two of you were mates, it would be tonight.

It’s been a long fucking day at the hospital. Wall-to-wall traumas for both of you, keeping you annoyingly apart when all Brendon wants is to get called in for a consult so he can steal you away for a few minutes. Park’s leaving later than usual, late enough that the summer sun is already setting, and usually he’d just peel out of the parking lot and speed home, but today he slows down for one reason and one reason alone: He sees you standing underneath the bus stop shelter at the end of the hospital’s street, making conversation with one of the ED nurses.

Absolutely not.

The luxe black car – a convertible, definitely classic, with a super long back and a shape that makes you think of Grease or James Bond – stops right in front of you. One of the tinted windows rolls down slowly and Brendon’s eyes rake over you with surprise. He asks bluntly, worry and frustration mixed up, “Why are you taking the bus?”

Still taking in the insane car he’s driving, you tell him, “My car wouldn’t start this morning.”

He leans over and pushes the passenger side door open. “Get in.”

“You don’t have to-”

“C’mon, let’s skip that part,” he insists. “You know you wanna ride in the fancy car anyway. In.”

With a sneaking smile, you hop down from the curb and tell him your address as you set your backpack on the floor first. Sliding onto the rich red tufted leather interior, you gawk, “This thing’s a fucking boat, Bren.”

“1960 Lincoln Continental. Last cool car ever made in America,” he explains seriously. You can tell he’s one of those guys who would call a car his baby. Once the door’s closed behind you, Brendon takes a deep breath and wrinkles up his nose. As he pulls into traffic, sliding one hand behind you on the seat without actually touching you, he mutters, “You smell like Abbot.”

“Really?” You try to sniff yourself, but all you’re getting is oceans and oceans of Brendon. You’d been expecting his scent to get stronger alongside yours, but it’s even more consuming than you’d figured it would be. “We had a long meeting together right at the end of the day.”

Gruffly – more like pouty – he sighs and admits, “I don’t like it.”

You take in his possessive little frown and giggle, “Jealous much?”

“Yes.” He clenches his jaw and tries not to sound too growly about it even though he’s currently fantasizing about shoving his second-favorite ED doctor Jack Abbot’s skull through a wall just for unintentionally leaving some of his scent on your precious body. “Jealous. Much.”

In response, you scooch closer on the bench seat and nuzzle in under his arm, reaching up on your right side and tugging his hand down so it’s on your shoulder, his fingers draping down over the top of your chest. He rumbles involuntarily while you cozy up, one of your palms floating down to rest on his thigh. You haven’t heard him do that before and it makes you a little dizzy. Basking in the fullness of his cinnamon and nutmeg radiance, you give his muscular thigh a squeeze that may be slightly selfish and check, “Does that help?”

Grinning wide and stupid, he pulls you closer to his chest so he can happily suffocate in your smell and teases, “You putting the moves on me, cherry?”

You nod firmly. “Yes, yes I am. Is that alright with you?”

“I think I can let it slide this time.”

“Okay, good, because I’m very comfy here. Can I put on some music?”

“Whatever you want,” he says immediately. “Tape collection’s in the glovebox.”

You scoff. “Tapes?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sweetheart, tapes. The whole car’s authentic to its era.”

“Wow, you are such a loser,” you tease as you lean forward and pop open the storage, taking out his book of cassettes. Your nose wrinkles adorably as you observe, “This is all rock and metal crap. Is that all you usually listen to?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“I guess not, but I still hate it.”

“My apologies, princess.” Even if he’s making fun of you, the way he says it definitely stirs something around in your fluttery stomach. “I’ve got some more classic stuff toward the back.”

You flip through until you find a tolerable album and then take it out of its case. “The Feel of Neil Diamond. Finally something decent.” You push it into the tape deck, the vintage buttons providing a nice satisfying click. “This is the one with ‘Cherry, Cherry,’ right? My friends would sing that at me all the time in med school.” Then you give him a mischievous glance and ask, “Can we put the top down? The weather’s nice.”

He chuckles and nods, flipping the switch so that the convertible retracts and folds back. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” you giggle as you scrub through the tape until you hear those punchy guitar strums that start up “Cherry, Cherry.” The light and vibrant beat fills the car and spills onto the street and you squeal in a way that makes Brendon’s heart dance. He drums his thumb against the wheel while warmth fills him up. You sit up straighter and swing your shoulders back and forth, lifting your hands all the way up to clap along with the record. The breeze threads through your fingers and you throw your head back to smile with the sunset. Your voice parts your lips almost without you noticing.

When he hears you sing along, unabashed and unashamed, for Brendon, it may as well be the first time hearing after a lifetime living in silence. He’s leaving Plato’s cave, striving toward your sunlight, to experience the fullness of breathtaking beauty and truth for the first time. This is the most at ease you’ve ever been with him. You stop smelling as tart and sharp as you do at work. It’s sweeter. So much sweeter. The pastel spring blossoms alongside the juicy summer fruit. Brendon takes a deep breath of the breeze carrying your full scent and it coats his entire consciousness.

You look over at him and smile.

And he knows.

It’s you, isn’t it?

His pupils dilate. Heat blooms in his cheek, his chest, his stomach, his everywhere. Yes, everywhere. The world reorients and he knows something for certain for the first time in his life: You are his mate. Fated. Something rare and special and sacred.

You’re his.

You always have been.

As the song fades out, Brendon stops the car next to the curb in front of your building. Then, before even turning the engine off, before thinking or letting you think, before he can dare to so much as breathe the moment away, he kisses you. It’s so urgent, so needy, that it steals your breath and pushes you halfway back against the seat. You squeak out a surprised sound. When he goes to pull back, scared he’s misread everything, you shake your head and whine and yank his lips back to yours, both your hands on the sides of his face. 

Not caring in the slightest that there are people walking by and you’re in a convertible with the top down, you push Brendon back against the bench seat and crawl into his lap. His hands snap to your waist, thumbs rough on your hips, and you grind down on him without even thinking about it. Your body begs against his. You play with his thick hair and press your chest to his as he rolls his tongue over yours. He catches your lower lip between his teeth. He growls under his breath as you whimper into his mouth.

When he finally manages to pull away from you, knowing that he’s not going to push further than this right now when he can’t have all of you, Brendon’s breaths are hard and fast and shallow. He presses his forehead to yours and takes what feels like hours to steady himself. Then he kisses you again. Soft this time. He murmurs in disbelief, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

A wave of perfect rom-com giddiness washes through you alongside slick that’s invading Brendon’s nose, concrete proof that you really, really fucking want him. You bury your face in his shoulder, too giggle to look at him, and ask, “Do I still smell like Dr. Abbot?”

“No,” he laughs, running his hands up and down your sides. “You’re perfect.”

“Maybe you just like how Dr. Abbot smells now.”

He nips a kiss onto the side of your head and replies, “I don’t think that’s it, sweetheart.”

You lean back and look at him mock-seriously, pushing a finger into the center of his chest. “You just like when I smell like you instead of anyone else.”

Brendon presses his nose to your scent gland, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as a shiver zaps up your spine. When he breathes in, it’s an intoxicating mix of you both. He has to admit that you wearing him like cologne turns him on like nothing he’s ever experienced. So he places a careful kiss on the sensitive skin that makes you sigh dreamily, imagining how good it’ll be when it’s his teeth instead, and agrees, “I do. I really do.”

you: HE KISSED ME you: HE RESCUED ME FROM THE BUS STOP IN HIS SEXY CONVERTIBLE AND THEN HE KISSED ME trin: RED ALERT trin: WEE WOO WEE WOO trin: GUYS ITS ALL HAPPENING denny: was it good??? trin: yeah i want the dirty details yoyo: how hot from 1-10 you: 10 but im not screwing around giving it that you: like it was some john hughes nora ephron level making out you: i need to throw out these panties lowkey trin: donate them to me im lonely yoyo: PERVERT denny: PERVERT you: PERVERT trin: :((( trin: soooo y’all are gonna fuck nasty soon? you: jfc we better im so horny im gonna die yoyo: you should tell him that trin: i know it was rejected last time but send a slick pic maybe??? trin: maybe??? you: trinity santos shut the fuck up challenge level impossible denny: idk im kinda on her side here you: MY SWEET OMEGA PRINCE NO denny: im just thinking he might send a dick pic back!! you: god am i the only one who wants to keep romance alive in this world yoyo: yes trin: yes denny: i just think if he’s your mate then maybe it would be nice to know what you’re getting into you: im gonna know in, like, four days anyway!! trin: CAN I GET A YEEHAW IN CHAT you: … you: yeehaw you: (im really happy) trin: YEEEEAAAHHH!!

Park wakes up on edge, his arm instinctively reaching to the other side of the bed for a mate who isn’t next to him. It’s still nighttime dark; he has surgery at 6:30. You won’t even be awake for another two hours. After last night, the lack of you – an abyss of his need – has him growling under his breath the entire time he gets ready for work. He’s annoyed with every tiny thing: He hates the way his spoon feels in his mouth during breakfast, he’s pissed at himself for not packing his bag correctly the night before, he nearly tears his scrubs to shreds when one pant leg gets caught on his foot.

At least his car is still thick with the smell of you from last night. That soothes him more than he cares to admit, especially when that same Neil Diamond tape starts automatically. But by the time he’s scrubbed in, he’s annoyed again, snapping at residents and furrowing his brow. Park the Shark at his worst.

The weirdest part? Everyone smells fucking terrible. Especially the omegas. His favorite surgical nurse whose presence usually pulls him back from irritation during procedures because she smells like a damn Parisian bakery? Vile. Like bread gone moldy and overly saccharine like straight molasses coating his throat. He’d think he was getting sick or something if it weren’t for the fact that all the betadine and latex gloves smell the same.

The first nice smell all day comes when he heads down to the ED for a consult. Yours, of course. But it’s faint, just a slight undertone. You aren’t here right now. Already groaning as he snaps on his gloves, he joins Robby, Santos, and Whitaker next to a gnarly busted elbow joint. Because it’s them, he doesn’t greet anyone, just asks bluntly, “Where’s cherry?”

By the patient’s head, Santos cuts him an amused sideways glance as Robby answers, “She scrubbed in with Garcia for an appy about an hour ago. Probably wrapping up by now.”

He grunts in response, obviously displeased by the answer. Turning his attention to the severed elbow on the table, he asks, “What’ve we got?”

Robby and Santos lead him through the case over the next few minutes. Whitaker shrinks into the corner, but Park doesn’t notice, laser-focused on his work as always. He’s already charting out the surgical plan in his mind, mostly ignoring his coworkers because they don’t really know what they’re talking about anyway.

It’s only when he’s about to leave and Robby stops him that Park realizes what’s going on. Robby puts his hand on Brendon’s chest and lowers his voice. His tone is knowing and sympathetic, but he still has to say it. “You should head home, Dr. Park. I’ll page Torres for this.”

“What are you talking-”

“Look at Whitaker,” Robby murmurs. Park’s dark eyes flick over to Dennis, who’s in the corner with glassy eyes and pink cheeks. He’s clearly trying to focus on whatever Santos is talking about, but there’s a soft wobble to his lip and a flightiness in his eyes. Robby swallows hard and tells him seriously, “You stink, brother. If it’s affecting my doctors, you can’t be down here. Get to a pharmacy and schedule your leave.”

Park rolls his shoulders and nods. He has a hard time believing that one kiss from the right omega has hurtled him into the beginning of his rut, but it’s undeniable now. His heart rate is high and his brain is on alert and his stomach is growling for my carbs. God, he hates when Garcia’s right.

Brendon takes out his phone, shoots off an email to Torres and the other ortho surgeons, and mutters, “Thanks, man.”

“No problem. We gotta look out for each other.”

you: i missed you today :(( thought you’d come down for this super sexy femur break i had to call ortho for brendon 🦈: Sorry, sweetheart. Robinavitch kicked me out of the ED during my first consult. you: ooooh what did you do naughty boy? brendon 🦈: Rut started for real. It was affecting omegas. Had to leave early. you: oh you: already? brendon 🦈: What do you mean? you: nothing. i guess you did smell pretty yummy yesterday brendon 🦈: Yeah? you: mhmm you: are you gonna be able to work tomorrow before the weekend starts? brendon 🦈: Yeah. Just picked up a rut delay pack at the pharmacy to buy myself a day or two. Scheduled my leave starting Monday. you: me too brendon 🦈: You too? you: yeah you: me too

You’re going to be in the next few days. The knowledge weighs heavily on Brendon’s mind, flooding around him like a pornographic haze tailored specifically to the part of his brain that the pill pack hasn’t yet started suppressing. Brendon’s whole body twitches with the desire to hop in his car and storm to your apartment and screw your brains out. Because he can’t have you, he wraps his hand around his cock and fucks his fist to sleep.

In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.

[collectingoldmen]

it keeps getting better and better

[afterthelambs]

The Project Hail Mary fandom is making me watch Ryan Gosling films I never would've watched at gunpoint (to varying degrees of enjoyment)