making him ride my strap while I watch him struggle to take it all đ making him eat me out while heâs throbbing and about to burst đ choking him and watching his mind break đ slapping his cock and making him wince đ holding his hands throughout itđ
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 werenât 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. Youâd been working with the Codys for a long time, running little errands they didnât 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.Â
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 didnât 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.Â
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.Â
âYou shouldnât be here.â He told you. His voice was wet. âYouâŠyou shouldnât have seen me like that.â A tear slipped from his eye and he sharply turned his head. You entered the room calmly.
âItâs okay.â You assured him. You placed your fingers on his forearm and he just lowered his head and clenched his fist tighter. He was shaking. âYou didnâtâŠyou didnât scare me. I know what you do.â He eyes flicked to yours, a small simmer of rage behind them.
âWhat I do?â He repeated. âWhat I do. I scare people. I hurt people. You should be terrified of me.âÂ
âMaybe.â You said and cast your eyes down. His face fell a little. âBut Iâm not.â 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.
âPope, what-â
âStop!â He barked, turning sideways so he didnât have to look at you. âJustâŠstop.â 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.
âIâŠI thought thatâŠâ You whispered, afraid that your voice would break if you raised. âI thought you wanted me.â Popeâs eyes snapped to yours, confusion building behind them.
âI do want you.â He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
âThen kiss me.â You took a step towards him but he stepped back.
âNo.âÂ
âWhy not?â You hissed, hands curling into a fist. âWhy wonât you let yourself do this one thing? Fuckâs sake, Pope!â Pope glared at you. He took a deep breath and marched over to you, getting close to you without actually touching.
âBecause I donât deserve it.â He seethed through gritted teeth, looking down at you from over his nose with crazed eyes. âBecause youâre perfect and Iâm 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. Itâs 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. Thatâs why you need to stay the fuck away from me.â Pope pointed a finger in your face. And you donât 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.Â
âPope,â 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 didnât move away. âThatâs the most romantic thing Iâve ever heard.â Popeâs eyes snapped open.Â
âWhat?âÂ
âThe fact that you care that much about me. That you would deny yourself happiness, just to keep me safe.â You explained. âAnyone can beat someone up for me. But youâd dedicate your life to me. Only you could reach that level of devotion. And thatâs why youâre the only one worthy of my love.â Pope swallowed uneasily. What were you getting at? âWould you?â
âWould I what?â
âWould you dedicate your life to protecting me?â You saw a flash of pure loyalty cross his face.
âI would rip out a manâs throat with my bare teeth if he touched you.â Pope growled, stepping towards you, walking you towards the wall. His pupils were blown and the muscle under his eye was twitching. âIâd sit at the foot of your bed all night to make sure you sleep soundly.â Another step. âIâd follow you around all day waiting for you to ask me for something.â Another. Your back was fully against the wall, chest touching his. Popeâs lips ghosted over your nose, still making searing eye contact. He lowered his voice. âIâd fuck you so hard youâd never want to leave my bed.â 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 wasnât a bad dog. Not really. Heâd 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 Popeâs eyes fluttered shut.Â
âProve it.â You challenged, huffing the words over his lips. Popeâs 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.
âYea?â Pope huffed. âYou getting turned on by how fucked up I am? I kill people.â You let out a moan at his words and Pope laughed cruelly.Â
âYouâd kill someone for me?â You asked and Popeâs grip tightened.
âAnyone.â He growled. âAll you have to do is ask.â
âGood, âcause I got a list.â A hand smacked your ass.
âIâm not kidding.â Pope kneaded the flesh between his fingers. He got to his knees and pulled down your pants. âYou 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, Iâll be addicted. I wonât be able to stop myself.â You looked at him over your shoulder and widened your legs.
âPlease, Pope.â 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.Â
âTouch yourself,â Pope told you, voice deep and commanding. You slipped a finger down your navel and rubbed tight circles around your clit. It wasnât 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 âPopeâ but âAndrew.â 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 didnât notice Pope had picked you up until you landed on his bed.Â
Pope crawled over you, fondling your breast as he kissed at your neck.
âMâso sorry,â He choked out, taking a shaky inhale. âI love you so much. Please donât leave me.â 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.
âI could never leave you, Andrew.â 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. âI love you. Youâre mine.â Your claiming made him whimper, a high-pitched keening. He bucked his hips against your center. âFuck me. Show me what a good boy you are.â 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. âHey,â you pulled him back into the moment and brushed a curl from his sweat-slicked forehead. âItâs okay.â Popeâs 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. âF-fuck.â
âI know,â He cooed, kissing along your jaw and cheeks. âYouâre doing so good. Iâm gonna take such good care of you.â The rhythm of skin slapping filled the bedroom, mixed with your breathy moans and Popeâs 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. âWhere?â
âNeed you to cum in me, Pope.â You begged, words uneven because of the feeling of his cock inside you. âPlease.â 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.Â
âI love you.â he whispered to you. âI wanna be your guard dog forever. Wanna be your good boy.â
Pope isn't a bad dog. He doesn't know why he bites, but he knows he does. And heâd rip anyone to shreds if you just gave the command.
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
summary - youâve been best-friends with craig and deran cody since you were 4 years old, your dad being one of smurfâs âbusinessâ partners helped with that. though, as you grew older, you found yourself catching feelings for the eldest cody boy, andrew. and to everyoneâs surprise, he reciprocated those feelings. your relationship was one filled with a possessive type of love (mainly on popeâs 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, heâs 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 deranâs 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, Iâll add more as I write !!
chapters..!
01. welcome back
02. hallucination
03.
04.
05.
06.
07.
an - Iâve been seeing soooooo many animal kingdom smaus and I was inspired to make my own !! Iâm currently working on a pitt smau and other projects, so my schedule is all over the place right now, but Iâll probs get the first few chapters out later tn or tmrw !! taglist is open ofc
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 :)
â
The first time Andrew met you, it was in his bedroom.
Throughout Andrewâs life, many people have come and gone through the doors of Smurfâs house. It would take another lifetime just to count them all.Â
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 Craigâs girlfriends or Smurfâs boyfriends, nobody was ever really a permanent fixture in Andrewâs life. Not if they werenât family.
He knows that everyone thinks that heâs different. That heâs weird. He notices their looks when he lingers around the pool, in the kitchen, when heâs 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 doesnât really mind, though. Or, if he did, he'd become numb to the feeling a long time ago. In fact, heâs probably become numb to a lot of feelings. But Andrew doesnât know any other way to be. Heâs just Pope and he has been for a very long time.
This party in the Cody household wasnât 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 didnât quite belong, all jagged edges. The parties always send him into the corners of his mind that he didnât 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 heâs greeted with a pair of bare feet hanging off the edge of his bed. The figure doesnât 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.
Youâre laid on his bed, eyes shut, hugging your phone to your chest like a stuffed animal. Youâve clearly come to escape the crowds of the party, same as him. Andrew canât 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.
âWho are you?â 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 youâre shooting up to your feet, spine rigid. Itâs cute, he thinks, the way you panic. You startle like a small puppy.
âOh my god,â you squeak, clearly embarrassed. Your hands fall to adjust the hem of your short dress, much to Andrewâs disappointment. He gives you a once over; itâs half assessing what exactly youâre doing in his room and half just taking you and your skimpy outfit. âIâm so sorry. Is this your room?â
Andrew gives a small nod and you wring your hands nervously. Youâre taking him in now, a Cody brother here in front of you, live and in the flesh.
âSo which one are you?â you ask, head cocked. Now that you know this is his room, he notices you assessing him in a different light. People always do âit didnât bother Andrew much anymore but with you he feels a twinge of shame in his stomach. âDeran? Or, umâŠâ
Andrew knows that youâre 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.
âAndrew.â he supplies, voice softer than before. Now youâve 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 Codyâs provided. Then you introduce yourself and Andrew attempts to burn your name into his memory.
âOkay, Andrew. Are you hiding too?â Now that he hasnât 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 doesnât say anything. He likes the sound of your voice too much to interrupt you. âOr just making sure nobody is defiling your room.â
âIâm not hiding,â he replies, crossing his arm over his chest. The strap of your dress falls and Andrew tries not to get distracted. âThis is my house. Iâm free to go where I please.â
âFair enough. Iâm hiding,â 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 doesnât miss how your shoulders drop slightly in disappointment. âMy friend is here with Craig and theyâve conveniently disappeared... I donât even want to know what theyâre doing.â
âI have a few guesses.â Another one of Craigâs girlfriends. The giggle of a girl coming from Craigâs room that Andrew had heard when he was walking by suddenly made a lot more sense.Â
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 wasnât allowed to want.
âIs it okay if I stay here with you?â you ask, and Andrewâs heart flips. He clears his throat, hoping that you donât see the blush thatâs creeping itâs way up his neck. âIâm just not really sure how long itâs going to take and I would much rather be in here.â
With you, hangs unspoken in the air.
âSure.â 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. Youâre so close now that your knee is nudging his thigh. He can smell your perfume from here and itâs heavenly compared to the sweat and chlorine laced air outside. âI donât really want to be out there either.â
âSo, Andrew,â His name sounds like honey when itâs 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. âNot really a party person?â
âNo. But my brothers are.â 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 hasnât felt in a long time.
âIâm not really a party person either,â you agree, glancing at the door he had just gestured towards. You look a little sad, even. It makes Andrewâs fingers twitch.âMy friend said she needed some moral support coming to meet this guy. So I came, and then she ditched me like an hour ago.â
âSounds like youâve got a shitty friend.â Andrew says plainly and heâs caught off guard when you let out a laugh.Â
âYeah, I guess,â You shrug, shoulders still shaking with remnants of laughter. Andrew has turned his head fully now to look at you but he doesnât really understand why youâre laughing. âBut maybe itâs like fate, or something.â
âFate?â 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.
âYeah. Like maybe itâs fate that she left? Because then I wouldnât have hidden in a cute guyâs room and got to talk to him.â He can tell that your mind is elsewhere, but his eyes are still on you. Thereâs a dreamy look painted on your face and heâs 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 doesnât work because as soon as you hit accept, he can hear what he assumes is your friendâs voice on the other side of the line.Â
You get up and he watches you nod along to the conversation. Youâre 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. Youâre kind enough to let her continue on for a bit longer before you let her know that youâre coming, donât move!Â
Then youâve turned back to Andrew, tapping your phone on your palm as you try to find the right words to say. You look genuinely apologetic âfor what, Andrew doesnât know. The silence stretches long, and Andrew is the first one to break it.
âYou donât have to stay,â he says plainly. You donât 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 wonât admit that part out loud.
âI know. I want to-â you start, but your phone starts buzzing like itâs possessed, cutting you off. A quick glance is all it gets; youâre quickly scanning the messages before returning your attention to him. Your phone doesnât stop vibrating. âItâs hard to leave when youâre looking at me like a lost puppy.â
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.
âThank you,â 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 youâre straightened up he gives you a small smile in return, watching as you pull your phone back out again. âSorry for messing up your bed. Iâll make it up to you next time.â
You say it so definitively, like you somehow know there will be a next time. Before he can reply, youâre 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 heâs back to the silence of his room, alone. He had come in there looking for a moment to himself but now that youâre gone, he canât help but want the opposite.
Andrew really hopes that there will be.
â
The next time Andrew met you, it was in Deranâs bar.
He could count on one hand the amount of times he actually sat at Deranâs 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 Deranâs insistence and Craigâs staggering frame, Andrew agreed to stay for one drink.
Heâs 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. Andrewâs head turns and suddenly heâs 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. Youâre dressed differently than when he first met you, softer and more casual. Both of you look like youâve 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 youâre 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 isnât sure if he should break eye contact but he canât help it, eyes darting away before they make their way back to yours.
âFancy meeting you here,â You take the seat next to him, flashing him a grin. Andrew mumbles something under his breath, but youâre not deterred. In fact, you scoot your stool closer to his. Youâre laying it on real thick, but he has to admit that he kind of likes it. âYou come here often?â
âYou know Pope?â The moment is interrupted by Deran, who sets down a full glass of beer in front of you. Heâs 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 heâs 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.
âYeah, I do,â 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. âAnd I think I owe him a drink.â
âYou do?â It slips out of both Deran and Andrewâs 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.
âWell, I said Iâd make it up to you next time,â 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 doesnât have enough time. âSo, are you going to have a drink with me, or what?â
âYeah.â 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 canât help but smile back.Â
Two and a half beers later, Andrewâs face is a lot warmer and you are a lot closer. Youâre so close that he can feel your shoes scuffing the edge of his newly polished boots, but he canât bring himself to care. He likes when you giggle at his jokes; the way that your eyes shine. Andrew can feel his brothersâ eyes on the two of you; he even catches his nephew looking his way a few times.Â
But for the first time in a while, Andrew doesnât really want to shrink away. Heâs tuned out the background noise, even your friendâs obnoxious drunk laughter at Craigâs 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, heâs allowed to have something just for him.
âI like your smile,â You break the silence the two of you were sharing once the conversation you were having earlier came to an end. Andrew hadnât 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 didnât want to admit how many times he shoved his face into them, chasing your scent before it faded. âItâs cute. I like your teeth.â
There it was again. That word. Cute. Itâs 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.
âYou really think Iâm cute?â He canât 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.
âI guess cute isnât really the word for a guy like you.â 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 heâs not sure if heâs ready to hear the ones that youâve heard.
âA guy like me?â 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.
âYeah. Youâre all built andâŠâ 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 youâre ready to take a bite of him right then and there. âI donât know. Strong. Thick. Handsome.â
Andrew is sure that heâs red all the way up to the tips of his ears. Heâs also pretty sure that he saw Craig choke on his drink at your comment a few stools down from you, but he decides thatâs a later problem.Â
âThanks,â he says gruffly and itâs really the only word that he can get out of his mouth, embarrassingly. You shoot him a smile, and itâs all sweet and a little too enticing. Andrew wouldnât be surprised if he was leaning into you, ass halfway off his stool.
âSorry, Iâm being a bit forward, arenât I?â you say, swirling whatever was left of your beer. He tries to shrug nonchalantly but it doesnât really work. âI just get flirty when Iâm tipsy.â
âSo you donât think us meeting again is fate?â Heâs teasing, half smile tugging on the edge of lips. You giggle and Andrew basks in the sound. He canât remember the last time someone made him feel like this. The last time he wanted to be so close to someone.
âI never said that,â Youâre hiding a cheeky grin behind your glass and Andrew desperately wishes that he could see it. âYou do believe in fate then?âÂ
Andrew has to think about it for a moment. Heâs 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, heâs done some terrible things as well, so maybe it was what he deserved.
âI donât know,â he answers truthfully. Andrew stares into his drink and reflects on all of the things heâs 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. âMaybe.â
âWell, let me know when you decide.â 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 canât stand the way youâre looking at him, eyes wide open and curious. Andrew is unsure of which version of him that youâre seeing or what exactly is going through your head. He doesnât have the courage to ask.
âOkay.â 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 youâre interrupted by Craig, who is steering your friend in your direction. Andrewâs hand flexes again as this time he suppresses the urge to hit Craig for cutting in.
âShe just puked in the plant over there, and Iâm pretty fucked up, soâŠâ Craig isnât subtle in what heâs 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.
âOkay, just⊠take her outside. Iâll be out in two minutes.â you say, and Craig stumbles off, your friend in tow. Then you turn to Andrew, an apologetic look on your face thatâs becoming all too familiar to him now.
âIs she going to be okay?â 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.
âYeah, I think so. Sheâll probably just puke into her purse on the way home or something,â Once youâve 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 heâs not sure if itâs because youâre leaving him or because your friend and Craig seem to be deeply irresponsible individuals. âIâm sorry. Again.â
âItâs okay.â Your lips curl with a small smile, still tinged with a bit of anxiety. Itâs cute when you lift your free hand up in a small wave, the same way you did last time, and then youâre gone. Your perfume is still lingering in the air when Andrew turns back around and itâs his turn to smile. It melts when he sees Deran standing behind the bar, a smug look on his face.
âYou got it bad, man.â
â
After that, Andrew sees you a lot more often.
Your friend and Craig seemed to have made things very exclusive, because now sheâs basically living at Smurfâs house. Which means that, since youâre her best friend, she invites you over quite frequently.
You two havenât been able to have a moment alone since that night at the bar, much to Andrewâs 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 youâre 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.Â
âWhy are you always pulling this crap?â 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.
âI donât know what youâre talking about, dude.â 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 Craigâs back, knocking him over. The commotion is loud, Craig hitting the ground with a loud thud. Deran throws the first punch and Craigâs skull cracks hard against the pavement. Craig is quick to recover though, probably due to his size, and itâs 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 donât 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. Youâre rummaging through the fridge and he takes the opportunity to take in the view before you shut the door. Â
Youâre holding the carton of orange juice when you turn, finally taking in Andrewâs 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.
âAre you okay?â 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. âI heard, uh, your brothers fighting.â
âOh.â Andrew frowns as embarrassment clouds his thoughts. Will this deter you from coming back? He really hopes not. Heâs silent as his eyes follow you as you grab yourself a glass and begin pouring.
âYeah, oh.â You shoot a glance in the direction of J and Craigâs rooms, eyebrows raised. âSo, back to my question. Is everything okay?âÂ
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 youâve had together in ages. Pushing that thought aside, he settles on two words: âItâs complicated.â
âRight,â you scoff, making your way around the kitchen island. Andrew canât 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 heâs too focused on how close you are to be bothered by it. âThatâs why you guys all look like shit. Did you guys get in a fight or did you guys do that to each other?â
âLike I said, itâs complicated,â he repeats and you set your glass down, a serious look on your face.
âAndrew, I know who you guys are,â you say and now heâs shifting uncomfortably instead, the sentence shattering any sort of lust filled haze he was just on the precipice of falling into. âI can keep a secret, donât worry. I just⊠want you to be careful, okay? Thatâs all.â
âIâm always careful,â he replies and you huff in disbelief, but it also seems like you canât help but smile. Itâs 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.
âIâm sure you are,â 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. âBut if this is you careful, Iâd hate to see when it gets messy.â
âI donât do messy,â he emphasises, his mind wandering back to the oily smudge youâve 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 youâve broken the touch barrier between the two of you on purpose and Andrewâs stomach flips at the thought. The heat of your hand is searing through his shirt and heâs glad you canât feel the goosebumps that are rising under your palm.
âI know, Andrew. Iâve watched you clean,â 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.Â
âWhereâs your friend?â he asks, desperate to change the topic to anything but him and his familyâs 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.
âIâm not sure,â you say, voice a bit muffled from behind the freezer door. âHer and Craig are probably doing lines off each otherâs chests or something.âÂ
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.
âWhy do you hang out with her?â 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 wouldnât let go of his hand just yet.
âSheâs been my best friend since, well, foreverâŠâ Pressing the bag into his knuckles further, your hand grips his gently and he canât help but look at you while you fiddle with the frozen bag. âAnd if I donât take care of her, who will?âÂ
âI know the feeling.â Andrew says sincerely. He canât remember a time in his life when he wasnât a protector, an enforcer, a guard dog. You look up at him now, eyes soft. He feels his gaze soften in return, lips parting.
âI can see that,â you hum like youâre contemplating his words. âIs there someone taking care of you?â The question catches him off guard and he almost jerks his hand back reflexively.
âI don't need anyone to take care of me.â It's a statement that doesn't fully ring true; he thinks about the people who have tried and what heâs lost. It's better off this way, perhaps. But he also thinks you probably wouldn't like that answer.
âEveryone needs someone, Andrew.â 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 âall 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. Sheâs 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?
âShe and Craig probably got into another fight,â 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 heâs a dog that got caught chewing on the couch legs. âKeep it iced, okay? Iâll talk to you soon.â
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 heâs a permanent fixture in your life.
He watches you walk away, eyes on your swaying hips in your cheeky swimsuit bottoms. Heâs still staring when you sit down next to your friend, rubbing her back comfortingly.Â
Andrew stands alone in the kitchen, half hard, frozen bag of vegetables still pressed to his torn knuckles. The worst part is, heâs 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.
â
If Andrew thought that he couldn't get you off his mind before that afternoon, now you were all he thought about.Â
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.Â
So the fact that you werenât 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 youâd 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 didnât 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.Â
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.
âWhat about a party?â He suggests to his family one afternoon, all of the Codyâs crowded in the living room. All three of them turn their heads, looking at him like heâs grown an extra limb. The room is silent as they all try to process the words that came out of his mouth. âWhat?â
âPope wants to throw a party.â Deran states, like saying the words out loud may help him truly understand them. âWhy?â
âDonât worry about it,â He crosses his arms over his chest, aware that heâs 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. âJust do it.â
âYou wonât hear me complaining, man.â Craig says on his way out, clapping a hand on Andrewâs shoulder before he goes. The remaining Codyâs watch him go, and then eyes are back on him. He doesnât want to answer any other questions, so he turns on his heels before they can ask any and follows his brother out.
So thatâs how he ended up here.
This party was the same as the rest. Andrew wasnât 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. Itâs 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.
âDo you need some help?â 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 heâs 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.
âItâs late.â Is what he says instead, continuing his job of cleaning up. Thereâs a thousand unsaid things with those two words and it seems like you somehow know him well enough to answer all of them.
âCraig said I could crash on the couch,â 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. âAnd I want to help you. Doesn't seem like anyone else is.â
He accepts that and you two clean in silence for a few moments, working alongside each other. His eyes canât 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. âSo, why am I the only one helping you?â
He furrows his brows, pausing for a second as your words catch him off guard. Andrew glances over at you once more and youâre looking at him expectantly. He canât 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. âWhat do you mean?â
âUm, I mean thereâs like, at least two or three other people who live in this house,â He can basically hear your frown as you speak, unceremoniously throwing another piece of trash into the bag. âWhy am I the only one helping you clean up? The mess of a party that they threw?â
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.
âI donât need any help,â 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 heâs 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 canât help but soften. âI got it.â
âI just meant that youâre always taking care of everyone else, Andrew,â 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. âCleaning up after everyone. Making sure they donât kill each other. Craigâs told me that youâve bailed him out plenty of times.â
Andrew frowns. He doesnât like the idea of his brothers talking about him when heâs 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.
âIâm serious. Just leave it for them to deal with for once,â 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 âheâs seen the state the house gets into when heâs 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 whatâs happening. âCome on.â
You pull him along and it doesnât take much effort to have him following. Continuing to stare, heâs got half a mind to hope that his mouth isnât hanging open. He realizes where youâve taken him in Smurfâs 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 canât hear the shaky breath that he lets out from across the room.
âSit,â you command, gesturing to the bed. Andrew doesnât 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 heâs face level with your torso. The position has him blushing âheâs 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.
âWill you let me take care of you, Andrew?â you ask, hand sliding into his hair. He struggles to not let out a groan, blood rushing straight to his dick. Heâs 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.
âOkay.â 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 doesnât 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; heâs practically drooling at the feeling. Once youâve decided heâs had his fill you climb into his lap, straddling him. Heâs 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 youâre 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.Â
Andrew doesnât even know how many times he imagined doing this with you. At this point heâs 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 canât 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 heâs sure heâs leaving marks. He feels bad, but then he decides that heâll kiss them as an apology later, if youâll 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. Youâre 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.
âDo you like that?â You mutter, tucking your face into his neck now that heâs made the space. The way you kiss slowly up the sensitive skin of his neck makes his mind fuzzy. He canât seem to get the words out, so he gives a slow nod instead. âGood.â
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 heâs getting close. He knows that his hips wonât stop rising to meet your touch: a dead giveaway. Itâs 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.
âDonât you want to feel how wet I am for you, Andrew?â you breathe into his ear. The words affect him deeply and he lets out a strangled noise, but he canât bring himself to be embarrassed with you on top of him like this.
âYes,â 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. Youâre dripping for him; he can feel the wet patch youâve left on your panties against his knuckles as he slides a finger into you. Itâs your turn to moan, and he swears at the sound, âFuck.â
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. Itâs 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 heâs 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 youâve gone.
His pace quickens and he can feel your legs shaking against his while your hips buck, practically riding his hand. Youâre 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 youâre 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 youâre 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?
Heâs 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 heâd 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. Youâve 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.Â
âSo good, baby. Feels so fucking good,â 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. Heâs got one hand on your ass and the other on your breast, overwhelmed with the need to memorize every part of your body. âBeen fucking dreaming about your pussy.â
âOh my god, Andrew,â 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. Youâre 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. Heâs close but youâre closer, nails digging into his flesh and your moans grow more high pitched, picking up the pace. You donât 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.
âMâgonna cum,â 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.
âI want it so bad,â you babble mindlessly, voice dripping with pleasure. Heâs never heard you like this before, but now he canât imagine ever living without it. His thrusts are messy now, determined to hear you beg some more. âPlease, I need it.â
âYeah?â He barely even notices himself speak, too busy fucking into your pussy to think of anything else. Heâs so close that his arms are shaking, thick muscles twitching in anticipation. He almost wants to cry, overwhelmed by the way heâs buried so deep inside you. âYou want me to pump you full of my cum, baby?â
âPlease,â you whine, voice cracking with need. The sound of it has Andrewâs 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 canât 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.
âYou okay?â Your voice is muffled against his chest, warm breath fanning over his skin. Heâs got a hand running absentmindedly up and down the bare skin of your back, still sticky with sweat. âThat wasnât too much?â
âNo,â he rumbles, voice soft. His fingers are still skimming as allows himself to take in the moment for just a beat longer. Then heâs 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. âNot enough.â
If Andrew had any say in it, you two were in for a long night.
â
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.Â
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.
âPope, man-â 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 wasnât the noise that caught Craigâs attention. Your hair is still mussed and youâre 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 youâve 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.
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:Â 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:Â 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 arenât 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 thatâs so much more fashionable than what you wore at her age. Sheâs 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 heâs accompanying a preteen wearing a four-figure outfit, today Popeâs 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, âIâve been so excited about this all week!â
âLena, hey! Me too; thisâll be super fun.â You duck down to return her hug and then address her uncle, too, âThanks for bringing her. Iâm sure this is a little out of your comfort zone.â
âWhat, me? Câmon, I know all about-â Pope squints at a nearby wall of products with an adorable wrinkle between his eyebrows, which go up in true confusion â-serums. And balms. Right up my alley.â
You snicker and give his arm a squeeze. âYouâre so cute, Pope.â Then, as the apples of his cheek tint pink because itâs been a very long time since a girl called him that, you wave toward the lounge part of the store and offer, âNow you can go sit in the corner with all the dads and boyfriends while us girls have our fun.â
But he shakes his head and insists, âNo, I wanna learn, too. So I know what stuff she likes and whatâs good.â
Lenaâs 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, âsounds good,â and lead them over to the skincare section, where you explain to Lena, âTo start off, you need a solid skincare routine; thatâll help you keep your face healthy while you grow up, which is super important. Even though you donât have pimples or anything now, building those habits will help you keep your skin glowy and soft no matter what. I always say âthe best routine is the one you stick to,â so itâs 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.â
While you answer Lenaâs 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 youâre 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 itâs just so endearing. His expression is so soft and so intensely focused on Lenaâs every reaction that your heart skips a beat.
Once youâve helped Lena pick out a solid basic routine, you lead her through aisles of makeup, saying, âOkay, now letâs focus on getting you a wide variety of fun things you can play with since you really donât have to worry about foundation or contour or anything like that for now.â
Toying with a bottle of thick foundation, she furrows her brows and asks, âWhy not? You always do those in your videos.â
âHere, come look in this mirror.â You bend down over her shoulder so your faces are at the same level. âYou have perfect skin, Lena. Covering it up right now would just be silly and clog up your pores unnecessarily.â
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 didnât 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
âRight, Pope?â
Youâre looking at him with expectant eyes and he rips his eyes from your body. He has no idea what youâre talking about, but heâs pretty sure youâre probably right, so he nods. âYeah, exactly.â
âSee? 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 donât need to worry about things as heavy as contouring yet.â
Lena asks you reluctantly, âBut wouldnât contouring make my cheeks look less fat? Maya Jenkins says I have fat cheeks like a chipmunk.â
Pope growls under his breath, but youâre quick to argue first: âWell she sounds like a mean girl and you should never listen to mean girls because theyâre always wrong and theyâre ugly down to their souls, which is the worst kind of ugly.â You touch her chin, tilting her face to the side in the mirror. Hoping sheâll see what you see, you tell her, âSoft features are really pretty. Theyâre timeless like women in classic paintings. And versatile. You can look cute and you can look elegant.â Her expression softens as she looks between her face and yours, so you add seriously, âAs for her calling you fat? Thereâs 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.â
Considering it seriously for a moment, Lena meets your eyes and decides, âThat makes sense. I donât like how Maya talks about my friends, so sheâs probably wrong when she talks about me, too.â
âYouâre really smart, Lena.â You give her arm a quick squeeze and continue, âAlright, after-school-special time over. Letâs get shopping.â
Pope lets out an amused little snort as your demeanor flips back into the bubbly light one you usually have on.
âSo, when I think about makeup,â you tell Lena as you show her different brands oriented more toward girls her age, âI think about two things: Spending time taking care of yourself and having fun being creative with self-expression. You donât 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 itâll get cakey and sweaty and you donât want to be worried about reapplying during lunch or after gym and stuff.â
Lena explains the kind of things she wants to learn to do â mainly fun eye looks with lots of glitter â 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 itâs okay when you reach for nicer products, but he just waves you off with a gruff âwhatever you thinkâ every time. So eventually you stop asking, getting used to the ease that comes with not having to worry.
After about half an hour, Lenaâs got enough makeup in her bag to satisfy any tweenâs Pinterest board goals â 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, âDo you make commission on sales?â
Reading him wrong, you quickly reply, âUm, yes, I do, but thatâs definitely not why Iâm-â
âThatâs not what I meant,â 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, âPick some stuff out for yourself, too. So I can say thank you.â
âI have plenty of makeup already,â you assure him, trying to ignore how the soft intensity in his hazel eyes has heat creeping up your chest. âIâd never want to take advantage of how generous youâre already being.â
Flummoxed by that response because heâs used to girls mostly being receptive to him because of money, Pope offers with a nod toward the menâs section, âOkay, then get some of this skincare stuff for me. My skinâs shit.â
âWell, Iâll 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, âWhatâs your current routine?â
âAh,â he replies, clearly embarrassed by the truth, âI wash my face in the shower, usually, I guess.â
Horror draws slowly across your features. âWith your body wash?â
âThe way you said that makes me think itâs wrong.â
âVery, very wrong.â You rest your hands on his shoulders and make deadly eye contact, âLike, mortal sin wrong.â
He smirks and shrugs. âIâm sure Iâve done worse.â
âImpossible.â You hold his face between both hands and murmur, âHere, let me look at you up close.â
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 canât deny the way his heart rate climbs in his throat.
âFirst of all,â you announce like youâre admonishing him, âyou really need to start putting on sunscreen every day. Red hair and freckles. No excuse.â
He pouts, âI donât have red hair anymore.â
âItâs auburn and itâs as handsome as the rest of you.â Then, before he can process the compliment fully, you collect a few products for him. You canât meet his eyes even though you feel them watching your every move; itâs 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 canât help it. Heâs just so fucking handsome and so good with Lena. When you turn back, itâs with full hands. âDr. Barbara Sturm sunscreen because itâs lightweight, long-lasting, and hydrating. Wear it every single day. Seriously. Iâll be able to smell it on you; if you skip it, Iâll beat you up.â
A laugh punches out of him. âCouldnât have that.â
Inspecting him very closely, you order, âNow, tell me what you do for work.â
He raises an eyebrow. âTrying to figure out if Iâd be a good sugar daddy?â
âTrying to figure out how you have so much skin damage when youâre, what, 35?â Turning his face side to side in your hands, you muse, âConstruction, maybe? Landscaping?â
âI own a skatepark,â he says, searching your expression to see how youâll react. âHalf inside, half outside. We do outreach for kids whoâve been in juvie, no parents, shithead parents, whatever. Kids like me and my brothers were. If they show me that theyâre in school every semester, they get in for free. I try to keep âem fed, help with whatever I can. A lot of the time that means sweating in the sun, which I guess isnât good for my face.â
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, âPaulaâs 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.â
He nods seriously, treating your word as law, and asks with a furrowed brow, âWhat the hell is a peptide?â
âTheyâre amino acids that build collagen,â you explain, âso they act as, like, a tiny blueprint to tell your skin to make more of the good stuff and less of the bad stuff.â
He examines the bottle and murmurs, âYouâre smart.â
âThe boutique owners paid for me to take a couple cosmetology classes,â you tell him with a modest shrug. Youâve never been comfortable accepting compliments, so you quickly hand him one more jar and say, âFinish with this La Mer cream; itâs nice and light for summers here, but itâll still make sure youâre smooth and soft and touchable.â
His eyebrows shoot up. âTouchable?â
Your lip twitches up into a smirk. âYeah. Touchable.â
âI guess thatâs a good thing.â With an adorably furrowed brow, he asks, âDo I need anything else? Be thorough.â
âThatâs a good basic routine to start,â you assure him. âBut, yâknow, if you want to be fancy and impress someone now that youâre going to have such nice skin, this-â you pick up a classic amber bottle of YSLâs Tuxedo â-is my absolute favorite scent for men.â
He doesnât even glance at the $300 price tag, stuck staring at the way your lips mold around each word and smile. âSold.â
All the while, pretending to look at magazines by the checkout, Lena sneakily watches with a small, mischievous smile on her face. Sheâs never seen Pope look at a girl like this and sheâs 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 Popeâs âhome office,â 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 didnât care how many bedrooms the house had because, quote, Lena picked it out. He just wanted her to be happy â to the tune of a couple million dollars.
Itâs 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 momâs rule before she died, so they still do it now. Youâre 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 youâve all eaten, Lena gives you a tour of her huge walk-in closet and bathroom, clearly proud of how everythingâs 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. Heâll stand in the doorway for a few minutes in between cleaning the house and making phone calls or heâll actually come in, sit on the edge of the bathtub, and ask about what youâre doing. Heâs 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. Youâre growing to quite like all his little grunts. It seems like most of the time itâs 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. Itâs obvious in the way his eyes can barely hold yours when you can tell heâs usually big into staring. Or, at the very least, he thinks youâre hot, which is a much lower bar since youâre perfectly aware that you are. Still, though. Youâre definitely not going to be the one to make the first move because you donât want to make things weird for Lena, but itâs a fact you file away close to your butterfly-filled stomach, somewhere by your heart, for safekeeping.
After Lenaâs in bed (with very clean and dewy skin, thank you very much), Pope drives you home in his ridiculous, huge car. Thereâs a few beats of awkward silence after he backs out of the driveway before he says, âThank you again. I know hanging out with a tween and her weird uncle probably wasnât your ideal Friday night.â
âI actually had a lot of fun,â you promise. âLenaâs a great kid. And youâre not as bad to be around as you think.â
âThanks,â he replies, sounding almost choked up with his eyes trained forward on the road so he doesnât have to look at those pretty lips of yours again. âIt means a lot. To, ah, to have a woman to- for you to- Fuck.â He shakes his head and tries again, âI just- Iâve got no idea how to do this. Being a girlâs only parent when sheâs 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?â
You snort and shove him on the arm. You swear he flexes his bicep when your hand lingers, but you donât point it out. âBuy her a bra, genius.â
He scoffs, âLike itâs that simple.â
âIt is that simple. They sell training bras at, like, Target. Itâs not rocket science.â But he looks at you like it is, in fact, rocket science, so you roll your eyes and add, âYouâre useless; Iâll go shopping with you two. Theyâre just T-shirt sizes. You wonât even have to talk to anyone or go to a Victoria's Secret or anything.â
âIâm not useless,â he pouts adorably, eyes flicking briefly over to yours, âbut your, ah, your, yâknow, feminine touch-â 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, âThat would be great. Thank you.â
âItâs no problem,â 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. Itâs nice to feel like your knowledge matters. Like youâre 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, âItâs really nice to be around a family like you and Lena. Iâll watch her any time you need, Pope.â
He considers that, huffing, âItâd definitely be good to stop pawning her off on my brothers.â
âI overheard you saying theyâre, ah, maybe not the best role models.â
âCraigâs a burnout idiot with a newborn,â Pope confirms, âand DeranâsâŠfine, I guess, but heâs always at his bar, and Iâm not going to risk my custody dropping a kid off there.â He runs a hand through his curls and sighs out, âHalf the time Lena has to come to the skate park with me to do her homework and shit because sheâs not old enough to stay home alone yet and I canât- I canât handle the idea of her being home alone, anyway. She never complains about it because her dad didnât exactly set good standards, but that doesnât make it the best thing for her.â
Thereâs 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, âWould you mind walking me up? Itâs getting awfully late to be alone.â
He swallows hard and nods tightly. As if he wouldâve let you walk out of his sight by yourself. âOf course.â
While you collect your bag and jacket, Pope hops out first and opens your door, offering his hand because itâs 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, âYou should really get a smaller car if youâre gonna be driving pretty girls in high heels around.â
He chuckles stiffly, hand on your lower back a few moments longer than necessary as you stabilize, âIf a pretty girl in high heels ends up in my car a few more times, Iâll consider it.â
You giggle and shove him with your elbow. âHow the hell does Lena even get in this thing?â
Pope holds his ribs in mock pain. âBy helicopter.â
âOh, so youâre rich rich,â you tease. Then, dropping your voice a bit more seriously, you press, âWhereâd you get all your money anyway? Donât tell me you think Iâm dumb enough to believe you own a house like that with your skate park thatâs basically a non-profit.â
He follows close to you as you head into the building and toward the elevator. Reluctantly, he admits, âI own a couple properties, too.â
You gasp dramatically, âYouâre a landlord?â
âYes,â he goes on hastily, âbut I actually do all the repairs and I follow the local unionâs cost guidelines and-â
âI can tell youâre a good man, Pope, donât worry.â The two of you drop into silence for a few moments as he fights not to disagree with you. Thatâs something heâs worked on in the court-mandated therapy to keep custody of Lena as a felon and heâs 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 elevatorâs closed doors, you ask, âWhat happened to them â Lenaâs parents? Your brother?â
Pope shakes his head. âYou donât want to know.â
âI do.â
âItâll scare you off.â
âIt wonât.â When he still stays quiet, you needle, âIf Iâm going to be part of her life, you should tell me this kind of stuff. What about her dad?â
Pope just shrugs. âHe left.â
âHeâs still alive?â You balk, âShit, what an asshole. Does she know anything about it?â
âYeah, she does.â Pope glares at his shoes as he remembers aloud, âHe 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.â
You let out a long breath; somehow, you can still be surprised by how people will treat their children. âYou donât think thereâs any chance heâs coming back?â
âNo. Heâs got a new family down in Mexico. His sonâs around Lenaâs age.â
âJesus.â At your floor, you slowly walk down the hall toward your apartment. âWhat about her mom?â
Pope winces like heâs picking an old wound open. âMy mother happened.â
âSmurf, right?â
âYeah.â Pope wrestles with how to put it for a while. He wants to be honest. He wants to let you in. But that doesnât make it easy. âWell, sheâsâŠI donât even know how to put it. Sheâs not a good person. And we all grew up with a lot of illegal shit happening. Stealing, drugs, prostitutes, all sorts of things.â He leans on your door frame and says quickly, âAnyway, she didnât like Lenaâs mom. Thought she was betraying our family and working with the cops. So she, ahâŠâ
His voice trails off in a way that makes it clearer than words ever could.
With your heart slamming against your ribs, you whisper, âDoes Lena know?â
âNo,â he sighs back. His eyes are far away and glassy. Lost in memory and lost in the future. âMaybe when sheâs older. I donât know. I donât want to ruin even more things for her. She doesnât ever want to talk about it; I donât even know what the hell her dad told her.â
âYou have one hell of a life, Pope Cody.â
âYeah. I do.â Then he shakes his head as if heâs pushing thoughts away by force. After a beat, he lifts his eyes to yours and murmurs gently, like itâs a secret, âMy nameâs Andrew. My real name.â
Nibbling your lip for a second, you check, âYou prefer to be called Andrew?â
âBy you, yeah.â
âBy me?â
âYeah.â
âOkay.â You bend forward and press a soft kiss to his cheek that heâs going to feel the rest of the night, if not the rest of his life. âThanks for getting me home safe, Andrew.â
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
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
summary:Â 10 things you hate love about frank langdon
pairing:Â fem!reader x frank langdonÂ
warnings/tags:Â 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 youâd expect from the pitt!
notes:Â 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.
Youâd 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 didnât 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. Frankâs 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 heâd 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 couldnât 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."
Frankâs 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.
âI did.â
You grabbed a mug from the cupboard, acutely aware of his gaze following you across the small room.
âNice work.â
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.
âWow.â
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.
âWas that a compliment I just heard? Are you feeling ok?â
This time you rolled your eyes openly as you threw the Advil down your throat.
âIâm mature enough to acknowledge when a peer does something impressive, Langdon.â
His brows lifted slightly. âA peer? Is that all I am to you after all these years?"
He placed a hand over his heart. âYou wound me.â
Your eyes narrowed. âDescribing you as a peer is my way of being nice.â
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.
âOr maybe you just donât want to admit that youâre jealous I practically performed a miracle.â
You let out a humourless laugh.
âDonât worry, I perform miracles too.â
You set the mug down harder than necessary before glancing back at him.
âI just don't feel the need to announce it to anyone that will listen."
You saw his jaw tick slightly, indicating that youâd finally penetrated his thick ego shield.
âYouâre a real ball of sunshine today Ace.â
You smiled sarcastically. âOnly for you Langdon.â
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 alwaysâŠ.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-
âThink sheâll make it?â
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.
â50/50.â 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.
âIâm thinking more 70/30.â You heard him remark.
And just like that, mercifully, the fantasy collapsed.
four.
Sometimes, it felt like Frank Langdon could read your mind.
âIncoming trauma, two minutes out.â Dana announced in the middle of the pitt, red phone pressed to her ear. âMVA involving a single car and a motorcycle. The riderâs in a bad way.â
âWhatâs free?â Robby asked.
âTrauma one.â
You glanced up at Robby as he called out your last name.
â-and Langdon, with me.â
Frank didnât 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.
âWhat have we got?â Robby asked.
âRider unhelmeted. Found unconscious on scene. Hypotensive en route, tachycardic. GCS eight.â 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.
âC-spine?â Robby asked.
âImmobilised.â
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.
âAlright, transfer in three, two-â
Everyone moved together, sliding the patient onto the bed in one practiced motion.
âAirway appears patent but compromised.â
You leaned forward, placing your stethoscope on his chest.
âReduced breathing sounds on the left.â
Frank was already there on the opposite side, his hands steady as he moved his fingers across the rib cage.
âSubcutaneous emphysema.â He said. âLikely pneumothorax.â
âPulse-ox is dropping.â Perlah announced. âEighty-eight and falling.â
âAlright get ready to intubate.â Robby ordered.
âWait.â
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.
âHeâs compensating.â You said. âThis isnât primary airway failure yet. If we intubate now without addressing the thoracic injury he'll drop further.â
âAce is right.â Langdon agreed. âWe should do needle decompression first.â
âLeft second intercostal space, midclavicular line.â You added. âIf itâs tension physiology, thatâs whatâs driving the instability.â
Everyone turned to Robby, waiting for his call.
The smallest of nods, the slightest flicker of approval.
âYou heard them.â
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 patientâs chest expanded easier this time.
âStats stabilising.â Perlah confirmed.
âBetter.â Frank observed.
You exhaled through your nose, already shifting focus. âWe still need definitive imaging. Heâs not out of the woods, weâre likely dealing with associated haemothorax or pulmonary contusion.â
âAgreed.â
Frank didnât look at you when he said it.
But somehow, the two of you were entirely in sync anyway.
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 didnât interrupt - he simply factored your words into the next step.
It was infuriating how seamless it felt, dangerous how easy it was.
âTubeâs in.â Frank said finally.
âBilateral breath sounds confirmed.â You spoke.
A beat.
Then Robby stepped back, stripping his gloves off.
âGood call both of you.â
You looked up as he pushed open the swinging doors.
âYou arenât staying?â
He gestured between you and Frank.
âI know when Iâm not needed.â
Your eyes met Frankâs 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.
âGood work in there.â
You glanced out of the corner of your eye to see Robby.
âThanks.â
Silence stretched between the two of you.
His gaze shifted between you and the doors leading back inside.
âYou know.â He said slowly after a moment. âYou and Langdon work well together.â
You scoffed lightly. âWhen weâre not at each others throats, you mean.â
Robbyâs eyes twinkled with amusement, dipping his chin down to conceal it. âYes, thatâs exactly what I mean.â
You exhaled, leaning back against the brick wall.
âYeah." You admitted. "We do.â
It came out quieter than you intended.
You knew immediately that Robby noticed.
âBut if you ever tell him I said that, Iâll deny it completely.â
Robbyâs mouth twitched.
âNoted.â
âAnd, Iâll tell everyone about the time I caught you nearly in tears over a cockroach in the break room.â
Robby turned to you. âIt had wings.â He said flatly.
"You still screamed like a little girl.â
five.
Frank Langdon could be thoughtful, when he wanted to be.
It was never loud. Never performative. It didnât 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 werenât 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 heâd comfort them when he thought no one else was listening.
Youâd seen him pay for taxi fares out of his own pocket. Youâd 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 didnât 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 someoneâs 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.
Youâd heard that upstairs had sent their usual trolley of unethical donuts down earlier. Youâd 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.
âRobbyâs looking for you.â
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.
âYou need to take your Advil earlier.â
The voice came from above you.
You looked up to see Langdon towering over you.
âWhat?â
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.
âJesus Christ I havenât poisoned it.â He huffed as he nudged it closer to you.
âEat.â
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 didnât 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 didnât know that heâd 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 shouldnât.
six.
You couldnât escape Frank Langdonâs eyes.
It wasnât 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.
âAre you going to knock off drinks tonight?â
The voice pulled you back into the present. You blinked, realising youâd 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.
âOh uh, I donât know. Maybe.â You said half heartedly.
âOh câmon doc, itâll be fun.â Hollandâs grin widened as he studied you, searching for a crack in your resistance. âEspecially if youâre there.â
You huffed a small laugh.
âNice try Holland, but this one here likes to be in bed by 9pm.â McKay smirked as she walked behind you.
Your brow furrowed. âWhatâs wrong with that?â
âNothing, if youâre like 80.â Holland shot back, making you roll your eyes.
âI do go out.â
McKay let out a snort that was entirely unconvinced. âSure you do.â
You straightened slightly, feigning offence. âI 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.
âSo⊠is that a yes?â
âYou interns are nothing if not persistent.â You grumbled.
âI prefer passionate.â
You studied him for a moment.
âIf you leave me alone to let me finish my charting, Iâll consider it.â
âIâm taking that as a yes.â Holland grinned, tapping the table once triumphantly, like the matter was closed. âSee you tonight doc.â
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.
âDidnât realise you had a thing for interns.â 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.
âHuh?â
âHolland.â He clarified, like it should have been obvious.
You frowned. âWhat about him?â
âHe was flirting with you.â
You scoffed immediately. âNo he wasnât.â
Langdon stopped mid-movement, staring at you like he couldnât believe what he was hearing.
âThereâs no way youâre that oblivious.â He said flatly.
Your brow knitted. âIâm not oblivious.â
âYou are if you donât notice the way he looks at you.â
You tilted your head slightly. âHow does he look at me?â
âLike-â Langdon cut himself off. His jaw tightened once before he looked away.
âNever mind.â He muttered, scrunching his gloves into a ball and lobbing it into the trashcan with practiced aim.
âWell if heâs flirting with me, maybe I can wrangle a free drink out of him.â 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 werenât sure what reaction you were expecting, but it certainly wasnât the one you got.
When he looked back at you, his expression had hardened slightly around the edges.
âSo youâre going tonight?â
You lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. âI might.â
He shook his head slightly.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â
He pushed open the glass doors, holding it open for you to pass through first. âJust thought Iâd be free of you in a few hours.â
Your eyes narrowed as you stepped past him.
âDonât worry." You shot back, "Iâll make sure to sit at the opposite end of the table.â
-
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.
Youâd 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.
âI canât believe sheâs here.â
âWho?â
You froze when you heard the sound of your last name.
It wasnât spoken loudly, but it cut through the noise anyway.
âI know, Holland actually managed to convince her.â
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.
âIt wasnât hard, just had to smile at her and call her doc.â
A few of them laughed.
âShe definitely has cat lady energy."
"In all fairness." Someone else said. "She is hot. Just way too fucking uptight."
"Seriously." Another voice added. âYou can tell sheâs 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.
âHolland, 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.
âMaybe be careful of how you talk about your seniors.â Frank said, too calmly for it to be genuine.
Holland, whoâd already had one too many, snorted.
âCome on man, you of all people know what sheâs like.â
Frankâs jaw ticked.
âI know that sheâs 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?â
Holland swallowed. âCrystal.â
-
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 Frankâs 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 wasnât 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 eachotherâs bruises.
You couldnât remember much from that night. Couldn't even remember how you'd gotten home. You only had fragments to analyse - warmth, noise, Frankâs 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 wasnât still at work.
And now, weeks later, you were still carrying them around like something you hadnât 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.
Youâd been having a good shift, until hour eleven.
Your patient, a young woman with a soft, girlish face that made her look even younger. Sheâd 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.
"Epiâs 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 didnât 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 wouldnât 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.
âHeard you had a rough one.â
You turned your head.
Frank was standing a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets.
âShe was only 19.â You murmured, shaking your head. âI just had to tell her parents that their daughter isnât coming home.â
You turned your head away as he sat down beside you, wiping at your face quickly before he could fully register it.
âIâm sorry.â
"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.â He nodded solemnly. âRight 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.
"Iâm 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 didnât let go of your hands.
âYou want to go get a drink or something?â
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.
âOnly if the first rounds on you.â
He smiled faintly.
âAfter the day youâve had, Iâll even get the second.â
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 hadnât 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 didnât 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 wouldnât 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.
Frankâs voice cut through everything.
â-stupid or arrogant, you need to realise that you are a beginner.â His voice was loud and unforgiving.
âWhich 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.â
Trinityâs eyes widened slightly when she spotted you over his shoulder. You couldnât 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.
âSantos.â Your voice was level as you tilted your head towards the exit. âDr McKay needs help in Room 4.â
Relief crossed Trinityâs face so quickly it was almost painful.
She nodded once, eyes darting between the two of you before escaping the room like sheâd 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 heâd been interrupted mid-impact and didnât know what to do with the energy still in him.
âWhat the fuck was that?â
His eyes snapped to yours.
âWhat the fuck was what?â
His tone made you bristle.
âDonât do that.â You said sharply. âDonât stand there pretending you donât know what you just did was completely out of line.â
âHave you worked with her yet?â He shot back, words tumbling out too fast. âSheâs arrogant and-and completely incapable of-â
âIt doesnât matter.â You interrupted. âThat is not how we talk to rookies. Actually, itâs not how we talk to anyone.â
Frank scoffed, sharp and humourless.
âDidnât realise you were the tone police.â
The agitation radiating off him made you instinctively want to step back.
Your gaze sharpened.
âWhat is going on with you today?â You demanded. âYouâre all twitchy and acting completely fucking manic-â
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 heâd helped his parents move. Been too cheap to hire movers, heâd 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 heâd followed your thoughts to their conclusion before you even spoke.
âFrank.â You said slowly.
Your voice softened involuntarily. Careful in a way that didnât match the argument anymore. Weeks of quiet moments and softened edges bleeding into the argument without permission.
âAre you having withdrawals?â
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 werenât certain.
And then it vanished.
âWhat?â He said, voice sharp enough to cut, âare you seriously trying to ask me if Iâm a drug addict?â
âNo, I-â You started immediately, stepping forward again.
But he was already unraveling faster than you could catch.
âYouâd love that, wouldnât you?â Bitterness curled through every word now. âGet your competition shipped off to rehab so you can be the only golden child of the ER.â
Your breath caught painfully.
âThatâs not fair.â
"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.
âI donât know what has gotten into you.â You said quietly, voice shaking now despite your efforts. âBut I seriously suggest you stop talking before you say something you canât take back.â
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.
âDonât worry.â He said flatly, void of any emotion as he stalked past you. âI was just leaving.â
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 hadnât cried when you heard interns say horrible things about you, hadnât cried when youâd lost a patient. Youâd 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 youâd let him get under your skin in a way that you never thought he would. And now, you didnât 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 hadnât settled yet.
You didnât 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 youâd 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.
âSorry.â
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 youâd shoved aside came flooding violently back.
âWhat do you want, Langdon?â
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 youâd 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 werenât 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 didnât 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 heâd 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.
âI- oh my god." He breathed heavily. âIâm so sorry. I donât know why I-â
You grabbed the front of his scrubs and pulled him back down before he could finish.
The second kiss wasnât 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 couldnât quite believe this was happening. Like he couldnât 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.
Youâd known it long before you admitted it to yourself. But that moment - that kiss- had made it undeniable in a way you couldnât pretend to ignore anymore.
And that was the problem.
Because hatred wouldâve 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 hadnât 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 heâd be coming back, you knew you would have to see him again eventually - you just didnât think it would be today.
You didnât 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 didnât 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 heâd 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.
âPlease Ace just-"
"I said stop." You cut him off again, stepping back slightly without meaning to. "You donât 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 werenât sure you were ready for.
His gaze didnât 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.â Your jaw clenched. âIt 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?â
"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.â You snapped. âAnd 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 wasnât 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.
âEver since you sat across from me with your colour coded textbooks and looked at me like you wanted to kill me.â A small smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
Your breath caught.
âThat's probably why I was always such a dick to you.â He glanced back up. âBecause 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.â His voice softened. âI just didnât know what to do about it.â
You swallowed hard.
"You left." You said quietly.
"I know." He said immediately. No defence. No excuse. Just truth.
âI panicked. I wasn't thinking straight."
A beat.
"And Iâve regretted it every day since."
He took another step towards you.
"The kiss, or you leaving?â 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.â
Whatever restraint you still had left finally broke.
You fisted his scrubs in between your fingers, guiding him down to your mouth.
The kiss wasnât careful this time.
It wasnât confused.
It was real in a way that almost hurt.
Like years of wanting each other had finally run out of places to hide.
Frankâs 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?â
"Oh god.â Your fingers scraped lightly against the back of his neck. âWhat?â
âI never got to tell you I performed a closed cervical reduction like thirty minutes ago.â
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.
âWhy do you look like youâve just seen a ghost?â Robby asked.
âBecause Iâm traumatised.â
âI think we all are.â
âNo.â Abbot shook his head gravely. âSomehow this was worse than anything Iâve seen in here.â
flirty!reader continues her mission in trying to reel in park the shark. (og post)
Itâs been a long day. Hell, itâs been a long week, a long month. You truly do enjoy the time youâve 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 youâve 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. Itâs 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. Doesnât help that itâs your âshark weekâ. Ironically, you think with a scoff, you havenât seen the Shark all week.
âHey,â Whitaker softly interrupts your thoughts from the cracked open door. âTrauma 2s asking for you â amputated leg, from the knee down.â
Speak of the devil.
âAlright,â You sigh, shoving the rest of the bar in your mouth and crumpling the wrapper in your palm. âIf I must.â
âYou-you donât have to, I can get someone elseââ He tries, the sweetheart he is. You shake your head, tossing the wrapper as you pass through the door.
âYou know, youâre very cute. Like a guppy.â You poke his bicep as you both take the trip back to Trauma 2. âToo bad I like great whites, huh?â
You pass through the door, leaving him red in the ears and bashfully smiling to himself to follow after you.
âNo need to worry,â You hold your hands out. âYour savior is here.â
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.
âWell would you look at that,â You grin, and send him a wink while you throw gloves on. âI get somethinâ nice to stare at while I work.â
While he doesnât 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. Youâve gotten pretty good at this since the first one, with how many youâve done over the weeks.
âAll set and ready for ya, handsome.â You snap the gloves back off. Somehow you hadnât noticed said handsome man moving to stand directly behind you and watch over your shoulder until you spin around and find yourself inches apart.
âOh!â You jerk back an inch, placing a hand on his chest. Bad choice â 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.
âWell arenât you eager, today,â You mutter, patting his chest before you pull back. âHave fun with your bones, Great White. Donât be afraid to reel me back in for help.â You blow him a kiss as you leave, and watch his lips twitch again. Itâs more noticeable this time, and accompanied by a shake of his head.
Thereâs a pep in your step as you leave, and Jesse watches you practically skip down the hall with a grin stretched across your face.
âWhatâs got you all happy?â He calls out.
âThe Shark.â You state, stopping to watch him grab the equipment he needed. âI accidentally felt him up and he totally liked it.â He shakes his head at you, scoffing.
âHeâs gonna eat you alive, girl,â He jokingly warns with a smile and a finger pointing at you.
âYeah, I sure hope so,â 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.
âYouâre bleeding.â 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 isnât slicked back, but curly in a way thatâs going to haunt your mind for the rest of your life. Thereâs a car key dangling from his fingers, and a backpack across one of his shoulders.
You perk up against the bench, pointing at yourself.
âMe? I donât think so-â
Heâs 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 â fuck. Yes, you are bleeding.
âOh my god,â Jumbles from your lips. Youâd 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, thereâs a trail of period blood halfway down your thigh. How the fuck did you miss that?
âThatâs â fuck â iâm fine,â You manage to get out, trying to stop yourself from crying for stupid reasons in front of the hottest piece of ass youâve 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. âI donât know how I didnât feel that â fuck, this is so embarrassing, iâm on my period.â
He puts a big hand on your shoulder and lets his backpack fall from his other shoulder and to the ground.
âIâm a surgeon, trouble, blood doesnât scare me off. Nothing to be upset about.â
âI know, I justââ You suck in a shaky breath, and before you know it everything is spilling from your lips. âThis sandwich really sucks, and my day turned really shitty, nâ all I want is some chocolate and like, a pint of ice cream and my heating pad, and iâm so tired, but I told Jack iâd work another night shift and now Iâm crying to you about all this stupid stuff and youâre so hotââ
Heâs sitting down next to you now, when you cut yourself off. Heâd been digging through his backpack, and now thereâs a pair of scrubs in your lap.
âSorry,â You rub the wetness from your eyes with a pitiful laugh. âItâs been a really hard week.â
âWhatâs your locker code?â
âHm?â You question, holding his scrubs to your stomach. âYou should take these back, Iâm gonna get blood on them.â He pushes your hands back down.
âYour locker code â iâll get you new bottoms. Stay here.â
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.
âDr. Abbott.â 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.
âShe wonât be working tonight.â
âWhy? Is something the matter?â
âYes. Sheâs menstruating and spilling her life story and a few tears to the first person that tells her sheâs bled through her pants while she sits on a park bench. Luckily it was me, and I am bringing her new pants.â
âOh, wow.â The older manâs eyebrows raise, but he doesnât look too surprised. He starts fiddling in his pockets before pulling out a couple Hershey Kisses. âGive those to her for me then â running joke. That girl doesnât know when to stop, huh?â
Brendan comes back after a suspicious amount of time, and tosses the new pants in your lap while sitting next to you again.
âThank you,â You sigh in relief, giving him his worn scrubs back. âIâm gonna change in the back of the ambulance while no oneâs here, I think. This means a lot, really.â
He shrugs.
âYou donât have to work. Abbotts been made aware ofâŠthis.â
Your bottom lip starts wavering a bit out of pure relief, but you manage to get a grip on yourself.
âPark the Shark is propaganda so people donât fall in the love with you, I swear,â You shake your head in disbelief. âYou, Dr. Park, are a dangerously handsome, wonderful, angel.â
The smile that plasters on his face is unbelievable, and will be in your dreams tonight.
âI donât tolerate unintelligence that may hurt my patients. You have proved to be both competent andâŠsly.â
âIâll take that.â You grin back, reddening as your gaze moves to settle on the new pants in your lap.
âWould you like a kiss?â
Your head whips back up.
âWhat?â 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.
âWho are you and what have you done with my Great White?â
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. Â Â Â Â Â ( 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 doesnât 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. Thereâs a system, so meticulously organised you could probably recreate it with your eyes closed.Â
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 thatâs 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.Â
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. Thereâs 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.Â
Youâre assuming thatâs what brought in the little girl sitting on the carpet now. Itâs pouring with rain outside, early afternoon in the middle of the week, and you havenât had anyone come in all day. You donât mind the slow periods. You keep your work station clean and organised (one of the perks of being the only employee is you donât 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 youâre in every other day from 8:30am to open until 3:30pm to close. Youâve 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.Â
Sheâs quite small, canât 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 hasnât been very long since the last time. Still, when you approach, you only bend down on your knees. âHi.â
You hadnât heard her come in, and youâre not even sure if you were in the store when she did. You couldâve been in the bathroom, or taking a few minutes out the back door, or completely zoned out at your desk.Â
âHi,â she says back, shy. Sheâs 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. âAm I in trouble?â
You frown. âNo, of course not. Youâre not in trouble.â Where are her parents? Youâre not sure if sheâs old enough to be in school yet, but itâs close enough to midday that she should be there if she is. Itâs not particularly cold outside but water is flowing down the gutters like rivulets, and you havenât seen anyone walk by in almost an hour. âWhatâs your name?â
She shrinks in on herself slightly. âIâm not supposed to say.â Right, donât talk to strangers and all that. That doesnât help you.Â
You nod slowly, careful not to come on too strong. Sheâs quiet, most unaccompanied kids you get in here are little hurricanes, impossible to miss. Youâre not even sure how long sheâs been here. Surely not longer than ten minutes.Â
You tell her your own name as a gesture of goodwill, pointing to the name tag clipped to your sweater. âI work here,â you wave your hand awkwardly at the rest of the store.Â
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. âIâm Lena.â
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 canât 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.Â
âHi Lena,â you say gently. âCan I sit with you?â
She nods politely, still looking like you might scold her, and your heart aches for this girl. âIâm sorry for touching your toys,â she says as you cross your legs.Â
You couldnât care less. âThatâs okay. Do you want to play?â
Lena perks up, still hesitant. âCan I?â
âSure!â You try to give her your softest, kindest smile. âDo you want me to play with you?â
Thatâs what really gets her, like she hadnât been expecting you to offer your time. âCan we play with the ponies?â When she smiles one of her bottom teeth is missing. You never want to let her go.Â
âWe can play whatever youâd like.â
Lena carefully gathers the unicorn and pegasus into her lap, examining them with great care. She hands you the pegasus. âThis one is yours,â she says, smile threatening to take over her entire face.Â
You accept it seriously. âWhatâs her name?â
Lena looks at you like you havenât been paying attention properly. âShe doesnât have one. Her name got taken by the evil magic unicorn.â She holds up the unicorn for emphasis. âShe has to get it back.â
You havenât 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.Â
You let her hold onto that for the next thirty-eight minutes until the bell above the door rings again.Â
âLena.âÂ
Lena smiles up at the man dripping onto the welcome mat just inside the door. âHi, Daddy.â
Pretty much all bravado youâve had about tearing Lenaâs 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 Lenaâs dad. He smiles politely at you in a way that scares you more than anything, barely glancing at his daughter. Youâve been yelled at by customers before, but based on the lump on this guyâs left hip you think this man might not be the yelling type.
âI thought I told you not to wander off,â 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.Â
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 Lenaâs parents to come and collect her, and of course you donât want for them to have abandoned her. But there seems to be no secret third option where they just misplaced her and theyâre worried sick and they took their eyes off her for a second and when they looked back she was gone. âWe need to get home.â
Lena looks up at him like for a second she doesnât recognise him.Â
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 heâs always looked like that. If there had been a time when her father had been a kind and loving man.Â
Right now at least she looks like she knows different than to argue with him. âOkay, daddy.â
She looks at you, the same smile on her face that heâd given you. It looks lovely and gentle coming from her. âThank you for playing with me.â
You donât 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.
âDo you want that one?â You gesture at the unicorn in her hand and hold out the pegasus. âYou can have them both.â Youâll take it out of your paycheque. Hell, youâd give her the whole damn crate. She had been so excited to have someone to play with.
Lenaâs dad is already halfway out the door as she stands up, brushing her knees off. âNo, thatâs okay.â She leaves the pony on the floor. âThank you for playing with me.â
Sheâs gone before you can figure out what to say.Â
You close up quietly, doing all your normal checks. Youâre not quite sure what to do with yourself, mind stuck on the little girl with the purple coat. You donât know whatâs going on between her and her father. Thereâs a high likelihood that heâs just having a bad day, that heâs usually warm and affectionate and not someone his daughter has to be scared of. You donât know this man, and you donât know his daughter.Â
But you recognise the look on her face when her father showed up. Sheâs so small, barely up to your hip. You canât imagine being her parent and not being obsessed with her. Sheâs 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. Sheâs so little, she canât comprehend cruelty.Â
She has to make up evil creatures to process things.Â
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.Â
ââ
You never really learned how to shop. It wasnât really a skill that you thought youâd have to learn, you supposed. Adults know how to do it, youâll probably figure out how to eventually. At twenty-eight, you figure itâll come to you any day now.Â
The store is always too bright, even though you always come in the evenings. Harsh, fluorescent lighting makes you feel like youâre somewhere more important than in your body. Youâve 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 youâve already picked up twice.Â
$4.49
You turn it over, reading the nutritional label like youâre expecting anything called âCinnamon Raspberry Crunchâ to be even a little healthy. Most of the other cereals, less sugar, sit right beside it, all about a dollar cheaper.Â
You put the first box back.Â
Your basket has exactly three things in it: bread, milk, and a packet of penne that goes on sale every two weeks. You donât need anything else, you never really plan on getting much. But youâve 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. Youâre almost thirty.Â
You canât explain it, canât verbalise, canât even articulate for your own peace of mind the unease that comes from that box of cereal. Your chest constricts and you canât form any rational argument other than the fact that thinking about buying it makes your head hurt.Â
Your phone starts ringing. The timing is almost funny.Â
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. Itâs never really worked for you.
âHi, dad.â Your voice wobbles.Â
Your father doesnât 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 donât bring it up because you hear how ridiculous it sounds even in your own head. âYou took your time.â
You shift your weight, glancing the other direction down the aisle to make sure thereâs no one else around. âIâm at the store.â
âAt this hour?â You can practically hear him deciding what version of himself he wants to be today. âI suppose you are a busy girl.â You donât know what to say to that so you say nothing.Â
He doesnât need you to talk to keep the conversation going. âMaking good choices?â
âYes, dad.â You feel like a little girl. Your father never knew what much to do with a girl. Heâd call you sport and drag you places like fishing. âI know.â
âYou have a few bad habits,â he says, like heâs spoken to you face to face even once in the last five years. You donât think he could pick you out of a lineup if the cops asked him to. âNever quite grown out of them,â he says gently.Â
You stare at the shelf in front of you like it might save you from this conversation. âI know.â
Thereâs that silence again.
âYou donât have to stop,â he says, voice dripping. Disappointment slides into his tone like it knew it was expected. âIâm trying to help you.â
âI didnât mean to snap.â Itâs been a long day and you know you have a pile of laundry to fold when you get home. âIâm sorry.â
Your father exhales, long and slow. You have the entire time to ruminate while heâs 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. Youâve known him for how long and you just canât get a read on him.Â
âAnyway,â he breezes past it. âI called because I realised you never paid me back for your electric bill last month. Remember? I covered it because you were short.â
Your car had died and youâd 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. Youâd given him the money back immediately when youâd been paid. Asking your father for anything has always made you feel like youâre disappointing him and when it comes to your dad disappointment can look like a lot of things.Â
One time when you were really little there had been a party at your house. You donât remember what it was for â 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 youâre 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 youâd drag your feet longer and longer, anything to avoid getting home.Â
Your father is a perfectionist, you tell people now. Highly strung. Particular.Â
You remember being made to eat dinner on the porch that week, plastic plates balanced on your knees. You werenât allowed at the table, your dad insistent you would make a mess. You didnât think you were a messy child but your dad isnât the kind of person you argue with. He hated cleaning up after you â that part, at least, had always been made clear.Â
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 wasnât 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.Â
You could hear everything going on inside. Glasses clinking, voices rising, your fatherâs 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
âDonât worry about it,â he said, like it was nothing at all.Â
You didnât 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 youâre careful when you speak up again. âI did pay you back.â
He hums. âI donât think so.â
Youâve 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
âI did, I transferred it. Iâll check-â
He cuts you off with your name, sharp and steady. âOkay, calm down. You donât have to get upset. If you say you did then Iâm sure you did.â He clearly doesnât believe you. You donât mind him being wrong, but to assign you facets of yourself that donât really exist is what spikes your heart rate.Â
âDad-â
He doesnât let you cut him off. âNo, I wonât keep you. If you can pay me back when you get paid, Iâd appreciate it. Maybe this will take you to be a bit more responsible with your money, hey? Love you, kiddo.â He hangs up after you repeat the sentiment weakly, leaving you staring at the cereal, burning up under the fluorescent lights.Â
ââ
Youâve become somewhat of a creature of habit as you enter your late twenties. You have your small, solitary hobbies â 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 carâs air conditioning hasnât gone yet.Â
The storeâs air conditioning is fairly reliable and since youâre 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 donât mind, though. Most of them are polite and well-behaved, and youâve always loved being around children. Most of the time theyâre a lot nicer to be around than adults. Thereâs 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 itâs just for an afternoon. Education had been something youâd 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 youâd put it off for so long it didnât seem worth pursuing anymore.Â
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 canât 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 donât think he has your address, but you also didnât think he had it the last time heâd shown up at your place.Â
Itâs perhaps the first day of the slow season, early in the afternoon, right after all the kids have gone back to school. Youâve done all the restocking, youâve done all the normal cleaning, all the normal admin. Youâve even gone as far as to dust all the baseboards, youâre that desperate for something to do. Muscling through the boredom, youâve 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.Â
The bell twinkles as the door is shoved open and you donât even really have the time to look up before your name is being called, bright and warm. Sheâs not wearing her purple raincoat but you would recognise Lena anywhere. She looks at you sheepishly, like sheâs just considered the idea that you donât remember her.Â
Youâre sure it must be something awry with you. So desperate for connection, to find the innate good, to understand everything in your life, youâve always been incredibly quick to attach. Perhaps not attach exactly, you think, youâre probably less attached to Lena than perhaps the idea of her. You donât have the best memory, itâs 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 hadnât been, being abandoned at the bus stop by a friend who promised sheâd 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 donât recall what the fight was about, but you remember the little boy you had seen by the waterâs 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 sheâd 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 hadnât referred to you by name you wouldâve thought youâd projected her likeness onto a new girl. She beams at you with a missing tooth, skipping forward as if itâs been five minutes instead of five months.Â
Sheâs flanked by a man who is new to you, not the same guy who had come to collect her last time sheâd been in. Heâs 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 youâve ever really looked into yourself, and he doesnât look away at being caught.Â
Heâs thick, broad in the shoulders and stocky in the chest. You squirm under his gaze, feeling suddenly like youâre doing something wrong by looking at him. Your chest stirs and youâre completely aware of every single one of your limbs.Â
âHi, Lena.â Her smile widens impossibly far for such a small face. Your heart does the same thing. âHow are you?â
She seems more forthcoming this time, telling you all about how sheâs just started second grade, the friends sheâs 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 wouldnât 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 youâre giving her all your attention.Â
Well, almost all of your attention. The man she came with stands directly behind Lena, arms crossed as if heâd expect you to try and hurt her, and his eyes stay trained on you. Youâre not sure if heâs just a starer â some men are; how creepy it is depends on how long it goes on before he tries to talk to you â or if heâs watching for something.Â
You kick off where youâre leaning, wondering if he might stop if you move. âI have something for you,â you feel foolish already. Chances are sheâs forgotten, or she doesnât even like horses anymore, or she didnât even at the time but they were her only option. âPeople bought all the other ones but I remember you liked these ones.â You look like a fool holding out the two stuffed animals in your hand, not even knowing if she wants them. Lenaâs eyes light up at the sight of the ponies but she doesnât move towards them.Â
Instead, she looks up at her bodyguard. âCan I, Uncle Pope?â
Lenaâs uncle Pope finally tears his eyes from you, looking down at her. His mouth pulls into a small smile, strained like heâs not used to doing it but fond like he canât help it anyway. âYeah,â his voice is crackly and quiet. âHow much are they?â He looks back to you.Â
You wonder if he thinks youâre 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. âNo, itâs fine. Theyâre for her.â
Lena gasps, collecting them both into her chest with an iron grip. She thanks you and doesnât 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. âDo you want your pen things?â
Her eyes widen to saucers. âI can still have them?â 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 heâs standing so close to you that you can smell his aftershave. It sends a hot feeling from your chest to your stomach.Â
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?
âShe talks about you a lot,â 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. âPractically 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.â He mimes using a pen. âYâknow the ones, they smell like all the different stuff? Bananas and apples and crap?â
You nod. Theyâre just called scented markers, but you donât 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 âdadâ five months ago. What happened to him? Why isnât he bringing her to get sniff pens? Is he still around, with his concealed carry and his seemingly cold indifference? Thatâs probably unfair, you donât know this man, and Lena had clearly loved him.Â
But she looks far happier today than she had the last time you saw her, you canât lie to yourself about that.Â
âSheâs a good kid.â You have to assume. Sheâs lovely, incredibly easy to be kind to, but you donât know her when it really comes down to it. âSeemed like she was having a hard time last time I saw her.â You shrug with an indifference that feels completely unnatural. âI wanted to do something nice for her.â
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, youâre planning on making bunting out of them, sitting there in your work outfit. Heâs clearly older than you by a significant amount, heâs probably got a respectable job, maybe a wife. You wonder what kind of family they are, both of them so different from Lenaâs father. Perhaps youâre being unfair, maybe it wasnât a gun, and maybe heâd just been having a bad day. You want to ask Pope about him, but you bite your tongue.Â
âYou didnât have to,â he says gruffly, looking down. He doesnât have a wedding ring on, and the fact that you have noticed makes your cheeks warm. âLot to do for someone elseâs kid.â
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 youâre good for her. Want him to like you.Â
Youâre sure it has nothing to do with the fact that his biceps are too big for his shirt and when heâd been staring at you all the blood in your chest had stalled.Â
âI didnât mean to overstep,â you say cautiously.Â
He blinks at you. The expressions that heâs shot your way have been nowhere near as emotive as the ones heâs given Lena which is to be expected on a certain level, but heâs 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. âOh, Lena,â you say, eyes darting back over to her uncle. Heâs looking down his shoulder at her. âYouâve got pen on your face.â
âSorry,â she frowns, scrubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. ââSâit gone?â She juts her head back to present to you.Â
You bend down to rummage through your purse, fishing out a pack of face wipes from the bottom. âHere,â you pull one out of the package and present it to her. âDo you mind if I wipe it off?â
Lena shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly. Sheâs got beautiful, dark hair, and she clearly didnât get that from her dad. She doesnât look much like Pope at all, and you donât remember her fatherâs face with as much clarity as youâll recall her uncleâs, but you donât see much of a family resemblance between the two of them. He could be from her motherâs side but given that Lena is clearly mixed youâd made an educated guess that the two of them were brothers.Â
âThank you,â 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. Youâre not sure if youâd been overstepping when youâd brought it up but youâre 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. âAll better?â
He nods at her. âBe careful with them. We canât go to grandmaâs if youâve got pen all over your face.âÂ
He doesnât 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, thereâs clear affection there and heâs good with her, but thereâs 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.Â
Heâs holding a twenty out to you and you realise with a start it's for the pens. âRight.â Your face gets hot and you stand up to escape the feeling. You take the twenty, your fingertips tingling where theyâd connected with his. Theyâre rough, calloused, and they donât shy away from yours. You reach for the key to unlock the cash drawer in the till to get him his change.Â
âKeep the rest.â
He says it in a way that makes you not want to argue with him. You ignore that instinct.Â
âTheyâre four dollars.â
He stares at you again. âYou have a tip jar, donât you?â
Technically, sure. Thereâs a jar there thatâs 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.Â
Pope blinks, eyebrows furrowing. âEveryone calls me Pope.â
âWell, Pope,â you say as if you hadnât collected that and tucked it away the second that Lena had referred to him. âThatâs like a two hundred percent tip, so.â 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?â You dump the coins in the jar. He frowns, which is more of a reaction than youâve gotten the entire rest of the time, so you take that as a success.Â
Lena tugs on his sleeve. âAre we going to Grandma Smurfâs now? She said I could go in the pool, sâlong as I wear sunscreen.â
Popeâs frown deepens slightly but he manages to fix his face before he looks down at her. âWe can go now. You sure?â Lena nods resolutely.Â
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. Thereâs a vein that runs down his arm and you have to duck behind the counter, mortified. When you make your ascent theyâre gone but your face is still hot.Â
You spend the rest of the night thinking about Lenaâs uncle Pope. You wish youâd introduced yourself with your surname so heâd been inclined to do the same. He hadnât given you any indication that he had liked you in any way, so youâre not sure exactly why heâs got you all hot and bothered. Heâs at least a decade older than you, if not more, but you canât argue and claim thatâs not your type.Â
He probably wouldnât have captured your attention so severely if he hadnât been so good with his niece. It had been something that youâd realised rather suddenly a few years ago; that you were no longer a girl but rather just a woman. Youâd 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 youâre not a young adult, instead, an adult. An adult who thought she wouldâve been in a relationship secure enough to at least be thinking about having children. Men your age donât want to settle down, at least none of the ones youâve ever met have.Â
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 heâd mind.
ââ
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.Â
Youâre actually working this time, restocking the board games in the corner. Youâre mostly hidden behind a shelf so youâre able to pretend you havenât seen him and thus, act adequately nonchalant as he finds you.Â
âOh, hi.â Youâre 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. âLenaâs uncle, Pope, right?â
He nods slowly, so slow itâs like itâs something he needs to process. He looks marginally less happy this time and you know itâs probably because his niece isnât with him but thereâs a small spark in the back of your head that whispers his frown is directed at your outfit. Youâre being ridiculous, he doesnât give a shit what youâre wearing. He offers a hand and you donât 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. âEverything okay?â
You dust yourself off, looking down at your ruffled socks against your boots. Itâs still been fairly warm during the day but you have errands to run after sundown. Youâve come to the conclusion about Pope that he might just be a quiet man. Itâs not any disdain for you or anything youâve done, heâs just a pensive man.Â
âWhatâŠâ he clears his throat. Pope leans up to tug on a patch of his hair at the back, centring himself and speaking up again. âWhat do you do when youâre not at work?â
You perk up a little bit. Thereâs no way⊠heâs not asking you out, right? Itâs 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. âCrochet, drawing, I watch documentaries sometimesâŠâ you need to work on how you present yourself. If he wanted to go out with you before he probably wonât after this. âThen errands mostly.â
âYou donât have a boyfriend? Kids?â He asks bluntly.Â
âUh⊠no. Why?â
He has the good sense to look sheepish at his abruptness. âLenaâs my brotherâs daughter.â You can hear every breath he takes, heavy and with a heaving chest. That answers that question then. âI donât 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 sheâs got neither of them. All I had to do was make sure she ate and did her homework and said please and thank you.â He lets out a hot rush of air. ââS not like that at all.â He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling.Â
You have no idea what he wants you to say. Did he come to vent â for parenting advice? Did he assume you must have kids based on how you acted with her?Â
âAll that shit was fine when she had her mom and dad but now,â he looks down at you, and for the first time since you first met him thereâs a different emotion behind his eyes. You donât have very much to go off, canât 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. âNow I have to look after her. Have to, get to.â He shakes his head. âI donât 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.â
You raise an eyebrow at him, more surprised than anything. âYou want me to⊠babysit her?â
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. âYou can tell me to get lost.â
âNo, justâŠâ you feel like if you donât shut your mouth he might realise how strange this is. Most people would like to vet a babysitter, Iâm a random adult youâve met once, how do I know youâre not insane and wonât just dump her here and run away? âYou want me?â
Pope gestures to you, your pretty skirt, your general disposition. âShe likes you.â He shrugs stiffly like the action is something unfamiliar to him.Â
âWhen would you need me?â As much as you like Lena and as much as the thought of having him in a position where youâd need to see him every day makes your heart palpitate against your ribcage, this is your job. You canât quit it for this, definitely not before youâre sure itâll shake out. âLike after school? Iâm usually here until four-ish.â
âShe finishes school at three forty-five, itâs only three blocks. You have a car?â You nod. âGood, a license?â You nod again. âIf you need to stay here to finish up she can take the school-bus here, stops down the street.â He points out the window, youâre too preoccupied looking at the way his shirt strains at the arm to see the bus stop. âIf 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 Iâd need to work late, so sheâd need to spend the night with you and youâd have to take her to school. You can do it at my place or if you want to keep her at your apartment thatâs 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 justâŠâ he looks almost embarrassed to need the help. âI can pay you.â
Youâd hope so, for all that.Â
âLena mentioned her grandma?â You ask gently. âDo you think Lena could stay with her some days?â
He looks at you as if heâs surprised you would bring her up. âNo, I donât want her around my mom.â He sniffs, looking away from you. âIf you donât want to just say it. Donât have to make shit up to help me. I could give you fifty bucks an hour â what do you make here?â Itâs not fifty bucks an hour, you can say that right now. âDouble on weekends and for nights. Plus money for anything she needs, gas money for you to pick her up, money for dinner and whatever.â Heâs almost breathless. âI can pay you.â
What the hell does this man do?
âPope. Itâs a lot to ask,â you say. âI can definitely take her on the weekends, and probably a couple of days after school. I donât 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?âÂ
Pope looks back at you, some semblance of a smile twitching the corner of his lip upwards. Itâs the kind of smile that makes it impossible for you to not smile as well, which is surprising considering it still doesnât make him look particularly happy. For a guy this steely, you suppose any amount of joy on his face makes you smile.Â
âWhy donât I give you my phone number, and we can talk about this while Iâm not at work?â 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 couldnât live without. And while you adore Lena, and youâre sure thatâll only grow with time, you need the money desperately.Â
Pope reaches for you and after drawing a complete blank, you realise he wants your phone. âOh, sorry. I left it on the desk.â Your father has been calling you, upset that youâd fallen asleep last night and forgotten to reply to his message. You know what itâll be, either asking you for something or scolding you. You havenât the energy to entertain him at the moment. The two of you swap information and when he hands you your phone back he lingers.Â
âDo you like this job?â He asks quietly, cocking his head and studying your face. You nod, lost for words with him so close. One step further in and youâd practically be chest to chest. âWhen you were a kid you wanted to be a⊠craft girl?â
You canât hide your snicker, ducking your head, and he frowns like youâd yelled at him.Â
âNo,â you admit. âThis isnât what I wanted to do when I was little. I wanted to be a teacher.â Youâve 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 hadnât been home in days, and when you finally moved out at twenty heâd looked at you like heâd forgotten you even lived there. Now he calls you every week, which is nice of him, but you wished in the decade itâs been since you last saw his face youâd developed a thicker skin. Or at least the ability to not cry whenever he hurts your feelings.Â
Popeâs eyes light up. âSee, youâre perfect.â He tilts his chin down to mirror yours like the two of you are sharing a secret. âThis is basically like being a teacher.â
You laugh again and this time he doesnât seem so offended. âGoodbye, Pope.â
This time when he leaves he doesnât turn to wave at you, but it gives you ample time to watch him cross the street to his car. Thereâs a man there who snickers and punches Popeâs chest when he gets in, but Pope doesnât even bat an eye, pulling the car out and meeting your gaze right as he reaches the edge of the window.Â
You look down at your phone. âPope CodyâŠâ you muse, looking at his contact information. Youâre 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. âShit.â You hiss, looking up at the customer, a mom and two little boys who thankfully donât 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 youâll find out if he expects you to make the first move.Â
ââ
Itâs late when your phone rings. So late, you know itâs not Pope. So late youâre going to regret this in the morning when you have to get up and clean your apartment in the morning. Youâre not not going to sleep, youâre just not trying very hard. Youâre sprawled out on your bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, trying to fight off a headache.Â
Itâs your father, heâs the only man with the audacity enough to call you at midnight on a Friday night. Youâll call him back in the morning, he has no way of knowing youâre awake to ignore him. Youâre so exhausted, your sheets are so warm and smooth, youâve been teetering on the edge of consciousness for a while now. The vibrating doesnât even catch up to you until itâs almost finished ringing.Â
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.Â
Huffing, your face pressed against your pillow, you slap the mattress on your side until you finally wrap your hands around the device.Â
You have 1 New Voicemail.Â
Your father has never left you a voicemail. Spam callers might, but usually theyâre 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.Â
Uh hey itâs pope Codyâ
You scramble up until youâre on your knees, heart rate spiking. You canât be laying down, not with your ears ringing the way they are. Based on the paragraph itâs not a super short message, and you bite your lip with delight when you see itâs almost a full minute.Â
Thereâs a feeling in your chest you canât get rid of, canât deep-breath or count-to-ten away. Itching for movement, you feel your hand start wandering up of its own accord from where itâs resting on your thigh upwards, slipping under the hem of the big t-shirt youâd 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.Â
God, how tragic are you? Your nipples are both hard already and perhaps itâs 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 shouldnât cross. Sure, itâs late, youâre 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.Â
Heâs such a serious man, you canât imagine what heâd 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 youâre 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.Â
Popeâs 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.Â
You havenât been fucked in a while but youâre way more turned on than you have any right to be. You donât bother teasing yourself, pressing the flat of two fingers against your clit. Your hips buck at the feeling, clearly more untouched than you thought.Â
Your fingers arenât as thick as his, and you canât help the perversions that cross your mind at the thought of Pope. How would he touch you? Would it be clumsy? Heâs 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.Â
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.Â
âUh,â he coughs. âHey, itâs Pope Cody.â Two of your fingers slide inside, your other hand coming to replace the fingers at your clit. The position is awkward but you canât 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 donât even care. âLook, I know itâs late but do you think you can call me in the morning? I donât know how this thing usually works, the whole babysitter thing.â His fingers would probably get deeper than yours, but you curve them slightly until they hit your sweet spot.Â
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. âAnd you sound like you know what youâre talking about.â
âFuck,â 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 thatâs just you projecting for slowing down so you donât cum before heâs even done talking.Â
âAnd Iâm sorry about ambushing you at work, it felt like the best place to come talk to you. I wonât come by again, if you donât want. But I want to see you.â
Youâre only halfway through it and you can already feel an orgasm forming. Itâs downright sinful the things you want him to do to you.Â
âI need to talk to you, I mean. About Lena. And about⊠yeah. I know this is probably stupid as shit but Iâm way in over my head here so⊠Whatever it is you want to do, Iâll do it. You want more money?â
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 youâre using to finger yourself. The walls in your apartment are thick enough you donât have to worry about making a small amount of noise, but you donât need Erin and Carlos from next door to hear you whining. âAnything you want. Anything.â You can practically feel him breathing into your ear. Anything you want.Â
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. Theyâre clenched shut, white filling your vision, and his face lives on your eyelids. Those big, sad eyes. Thick fingers and thicker arms.Â
Heâs gruff, and unsmiling and awkward and stiff, but Pope doesnât seem like the kind of guy to get hung up on rules. Heâs older than you, and heâs about to be your boss, and you realise with a thrill that you donât think that would stop him if he wanted you.Â
âOr if you donât want or, or you canât or whatever. Then if you know anyone, or like, a way I can find a babysitter? I donât fuckinâ know⊠Thanks for the help. Iâm around, if you want to call me when youâre not asleep. Okay.â He ends the message without a goodbye.Â
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 canât even listen to the man talk for a full minute without soaking through your underwear.Â
You donât remember falling asleep, you wake up with a rumpled shirt and a new pair of panties you mustâve slipped on in a daze. Itâs a Saturday, so you donât have to get up if you donât 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.Â
Instead, you roll over and immediately reach for your phone.Â
Hey, sorry! I fell asleep and didnât get your call. Iâm free today, Iâd 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.Â
You roll back onto your stomach and try to stop yourself from screaming into your pillow.Â
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
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon âThe Sharkâ 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.
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.
Itâs 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. Parkâs leaving later than usual, late enough that the summer sun is already setting, and usually heâd 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 hospitalâs street, making conversation with one of the ED nurses.
Absolutely not.
The luxe black car â a convertible, definitely classic, with a super long back and a shape that makes you think of Grease or James Bond â stops right in front of you. One of the tinted windows rolls down slowly and Brendonâs eyes rake over you with surprise. He asks bluntly, worry and frustration mixed up, âWhy are you taking the bus?â
Still taking in the insane car heâs driving, you tell him, âMy car wouldnât start this morning.â
He leans over and pushes the passenger side door open. âGet in.â
âYou donât have to-â
âCâmon, letâs skip that part,â he insists. âYou know you wanna ride in the fancy car anyway. In.â
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, âThis thingâs a fucking boat, Bren.â
â1960 Lincoln Continental. Last cool car ever made in America,â he explains seriously. You can tell heâs one of those guys who would call a car his baby. Once the doorâs 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, âYou smell like Abbot.â
âReally?â You try to sniff yourself, but all youâre getting is oceans and oceans of Brendon. Youâd been expecting his scent to get stronger alongside yours, but itâs even more consuming than youâd figured it would be. âWe had a long meeting together right at the end of the day.â
Gruffly â more like pouty â he sighs and admits, âI donât like it.â
You take in his possessive little frown and giggle, âJealous much?â
âYes.â He clenches his jaw and tries not to sound too growly about it even though heâs currently fantasizing about shoving his second-favorite ED doctor Jack Abbotâs skull through a wall just for unintentionally leaving some of his scent on your precious body. âJealous. Much.â
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 itâs 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 havenât 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, âDoes that help?â
Grinning wide and stupid, he pulls you closer to his chest so he can happily suffocate in your smell and teases, âYou putting the moves on me, cherry?â
You nod firmly. âYes, yes I am. Is that alright with you?â
âI think I can let it slide this time.â
âOkay, good, because Iâm very comfy here. Can I put on some music?â
âWhatever you want,â he says immediately. âTape collectionâs in the glovebox.â
You scoff. âTapes?â
He rolls his eyes. âYeah, sweetheart, tapes. The whole carâs authentic to its era.â
âWow, you are such a loser,â you tease as you lean forward and pop open the storage, taking out his book of cassettes. Your nose wrinkles adorably as you observe, âThis is all rock and metal crap. Is that all you usually listen to?â
âDoes that surprise you?â
âI guess not, but I still hate it.â
âMy apologies, princess.â Even if heâs making fun of you, the way he says it definitely stirs something around in your fluttery stomach. âIâve got some more classic stuff toward the back.â
You flip through until you find a tolerable album and then take it out of its case. âThe Feel of Neil Diamond. Finally something decent.â You push it into the tape deck, the vintage buttons providing a nice satisfying click. âThis is the one with âCherry, Cherry,â right? My friends would sing that at me all the time in med school.â Then you give him a mischievous glance and ask, âCan we put the top down? The weatherâs nice.â
He chuckles and nods, flipping the switch so that the convertible retracts and folds back. âWhatever you want, sweetheart.â
âThatâs what I like to hear,â you giggle as you scrub through the tape until you hear those punchy guitar strums that start up âCherry, Cherry.â The light and vibrant beat fills the car and spills onto the street and you squeal in a way that makes Brendonâs 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. Heâs leaving Platoâs cave, striving toward your sunlight, to experience the fullness of breathtaking beauty and truth for the first time. This is the most at ease youâve ever been with him. You stop smelling as tart and sharp as you do at work. Itâs 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.
Itâs you, isnât 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.
Youâre 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. Itâs 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 heâs misread everything, you shake your head and whine and yank his lips back to yours, both your hands on the sides of his face.Â
Not caring in the slightest that there are people walking by and youâre 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 heâs not going to push further than this right now when he canât have all of you, Brendonâs 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, âJesus fucking Christ.â
A wave of perfect rom-com giddiness washes through you alongside slick thatâs invading Brendonâs 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, âDo I still smell like Dr. Abbot?â
âNo,â he laughs, running his hands up and down your sides. âYouâre perfect.â
âMaybe you just like how Dr. Abbot smells now.â
He nips a kiss onto the side of your head and replies, âI donât think thatâs it, sweetheart.â
You lean back and look at him mock-seriously, pushing a finger into the center of his chest. âYou just like when I smell like you instead of anyone else.â
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, itâs an intoxicating mix of you both. He has to admit that you wearing him like cologne turns him on like nothing heâs ever experienced. So he places a careful kiss on the sensitive skin that makes you sigh dreamily, imagining how good itâll be when itâs his teeth instead, and agrees, âI do. I really do.â
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 yâall 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 heâs your mate then maybe it would be nice to know what youâre getting into
you: im gonna know in, like, four days anyway!!
trin: CAN I GET A YEEHAW IN CHAT
you: âŠ
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 isnât next to him. Itâs still nighttime dark; he has surgery at 6:30. You wonât even be awake for another two hours. After last night, the lack of you â an abyss of his need â has him growling under his breath the entire time he gets ready for work. Heâs annoyed with every tiny thing: He hates the way his spoon feels in his mouth during breakfast, heâs 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 heâs scrubbed in, heâs 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. Heâd think he was getting sick or something if it werenât 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 itâs faint, just a slight undertone. You arenât 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 itâs them, he doesnât greet anyone, just asks bluntly, âWhereâs cherry?â
By the patientâs head, Santos cuts him an amused sideways glance as Robby answers, âShe scrubbed in with Garcia for an appy about an hour ago. Probably wrapping up by now.â
He grunts in response, obviously displeased by the answer. Turning his attention to the severed elbow on the table, he asks, âWhatâve we got?â
Robby and Santos lead him through the case over the next few minutes. Whitaker shrinks into the corner, but Park doesnât notice, laser-focused on his work as always. Heâs already charting out the surgical plan in his mind, mostly ignoring his coworkers because they donât really know what theyâre talking about anyway.
Itâs only when heâs about to leave and Robby stops him that Park realizes whatâs going on. Robby puts his hand on Brendonâs chest and lowers his voice. His tone is knowing and sympathetic, but he still has to say it. âYou should head home, Dr. Park. Iâll page Torres for this.â
âWhat are you talking-â
âLook at Whitaker,â Robby murmurs. Parkâs dark eyes flick over to Dennis, whoâs in the corner with glassy eyes and pink cheeks. Heâs clearly trying to focus on whatever Santos is talking about, but thereâs a soft wobble to his lip and a flightiness in his eyes. Robby swallows hard and tells him seriously, âYou stink, brother. If itâs affecting my doctors, you canât be down here. Get to a pharmacy and schedule your leave.â
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 itâs 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 Garciaâs right.
Brendon takes out his phone, shoots off an email to Torres and the other ortho surgeons, and mutters, âThanks, man.â
âNo problem. We gotta look out for each other.â
you: i missed you today :(( thought youâd come down for this super sexy femur break i had to call ortho for
brendon đŠ: Sorry, sweetheart. Robinavitch kicked me out of the ED during my first consult.
you: ooooh what did you do naughty boy?
brendon đŠ: Rut started for real. It was affecting omegas. Had to leave early.
you: oh
you: already?
brendon đŠ: What do you mean?
you: nothing. i guess you did smell pretty yummy yesterday
brendon đŠ: Yeah?
you: mhmm
you: are you gonna be able to work tomorrow before the weekend starts?
brendon đŠ: 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 đŠ: You too?
you: yeah
you: me too
Youâre going to be in the next few days. The knowledge weighs heavily on Brendonâs mind, flooding around him like a pornographic haze tailored specifically to the part of his brain that the pill pack hasnât yet started suppressing. Brendonâs whole body twitches with the desire to hop in his car and storm to your apartment and screw your brains out. Because he canât 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.