Anya, 22!

x

[terriblefaun]

im very in love with book jamie at the moment…

[terriblefaun]

there was a gorgeous bradshaw fic i read ages ago where she was like a daughter of one of his big bosses or something, it was age gap and (spoiler) they ended up not being together and the final part is where they see each other again and they’re both married/engaged to different people and its super mega sad. can’t find it anywhere but god bless i literally think of it every day

[harrisonforded]

Jack O'Connell as Robert Blair "Paddy" Mayne SAS: Rogue Heroes | 2.05

[luveline]

hi lovely, was wondering if you would be able to write any hotch x bombshell!reader ? maybe before they got together or any scenario/prompt you feel like!

take care of yourself and have a great day!!💝💝

The problem with Aaron Hotchner is that he’s too lovely for his own good. He might not think of himself that way. Not many, if any, of the office would agree. Morgan thinks Hotch is a hard-ass and Elle likes him in her way, but she rolls her eyes when he gets snippy, and Spencer… well, you think you and Spencer are probably on the same page. 

Hotch is kind, and a good man, and if he looks handsome when he’s frustrated that’s just how nature intended it to be. 

“Stop it.” 

“No.” 

“Stop.” Hotch levels you with a look over his computer. You’re surprised he knows how to use it, considering the semi-permanent callus on the pointer finger of his right hand. You must’ve watched him pen a thousand case files, consults and forms in a love letter to the old ways. 

He types slowly, but you’ve decided to keep your comment about it to yourself. “You’re looking at me like you know something I don’t,” he says. 

“Maybe I do.” 

“I’m sure you do. Stop bragging.” 

You lean on your elbow on the desk. He’s got a file open in front of him he’s transcribing for the sake of security. It details a case from a few months ago, and each line of the investigation is printed in Hotch’s neat script, lilting to the left over time. He frowns as he turns a page and realises it’s practically margin to margin with detail.

You want to offer to do it for him, but he’ll say no. You want to slide your foot up the leg of his slacks to see if he’ll blush as he did last Friday when you’d done the same thing, Gideon in the doorway none the wiser and somehow disapproving regardless. 

And Hotch, he’d laughed like a kid when the door closed, not turned on in the slightest but endeared by the guts it took you to try. Then he’d sort of enticed you around the desk somehow —you don’t remember the before of it, only slinking to his side with your heels tumbled on their sides under the desk still, his palms wide and open as you settled on a wooden corner. 

“I’m pretty good on the computer.” 

“I know,” Hotch says. “I authorised your computing and communications technology seminar myself.” 

“I was good at it before the mandatory company training garbage,” you say without heat, wondering how you might entice him over your side of the desk. Flirting aloud doesn’t work. Neither does footsie, and besides, what fun is that for you? But he’d looked at you in this strange way, none of his commanding sternness about him. A smile lingered on his lips; he can’t have known he was smiling at all, or it wouldn’t have shown. He’d left something honest there for you to see. 

Maybe it’s in your best interest to let down your own walls for a minute, too. 

“I could help,” you say. “Perhaps not from the same file, but I can get the laptop and start on the Maryland stuff. If you like.”

He looks at you steadily over the computer. His eyes seem lighter, the suspicious set to his mouth oddly close to smiling. “What do you want?” he teased quietly. 

“Nothing. Just figured it would make your life easier.”

“When have you ever made my life easier?” 

Your smile slips before you can stop it. Immediately, Hotch isn’t smiling either. The, “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that, honey,” almost doesn’t reach you, over that sharp second of hurt. 

“It’s fine.” You plaster on a smile again to save him the trouble. “I know you didn’t.” 

“No, really. I didn’t mean that.”

“Hotch,” you say, thumbing over his name slowly, “I know. We were teasing.” 

“Flirting,” he corrects. 

Your smile is real, then. “Flirting?” you ask. “That’s rather forward. Flirting might imply we like one another enough to, oh, I don’t know, help each other with our overflowing workloads?” 

He looks at you, all dark and him, steady, strong, all the stupid things that draw you in. You’re not just in it for his arms, however tightly corded they might seem when he’s pulling off his tie after a long day. “You do more than enough for me just sitting there,” he says, holding your gaze with a careful casualness that has your heart tripping in your chest. “Can you do that for me?” 

“Do what? Just sit here looking pretty?” 

His shoe touches your ankle. “Exactly,” he says quietly. “Just sit there exactly as you are. I promise I don’t need anything else from you.” 

Warmed from the inside out, you sit back in your chair. Grinning like a fool. “Why didn’t you just say that?” you ask. Any chance at sounding casual is lost when your voice comes out gossamer thin. 

He looks you over appraisingly. “See?” he says, turning back to his case file. “Thank you, honey. You’re a big help.” 

You swing one leg over the other to get comfortable, crossing your arms over your stomach smugly. “I know.” 

[luveline]

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞

you get a good dose, confess your affections, and leave poor, oblivious hotch to fix things up neatly. 

cw painkiller high, light suggestive theme 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

“Hello.” 

You lift your gaze without blinking. Hotch is standing in the doorway, making his way in with a bouquet of flowers tucked under one arm and a white envelope against his chest. 

“Hello,” he says again, meeting your wide, still eyes with concern. “You okay?” 

“Flowers for me?” 

“You’re the one here in a hospital bed. They’re from me and Jack. He insisted.” 

You nod up and down robotically. Your heart is unhappy today. You’ve been fast and slow and now it’s running fast again, a tip-tip-tip on the heart monitor that makes Hotch frown. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “They told me you were on a lot of pain medication, you shouldn’t be hurting anymore. Is it not working?” 

“I feel a lot.” 

“And that’s unsettling,” he surmises.

“Can I have my flowers?” 

Hotch offers them to you immediately. “Why don’t you count to a hundred for me?” 

“They’re beautiful, but there’s not that many.” 

“Count to one hundred. I can start. Do you need me to start for you?” 

You dip your face into the flowers. “I love when you say stuff like that.” 

Hotch doesn’t answer you. You begin counting, hoping he’ll say a nice thing if you do as he asked. The numbers get mixed up after thirty five, there really aren’t enough flowers to count to a hundred, but when forty five and fifty four begin to feel like the same number spiritually, Hotch reaches for your forearm and gives it a squeeze. That means job well done. Nobody else in the team gets arm squeezes —they’re for you. Nobody else has noticed, but you have. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

You beam at him. The heart monitor beeps in slow loops. “You’re welcome. Did it help?” 

“I’d say so.” He takes off his suit jacket and puts it over the back of the chair, pulling the chair towards the bed with his foot, and getting comfortable beside you, a little lower down than you but tall regardless. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“I can’t believe you got me flowers.” 

“I got you flowers the last time you were injured.” 

“I know,” you say with a laugh. “I know, it was amazing.” 

“Here’s your card from Jack. I’ve opened it for you, I hope that’s okay.” 

“I cannot open anything. I tried to stab my pudding open with a spoon and broke it and can’t find the sharp part in my blankets. I’m worried it’s going to poke me.” 

Hotch stands from his chair. “That’s not good.” 

You take up Jack’s card, pinching the folded printer paper and pulling all of its homemade glory from the envelope. The front has a red heart drawn with bandages wrapped around it, and inside is a message written in impressive penmanship considering his age. To Y/N, it says, Please get well soon. We are hoping you to have a speedy recovery! Love you, Jack and Aaron 

“It says you love me,” you say. 

“Mm, Jack wrote the message. He misses you.” 

You catch the feeling of Hotch’s hand where it slips between your legs and almost burst, giggling excitedly, which makes his hand jump away from you like a fish out of water. “You have the spoon!” 

“Found it. No more danger.” 

“Thank you. I knew you could find it.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

The pain medication Hotch spoke of is starting to make itself known. You hadn’t felt very different to begin with, the only worthy note your absence of pain, but right now you feel weird. Light. Happy, but strange, like the opposite feeling of missing a step. You know something’s wrong and you know it’s the medication, but you’re elated at the same time. Hotch is here. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe he’ll know. 

“Do you think I feel happy ‘cos of you or the morphine?” you ask. Softly, slurring, you swallow and try not to sound as drunk. “I feel amazing.” 

“It’s the morphine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Well, it’s been a long time since I had some myself, but I remember feeling amazing at the time, and you’re on a lot more of it than I was.” Hotch sets himself back down in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Are you staying for long?” 

“Until they make me leave,” he says. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Yesterday you were here for ten minutes and I felt like my heart was bruised.” 

He doesn’t speak for a moment. His eyes seem darker than usual. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I had to be home to take care of Jack.” 

“I know you had to, it’s not your fault, but I still missed you.” 

You prop Jack’s amazing card on the nightstand with a proud grin. You love Jack Hotchner, he’s the smartest, kindest, sweetest boy you’ve ever met, and it must be because of his parents. You’ve not met Haley many times, but Hotch is amazing. It makes sense that his kid would be just as awesome as he is. Turning your attention back to the flowers, you find the courage to ask, “Do you think you could bring Jack to see me?” 

“I think he might be a little young for hospitals, I’m sorry.” 

“Well, maybe I can see him when I’m out of the hospital? How can I say thank you for the card? Does he still like bears?” 

“He has enough bears,” Hotch says gently. “You don’t need to buy him anything, he just wants you to get better soon.” 

“You’re such a good dad.” Your lashes kiss with the force of your smile. “You’re lovely. Jack is really kind.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re handsome,” you continue, slinking down in the bed. You feel tired but not sleepy, craving a really big, hot sandwich. Hotch holds your gaze. “Can I ask you a question?” 

“What?” he asks quietly. 

“Can you please get me a big, hot sandwich? Maybe with hot chicken? Or spicy chicken in a burrito? I really need it to be hot.” 

Hotch laughs aloud and reaches for your forearm to squeeze you again. “Of course I can. I’ll call Derek and I’ll make him get you both of those things, if you like.” 

“Oh, good. I really really don’t want you to leave but I really want the sandwich more than I want you to stay.” You tip your head to one side. “If you hugged me again I’d say I want you to stay more than I want the sandwich, ‘cos you haven’t hugged me in a long time.” 

“Does that bother you?” he asks, the pad of his thumb working against your wrist. 

“No, I know I’m not supposed to want you to hug me.” 

“We’re friends,” he says, shaking his head, “good friends, aren’t we? It’s alright if you want a hug. I should be better at giving them.” 

When he was with Haley you wouldn’t have dreamed of wanting it, because your affection for him has always been more than a friend‘s. You’ve guarded the secret carefully over the years. What’s more unfair to a wife than to fancy her husband? But Haley left Hotch, and he’s been single for a while now, and you think that lately he’s actively dating. He’s always had pride in his appearance, but his suits are tailored again. His hair is left to grow beyond what’s easily maintained. He and Dave occasionally joke about him getting back out there —he doesn’t need to get out there, you’re right here. 

You can’t help frowning. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“I think I’m a bad friend.” 

“You aren’t a bad friend.” 

“I am, I have ulterior motives.” 

Hotch rolls his eyes. “Honey, everybody does. You’re fine. You’re a good friend. You know you’re the sole member of the team who’s remembered Jack’s birthday every year? Remembered mine?” 

“I don’t do that to be a good friend, I just love Jack.” 

His hand slips down to yours. He holds it briefly. “I know you do.” 

“It’s why I remember yours,” you say, shaking your head, annoyed he’s taken his hand back but ready to move on to better things. “Can you ask Derek for my sandwich now, please? Please, please, I’m so hungry I’m gonna die.” 

Hotch gives you a funny look. “How about I go and get you your sandwich? I’ll be very fast. I’ll go to Sam’s across the street, would you like that?” 

“Can I have maybe a donut too?” 

“Sure, honey. I’ll get you a half dozen.” 

“Really?” 

“Sure. Do you want any in particular?” 

Hotch goes off to get you a sandwich and you click the button for more morphine without really thinking. You’re asleep before he gets back.

—

You wake up shaking. 

Aaron straightens in his chair. He hadn’t meant to doze off, but it’s nearing the end of your visiting hours and he’s been here since three. Your sandwich is stone cold in the bag and he’s not sure how he’ll get it warmed up.

Your arms are trembling badly. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

“What for?” 

“Hotch, where am I?” 

Aaron stands. “You’re in the hospital. You’ve had some morphine and it ended up sedating you. The shaking will calm down soon, but nothing’s wrong, okay?” 

You’re noticeably confused, and Aaron hates it enough to sew his fingers between yours. His are thicker by quite a bit, but he’s used to smaller hands. He’s careful with you. He can’t stop thinking about what you said earlier. 

The undercurrent of fear you’d been harbouring begins to ebb. You let Aaron hold your hand and settle back down into your sheets, turning your face toward him and shutting your eyes. You don’t seem sleepy. He’s not sure what’s wrong. 

When you say you love him, he understands. He loves you, too. He doesn’t think that he’s in love with you, but he could be. He’s had enough guilty daydreams about it, batted them away, moments doing the dishes or at the gym or when you’re standing together working a case, where he forgets to forbid himself the pleasure and imagines you in simple intimacies. He sees himself taking your hand. He pictures waking up to the smell of you on his pillows. When he’s especially pent up and you’ve haunted him with your bare face or a shy smile, he ends the day thinking of you. How he’d kiss your head with just a little of his weight atop you, or a lot. 

And then he feels so horribly wrong for doing it that he resigns himself to the distance between you forever. 

Aaron doesn’t know what you want from him, but he knows he could fall in love with you if given the chance. He has to determine how honest your morphine-confession was, and there’s no time like the present. 

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah,” you whisper back. 

“I brought you the donuts and a sandwich, but I’ll have to reheat it. I’m sorry.” 

“Did I ask for a sandwich?” you ask, startled.

“A hot one. You emphasised.” 

“Thank you, Aaron. I don’t think I’m hungry now, I’m kinda queasy.” 

“You had a little bit more morphine than you should’ve.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Sweetheart,” he says under his breath, “that’s not your fault.” 

You squeeze his hand weakly. Any want to draw the truth from you is quickly dwindling. All he wants now is to make sure you’re okay. 

He spills himself closer to you and, without untangling your hands, brings your thin blankets to your shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay. The queasiness won’t last long. In fact, eating might help, but we can wait.” 

“Don’t you have to go home?” 

“No, I can stay if you want me to.” 

“Please, I want you to.” 

“You’re still on the morphine,” he says, rubbing your hand, “I can ask them to lower your dosage if you don’t like it, but you have to remember that it’s keeping you unaware of your pain.” 

You hesitate. “I don’t want it to hurt.” 

“Then it won’t,” he promises. You had more than your fair share of pain. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“This is all I want. For you to look after me.” 

He takes a measured breath. “I would love to look after you.” 

You turn your head half an inch to see him. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” He’s trying to blend the half of him you know at work with the half of him responsible for his outer life, the part of him that flirts with beautiful women at bars, the part of him that loved being a husband. “I don’t know what you want, and now isn’t the time, but,” —he prepares to be brave— “if you want me to look after you, then I will.” 

“You promise?” 

“I promise.”

“Can you kiss me?” 

His heart skips a beat. “No, honey, I can’t, I’m sorry.” 

“Not even on the head?” 

His stomach aches, but it’s a good feeling. Like worrying you lost something and finding it in the first place you’ve looked. “On the head I can do.” 

You squeeze your eyes closed in wait of his kiss, a light, chaste brush of the lips to your temple. The morphine makes you laugh, a girly, giggly bubble of it as you burrow into the sheets, like he’s tickled you. He’s twice as endeared when you squint at him like you’re waiting. 

“Can I–”

“One more,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your forehead again. “Any more than that and you’ll die of embarrassment when you’re not drugged out of your mind.” 

“I’m not out of my mind. I’m just hallucinating. Or having a great dream.” 

He’s inclined to agree, but he knows with confidence he hasn’t had any heavy medication today. He gives you a fond look and sits back down, obliging you when you scramble to put your hand in his again. It’s a weight he could get used to holding.

“I really like you,” you confess quietly. 

He quite likes you in return. “That’s great, honey. Do you want to talk about it later? Maybe you can have one of your donuts.” 

You don’t take his misdirection as rejection, you just pull his hand to your chest and smile. “No thank you. I can wait.” 

He can wait too. 

[sawed-on-shotgun]

Im glad they made up romance for stories and music but can you imagine how scary it would be to deal with all that for real

[harrisonforded]

Jack O'Connell as Robert Blair "Paddy" Mayne SAS: Rogue Heroes | 2.01

[thehotelchelsea]

my wound salt that I keep beside my bed

[fru1t4fr0gs]

It's Just Paper

Pairing: Andrew "Pope" Cody x Reader

Summary: You’ve been Lena’s nanny for years. Now, with both of her parents gone, you and Pope Cody have been doing your combined best to take care of her. And yet, as much as you both love her, it’s not enough. Social services has already been sniffing around, and it won’t be long before she’s going to be taken into foster care.

But when Smurf tells you that married couples have a better chance of adoption… well, she’s right. And whatever scheme she may be planning doesn’t matter as long as Lena is safe.

Besides, it’s just paper. Right?

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drug use, Gun use, Alcohol use, Violence, Smut!!, It's Animal Kingdom so buckle up its kind of got everything, Angst (lots and lots of angst), Married-to-lovers trope, Pope yearns A LOT, Spoilers!! (The timeline follows season 3ish), Craig has his own house and never moved into Baz’s, Mental illness (it's Pope), Smurf is manipulative of course, Brief mention of a traumatic childbirth, Please let me know if I forgot anything!!

Author's Note: We did it! The giant Pope Cody fic is here! Special thanks to our queen and bestie @flowersforbucky for proofreading as always! I honestly loved writing this one so much that I'm gonna miss it now that it's posted but hoo boy am I excited for you guys to read it! Please please let me know what you think!

-

“Are you sure about this?”

“Not really, no.”

Craig Cody runs both hands through his hair. Rests his elbows back on his knees. Stares at the pool, rather than at you.

You stare at the pool, too. You think, if you keep looking hard enough, you might see the stars twinkling on the surface of the water, despite the soothing blue lights shining beneath.

“Then why are you doing it?”

“For Lena.”

-

“What the hell are you talking about, Smurf?” Pope Cody’s voice is a low growl, but there’s shock behind the suspicion in his eyes.

You can’t hear anything through the thick glass wall, but you can see Smurf enunciate the words when she says “hand the phone to her”.

Her eyes are locked on you, something almost chillingly sure in her gaze. You’d wondered, when she’d demanded that Pope bring you with him to visit her, what she could possibly have been planning. Whatever it is, it’s Smurf, so you know it can’t be good. And with the way Pope has gone pale, something like shock cracking through his usually stoic demeanor, your fear seems to have been confirmed.

Pope doesn’t look at you when he passes the phone over. The plastic is cool on your ear.

“Married couples have a better chance at adoption.”

You look at her. She doesn’t even blink. You know what she means, and you do your fucking best to keep your eyes from trailing over to the man beside you.

Still, you find yourself echoing Pope’s words.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about keeping Lena out of the system. Both of her parents are gone. Pope may be taking care of her, but with his record? Social services is going to be coming by any day now, baby.”

You swallow, and grit your teeth as you search for a comeback. For any kind of answer or solution that isn’t…

“One day at the courthouse, one little party to make it look real, and Lena is safe.” Smurf’s words sound tinny through the phone. The rest doesn’t need to be said. Can’t be said, because every phone call is recorded. No foster care. No fighting the courts. Adoption.

Adoption because you’re married.

“Okay.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, but it sounds…firm. The decision isn’t hard, though it probably should be.

Just a piece of paper. That’s all. It’s just a piece of paper, and you can protect Lena from the foster system.

Pope does look at you now, but you don’t break your gaze from Smurf’s. Still, you can almost feel the surprise on his face. The intensity of his stare on the side of your head.

Smurf nods, smiling in that pleased, shark-like way she has when she gets her way.

And, quietly, this time to yourself, you repeat the word.

“Okay.”

-

“You’re gonna give up your whole life for the kid you nanny for?”

“Your niece.”

“Your whole life.”

“It’s not my whole life. It’s just…paper.”

Craig stares at you. You stare at the pool.

“You’re gonna be raising her. With Pope.”

“I don’t know if you remember, but I kind of have been raising her.” It’s not like Baz has been there for fucking anything but dropping off a paycheck with an extra couple hundred bucks and an apology for being gone a few more days than promised.

Pope was there. For ice cream at the beach. To help you out on nights you were exhausted and couldn’t get a hold of Baz. To sit with you on the couch. Always so quiet, but…there. A comforting presence amidst the chaos of caring for and worrying about a little girl that isn’t even yours.

Pope was there, and he’ll be there now. You have no doubt about that.

-

The ride back is dead silent.

So silent, in fact, that you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise when Pope speaks.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, or his hands off of the wheel.

“I know.” You kind of do have to. Smurf has a pretty uncanny ability to get her way, and it was more than obvious that this is what she wants you to do.

But even despite that, it’s for Lena. Lena who you all-but raised. Who you love. You would adopt her in a heartbeat, and you know Pope would too.

His hands grip the wheel a little tighter. You see a muscle jump in his jaw. “If you don’t want to-“

“I want to.” You interrupt, finally turning to him. “It’s Lena. If you think for one second that I’m going to let her get lost in the fucking foster system, you’re insane.”

“Smurf-“

“I don’t care about that. She’s right. This will work. Because right now, you paying me to help you take care of her isn’t exactly working. And if adoption is the way you wanna go, then that’s what we have to do.”

Pope doesn’t speak. He just nods, and stares at the road.

-

“This is different. This is… this is forever. This is like, building up a college fund-“

“Can’t be too hard, with your lifestyle-“

“Stop joking. I’m not kidding.”

You look at him, now. “I’m not kidding. She gets a cut. Every job, Lena gets a cut.”

“You really want to do this. Legally raise a kid that isn’t yours with fucking Pope.”

“I want her to be safe.” You finally snap, pulling your legs out of the pool so fast that you think it might splash him a little. “Why the fuck don’t you get that? Why doesn’t anyone else seem to care about this fucking kid?”

“Why do you care about her so much that you’re going to throw away your life?!”

“What life? I’m already wrapped up in this shit, and Smurf said-“

“You can’t trust Smurf.”

“She likes me. I’m not a threat to her. She has no reason to lie.”

“She always has a reason to lie.”

“Not about this. She wants Lena to be safe just as much as we do.”

Craig runs his hands through his hair again. Mumbles something about you being insane.

“I’ve watched this kid grow up. I love her.”

“More than yourself?”

“I mean…yeah.” Isn’t that what love is? You don’t think you know any other kind. “It’ll be the same as it always was. I’ll just have a rock on my finger, right?”

“This is legit marriage. And adoption. This is like, piles and piles of paperwork and shit. Plus, it’s gonna be a whole lot of lying.”

“Oh yeah, I’m really not used to lying. Where would I even start?”

Craig snorts into his beer, and you take the laughter as a win.

-

It’s a small ceremony. Just you and the Codys, save for Smuf for…obvious reasons.

There are no wide grins. No giddy family members. No flower girls or teary vows. The minister is monotone when he marries you, and Pope’s intense eyes don’t leave your face for a second.

It isn’t that you don’t like Pope. In fact, you get along with him better than anyone else in the family, save for maybe Craig, and that friendship still shocks the hell out of you sometimes. You aren’t sure when you started actually becoming friends with Craig Cody, but somewhere between him constantly hitting on you when you first started watching Lena and you rejecting his offer of drugs almost every damn night, you started actually getting along. There’s something about him that’s real, and maybe a little (or a lot) lost, and for some reason it seems to make you more patient with him than most.

But Pope. You’ve always gotten along with Pope really fucking well.

Since you started watching Lena, before he went to prison and before her parents died, you and Pope just seemed to…well, harmonize. You wash the sponges in the way he seems to like. You can sit with him in silence, and even get him to talk about things if it feels like the right time. Hell, you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder when sitting together on Baz’s couch, and woken to him in the exact same position, like he was afraid that any movement might disturb you.

So maybe this won’t be so bad. It’s for Lena. To keep her out of the system. To keep her with the people who love her.

You expect your hand to shake a little when you exchange rings, but it’s surprisingly steady. Pope is still looking at you.

When it’s time to kiss the bride - Christ, the bride. You’re really fucking doing this - his hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing absently over your skin as he gives you a questioning look that is so sweet you almost laugh out loud because you’ve seen this man come home with bruised knuckles and bloodstains on his shirt. You nod, and he nods back as he ducks down and presses his lips to yours.

It’s a simple, gentle kiss - he doesn’t slam you against the wall and devour you or anything - and yet you feel a zing shoot down your spine and to your toes at the mere touch of his lips against yours. The sensation is so shocking, so good, that when he pulls away you almost reach up to pull him back to you just to see if you can feel it again.

You don’t, of course. You just meet his eyes, and try to smile.

And then you’re married. Just like that. One kiss. A couple signatures. And you’re just…married.

-

Andrew Cody has a terrible secret.

He is deeply, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with his wife.

Wife. Wife. Wife. You’re his fucking wife now. If it were any other circumstance, he might call this a dream come true. If he could just call you that for real, without the knowledge that you’re only married to protect Lena, he would be the happiest man in the fucking world.

And yet, as you all arrive back at the house and he watches that ring glimmer on your finger, remembers how your lips felt against his own even for just that one too-brief moment, he wonders if it would be fucked up to…pretend. Like he did in prison, when he kept a photo of you on the wall of his bunk and told his cellmates that the beautiful woman in the picture was his wife.

That was fucked up of him. He knows that. He knew that. But how would anyone have been able to check? He had gone to prison to protect his brother. He was serving a sentence that could potentially last much longer than three years. He was alone, and he was in love, and when someone asked him to explain the picture it just…happened. The fantasy he’d kept tucked safely away in the back of his mind had spilled past his lips, and talking about you had helped get him through the horror and monotony of those three years. In prison, you were his wife. The warm and sweet smile he would come home to, one day.

You’d visited him, too. You hadn’t taken Lena, but you’d come. Just a few times, always against Smurf’s wishes, but you’d checked on him. And he had wished with every part of his fucking being that you had come because he wasn’t just your friend, he wasn’t just Lena’s uncle, but because you cared about him. Because you missed him as much as he missed you. And he missed you and your lovely eyes and your gorgeous smile every. Fucking. Day.

This is for Lena. You’re both here for Lena.

And yes, he is almost positive that Smurf has an ulterior motive. That she knows exactly how Pope feels about you and that she’s going to use this to control him or even you, somehow. She’ll see this arrangement as her ‘giving’ you to him, as horrible as it may be. He’ll owe her for it.

But Lena will be safe. You’ll be safe. He can make sure of that.

And you won’t ever know how often he thinks about tilting your head back and sliding his lips over yours. About the noises he daydreams of hearing you make as his hands move over your body. Those hands have caused so much damage and pain for so long, but when they touch you they won’t be weapons. They’ll be as gentle as he can possibly make them as they slide over every perfect inch of soft skin he can reach.

And if he could just fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with you wrapped safely in his arms, with the smell of your perfume in his nose and the feeling of your steady breathing against his chest, he would truly be the happiest man in the world. You came close, once. When he sat with you for a while after Lena went to bed and he watched you fight yawn after yawn as you watched some random TV show together. Your head had finally thunked against his shoulder, and he had been too afraid to breathe lest he wake you and you stop touching him for even a second.

He had allowed himself to turn his nose into the top of your head. Had allowed himself one deep inhale.

He’d chased that memory for weeks, had felt so fucked up as he groaned your name into his pillow and imagined burying his nose into your hair and catching that scent of perfume and shampoo as you writhed beneath him. In those moments, alone in the dark of his empty house, his imagination would replace his own hand with you. His own labored breaths with the sound of your voice, breathing his name and begging for more as he made you feel so fucking good you would never be able to think of anyone else.

And then he would see you again the next day. He’d buy you and Lena ice cream and melt a little at the sight of your smile. He’d feel ashamed of the thoughts he had just the night before as his eyes lingered on the way your mouth wrapped around that little plastic spoon and he would nearly have to excuse himself and leave mid-conversation before he broke and slammed you into a picnic table to lick the mint chocolate chip from your lips himself.

And now you’re his fucking wife. You’re going to be living with him. Raising Lena with him. How the fuck is he supposed to keep himself together? How is he supposed to keep himself in check to be good for you?

And yet, despite how insane and wrong it might be, he’ll take this. He will wear the title of your husband, fake as it may be, like a badge of fucking honor that he will never deserve. He’ll think about kissing you, and touching you, and hold himself back from doing either of those things every single day of his life.

But he will be your husband. You’ll be his wife.

And maybe, secretly, horribly, he’ll pretend.

-

The after party, unlike the ceremony, is not small.

It’s loud. Chaotic. Takes over the entire backyard of the Cody house and makes you feel like you want to cave in on yourself. You don’t mind parties. You know Pope doesn’t like them. Even now, he’s sitting in the corner and nursing a beer, eyes still locked on you as you take a shot with Craig and do your absolute best to follow the plan. This party isn’t about having fun, at least not for you and Pope. It’s about optics. It’s about making it clear that you are now a complete, unarguable member of the Cody family.

For what might be the hundredth time tonight, your eyes drift to Pope’s. His remain locked on yours. You take a deep breath, and take another shot.

You aren’t drunk when he approaches you, but you are buzzed enough to be giggling at one of Deran’s jokes.

And then his voice is by your ear, low and soft. When his arm slides around your waist, tugs you back against him, you almost wonder if this is supposed to be part of the plan.

“You okay?” He asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear and voice so low you know you’re the only one who can hear him.

“And finally,” Craig shouts, raising another shot into the air and immediately drawing the attention of the group of people around you, “here comes the blushing groom!”

The room is suddenly filled with loud, drunken cheers. You tilt your head back, relaxing against Pope and leaning up to brush your lips over his jaw. You don’t imagine the way his arm tightens around you at the movement, but you plaster a wide grin on your face as you murmur back to him, “do you think we did enough? Can we leave?” Leave isn’t a very fitting word - the two of you are staying here tonight, but you’ll take anything that gets you away from the strangers and the chaos.

Pope smiles, and it doesn’t look entirely fake.

In a second, he’s reaching down and hooking his free arm behind your knees, lifting you against him and beginning to make his way into the back room without a word. Your own laugh is genuine, and you’re followed by cheers and whoops and some very suggestive noises as you disappear down the hallway.

-

“Are you…okay?” He keeps asking you that. You still don’t know how to answer.

Your head tilts toward his, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m in a sham marriage to ensure that a little girl I love doesn’t get forgotten by the system. I’ve had less weird days.”

“I mean…with me? Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”

“Would you? If I asked?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds uncomfortable.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.” Right. Prison. Shit.

“I didn’t know you even slept.”

He ignores your joke, your awkward attempt at deflection, and asks again. “Do you want me to move?”

“I…no.” You don’t. It surprises you how much you don’t.

You roll onto your side, tuck an arm beneath your head, and meet his stare. You’re both fully clothed, lying atop the covers of a large bed in a guest room, and you’re pretty sure that everyone at the party thinks you’re going at each other like bunny rabbits.

It’s quiet in here. It’s comfortable. Being around Pope Cody is always so comfortable. You genuinely don’t get why people are always so unnerved by him. He’s quiet, sure. Dangerous, maybe. But he has a presence that, at least to you, is calming and warm in a way you’ve never felt with anyone else before.

“Do you think this was a bad idea?”

He frowns. Furrows his brow. He rolls on his side to face you, too, and you see his hand twitch, just barely, like he might reach up and touch you.

“No. It was for Lena.” He pauses, brow crinkling again. “Do you regret it?”

“No.” For some reason, with the way the moonlight is hitting his face and alighting on the worried expression in his eyes, you can’t help but reach up, your new ring catching in the low light of the bedroom as you brush your fingers over his cheek. The gesture feels too intimate for your current arrangement. More than a little confusing. And yet, Pope blows out a shuddered breath, and leans into your touch.

After a moment, he returns the gesture, his own calloused fingers brushing the hair from your face, even as his eyes remain locked on yours.

You’re not sure how it happens, not sure who moves first, but in what feels like the span of a second and a thousand years all at the same time, his forehead is resting against your own, large hand still cradling your cheek and warm breath whispering over your lips on every barely-there exhale.

“Pope…” you murmur, and he leans helplessly closer.

“Andrew.” He murmurs back, noses bumping, brown eyes fluttering closed. “My name is Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You repeat, and you’ve hardly ever used his real name. Only hours ago, you said it in your ‘vows’, and even then it felt foreign on your tongue.

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow, careful like he’s worried he might break you with any too-sudden movements, and still it makes your heart hammer in your chest and drop to your stomach. He kisses you so slowly, so deeply, that you lose all track of time and thought. His hands are on your face, cradling you against him like you’re a delicate piece of glass that he may shatter at any moment if he holds it too tightly, and yet he kisses you like he’s dying. Like every movement of your lips against his is something he’s never even allowed himself to want, but now that he has it he’s going to cherish every fucking moment.

You stop thinking. You stop regretting. Stop worrying. You just let yourself…feel.

Your fingers curl in his hair as the kiss deepens, as he rolls atop you until you’re pressed between his body and the sheets and it feels so good you think you might pass out.

“Andrew.” You whisper again, the name nearly swallowed by his lips, and he groans so deeply at the sound that you can feel it in your fucking toes.

Your fingers fly up to the buttons of his shirt, desperation for more coursing through your veins like liquid fire. His own skate reverently up your thigh, pulling your simple white dress up with them, and he breaks away from you just long enough to duck his face down into the hollow of your throat.

“Tell me to stop.” He half whispers, and the sound of his voice alone pulls a whimper from your throat that has him groaning again as he rocks his hips against yours, hand slamming up to the headboard behind your head like he’s trying to keep himself still above you. “If we…I don’t think I can hold back.”

“Don’t.” You breathe, and this is stupid. This is a bad idea. “Don’t stop. Don’t hold back.”

He pauses, like he’s trying to collect himself.

If he is, he fails at it.

His mouth crushes against yours, and you give up on undoing his shirt and simply yank it apart, hearing buttons scatter as he reaches up to help you pull it off of him. He grabs the back of your thigh, all-but manhandling you beneath him in one swift movement as he pushes the hem of your dress up over your thighs and presses your body between the mattress and his own.

You reach up, trying to help him unclasp the back of the dress, and he makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he catches your wrists in one hand and slams them back against the pillows above you.

“I’ll do it.”

You meet his eyes, and they’re fucking burning. Dark and starved in a way that should probably make your survival instincts explode with some kind of trepidation. They don’t. Instead, your breath catches in your throat, and you nod.

His hand releases your wrists, sliding around your back until he’s pulling you up with him and you’re straddling his lap, nearly shaking with something between anticipation and restraint as he unbuttons your dress and slides it over your shoulders with a shaky exhale.

And then he’s kissing you again. Kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, only pulling back far enough to slide the garment up and over your head before his mouth is on yours once more, and your hands are tugging him out of his pants, and his own hand tangles in your hair as he lowers you onto your back.

He’s usually so…awkward, so quiet and still that his movements in this moment shock you to your fucking core. He moves atop you like he was born to, traces over your jaw with his tongue like he’s desperate for the taste of you. He just spent three years in prison, and you’re not sure what kind of human connection he’s had since then, but he still takes the time to slide his hand down your stomach and work you apart until every breath you draw is a sharp and desperate gasp into his mouth. Still crawls down your body and drags his blunt teeth up the inside of your thigh without ever once breaking eye contact like it’s a form of fucking worship.

The distant sound of the party still raging down the hall vanishes, taking every ounce of anxiety with it as he makes you fall apart once. Twice. Drags himself back up you and pulls your hand away from where it’s covering your mouth in a weak attempt to keep you from screaming his name.

“Don’t. Let me hear you.” He growls against your ear, and when he pushes inside of you for the first time you make a noise that has him snapping his hips forward so roughly that your nails might dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.

His groan vibrates through your entire body, but he still reaches up to brush the hair from your face, angling your head back to kiss you again even as he murmurs, “sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”

You forget everything that isn’t him as Andrew Cody pulls you apart piece by piece with his lips and tongue and words. Words spoken so softly against your skin that you would barely be able to hear them if he hadn’t made himself the center of your fucking universe tonight. If you could even dream of focusing on anything other than his mouth against your skin, his soft praise as you move with him, his growled expletives as your nails drag down over his back, his whisper of your name in your ear as he takes you like you are every vice ever created and he is ready to drown himself in the addiction.

And when it’s over, after you’ve nearly sobbed his name until you forgot your own and he bit down on your collarbone and pressed your joined hands into the pillow beside your head with a groan that ingrained itself into your very bones, you can’t remember how to pull yourself back to earth.

“That…” you try, and fail, “I’m…woah.”

Pope huffs a soft laugh against your neck, and pulls you into his arms until he’s on his back and your head is resting against his chest.

“Your legs are shaking.” He observes, sounding a little too proud of himself in that quiet way he has, as his fingers skate through your messy hair.

“Shut up.” You try, and he laughs again. The sound of it is so reserved, so soft and warm, that it makes you hum as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.

You’re asleep within minutes. Exhausted, sweaty, and more content than you can remember being in a very long time.

-

You wake before him.

You have no idea what time it is, but you know it must be early. Early enough, at least, for you to be the first one up. Everyone still hanging around after the party will likely sleep until the afternoon, but Pope usually wakes at dawn. And yet, now, his chest is rising and falling in a slow and steady rhythm beneath your ear.

You’ve never seen him sleep before.

You’re about to pull back to look at him, to drink in whatever expression may be on his face, when something else catches your attention.

There, on his bare stomach, your hands are joined together. Your wedding ring blinks up at you, and his own simple band rests just above it.

Married. You’re married. For Lena.

What happens if the two of you start something, and it doesn’t work out? All that kid has lost, all of the drama and horror she’s endured in her young life, and she would just be…abandoned again.

Shit.

You shift your head, just barely, and feel Pope stir. Light sleeper, then. Makes sense.

His fingers curl a little more tightly around yours, like he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it, and you feel a soft breath against the top of your head as he realizes that you’re awake, too.

For a moment, he’s silent. It isn’t uncomfortable, just his usual version of quiet.

“Do you want to…borrow clothes?” He finally asks, lips brushing against the top of your head, and you almost laugh. Because this is how Andrew Cody works. He isn’t exactly one to wax poetic, even after a night like last night. He just takes care of you, like he always tries to take care of everyone, in his silent and sweet way.

His hand skates up over your bare back, the touch warm and reverent, and you allow yourself to lie with him for a moment. To enjoy this.

“I don’t think I can pull off one of those buttoned up shirts.” You joke, resting your chin against his chest and blinking sleepily up at him. Something in his brown eyes goes very, very soft as he looks down at you, and a part of you melts at the sight.

“I have t-shirts.”

You do laugh, now. “I know. Just kidding.”

“Do you…like the shirts?”

“I do, yeah.” You slide your fingers over his stomach, wrap your arms around him like he’s an oversized teddy-bear, and he responds with a hum as he pulls you closer to him.

And, despite your decision, despite the fact that you need to cut this off before it really starts, every muscle in your body relaxes as his lips find yours. As he kisses you so slowly, so languidly, so sweetly that you lose all track of time and space.

He feels so good, and this feels so right that it would scare you even if it weren’t for Lena. If it weren’t for all of the other fucking factors pulling you apart.

“I think…” his lips are on your neck, and his fingers are sliding up the inside of your bare thigh, and you can’t think. “We…shit, we shouldn’t do this.,” you reach down to stop his hand, and he acquiesces immediately, pulling back to look down at you with those lovely brown eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. Swallow. “I don’t… if we start something, and it doesn’t work, Lena will get hurt. She’ll feel abandoned again.”

He pauses, and reaches up to smooth your hair back again, like he’s just trying to…touch you. Somehow. Any way he can. “You think it won’t work?”

“I…no.” You admit, almost instinctively turning your face into his palm. “But we can’t know for sure. I don’t want to risk it. Not right now.”

He frowns, thumb brushing your cheek, and nods. “Okay.”

And God help you, you lean up to kiss him again.

He makes a soft noise, somewhere between desperation and torture, and the feeling of his body pressing helplessly against yours makes any thoughts of responsibility fly out the damn window.

And when you pull back, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath ghost over your lips, it is very very hard to convince yourself that this is the right decision.

-

Pope Cody isn’t sure if he’s living in heaven or hell.

Heaven. Surely. Most of the time, he’s absolutely convinced it’s heaven. Because you’re with him all the time. He gets to hear your laugh. See your smile. Feel your presence every single day. He gets to sit with you on the couch with Lena, and watch the two of you as you help her color or do a puzzle or something equally…peaceful. It’s peaceful, this life. Sure, there are still the jobs. There’s still the guilt. But he gets to come home to you and Lena and he gets to smell your perfume on his pillow and watch your relaxed expression as you sleep beside him.

And sometimes, it’s hell. Because he wants more so selfishly that it feels like a fucking sickness. Maybe it was better before. Before he knew what you tasted like. What you felt like, moving beneath him and with him and moaning his name into his ear like the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. He knows what it feels like to wake up with you, naked in his arms, soft skin against his own and contentment like nothing he’s ever known swelling in his chest.

And he can’t have that again. Because you’re right. He loves you so, so much, but you’re right. If anything were to happen, Lena would be hurt by it. He’ll never stop loving you - he knows that more than he knows how to breathe - but something could happen. His life is chaos. Dangerous. He never knows what horror might come his way next.

But he can have you now, like this, and sometimes he can pretend. He can keep up appearances with you. Get to slide his fingers between yours and feel the ring on your finger when you meet with Lena’s teachers. Murmur something in your ear at one of the parties at Smurf’s house and feel you smile in response.

And he wants to kiss you. When you’re laughing at dinner, he wants to stand up from the table and stalk over to you and press his mouth to yours. He wants to make his way into the bathroom when you’re showering, and stand beneath the water with you until the sounds of your pleasure echo off of the tile. He wants to nuzzle his nose into your hair and inhale the scent of your shampoo when you sit on the couch with him. He wants to pull you into his arms in the mornings and whisper how much he loves you as you wake up. He wants you more, and it’s selfish and shitty because what he has now is already more than he could ever fucking deserve.

So he suffers, and is simultaneously the happiest he has ever fucking been. And he endures, and he loves you.

-

Your first fight happens on a Tuesday.

“She doesn’t need a therapist.” Pope says, in that low and intense way he always has, as he stands over the sink and meticulously scrubs the dishes.

Your eyes snap up, and you have to stop the incredulous laugh that nearly bursts from you at his statement. “Yes, she fucking does.”

“She’s fine.” He looks at you. Drops his eyes to the ring on your finger. Looks back up at your face. “She’s got us.”

He looks at the ring a lot. Like when the two of you take Lena for ice cream on the beach, and he wordlessly hands you a cup of your favorite flavor. Or when he makes Lena’s lunch for school in the morning, meticulously laying out the cheese on top of the ham on top of the lettuce like he’s performing some kind of surgery while you get so wrapped up in conversation with him that you don’t even notice that he’s made you one too until he’s handing you a little brown paper bag.

You curl your fingers a little, and do your best to keep your eyes from trailing down to your hand. To keep from looking at the gold band on his own.

“She needs more than just us.”

“What does that mean?” He’s still scrubbing the same plate.

“Her parents are gone, Pope. She lost them both in a year. And now she’s being raised by her nanny and a fucking bank robber and-“

Pope freezes, and turns to you, and the look in his eyes shuts you right the hell up.

“A what?”

You should probably take it back. Or at the very least, backtrack a little, but you’ve been married a month and social workers are already showing up to talk to you both and the adoption process is going fucking nowhere and you’re honestly sick and fucking tired of pretending to be more in the dark than you are.

“Come on, of course I know what you do. I’m not stupid. Or blind. Or fucking deaf.” And Craig has always been very stupidly candid with you about being stressed about a job or being pushed around by Baz and Pope and even Jay. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Lena-“

“How much do you know.” He doesn’t say it like a question, he says it like a command, and that pisses you off a little more than you want to admit.

“Enough, but not everything. I don’t want to know everything.”

He moves to the other side of the counter, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as he repeats the question. “How much do you know?”

You don’t back down. “Not. Everything.” You grit out, pushing back from your chair to plant your hands on the counter and stare him down. “I don’t need to. I know you rob places. I watch the news. I don’t need to know anything else.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt.” You snap, frustrated. “I don’t need to know anything that could endanger any one of you if the wrong people ask. Keep me in the fucking dark. But if you’re gonna be so damn secretive maybe stop mentioning jobs and banks and carrying fucking guns around the fucking nanny.”

“You’re not the nanny anymore.” His eyes drop to the ring again, before they dart back up to your face.

“And what am I then? Because the adoption process isn’t exactly going our way.” You lean closer, and you can feel your own eyes burning into his. “Safe and okay are two very different things, Pope. She’s neither of those right now. And shockingly, the ex-con marrying the former nanny isn’t tossing us to the top of the Good Future Parent list.”

To your surprise, Pope’s eyes drop to your mouth. And yet, his voice is still a furious rasp when he speaks again.

“Andrew.”

You blink. His gaze does not falter.

“My name is Andrew.”

For a moment, you can’t remember why you’re mad. All you can think about is the way he murmured that on your wedding night, the way his fingers tangled in your hair and he pressed his body against yours until you were moaning that name. Until you forgot every name that wasn’t Andrew.

“She needs therapy.” You try again, but the intensity of his gaze on your mouth feels like a kiss all on its own and you can’t remember how to breathe right.

“She doesn’t.”

“She will be taken away from us.” Your palm slaps against the counter. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away from you.

He just frowns, and his eyebrows do that little twitchy thing, before his gaze flickers back up to your eyes.

“It didn’t work for me.”

“But it might for her.” You try, meeting his eyes. Fuck, he’s beautiful. “Andrew, we can love her, but we can’t help her. Not like that. It’s not enough.”

He stays quiet. He moves back to the sink, and starts scrubbing the dish again.

You move over from behind the counter, and catch his arm.

“Stop that.” Your voice is firm, and he doesn’t look up again. “Please.”

His eyes finally rise to yours, and he goes very still.

“Fight with me.” Your voice is too soft for this argument, but you don’t care. “I need you to fight with me. You have opinions. I do too. Stop scrubbing the paint off of that thing, and argue.”

His eyes drop to your mouth again, before they move back up to your own.

“I don’t want to get angry.”

“You’re already angry.” You don’t break his gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” You’ve never been more confident of anything in your life.

He sets the plate down, moves forward, and cages you in against the counter so quickly that you gasp. The air shifts, and his eyes are so dark that you wonder if you should be afraid. Better yet, if there’s something wrong with you because you don’t feel afraid.

“I don’t want to lose Lena.” When did the air in here get so thin? Why can’t you draw breath right? His nose ducks down, moving slowly up over your throat until he’s face to face with you again, gaze burning into yours. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.” You swallow. “You won’t. She just needs-“

His hand is at the small of your back, forehead against yours and an intensity in his eyes that is so heavy it makes your knees wobble.

“She needs help.”

“She’ll think something is wrong with her.” He presses even closer, like he’s not aware that he’s doing it, and you can’t tell if he’s frustrated or seeking comfort. If this is how he gets frustrated with you, you aren’t sure if this or any argument is going to get very far.

“Did you think something was wrong with you?”

His lips are almost brushing your own. His hand slides up beneath your shirt, feeling the skin of your back. He doesn’t answer for a long, tense moment. Your skin burns beneath his touch and it feels way, way too good.

“There’s a lot wrong with me.”

You want him so badly it hurts. “This isn’t what I meant by fighting.”

“I can’t fight with you.” His lips brush yours for the briefest of seconds as his nose skates over your cheek. As his fingers curl against your back. “I want to. I’m trying. I can’t…”

You can’t remember how to breathe right for the life of you. Your hand moves up as if of its own accord, and your fingers slide through his hair. This is the closest you’ve been to each other since your wedding night. Sure, you sleep in the same bed, but he’s usually in bed after you and awake before you. He doesn’t linger. You wonder now if he’s been doing that on purpose. If this is what he’s been trying to avoid. If he was really so close to snapping that all it took was high emotions and you coming into his space for five fucking seconds.

The thought makes you shiver, and hand moves up over your back again, like he senses the silent question and his touch is the answer. His lips find the hollow of your throat. Just one soft, simple kiss, but it makes you feel like you’re on fucking fire.

“I…” you start, seconds away from pulling him back and slamming your mouth to his, when a soft voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“Can I watch TV?”

Pope releases you, stepping back, and you wonder how flushed your face must be as you look down to see Lena standing in the doorway, holding a stuffed bunny.

You blink, and try to focus on anything but the absence of Pope’s hands on your skin.

“Nightmares again?” You ask, and she nods.

And just like that, it’s over, and you spend the next hour sitting with Lena and watching cartoons as Pope returns to the dishes, gaze like a physical touch against your back.

And, not for the first time, you wonder how the fuck you’re going to manage this marriage.

-

Lena is gone.

And you kept it together. You kept it all together. You didn’t cry or scream or even try to fight with Pope after the social workers took her away. When she went into the system and you just had to sit there, helpless, and watch her get into that car.

And you showed up, when Pope went down to the office and made a scene. You all-but dragged him out of there, followed closely by security guards, and let him wrap his arms around you in the parking lot as you both shook with grief and worry and pain. You buried your face in his shoulder, and promised you would get her back. You both would. You’ll figure it out, because you love her, and you’re going to fight tooth and nail to make sure she knows how much you do.

And then Smurf, fucking fresh-out-of-prison Smurf, actually got her back. And it all went to shit.

“Why…” you pause, eyes scanning the room. The movers. The pink. She doesn’t even like pink. Why is there so much pink? “Why is it…here?”

“It’s just for now.” Smurf answers, flippant. “You just got her taken away. Andrew is an ex-convict. The courts will be a lot more lenient if she stays with me for a while.”

You feel cold. You fight the urge to fidget with your ring.

“But we’re…” married. You and Pope got married. That was supposed to help. She told you that.

She doesn’t even look up from where she’s folding yet another small pile of pink clothes. “You know, it would probably be best for you two to stay here, too. To keep her comfortable.”

Oh.

Oh fuck, you’re an idiot.

And then Lena is dropped off, and she’s miserable, and she wants to go home. Not home with you and Pope. Not home to the house. Home to her foster family, and her new sister.

And it all hits you like a fucking brick to the face.

This. This whole life is not safe for her. She has the opportunity to thrive, and grow, and live in a world where she will never be a pawn in someone else’s schemes. As much as you love her, as much as Pope loves her, this world is never going to be safe or healthy for her.

She’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna break your fucking heart, but she’s gonna be okay.

So you find Pope, and you fight your tears back, and you both take her back to her foster house. You take her home.

The car ride back to Smurf’s is silent.

It takes six minutes for you to break.

“Pull over.”

He does.

You lurch out of the truck, wondering if you’re going to be sick, and nearly stumble off of the side of a cliff before he catches you.

And he holds you too tightly. Tries to murmur something too sweet against your hair as the tears try to fight their way free. His arms feel too good around you. His touch is too comforting. You want to melt into him, and you can’t.

“This was all so fucking stupid.” You breathe, ragged and pained, and he holds you closer.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” You whirl on him, try to shove him back, and he lifts you and spins you back towards the car and away from the cliff before he lets you go. “This whole fucking thing was just…we were just…” breathe. You can’t breathe right. “She tricked us. Don’t you get it? She fucking made me a Cody so she can control you through Lena and she can control me somehow and this is all so fucked up, Pope-“

“Andrew.”

You pause, momentarily distracted despite your horror and anger. “Why do you do that?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Why do you correct me when we’re fighting? Or…” Memories of your wedding night rip through you, threatening to overwhelm you even more. You push them back so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.

He doesn’t answer again, and you glare so hard you think your eyes might actually be burning.

“It makes me feel better, when you say it. I don’t like it when you’re upset with me.”

“Why the fuck aren’t you upset?”

“I am.” His head ducks, and tilts to the side a little as he looks at you with that familiar intensity. And then, quieter, he repeats, “I am.”

You pause at the pain in his voice. Feel your heart constrict so hard it hurts.

“It didn’t work.” You finally say, agony and grief ripping through you like your soul has been tossed into a fucking wood chipper. “It didn’t work, and I’m… I’m not going to be a fucking pawn in whatever game Smurf is playing.”

“I won’t let you.” Pope says, fingers flexing like he might move towards you. “I won’t let her hurt you.”

“She already has. All of this shit is…it’s too…” you sniffle, to your humiliation, and run a hand through your hair. “It’s over. It didn’t work. This is done. It needs to be done.” Because you’re all that’s left, and she is going to use you to hurt him now, and you can’t let that happen.

It needs to be done.

-

You show up, of all places, at Craig Cody’s place with a duffel under your arm and tears in your eyes.

“Oh shit.” He has a bottle of tequila in his hand. He’s shirtless, and there are people inside.

“I’m…interrupting.” You mumble, suddenly feeling oddly small. Oddly pathetic. But that’s why you’re here, because he has never made you feel that way. Never spoken down to you, never shown you anything but respect despite his ridiculous lifestyle and poor decision making skills. Even when you were just the nanny, and he hit on you so much it was borderline ridiculous, there was something about him that was…good. Lost, of course, but good.

You turn to go.

“Nuh uh. Hey, c’mere.” He spins you, and suddenly crushes you to him so tightly that your noise of surprise is muffled by his chest.

“You smell like sweat.” You mumble, miserable, and he laughs so hard that you shake in his dumb gigantic arms.

“Just got back from the water.” His hand comes up to the back of your head, an odd brotherly touch that makes you actually start to fucking cry. He holds you tighter, smushing you even more against him, and drops his chin against the top of your hair.

“Want me to beat Pope’s ass?”

You shake your head.

“Want some coke?”

You puff an irritated breath, and he laughs again.

“Okay, okay.” He pats your back, and pulls back a little. “How ‘bout a shot?”

You take the bottle from his hand, and take a swig.

“There ya go.” You sputter a little, and he pats your back. “C’mon. You stayin’ here for a bit?”

You nod, and take another swig from the bottle.

“You’re lucky I’ve got a guest room.” Craig ruffles your hair, and you frown as he takes the bottle back from you. “My couch is uncomfortable as fuck.”

“Well, better than - wait, what are you - hey!”

He crouches, grabs you, and tosses you over his shoulder, duffel bag and all, and as he walks back into his house with a shouted announcement of his ‘new roommate’, you decide that maybe the Codys aren’t all bad.

-

“Ow. Ow. Ow.” You mumble, curled into a chair in the corner of Craig’s kitchen with your head in your hands.

“Pope’s freakin’ out, by the way.”

“Thank you. You’re really helping.” You cross your arms on the counter, and bury your face in them, muffling your next words. “How’re you not hungover?”

“I’m hungover as shit.” You hear the fridge open, and hear the frown in Craig’s voice as he examines whatever is inside. “We should get something delivered.”

“We should burn this place to the ground. Might be the only way to get it clean.”

“You sound like your husband.”

“Don’t call him that.”

You don’t lift your head, but you feel Craig lean against the other side of the counter. He chuckles, and ruffles your hair until you groan and try to squirm away. “Damn, I knew you didn’t party, but a few shots of tequila took you out.”

“Shut up.” It was more than a few. Actually, you vaguely remember him holding your hair back in the front yard at some point.

He ruffles your hair again, presumably just to mess with you, and you swat him away.

“Gotta go to Smurf’s in a few.” He finally says, popping open a beer as you peek an eye open to glare at him. “Want me to tell Pope that you’re here?”

You frown, and shake your head.

He frowns back. “He’s freaking out.”

“Why? Lena’s gone. Doesn’t matter.”

“You know you’re being a dick, right?”

“Rude.”

“And you know he’s like, obsessed with you.”

Your heart twists, and you narrow your eyes. “He’s not.”

He puffs a laugh, and takes a swig of his beer. “Sure, sure.” He pats your cheek until you look up at him, eyes squinted and head pounding.

“Damn, you still look hot hungover.” He says, grinning, and you glare harder. “Shoulda got to you first. You wouldn’t have gone for me, though. You’re fuckin’ perfect for Pope.”

“M’not-“

“Go back to bed. Sleep all day. Not like you’ve got anything to do if you’re gonna be in hiding.” Craig cuts you off, already moving to the door to pull his boots on.

“You’re a tool.” You grouch, settling your aching head back into your arms.

“You came to me.” He retorts, and you groan again as you hear the door shut behind him.

-

You don’t talk to Pope Cody for two months.

You don’t take the ring off.

Deran gives you a job at the bar, and you’re good at it. You work too hard, too much, just to shut your brain off for as long as humanly possible before you have to go home and think about Lena. About Pope.

Weirdly enough, living with Craig isn’t too bad. Sure, you have to deal with the parties, have to clean up beer bottles in the mornings and kick him awake sometimes as his phone blows up with calls from his brothers.

But even when he’s fucked up, even when he’s acting like an asshole, he’s always there for you. Sometimes he sits and watches TV with you, rather than going out. Sometimes you manage to drag him to the grocery store, or even get him to clean the house as he grumbles about how ridiculous and uptight you are.

One day, he comes home, and doesn’t joke. Doesn’t comment about you being a neat-freak (you’re not, but you’re not about to let him leave dishes in the sink for a fucking month), and sits on the coffee table across from where you lay on the couch.

You raise your eyebrows, having just flopped down onto the cushions, still in your work uniform and aching with exhaustion.

“You gotta go over there.” His voice is serious, and his eyes are doing that crazy intense thing. Kind of like Pope, but different. You’ve always blamed the drugs, but now you wonder if it’s a familial trait.

“To Smurf’s?” You frown. “Why?”

“He’s fuckin’ losing it, that’s why.” Craig doesn’t snap at you, but the tone of his voice is sharp enough to catch your attention. “All he ever does is sit in front of the TV or stand in the yard and break shit. It’s fucking creepy.”

“You always call him creepy.” And yet, your resolve is already cracking. Shit.

“I don’t get this. You married him. You get along great. Like, better than I’ve ever seen him get along with anyone. He’s obsessed with you. You fucked on your wedding night, but you tell me you haven’t done anything since and with all that damn staring I believe you- hey!”

You swat at him, eyes wide with horror. “How the fuck did you know that?”

“Jesus, chill. You hit me a lot, you know that?”

“Craig!”

“Dude, my room was right next door to that guest room. I was trying to hook up too, but the sound of my brother getting off is kind of a boner killer.”

“That and the pounds of coke.” You grouch, still trying and failing to hide your mortification.

“That’s never been a problem. I’m built different.”

“You’re the fucking worst. Seriously, I’m gonna-“

“Smurf’s got him fighting.”

And there it goes. The last bit of hesitation. Your eyes snap upwards, concern curling in your stomach.

“What?”

“Yeah. Boxing matches and shit.” Craig looks genuinely earnest. “He’s fucked up, dude. Something’s not right. He’s got this look in his eyes like…like he doesn’t give a shit what happens to him.”

That’s all it takes.

You’re out the door in five minutes.

-

When you find him, he’s sitting in the yard, staring at the moon.

You don’t think he even notices your approach as you make your way around the pool, but when you get closer, he turns to look up at you so slowly that you wonder if he’s been aware of your presence since you pulled into the driveway.

His eyes are dark. His face is bruised and cut and you can’t hold back a sharp breath at the sight. Fuck. He looks like he got put through a fucking meat grinder.

“Holy shit.” You whisper, crouching down beside him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his eyes away from you. Doesn’t even blink.

“Are you real?” His voice a whisper of gravel, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel that fell from heaven and landed in the grass before him. Like he’s living up to his nickname and fucking worshipping you.

You nearly burst into tears. You feel something crack in your chest. Something deeper and more vital than your heart.

You reach out, and brush your fingers over a healing cut below his eye. And then, like a woman possessed, you move until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and press your forehead against his.

“I’m real.” You whisper back, fingers sliding into his hair. “I’m real, Andrew.”

His breath rattles in his lungs. His hand shakes as it comes up to move over your back, pulling you closer to him when you don’t vanish with a gentle, aching desperation.

His head drops down to your shoulder, and he turns to bury his face in your neck. Your fingers continue to skate through his soft curls, and the sob that rips its way from his throat makes that final piece of your soul shatter like broken glass.

You hold each other like that for some time, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as Pope holds you like you could disappear any moment.

“Don’t leave again.” He finally whispers, and you hold him a little tighter.

“I won’t.” You murmur. “Not tonight.”

“Don’t leave ever. Please. Please, I’ll…I’ll do anything. Stay. Stay with me.” He crushes you to him almost too tightly, now, and your heart breaks.

“Andrew...” You whisper, but whatever you may have said is quickly cut off by his mouth as he kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Rough.

And you kiss him back.

The moment you do, he makes a noise that sounds almost pained, one large hand moving up to tangle in your hair as your breath stops in your throat. He shifts beneath you, lowering you until your back hits the grass as he slides his body atop yours and holds you to him like a mere inch of distance might kill him.

This is a bad idea. He’s clearly out of his mind. You’re both hurting too much.

And yet, it feels so fucking good you can’t think straight. Like this, this is everything you’ve been missing for all these weeks. You want to drown yourself in it. You want him to make it all better. You want to make it all better for him.

But you can’t. Even as you catch his lip between your teeth, arch your back beneath him, and hear him almost whimper as he presses you down against the grass, you can’t do this. Not now. Not like this.

You pull back, and he nearly sobs as he pushes you back down. As he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back so he can trace his tongue over your jaw.

“P-Pope-“ you try, and he shakes his head, nuzzling closer and rocking his hips against yours.

“Don’t. Don’t make me stop. Please.” His voice is low. Desperate. “Let me touch you. I-I’ll make it better. I’ll fix everything. Everything. Just stay with me.”

Everything in you screams to keep going. To never stop chasing this feeling. He senses your hesitation, and kisses you again like he knows that your brain is short-circuiting and he’s just too desperate to care. Like he can convince you if he just keeps trying.

“Stop…” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as his hand moves down your side, up beneath your shirt, trailing sparks behind the touch that make you bite back a whimper.

He hears it, and he doesn’t stop.

“You want me. I know you do. I know you. I can…I can fix this. Please. Please, let me fix this.”

Your body betrays you, back arching a little beneath him again, and he makes a soft noise of approval as his fingers begin to work the button of your jeans.

This isn’t right. He’s out of his fucking mind right now. This isn’t right.

“Pope.” You try again, hand reaching down to catch his wrist as his fingers begin to skate beneath your waistband.

“Call me Andrew. Say my name.” He pleads, breath warm and ragged against your ear, and it takes every ounce of strength in your heart to pull at his wrist as his fingers slide lower. Lower.

“Stop.” You try again, and when he pulls back to kiss you, you turn your head away. “Pope. Stop.”

Finally, he freezes. His hand pauses, and you can feel his entire body shake with restraint and hunger above you. “Don’t make me.” One last, desperate plea.

“Stop.” You say again, and he moves back with a subtle, heartbroken little nod.

You re-button your jeans, and push yourself away as he pulls back a little more. He’s breathless. His eyes are still dark as they look over you, still pained and lacking clarity, and you nearly start to cry at the horrified tone of his voice when he asks his next question.

“Did I hurt you?”

No. God, no. You’re about to fall apart with how badly you want him. With how hard it is to keep from flinging yourself into his embrace again. But he’s asking, because he’s so out of it that he doesn’t know. And you’re fucked up for letting it get this far.

“I have to go.” You whisper, pulling yourself upright on shaky feet. “I’m sorry. I…I have to go.”

He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t follow. He just watches you as you walk to the gate, and you feel his gaze linger like the soft prickle of frost until he’s out of sight.

And even then, when you get home, you still feel it. And you cry.

-

You’re shutting down the bar when he comes in.

“We’re closed.” You say, barely bothering to raise your gaze as the stranger pushes himself through the door, and you’re a little surprised to be met with silence. No drunken apologies or insistence that they’ll ‘jus’ be here f’r one.”

You look up.

The man before you is smiling. And it isn’t a good smile.

“Cody.” He says, like a predatory growl, and you freeze as he moves closer. Even with a foot of bar between you, the way his gaze is raking over your body feels like a physical touch. “Right? You’re Pope’s wife.”

You don’t back up. Remind yourself not to show weakness. “…Yeah. I am.”

On paper, yeah. But you’ve been in and around this family long enough to know that the title holds a certain amount of power. Pope Cody’s wife. A member of the Cody family. Maybe the confirmation will make this asshole-

“Good.” He says, and snatches your wrist faster than you can form your next thought. He yanks you half over the bar, grabs the back of your head, and slams you onto it.

You’re out cold the moment your head makes contact with the wooden surface, and you don’t even have a quarter of a second to realize that you are absolutely fucked.

-

Your head is pounding. You taste blood. There’s warmth trickling down from your temple.

You’re on the ground, cold concrete pressed against your swollen cheek. Not good. Not good not good not good.

Somewhat shakily, you try to push yourself up, and a booted foot meets the small of your back to slam you back down hard enough that it pulls a sharp yelp from your throat.

“The fucking Codys…” the man grumbles, and you hear the pop of a beer bottle cap above you. Great. You just did inventory. Though that should probably be the least of your concerns right now. “They fucked me over, ya know? Met Pope in prison, he says when we get out we’ll do jobs, and then nothing. Not a fuckin’ word. He just comes home to his pretty wife and family and leaves me on the streets like a fuckin’ dog.”

You try to sit up again. The boot meets your back again. Your head screams with pain, and you have to fight the urge to curl in on yourself like a wounded animal.

“Gotta leave a message, sweetheart. You know how it is.”

Your focus is still swimming. Think. Think think think.

“Knew you’d be pretty, too. He talked about ya all the time. Gonna feel bad messing up that sweet face, though.”

You start to drag yourself up for a third time, but the man grabs your hair and yanks you quickly to your feet. It hurts. Everything hurts already, and you know that’s not a good sign. That it’s gonna hurt a lot more when the adrenaline wears off.

He slams you back against the bar, and his hand wraps around your throat until you can’t breathe.

He’s still holding your hair, hard enough that your eyes sting with tears of pain, and you can see a thousand horrible plans forming in his eyes as he looks you up and down. Your fingers scramble uselessly at the ones locked around your neck, and you blindly reach out to feel around the bar beside you with your free hand as your vision starts to swim with black spots.

“Thinkin’ I break those fingers first, sugar.” You can smell the whiskey and beer on his breath, a rancid mix that would probably make you choke if you weren’t already suffocating. You grit your teeth. You can feel consciousness slipping away, and you have maybe seconds before you pass out again from lack of oxygen. God knows how you’ll wake up after that. “Then we work down to that pretty little-“

Your fingers close around something metal, and you don’t think before you slam it hard into his neck.

He stumbles backward, hand flying up to where a fork now protrudes from his jugular, and you have never seen a man die before.

You don’t move. You watch every second. The way he falls to the ground. The way he convulses. The way his eyes begin to fog over and he stops trying to tug the fork out of his neck, body going limp before you.

You sink to the floor.

You can’t look away. For too long, you just stare at him. Watch the shaky rise and fall of his chest come to a shuddered halt as blood begins to pool beneath his body. So much blood. Too much blood. There’s no way a human body can have that much blood, is there?

Shock is cold and numbing. You can’t feel your fingertips. You can’t think. You don’t think you’re breathing, either.

He definitely isn’t breathing. He’s dead. You killed him.

Oh, fuck.

-

You should call the police. You should call Deran, the owner of the damn bar. Maybe Craig.

You don’t. You don’t even think to.

You call your husband.

He answers on the first ring. He’s on a job. They all are. You know better than to call any of them when they’re on a job.

The river of blood is spreading, and you kick away before it can reach your sneakers, until your back is pressed against the bottom part of the bar.

“Hey.” He sounds a little breathless. You hear a furious shout, and he mumbles a curse. “I’ll call you back in-“

“A-Andrew I…” Words. Words. You have to remember how to say words. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“What happened?” Pope’s voice is low. Gentle. Your ears are ringing.

“I-I don’t…I’m at the bar. I…he…” you shouldn’t say anything over the phone, right? You know that much. You can’t confess to killing someone over the phone. Oh God, you killed someone.

“Are you safe?”

No. Yes. You nod, before you realize that he can’t actually see you. “I think so.” You can’t stop staring at the body. You might be sick.

“I’ll be there.” Silence. A muffled argument. The slamming of a car door. And then, softer. “Don’t move, okay?”

You nod again.

It might take five minutes. It might take an hour. You haven’t moved. You’re not sure if you’ve even blinked. The phone is still pressed to you ear. You don’t remember when he hung up.

But Andrew Cody is suddenly crouching before you, hands painfully gentle as he reaches up to guide your hand and the phone gripped in it down into your lap. His jaw is tight, dark eyes more intense than you’ve ever seen them as he tilts your head to inspect what must be a nasty wound on your forehead. One side of your face hurts. You probably have a black eye, and your cheek feels warm with what is very likely blood.

“The body.” You whisper, eyes still locked on man on the ground, and this time he turns your face towards his own.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me.” Gentle. Soft. His voice can be so, so soft. He’s wearing what looks like a security guard uniform, with a heavy jacket and boots and backwards ballcap. It’s probably not appropriate right now to think that he looks unfairly good like this, and you wonder what they were robbing before you called him. You almost ask, still in too much shock to remember that you told him you don’t want to know.

But when you look at his face, and feel the way his thumb is brushing featherlight over your cheek, you almost reel back at the rage in his expression. It isn’t directed at you, but it’s burning so deeply that you can’t make yourself look away. His hands are gentle on you, yes, but everything else about him is screaming danger.

Oh. That’s why people are so fucking scared of him, huh? You’ve never seen it before. Never really understood it until now. Still, you couldn’t be less afraid of him if you tried.

You feel really cold, and really numb in a way that scares you, and you don’t think you ever want him to stop touching you.

When you inhale, he nods, like he’s acknowledging that you’re doing a good job, and brushes his fingers through your bloody hair as you wince.

“Where else did he hurt you?” He asks, and you feel those fingers curl a little against the back of your head. His eyes fall down to your neck, which aches and burns in a way that tells you that you probably have angry red marks from the man’s fingers around your throat.

Slammed to the floor. Boot on your back. Fork in his neck. So much blood. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” And you do, and you swallow.

Your shaky fingers come up to your throat. Neck. Fork in neck. Dead body and you’re the one that killed him.

“Can you stand?”

You nod again, and he lifts you to your feet, pulling you to him. He smells like gunpowder and bleach, and you press your nose into his shoulder and try to inhale the scent that you know better. The one that is soft and a little spicy and very much him.

He presses gently on the back of your head. “Here?”

You shake your head.

Lower, to your back. This time, you jump a little in his arms.

He nods, gentle and careful, and turns you to lift your shirt and inspect the wound.

You can’t see him, but you hear his breath get a little harsher. A little more shallow.

“Is it bad?” You ask, quiet and hoarse, and you feel him pull your shirt back down before he turns you and pulls you into his chest again. He’s breathing too shallowly. He’s holding you too tightly. He’s trying to keep himself calm, and it isn’t working.

“There’s a boot print. On your back.” He murmurs, and you wince at the memory of that boot kicking you back down.

You reach up, and slide your hands over his back, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, soothing him even as you seek comfort from him.

For a while, he holds you. Careful. Tight. Like if he loosens his grip even the smallest bit, something might rip you away.

Finally, he takes a deep breath, and presses his lips to the side of your head. Still gentle. Still soft.

“I’m gonna call Craig, okay? He’s gonna take you home, and then I’m gonna…take care of this.” The words are murmured into your hair, and you wince. Tense.

“No.” You feel so…weak. You fucking hate it, but you can’t think straight and the idea of Pope leaving you or even letting you go in this moment makes you feel fucking sick. “Don’t. Don’t go. Not right now.”

He goes impossibly more still, before he pulls back to trace his fingers over your bruised cheek, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your toes curl despite the situation.

“Okay.” His head tilts a little, in the direction of the back room. “Go in the back. Sit down.”

And you do.

You hear a few noises in the front room, the low sound of Pope’s voice on the phone, something being pulled from a storage closet, and then he’s crouching before you on the couch, fingers reaching up to brush over your neck once again before he pauses, like it just occurred to him that you might not want to be touched.

“Is this…okay?”

You nod. It hurts to speak, so you don’t bother to try. You don’t need to, with him. You never have.

He tilts your head to the side, fingers tightening imperceptibly on your chin as he sees the bruises once again, and for a moment you both just sit there in silence, staring at each other.

And maybe…maybe it’s because you’re alive. Maybe it’s because you just fucking killed a man. Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen him in over a month. Maybe it’s because you miss Lena and you miss him but…

But you pull him up with a hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, and you kiss him like you’re fucking drowning.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, but he kisses you back. He kisses you back like he’s fucking drowning, too. Like he missed you just as much as you missed him.

His hands slide up to your cheeks, so gentle it almost hurts more than your wounds, and you drag him down with you onto the couch. He comes like he’s magnetized to you, lays you back beneath him like you’re made of glass and every millimeter of his skin against yours is heaven on fucking earth.

He braces himself atop you, pulling back to meet your eyes, and you grab his face in your hands and drag his mouth back to yours and it is incredible. He feels incredible and you missed him so much you finally feel like you’re breathing again.

He parts your lips with his own, groans as tongue sweeps into your mouth like the taste of you is a drug, and you arch against him as he presses you down into the couch, the feeling of his own need quickly making itself evident against your thigh. This. This this this. The feeling of his control cracking, of his desperation to touch you making him walk the line between gentle and rough until every touch sends sparks through your body, this is what you need. What you missed. This is making it all better.

You whimper, and he kisses you harder, and you are on fucking fire as his teeth catch your bottom lip, hand sliding up to your cheek as you begin fumbling with his belt and he rocks his hips against yours and-

And then his calloused fingers press a little too hard against your bruised cheek, and you jump as pain shoots down your spine, and he pulls back like you just burned him.

“No. No no no-“ you start, out of your mind with lust and the desperate need to forget. Just for a minute. When he’s kissing you, when he’s against you, you feel so much better when all you’ve felt is emptiness and pain for months.

Let me forget. Let me forget please don’t make me think about what just happened and Lena and how much I missed you please please please just-

“Stop.” He rasps, breath ragged as his hand slides beneath your head, cradling it as his nose brushes over your cheek. He’s shaking with restraint, and you’re sure that if you can just get his damn belt off he’ll cave but his free hand comes down to catch your wrists and you almost fucking cry. “You’re hurt.” And then, softer, closer to your ear and dripping with guilt and regret, “you’re hurt.”

“I don’t care.” And you don’t. And it’s a little scary how much you don’t care. You just want him. You haven’t even seen him in weeks, since that night in the backyard, and you feel like everything might be better if he just keeps touching you.

You reach up to scrape your fingers through his hair, and his forehead drops against yours, his hold tightening on your hip.

“I can’t.” His voice is a low rasp, nose bumping against your own as his eyes fall closed like the mere feeling of you touching him may be all that he needs.

“Please, Andrew.”

He grips you tighter, and leans back down.

And then the door to the bar slams open, loudly enough that the sound echoes into the back room, and he pulls away like he’s just fallen back to earth.

You almost protest, but then Deran and Craig are pushing their way into the back, and Craig is crouching before you.

“Oh, fuck. You look like shit.”

You laugh, and then, to your horror, you start to cry.

“Fuck. Fuck, okay. I’ve gotcha.”  He pulls your face into his shoulder, like he might hide your ridiculous weeping, and turns his head to look at Pope. “You didn’t do any of this, right?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The level of danger in the other man’s voice nearly sends a chill down your spine.

“Chill, just checking.” Your head is pushed back again, surprisingly gently, and Deran hisses as he takes in the sight of you.

“Christ.” And then he’s beside you, touching the wound on your head. “She might need to go to Tijuana or some shit.”

“That’s for bullet wounds.” Pope snaps, eyes still on yours and body angled towards you like he might shove the two other men away at any moment. “She needs a few stitches. I’ve got her.”

“You’ve gotta take care of the…“

Body. The body. The body you made because you stabbed that guy in the neck and he-

“Take her home. I’ll be there soon.”

Craig nods, beginning to pull you to your feet. “Okay, c’mon. We can watch that dumb reality show you like. Just-“ he starts, and Pope stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Take her home.” He says, and the implication would make you frown if you weren’t still in shock. “Not to your place.”

Craig looks at you. You look at him. You look at Pope.

You turn back to Craig, and nod.

He steps back, and Pope moves forward to press his lips against your forehead, pulling back to tilt your chin up and look you in the eyes.

“I’ll be there soon. Is that okay?”

Always, always asking if you’re okay. Always checking on you. Always putting you first.

“Yeah.”

And when he leaves, and Craig takes you home, you feel his loss like a phantom limb.

-

Pope is gone for hours.

Craig fusses over your head for all three of those fucking hours.

“Fucking-ow!” You hiss, as he pulls the needle through your skin again, instinctively trying to shove him back for maybe the fiftieth time.

“Sorry. Shit, I usually have this done to me. Hang on.”

You sputter as he spills a shot of tequila over the wound again, and shove him some more.

“Knock it off. I’m disinfecting.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Will you relax?”

“You’re definitely not doing it right.”

“Well it’s not every fuckin’ day I have to stitch up my best friend’s open forehead wound while she sits on my brother’s couch with a fucking boot print on her back.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t seen weirder shit.”

He stops, and crouches in front of you, one hand still holding the needle while the other rests on your shoulder.

“That’s it. C’mon, look at me for a sec.”

You do, and you’re still trying to glare, but with your puffy, red-rimmed 

 eyes and bruised face, you know it doesn’t hold much weight.

“You saved your own life tonight. You know that?”

“I killed someone.” Your voice sounds too small.

“He was gonna kill you. Probably worse.” Craig doesn’t get…intense, often. The way he’s looking at you now only proves just how dire the situation was tonight, and you have to grit your teeth to keep from shaking. He squeezes your shoulder, and offers you a small smile.

“You make a hell of a Cody, ya know that?”

Ugh. You might start crying again.

You hug him instead, stitches be damned, and he barely has time to maneuver the needle so it doesn’t rip your forehead apart before he’s hugging you right back.

“And,” he adds, one large hand rubbing soothingly over your bruised back, “if Pope doesn’t kill everyone that guy’s ever known, I will. No one’s gonna hurt you again. Promise.”

You laugh, as fucked up as it is, and you feel a whole lot better.

-

You’re leaning against Craig’s shoulder on the couch, aching all over and trying to lose yourself in the conversation, when Pope Cody comes through the door and sits down in front of you faster than you can even register that he’s home.

There’s blood on his face. Dirt on his hands.

“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet, fingers skating through your hair in that wonderfully familiar way as he inspects your wound.

“No.” There’s no need to lie. He’ll see right through it, anyway.

“Okay.” He traces a gentle, calloused touch over your cheek. Down to your neck, where the barely there pressure on the bruises on your throat make you flinch, less from pain than from memory.

Craig leaves with one more gentle ruffle of your hair, and then you’re alone. You let Pope touch you, let him move his eyes and fingertips over every single wound on your face and body. Watch the rage build in his eyes again as he takes in the state of you.

“I should have done your stitches. Craig never ties them right.” He pulls back, earnest like his next words might matter to you. “This is gonna scar.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

What a truly fucked up thing for you to say right now. You just killed a guy. Pope just hid the body for you. He’s your fake husband and you’ve barely spoken in months.

He pauses, and pulls back to look at you. And then he looks at your head, like he’s inspecting the wound again.

“Stop. I’m not concussed. I mean, I don’t think I am.” You frown, and reach up to catch his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said-“

“I love you.” He interrupts, and curls his fingers around yours. “I love you so much I can’t think. I can’t sleep without you. I can’t breathe right. You…” his eyes are intense, locked onto yours, but he’s fighting for the words. “You’re everything to me. You have been since I met you.”

That catches your attention. You blink at him, opening your mouth to try to find something to say, but he keeps going.

“I would die for you. I would kill for you. Sometimes I want you to ask me to kill for you, just so I can show you how much…” your eyes widen, and he frowns. “I won’t, though. But I…I would.”

“I think the way you measure love is a little fucked up.”

His lips quirk, like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m fucked up.”

“Yeah, you are.” You concede, and offer him a smile of your own. “But I love you.”

His smile falls, but his thumb is still doing that sweet thing where it brushes over your cheek. “I’ve killed people before.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to kill that guy tonight. I was hoping he wasn’t dead yet, so that I could kill him.”

“You’re not gonna scare me off, Pope.”

“Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You smile, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. “You’re not gonna scare me off, Andrew.”

This time, when he kisses you, he doesn’t stop.

-

EPILOGUE - SOME TIME LATER

“I’ve literally never seen a baby look so pissed off all the time.” Craig’s hand drops to Pope’s shoulder, giving him a friendly little shake. “Congrats, dude. Definitely yours.”

“I think that’s just his poop face.” You cock your head down at the baby in question. “And his hungry face. And his…happy face.”

Pope makes a quiet noise, and moves forward to lift the dour-faced child into his arms. There’s something about watching him, scarred face and gigantic muscles and all, hold such a small bundle with so much fondness that it still makes you grin every time.

“You’ve gotta bounce him a little.” He says, in his rough and quiet voice, before doing exactly that, and then…

A quiet, cooing giggle. A tiny hand reaching up to grab at his father’s nose. And finally, brightest of all, Pope Cody grinning from ear to fucking ear.

“See, he smiles.” Pope reaches up to catch the baby’s hand, tiny fingers wrapping around his pointer, and you think your heart might explode.

“You look fucking scary like that, dude.”

“Oh, shut up.” You catch Pope’s chin, and pull him down for a quick kiss. He’s still smiling, and you smile back, and Craig groans. “He hasn’t slept in like, three days. He’s out of his mind. It makes him more smiley than usual.”

“I’ve slept.” He mumbles, turning back to the baby.

“You have not. You keep waking me up with your fingers on my pulse. Or standing over his crib.”

“The birth was traumatic.”

“The birth was three months ago.”

He grunts, and the baby coos, and he smiles again.

All jokes aside, he’s been doing that a lot lately.

And, a month or two back, when Lena’s now-parents let the two of you come over to the house to show her her new cousin, she had seen that smile, looked up, and smiled right back.

“What?” Pope had asked, looking down at the little girl the two of you had come together to raise so long ago. The little girl who also smiles more openly, now. Who giggles and comes to life more easily and is so excited to show the two of you her drawings from school and the new swing in the backyard.

“You guys don’t look sad anymore.” She said, simply, and you had burst into fucking tears, hormonal and happy and sleep-deprived as you were, and Pope had laughed out loud as he’d pulled you into his arms, sandwiching your baby between the two of you.

Now, you stand beside him by the pool, heart swelling in your chest again as you watch him smile, and he leans over to press his lips to the side of your head.

“We should renew our vows.” He hums, and you laugh.

“You really wanna throw another party?”

He smiles again, and kisses your cheek. “No. I want to marry you again. The right way.”

He’s said the same thing a few times, now. When you got pregnant, when you were pregnant, complaining about your swollen ankles and aching back, when you were lying in the hospital bed and half awake after the birth, when you were both half awake again holding your crying two week old on the couch…

And now, you finally answer.

“Ask me.”

He smiles again. The baby slaps fitfully at his cheek.

“Will you marry me?”

You grin right back at him, and lean up to press your lips to his.

“Yes, Andrew Cody. I’ll marry you…again.”

[memoriescountthemiles]

Because You See Me

a/n: I started watching Animal Kingdom. Nuff said.

summary: As J's girlfriend, you're used to romance and gentleness. But when he moves into his grandmother's house, you meet his uncles, and become intrigued by one uncle in particular.

pairings: pope x f!reader

word count: 5.9k

warnings: age gap (everyone is 20+), implied violence, blood, cheating, smut (dom!Pope, spanking, biting, but reader wants it)

Masterlist

You notice him before he notices you.

Not because he’s loud—he’s the opposite. The rest of them fill space like they own it. J with his quiet calculation, fingers drumming methodically against his thigh; Craig with his restless energy, all broad shoulders and sudden laughs; Deran with that sharp, coiled edge, jaw working as he scans the room; and Baz, seeming relaxed as ever, his arm draped over the back of the couch, the neck of a beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers.

But Pope is different. Pope stands with his weight centered perfectly, shoulders squared, hands hanging loose at his sides. Like a soldier waiting for orders that never come.

You’re halfway through a lukewarm beer you didn’t really want, condensation dampening your fingers as you perch on the arm of J’s chair, when you catch it. The way Pope watches the room from the shadowed corner—eyes moving in slow, deliberate sweeps, brow furrowed slightly—like it’s a crime scene he hasn’t pieced together yet.

He turns. Slow. Deliberate. Like a predator sensing movement in tall grass. You don’t look away. His eyes narrow just slightly, hazel irises contracting around dilated pupils, like he’s trying to discern if you’re a threat. You lift your chin a fraction, feeling the cool air on your throat. Not a challenge. Just… not backing down. After a beat, he walks over, footsteps nearly silent against the worn floorboards.

“Have you two met?” J asks, casual, fingers still tapping that same rhythm against his thigh.

Pope doesn’t answer him. His eyes stay on you, unblinking, focused with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

“No,” you say, offering your name, voice steadier than you expected.

He repeats it, quieter. Testing how it sounds on his tongue. The word hangs in the air between you, simple and insufficient.

“That’s it?” you ask, one brow lifting, condensation from your bottle dripping onto your knuckles. “That’s all I get?”

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, just a momentary softening of that granite expression. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know. Your name?” The question feels more intimate than it should.

There’s a pause. You can almost see him deciding, jaw working slightly beneath stubbled skin. “Pope.”

You tilt your head, hair brushing your collarbone. “You always this intense?”

J lets out a quiet huff beside you, like he’s expecting this to go sideways, his body tensing subtly, as the eyes of his uncles flicker nervously between you and Pope.

But Pope just watches you, shoulders squared beneath his faded gray t-shirt. “You always ask questions like that?”

“Only when people answer like you do.” The words come out with more heat than intended.

He reaches out, taking the beer from your hand, and takes a slow swig, throat working as he swallows, eyes never leaving yours. After another beat, he walks away, leaving nothing but a lingering tension in the air where he stood.

You roll over, unable to fall asleep next to J in his small twin bed, his breathing too even, too controlled, like everything else about him. The clock’s red numbers cast a glow across the rumpled sheets: 2:17 AM. You decide to give up on sleep, easing your weight off the creaking mattress and padding barefoot across the cold tile floor to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

You turn, droplets sliding down your wrists as you dry your hands on a dish towel that was probably more expensive than any clothing hanging in your closet, unfazed by the man standing in the shadowed doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. “The dishes.”

“Why?” His voice is gravel, rough from disuse at this hour.

“Can’t sleep. Figured I might as well do something useful.” The faucet drips behind you, each drop echoing in the quiet kitchen.

He steps closer, not threatening—just intent, the moonlight from the window catching the sharp angles of his face. “It’s not your house.”

You shrug, leaning back against the counter’s cold edge, ceramic pressing into your lower back. “So that means I can’t be helpful?”

His brow furrows, deep lines etching between his eyebrows like they’ve been carved there. “You’re not doing it right.”

“Sorry,” you huff, “I didn’t know there was a wrong way to scrub crusty mashed potatoes off a plate.” Your words hang there, suspended in the dim kitchen like dust motes.

Pope stares at you like you’ve said something wrong, his eyes unnervingly focused, pupils dilated in the low light. He doesn’t respond with words, instead stepping to the sink beside you, his arm brushing yours as he grabs the wet sponge off the counter, water dripping between his calloused fingers.

“Pope, you don’t—“

“Andrew,” he says, rinsing a plate under the stream of water, the sound cutting through the silence as he hands it out to you, waiting, droplets sliding down the ceramic.

“What?” you ask, grabbing a dishcloth that smells faintly of detergent.

“My name. It’s not Pope. It’s Andrew.” His voice softens on his own name, like he’s sharing something precious and forgotten.

“So why does everyone -”

He cuts you off again, turning to face you, locking your eyes in his stare. The hazel of his irises catches the moonlight, turning them almost amber. “You can call me Andrew.”

A slight smile curves on your lips, the corner of your mouth lifting just enough to create a dimple. “Okay, Andrew. What makes me so special?”

He turns back to the now empty sink, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles shine white against his tanned skin. You can’t help but notice how the muscles in his arms flex at the movement, veins rising beneath the thin fabric of his worn t-shirt.

“Because you treat me like a person,” he offers simply, voice rough like sandpaper against concrete.

In the half-day you’ve known him, you’ve seen how the rest of his family treats him - guarded, almost afraid, like they have to walk on eggshells around him. The way they tense when he enters a room, conversations dying mid-sentence. J had mentioned his uncle had some...odd behaviors, but something in Pope’s careful stillness doesn’t frighten you the way it should.

“Well, you are a person,” you respond, offering the small joke to try to ease his tension, your voice softer than intended.

He exhales slowly, his broad shoulders dropping a fraction, like that hit somewhere deeper than expected. “You don’t know what I am,” he mutters, the words barely audible over the persistent drip of the faucet.

You meet his eyes, stepping close enough to catch the faint scent of soap again. “Then tell me what you are.”

Silence stretches between you, thick as honey. For a second, you think he might actually tell you.

Instead, he shakes his head, jaw clenching tight enough that a muscle jumps beneath the stubble. “You wouldn’t come around here if I did.”

You don’t answer right away. Because that feels like a test. And you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince when you say, “You don’t know that.”

His gaze sharpens, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of color remains. “I do.”

“How?”

He steps closer. Not touching. Just there, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. “Because no one else wants to. Not really.”

He walks away without another word, leaving you standing alone in the kitchen, your fingers still damp from dishwater, gripping the counter edge too hard.

The next few weeks become a slow torture. Whenever his brothers throw a party, Pope is there—not having fun, but cleaning up, his presence both unsettling and oddly comforting. When he finally lets himself relax, his eyes are on you. You tell yourself to look away, but can’t. You sit on J’s lap, his hand rubbing small circles on your bare thigh, while Pope brushes off any woman who approaches him. J’s lips brush against your neck, and instead of closing your eyes and savoring the feeling, you meet Pope’s gaze across the room, hating yourself for the electricity that sparks between you.

You try to convince yourself it’s nothing—just attention from someone when J has grown distant since moving in with Smurf. But late at night, guilt gnaws at you, making your stomach twist, yet you still count the hours until you might see Andrew again. Wrong and right fade together like watercolors, leaving you sick with want and shame.

A few weeks later, you arrive at your apartment to find Pope leaning against your door, one shoulder pressed to the peeling paint, his face half-shadowed in the dim hallway lighting.

“Andrew,” you say, his name still unfamiliar on your tongue. “What are you doing here...and how do you know where I live?”

“You never ask me for anything,” he says with no greeting, ignoring your second question entirely. You probably don’t want to know anyway.

“I can say the same to you.” You dig through your bag, past crumpled receipts and loose change, for keys that somehow always fall to the very bottom.

“I’m asking now.” His eyes, hazel with flecks of amber, lock onto yours.

“For what?”

His gaze flicks to your mouth, lingering on your lower lip for a heartbeat too long, then back to your eyes. “For you to open your door.”

You exhale slowly, the sound loud in the quiet hallway, and slide the key into the lock. The familiar click echoes as you step into your apartment, the wooden floor creaking beneath your feet. He’s your boyfriend’s uncle. A man whose very presence makes rooms go silent. But you can’t resist his pull, magnetic and dangerous.

“Want to talk about what’s bothering you?” you ask, standing beside the open door, one hand still on the knob. You study him, noticing the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw tightens at the question.

“I don’t know,” he admits. It’s quiet. Honest.

More honest than you expected from him. You feel something loosen in your chest, just a fraction. “Fair enough.”

The rapid knocks slice through the silence of your apartment. Adrenaline floods your system as you lunge across the room, fingers fumbling with the lock, your pulse hammering in your throat. There’s only one person who would come to see you at this hour of the night.

When you swing the door open, you find Pope slumped against the frame. Ghostly pale. Each breath a gasp. His hand clamped against his side where thin, crimson liquid seeps between his fingers, darkening his already dark shirt.

“Oh my God—” You choke back his name, glancing frantically down the hallway. “Get in. Now.”

He staggers forward. You yank him inside, slamming the door, eyes darting wildly—lock engaged, blinds closed, no witnesses. Blood roars in your ears as your body shifts into survival mode.

“Sit,” you command, half-dragging him toward the couch.

“I’m fine,” he growls through clenched teeth.

“You’re bleeding through your goddamn shirt.”

“Had worse.”

“Congratulations,” you hiss, shoving him down. “Sit your ass down before you collapse.”

He sits slowly, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

You’re already grabbing a faded blue towel from the bathroom, your brain flipping through your inventory—first aid kit under the sink, a half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze bandages. Not enough for a wound like this, but it’ll have to be.

“What happened?” you ask, kneeling on the hard floor in front of him, the chill seeping through your thin pajama pants.

“Nothing,” he says automatically, voice a raspy whisper.

You give him a look, eyebrows raised, lips pressed into a thin line. “Try again.”

You watch the veins in his throat as he swallows. “Job went sideways.”

“Clearly.” You reach for the blood-soaked hem of his shirt. His hand catches your wrist—not rough, but firm, his palm hot against your skin.

“Wait.”

You still, pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips. “What?”

His eyes flick over your face, searching. “You don’t have to do this.”

The words hit wrong, settling like stones in your stomach. Almost like he’s giving you an out. You frown, the crease between your brows deepening. “Yeah, I do.”

“No,” he says quietly, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t.”

“I’m already doing it,” you reply, softer now, leaning close enough to smell copper and sweat. “So unless you want to bleed out on my couch, let go.”

His grip loosens, fingers trailing reluctantly across your skin as they fall away.

You pull your hand free and pull up his shirt. Your stomach drops. The gash tears across his ribs, jagged and raw, still weeping blood that pools in the hollows of his abdomen. Purple bruising is already radiating outward from the wound.

You inhale sharply. “Jesus Christ, Andrew.”

“Told you, I’ve had worse.” His voice is labored.

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be.”

You lock eyes with him, heat rising in your chest. “It’s really fucking not.” His gaze burns into yours, unblinking. Devouring. You snatch the towel and press it hard against the wound. He hisses, body going rigid, veins standing out on his neck.

“I know, I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Hold still.”

“I am.” His jaw clenches tight enough to crack.

“You’re not.”

“Yes, I am.” Each word is forced through gritted teeth.

“You’re shaking.”

You press harder on the wound, blood seeping between your fingers as you reach blindly for the first aid kit. “A hospital never crossed your mind?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended.

He just stares at you, jaw muscle twitching.

“Right.” You press harder, making him hiss. “Stupid question.” The silence between you pulses like the blood under your hands. “You came here,” you finally say, the accusation hanging.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t have any other options.” Your eyes burn into his.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Not ones I wanted.”

Your hands freeze against his torn flesh. Something electric passes between you before you force yourself back to the task. “Andrew—“

“I know,” he cuts in, voice raw. “I’m sorry.”

You rip open gauze packets with your teeth.

“Wasn’t thinking.” His admission hangs in the air between you.

You meet his eyes, close enough to feel his ragged breath, as you tear the blood-soaked towel away without warning. He stifles a groan that vibrates through your bones. “I need to clean it.”

A curt nod.

“This is gonna hurt like hell.”

“Do it.”

Your fingers hover over the wound. “Nothing for the pain?”

“No.” The word is final.

You exhale shakily. “If you hit me—“

“I won’t.” His eyes lock onto yours with such intensity you can barely breathe.

“You might want to.”

His hand suddenly grips your wrist again. “I won’t.”

His certainty anchors you in the chaos. “Alright,” you breathe, fingers trembling as you soak the gauze with alcohol. “Ready?”

He nods once. You press it against the wound. His entire body goes rigid, a strangled sound caught in his throat as his knuckles turn white against the couch. Blood seeps through the gauze, staining your fingers.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper repeatedly, your face inches from his. His breath comes hot against your cheek, the scent of copper and sweat filling your lungs. You work methodically, your hands steady while your heart hammers violently against your ribs. Each time he flinches, something twists deeper inside you.

“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt,” you say, voice raw.

“I’m not pretending.” His words scrape out between clenched teeth.

“Andrew—“

“Fine. It hurts,” he cuts you off, eyes burning into yours, “like fucking fire.”

You freeze, caught in his gaze.

“But I’m fine.” The words vibrate with tension.

You shake your head, leaning closer. “Liar.”

His expression shifts—something dark and electric flashing behind his eyes. You don’t push him. Once the wound is clean, you reach for bandages, fingers trembling against his blood-slick skin. “This might need stitches,” you mutter, throat tight.

“I’ll be fine.” His words vibrate against your fingertips.

“You keep saying that.” Your voice cracks.

“Because it’s true.” His eyes burn into yours, daring you to look away.

You don’t. You stare back, taking in every detail—the pallor beneath his skin, the sweat beading his temples, the pulse hammering in his throat. “Yeah,” you breathe, barely audible. “You usually are.” The words hang between you like a confession.

Pope’s gaze locks onto yours, pupils dilating. “Usually?”

You tie off the bandage with shaking hands, knuckles brushing his ribs. “Even Cody’s have limits, Andrew,” you whisper. You lean closer until your breath mingles with his. “You don’t have to hit it alone.”

The air between you crackles, charged and dangerous. Pope’s fingers suddenly grip your hand, his touch burning. “You mean that?” His voice is raw, desperate.

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yeah,” you say, not breaking eye contact. “I do.”

He studies you with such intensity you can barely breathe, like he’s memorizing every detail of your face. Then, his thumb traces the back of your hand. “Okay.”

You finish securing the bandage, your hands lingering against his skin until he inhales sharply. You pull back like you’ve been burned. “There,” you say, voice unsteady. “Try not to rip that open again.”

“I’ll try.”

You shake your head, the motion gentle and unhurried. There’s no real frustration there—only a slow, quiet acceptance that settles in your chest. You push yourself upward, but before you can rise fully, his hand drifts to you and curls around your hip, a steady, warm weight that pins you in place. You freeze, eyes tracing the line of his fingers, solid and grounding against your skin. A low pulse of heat blooms where they rest.

“Sit with me for a second,” he says, his voice hushed and rough at the edges. It’s not a command, but a plea.

You swallow. Logically, you tell yourself you should brush his hand away, reassert the distance you’re accustomed to. But instead your voice slips out: “Just until you stop looking like you might pass out.”

His grip tightens, just enough to communicate relief without causing pain. He exhales.

“Okay.” You lower yourself back onto the couch, settling beside him, closer than necessary. Neither of you moves away. After a minute, he shifts with a careful movement so as not to undue all the work you just did.

His shoulder presses against yours, light yet unmistakable. You stay still, heart thudding softly against your ribs. He leans his head toward you, close enough that you feel its weight humming next to your arm.

“Hurts,” he murmurs after a few seconds, voice nearly lost in the hush of the room.

You glance at him. In the soft lamp light, you see his jaw set, eyes shadowed with fatigue. “I know.”

He nods, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Silence follows, thick and warm. “Thank you.”

You blink, surprised by the vulnerability in his tone. “Don’t make it weird,” you say automatically, though your voice is softer than you intend.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

You let out a soft laugh from the back of your throat. “You’re really bad at this.”

“At what?”

“Being taken care of.”

He tilts his head, thinking. “Smurf’s the only one who’s ever taken care of me. So, yeah—you’re probably right.”

Your chest constricts, lips pressing together. “Good thing I’m nothing like her then,” you murmur.

He turns his head just enough to catch your face. “Yeah,” he says quietly. A few more minutes pass in easy silence. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

You swallow hard, catching the glint of something wet in his gaze. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth before debating your options. You finally decide to answer honestly. “Because I know what it’s like.” You offer him a sad smile, the corners of your mouth tugging down. “My brother… he took the same meds as you.”

His eyebrows knit together, confusion and concern mingling in his expression.

“I saw the prescription bottle on the kitchen counter one day. Smurf asked me to grab something for her, and I—” you cut off, shaking your head.

He reaches up, fingers brushing your arm. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

You let a shaky sigh escape. “I was close with my brother before he died - car accident,” you offer before he has a chance to assume. “I never felt afraid of him, so…I guess that’s why I’m not scared of you. And you,” you add after a pause, “you’ve never given me any reason to be.”

He looks down at his hands, then back up at you. “Sometimes I wonder,” he murmurs, voice low, “if my dad hadn’t left, if Smurf wasn’t… who she was, maybe I could’ve been—normal.”

Something like ice settles in your gut at his confession. You shift until you hold him gently into your arms. You’re careful around the bandage on his side, mindful of every movement.

He responds by wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his head into the hollow of your shoulder. You don’t need words; the embrace says it all: comfort, solidarity, the silent promise that someone will always be here.

You don’t cross the line all at once. You step a toe over, sitting poolside on a Saturday, the concrete hot against your bare thighs, the air smelling of chlorine.

“You’re staring again,” you say, sunglasses pushed up into your damp hair.

Pope doesn’t look away, his eyes intense and unblinking. “You noticed.”

“Hard not to.” Your fingers trace condensation down the side of your glass.

“Does it bother you?”

You shake your head, feeling droplets of water slide from your hair down your neck. “No. Just makes me wonder.”

“What?”

“What you’re thinking about.”

A pause. His jaw works slightly, that muscle twitching the way it does when he’s deciding whether to speak. “You.”

You huff out a quiet laugh that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s true.” His voice is rough, honest in a way that makes your skin prickle.

“Okay,” you push lightly, leaning forward so your shadow falls across his chest, “what about me?”

His gaze drifts over your face, like he’s memorizing the curve of your cheekbones, the shape of your mouth. “You say one thing,” he says slowly, each word deliberate, “but you mean something else.”

Your stomach tightens into a hard knot. “Like what?”

“You say you love J,” he continues, sunlight catching the flecks of amber in his eyes, “but you don’t sound like it when you talk about him.”

“That’s not—“ Your protest dies as his fingers brush against yours on the hot concrete.

“You don’t look at him the way you look at me.”

That shuts you up. The pool filter hums in the silence between you. “Andrew—” His name tastes different on your tongue now.

“I’m not wrong.” There’s no triumph in his voice, just quiet certainty.

“No,” you admit, quieter now, watching a bead of sweat trace his collarbone. “You’re not wrong.”

The air shifts, heavy with something electric that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

“Why are you still with him then?” he asks, the question hanging between you like smoke.

You swallow, throat clicking dry. “I don’t know.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell his skin—chlorine and sweat, and something musky. “Yeah, you do.”

Your voice drops to barely above a whisper, the words scraping your throat. “It’s not that simple, okay? You’re J’s uncle. And you’re older—”

“Is that bad?” His question cuts through pretense, eyes searching yours with that unnerving directness.

You let out a breath and meet his eyes, noting how his pupils have expanded, leaving only a thin ring of color. “No,” you say, feeling something inside you surrender. “That’s the problem.”

That night, he knocks on your apartment door, three sharp raps that echo through your empty living room. When you open it, the hallway light catches on the angles of his face, shadowing the hollow beneath his cheekbones.

“You shouldn’t be here, Andrew.” Your voice sounds thin even to your own ears.

His jaw tightens, that familiar muscle jumping beneath the stubble on his chin. “You want me to go.” It’s not a question.

His flat tone catches you off guard. “That’s not what I said.” The door frame digs into your palm as you grip it tighter.

“Semantics.”

You shake your head, hair brushing against your cheek. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He shifts his weight, boots scuffing against the worn linoleum in the hallway.

“Make it that simple.” The air between you feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

He steps closer then, leaning his body towards you. “It is simple.”

“For you.” Your voice drops to a whisper.

“For us.” The word hangs in the narrow space between your bodies.

Your chest tightens, lungs constricting. “There is no ‘us.’”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. He just looks at you, gaze traveling over every inch of your face. “Say that again,” he says, the words barely disturbing the air.

You hesitate, mouth dry as sand.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting in the ghost of a smile.

You hate how easily he reads you, how he peels back your layers with surgical precision.

“Andrew—”

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says suddenly, hands hanging loose at his sides, knuckles scarred from fights you’ve never asked about.

You blink, heat rising to your face. “That’s... not true.”

“It is.” His voice is steady. Certain. “I’m not asking you to leave him. I’m not asking you for anything you don’t already give.” He steps into your space, close enough that your breath stutters, that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

And you know he’s right. Some part of you has wanted him since he helped you with the dishes that first night you stayed over at Smurf’s, his forearms slick with soap suds, veins prominent under tanned skin. You’d stopped trying to hide it—looking at him just as intensely as he looks at you, never breaking eye contact with him when J kisses you, your gaze locked on Pope’s over his nephew’s shoulder.

You’re lost in your thoughts until Pope grabs your chin, his thumb rough against your skin, bringing your eyes up to meet his. The contact sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.

“Do you want me to go?” His breath fans across your face, warm and smelling faintly of whiskey.

It’s a question this time.

And you answer the only way you know how—crashing your lips onto his, clutching the collar of his button-down, pulling him over the threshold. You don’t give him a chance to ask the question again, deepening the kiss, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him until his chest is flush against yours. The door slams shut behind him.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, a stiffening of his shoulders that betrays the war between his better judgement and his desire. But then his hands are on you, large and warm, settling on your waist. He holds you like a porcelain doll, like something fragile that might break if he squeezes too hard. It’s infuriating. It’s exactly what you’re trying to escape with J.

You pull back just enough to look at him, admiring the lines of experience etched around his mouth and eyes. Standing here in your entryway, he’s holding himself back with a trembling control.

“Take me to the bedroom,” you whisper against his lips.

He nods, a short, jerky motion, and lets you lead him down the hall. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sit, pulling him down with you. He settles his weight over you with agonizing slowness. His lips find yours again, softer this time, exploring. 

His hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. The touch is feather-light, a ghost of the pressure you’re seeking. You arch your back, trying to force more contact, trying to tell him without words that you don’t need to be handled with care. 

His fingers fumble with the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, exposing your skin to the cool air inch by inch. He presses open-mouthes kisses to your stomach, his tongue flicking out against your skin with a delicate, wet touch. 

“Andrew,” you breathe, your voice coming out harsher than you intend.

He looks up, his eyes dark, his hair messy from your fingers. “What is it? Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you say, reaching down to unbuckle his belt. “I don’t want you to stop. I want you to stop being so gentle. You’ve been burning holes in me with those eyes for months. Show me how much you want me.”

His gaze hardens, his soft eyes sharpening into something predatory. He understands. The shift in the air is instantaneous. “You want rough?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against your ribs.

“I want you to fuck me like you mean it,” you challenge. 

A low growl rumbles in his chest, and his veneer shatters. He doesn’t ease into it - he snaps. He surges forward, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that steals the air from your lungs. His teeth graze your bottom lip, biting down just hard enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

His hands are no longer tentative. He rips your shirt off, no longer bothering with the slow, seductive removal of fabric. The sound of tearing seams fills the room, but you don’t care.

He breaks the kiss only to shrug off his own shirt, revealing a chest lightly dusted with hair and defined by hard muscle.

Then he’s back on you, kissing you, devouring you, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just rests his fingers there, a heavy, possessive weight that makes your pulse flutter beneath his palm.

“Is this better?” he mutters against your mouth.

“More,” you gasp, tilting your head back to expose more of your neck to him.

He bites down on the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. You cry out, your nails raking down his back, urging him on. He grinds his hips against yours, letting you feel the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans. He’s not holding back now. The friction from the denim is rough against your bare thighs.

He reaches between you, pressing the heel of his hand against the apex of your thighs, rubbing you through your pajama shorts. The pressure is firm and unrelenting, forcing a rhythm on you that you can’t escape. You buck your hips up to meet him, desperate for more.

“Look at you,” he groans, pulling back to watch your face. “So fucking hungry for it. Does he touch you like this? Does he make you this wet?”

“No,” you whimper, shamelessly grinding against his hand. “Never.”

“Good,” he says, suddenly flipping you over.

The movement is effortless, a display of strength that makes your head spin. You land on your stomach, face pressed into the pillows, before you can even process the change in position. He grabs the waistband of your shorts and yanks them down to your knees in one rough tug. The air hits your exposed ass, making you shiver, but before you can adjust, his hand comes down in a sharp slap.

The sound cracks through the room like a whip. A stinging heat blooms across your right cheek, radiating outward. You gasp into the pillow, your back arching instinctively. It hurts, but the pain is grounding, clearing away the fog of longing and need that’s been clouding your mind for months.

“Andrew!” you cry out, the volume muffled by the pillow.

“Tell me you like it,” he demands, his hand coming down on the other cheek, harder this time. The impact sends a shockwave through your body, making your pussy clench around nothing.

“I love it,” you moan, pushing your ass back up. “Don’t stop.”

He spanks you again, developing a punishing rhythm that leaves your skin burning and your nerve endings on fire. Between slaps, he kneads the flesh, fingers gripping tight. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and incredibly powerful.

“You’re soaking,” he observes, his voice thick with lust. “I think you were waiting for this. Waiting for someone to treat you like the dirty girl you are.”

“Yes,” you hiss, rocking back against his hand. “Please.”

“Please what?” He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot in your ear. “Please fuck you? Please ruin you for every other man?”

“Fuck me,” you beg, your voice breaking. “Ruin me, please.”

You hear the rustle of fabric as he finally frees himself from his jeans. A moment later, the hot, heavy weight of his cock rests against the crease of your ass. He feels bigger than you imagined, thick and throbbing with need.

He lines himself up with your entrance, not teasing, not waiting for you to adjust. He grips your hips tightly and slams into you in one thrust.

You scream into the pillow, your body stretching to accommodate him, the sudden fullness bordering on too much. He doesn’t pause to let you catch your breath. He immediately sets a punishing, pulling out almost entirely before driving back in deep, his hips slapping against your ass with every thrust. The bed frame slams against the wall, a testament to the strength of his movements.

This isn’t making love. It’s raw and primal and exactly what you asked for. He reaches around, finding your clit with his fingers, rubbing it in time with his thrusts, forcing you toward the edge whether you’re ready or not.

“Take it,” he grunts, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your back. “Every inch.”

You do. You meet him thrust for thrust, your body reveling in the sheer intensity of him.

After, you both lie on your backs, panting heavily, trying to catch your breath. 

“Why me?” The question slips out before you can stop it, hanging in the darkness between you.

Pope turns his head slightly on the pillow, the sheets rustling beneath him. His eyes catch what little moonlight filters through your blinds, making them shine. “What?”

“Out of all the women who are always hanging around,” you say, running your finger across his collarbone. “The ones always hanging around your brothers. The blonde at the bar last week. Why me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. The ceiling fan clicks softly overhead, stirring the humid air. When he does speak, his voice is soft but certain, like the low rumble before an avalanche.

“Because you see me,” he says simply, knuckles brushing against your bare hip.

You swallow, feeling your throat click in the silence. “That’s not a good reason.”

“It is for me.” The mattress dips as he shifts his weight. He scoots you closer, cradling your head against his chest, and pulling your leg up to rest across his hips, rubbing soothing circles against your outer thigh.

Your chest tightens, heart drumming against your ribs. “Will you please stay tonight?”

He laces his fingers through yours, grip firm as iron. His eyes never leave yours, pupils dilated in the darkness. “As long as you want, Baby.”

Sleep finally comes easily for you, wrapped in Pope’s arms, anchored to him like a ship in a storm.

[terriblefaun]

ohhh something crazy insane just happened to me

[littlebatx]

andrew pope cody cries with his face buried in pussy #CONFIRMED

[terriblefaun]

next pay check is getting spent on a quinn substription. i love big girl money

[mcthsman]

*FOLSOM PRISON BLUES: a pope cody x reader story.

Pope accidentaly comes across an audioporn app and becomes obsessed with you, a content creator with a roleplaying series about a young woman and her convict boyfriend. He doesn't believe his luck when he discovers that his favorite audio porn star also happens to be Lena's babysitter.

click here for my main masterlist.

warnings: age gap (reader is mid 20s, pope is early 40s), reader is afab and goes by she/her, reader is lena's babysitter, forming a creepy parasocial relationship with your favorite porn star, sex work, audioporn, stalker!pope, pwp, mommy issues galore, no use of y/n, takes place before the ending of season 1, no physical description of reader, mentions of pope having a mommy kink (but it doesn't play out on page), obsessive!pope, dubcon (non-consensual voyerism, f &m masturbation, dirty talk, sex toys, unprotected piv, squirting, oral, fingering, size kink, rough sex, improper use of a kitchen counter, hair pulling, eating from the back, cleaning the bowl).

rating: +18.

word count: 4.9k.

fox says: hello friends, thank you so much for reading! y'all have no idea how loud i screamed when i saw that shawn is doing an episode for quinn while having this already drafted. the app mentioned is 100% inspired by quinn, i just don't name it in the fic because quinn itself wasn't created until 2019 and it was going to mess up the timeline. also this is my first time writing for pope so pls go easy on me. as always please let me know what we think!

also available on archiveofourown.

Pope Cody was in prison for 1.114 days. In that time, he read 158.5 books; he finished the last one — The Book Thief, which he started reading on day 1.112 of his sentence — as a free man. He’s already finished with The Book Thief when he learns about audiobooks, after a well placed ad for Audible on a self-help Youtube video he listened to while on a stake out. 

It takes him another eight books after that to discover audioporn. He comes across the app by accident, and it takes him about seven minutes into the first audio he chose — puppyplay, though he didn’t know what that meant just yet — to realize he’s listening to a porn story. 

Pope sticks with it. The stories he listens to don’t do much for his dormant dick, but it’s nice. He likes listening to women whispering about how good of a boy he is, the dirty little things they want to do to him and the things they want him to do to them— A fantasy, something for him to get lost into during the nights he couldn’t fall asleep; a habit acquired in prison, the sort of ongoing vigilance that he couldn’t grow out of even though he now lives a somewhat safe life. 

And then he finds you. Your account is called Mommy Dearest, which is why he clicked on it at first, but the one audio that sticks with him has nothing to do with mommy kink: It’s a phone call, about fifteen minutes long, that starts with you rambling about your day and ends with you wailing through an orgasm with a loud vibrator between your legs. You edge yourself for a long portion of it, talking about how much you miss his cock and his fingers and his tongue; and then, close to the end of the call, you say you miss him. You talk about how you miss him and how prison isn’t going to keep him from you, and you giggle and say that, on another phone call, you’ll tell him every single perverted thing you’ll do to him when he’s out. 

Logically, Pope knows it’s not real. You’re not talking to him, it’s just a character that you recorded, edited and then posted on a porn app for pathetic men like him but it lands so heavy on his chest he doesn’t even notice he’s hard for the first time in over three years. 

You have a whole series on your ‘convict boyfriend’ — which you name Folsom Prison Blues after the Johnny Cash song and Lord help him if that doesn’t do something for him. — and the phone calls and letters and conjugal visits. You sigh and you moan and you describe in full detail what toy you’re using to get yourself off and, when Pope scrolls through the comment section, he gets so angry at all the men that get to listen to you too that he loses his erection. 

But he doesn’t stop listening. Pope feels some sort of odd loyalty to you and your breathy little sighs, his heart clenching whenever you whine about missing him, and he whispers into the air vows of finding you, of walking through the doors of your home and taking you in his arms and making sure you’re always full of his cock. He comes over and over again at the thought of you, bent over his couch and his kitchen counters and in his shower— He doesn’t really know what your body looks like, your profile photo is a headshot of you with a sultry smile and bright pink hair he’s fairly certain is a wig, but he thinks he can figure it out; it doesn’t really matter how big or small your tits are, because Pope dreams of falling asleep suckling on them anyway, your fingers tugging on his hair and your legs wrapped around his waist as you say you’ve waited for him, that you love him and that he’s the only man that gets to see you like that. 

Pope’s not certain at which point he stops thinking of Cath. It happens naturally, either gradually or all at once, and he only notices when he walks into Smurf’s home one evening and Cath is on the couch, her head on Baz’s shoulder, dozing off after what he presumes is a whole day out by the pool. It used to hurt him deeply to see her like that, cuddled up to a man that Pope knows isn’t good enough for her, but this time he… Feels nothing. Not pain, or annoyance, or jealousy. The only thing he can think about is how he wishes he could have that with you; an afternoon together, laying on the couch, watching a nature documentary— You’d interrupt it every five minutes or so to talk about something else, maybe your shift at your day job or the little shiny trinkets you buy with his money. He knows you’d ask about him, too. About his day and his feelings and whether or not he ate; you’d ask and you’d mean it, you’d want to hear everything he has to say unlike Smurf, who asks but never pays attention, never really listens when Pope speaks. 

He’s so lost in his daydreaming that, when he finally hears your laughter, he doesn’t think it’s real. Pope’s eyes fly beyond Baz and Cath cuddling on the couch to find you sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor by the pool, a collection of Barbie dolls spread between you and Lena. You’re in short overalls and a brown and orange striped shirt, your natural hair — not pink, so Pope had been right about the wig — pinned away from your face. A gorgeous, heaven-sent angel that laughs exactly like the girl from the app. 

“Who’s that?” He asks, unable to stop himself. His fingers itch to trace the curve of your neck, to spread his fingers over your collarbone. 

“Lena’s new sitter.” Baz answers. Pope makes a noise in the back of his throat, trying very hard to pretend that it doesn’t matter but his brother sees right through it. He squints at Pope. “Don’t even fucking think about it.”

“I’m not Craig.” He says, but they both know you’re not Craig’s type— Too innocent-looking, verging on the side of boring and not the sort of girl that Craig would look twice at. But Pope would, and he does; he finds a seat in a position where he can watch you from afar while still pretending to pay attention to the TV. You play with Lena until the girl is ready to pass out from exhaustion, and then you bring her inside and settle her on the couch before you finally introduce yourself to him, a sweet smile on your lips as you extend your hand to him. 

If your laughter had been enough to remind him of the girl from the app, the way you say your name cements it to be true. It’s you, the pink-haired girl with the convict boyfriend and an extensive collection of sex toys. 

Pope doesn’t like shaking hands — too many germs, the contact always making his skin prickly — but he takes your hand in his anyway, squeezing it once before he lets go. He wants to keep holding it, feeling your soft skin his against his roughened one, to put your fingers in his mouth and suck on them until you’re begging for him; you don’t seem to notice the way he lingers, you just accept the cash from Baz with a small nod and wave your fingers at them as you leave. 

“I mean it, Pope. Don’t be a creep with the girl.” Baz growls at him later that night, after Cath has already tucked Lena in the backseat of the car and they’re about to go home. “She keeps Lena so busy I get to actually fuck my wife on the regular again. If you fuck this up for me I’ll kill you.”

Pope doesn’t like the way Baz talks about Cath, never has— Like she’s just something for him to get off to, like he needs to rub it in Pope’s face that he’s the one that gets to sleep by her side every night. This time he doesn’t really care, because all he can think about is you.

He doesn’t mean to follow you. He just wants to make sure you get home safe at first, because Baz and Cath make you leave the house later and later each time. And then, when he finds out you’ve been taking pottery lessons twice at week at eight pm, he follows you there because he also wants to make sure nothing will happen— He thinks it’s quite late for a lesson, but you’re always happy when you leave, your face a little flushed from the red wine he sees you drinking from the window. 

Pope learns your schedule quite quickly, and he knows he’ll need to have a conversation with you about that. Keeping such a tight routine is easy for someone to hurt you, even if Pope himself understands the appeal of consistency— It’s all he’s had in prison, after all, and it was quite a comforting change from the violent chaos that is living underneath Smurf’s iron fist. It’s easy for him to come up with excuses to hang around Baz’s house whenever you’re there, and even easier whenever you’re at Smurf’s. 

Although he follows you home almost every night, Pope has never gotten too close. He’s afraid you’ll see him so he stands back, sits in his car for a couple of hours until your lights go out but tonight is different. You have a date. He follows the two of you to the twenty-four hours diner the guy takes you to, and he watches through the window as you almost fall asleep at the table; he can’t hear the conversation but it’s clear that you’re bored, barely responding to the man even though Pope knows you talk a lot when you’re happy. You’re also not a girl to take to a diner of all places and Pope wants to beat the guy black and blue for putting so little effort into dating you, even if he’s glad his competitor is tanking the date— It means he can whisk you away, dazzle you by showing what being truly courted is like. 

You swerve the guy when he tries to kiss you at your front door. Pope is out of his car by then, hiding in the shadows across the street just to make sure the man will leave you alone; he does, even though he speeds off with screeching tires when you deny his kiss for the third time. Pope tells himself that he is only checking in on you, that you’re taking way too long to shut out the lights and maybe something is wrong, as he climbs through the fire escape to your floor— He knows exactly where your apartment is, has watched you open and close your blinds plenty of times before. 

He stares through your window carefully, making sure to stay out of sight, and his mouth goes dry when he sees you sprawled on your bed, fully naked. You have one hand between your thighs, your legs spread apart as far as they can go, but Pope can barely pay attention to it— He’s looking at the dildo you’re holding with the other hand; it’s thick, long, and bright pink. Bigger than Pope’s own cock, the sort of big that he doesn’t think it’ll fit inside of you. And you’re licking it. Long, deliberate strokes of your tongue before you spit on the head, watching as it drips down the silicone shaft; you don’t take it into your mouth, not really, but you lick and spit until the thing is dripping before you collect your own slick to rub on it— You’re using your own juices and spit to lubricate it, and Pope feels like he might come in his pants at the thought of you doing the same to him. 

You don’t take the toy all the way. You push it inside of you slowly, carefully, one hand rubbing furiously at your clit while the other pushes the pink silicone inside; you stop for a moment, chest heaving but the large smile on your face tells him everything he needs to know— You’re edging yourself, stopping to come down from your high before you go back to fucking yourself on the monster cock between your legs. 

Pope’s not even aware of the moment he pulls his cock from the confines of his jeans, spitting on his hand and tugging furiously, his eyes glued to the way you fuck yourself hard and fast— It’s a little clumsy, the angle not quite right, but you’re wailing, shivering and shaking as you shove the toy inside of you as far you can; Pope pictures himself climbing through your window, taking the toy from your hands and fucking you properly with it. He thinks you might let him fuck your ass while the dildo is still inside of you, filling you with flesh and silicone until you’re crying from how full you are, how ruined your pussy and your asshole are. 

He comes first, fisting his cock with one hand and stifling his moans with the other, his eyes still glued to you. You shift positions, desperation all over your face as you bring yourself to your knees, sitting on the dildo instead; you ride it hard, bouncing on the toy and in this position Pope can see the way the entire thing disappears inside of you, the fake balls grinding against your clit when you lean forward, your hips rutting with abandon. You come while meaning loud enough that Pope thinks the neighbors might complain, your tits jiggling hard as you push yourself up and down, riding the toy all the way through your orgasm until you topple sideways, exhausted. 

Pope stays until you fall asleep, the toy forgotten by your side, your naked body sprawled over the bed. And then he stays a little longer, watching you sleep, his denim and hands still stained with his cum.

Pope thinks you’re getting used to his hovering presence the evening he corners you in the kitchen. You’re always incredibly kind to him, talking a lot when it’s just the two of you even though he hardly ever engages in the conversation apart from giving you his undivided attention; he thinks you might like him, even, your smile always brightening up when it’s geared towards him. 

Lena is in bed by then, Cath and Baz gone on a date— Which means Pope has no excuse to stick around after they leave but you don’t seem to mind, swiping up the counter where Lena spilled half of her spaghetti, humming underneath your breath. He’s not sure how to bring it up, how to tell you that he’s been listening and dreaming about you long before you showed up so instead he simply pulls out his phone, opens your profile and slides his phone across the counter. 

You stare at it like it’s something rotten, your hands frozen on the marble counter. “Pope—”

“It’s you, isn’t it?” The question is just a formality, a need for you to admit that he isn’t crazy. 

“Please don’t tell Barry.” You beg so prettily, your eyes going wide when Pope rounds the counter. “I really need this job.” 

“I listened to the entire series.” He mumbles, his hand coming up to brush your cheekbone. Your skin is soft, glittering with sparkling make up and it looks so, so pretty beneath his blood-stained hands. You shiver at the contact, eyes fluttering close before you take a deep breath. “The Folsom Prison one.”

“D’you…” You lick your lips, and Pope needs to use every ounce of whatever little control he possesses to keep himself from kissing you. “Did you like it?”

“I spent three years at Folsom.” He tells you, ignoring your question— He thinks it’s obvious, with the way his fingers drip down to run over the column of your throat. “Would’ve been a lot easier if I knew I had such a pretty young thing waiting for me at home.”

He can see the moment the idea pops into your head; Pope likes to think he can read people pretty well, and he sees the way your eyes fly from his face down to his crotch, his half-hard cock straining through his jeans. He hasn’t gotten hard this easily since he was a teenager, but your smell alone is enough to drive him crazy, let alone the way you blink owlishly at him, your nimble fingers coming up to brush at his belt buckle. 

“Promise me you won’t tell Barry.” You lick your upper lip and Pope doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it, his mouth going dry at the pink that pokes through your teeth. “I’ll give you what you want, but promise me he won’t find out.” 

Pope nods, not trusting himself to speak, and you sink to your knees. He’s terrified that he might lose his erection but his nerves turn into blazing desire when you wrap your hands around his cock, pumping him slowly and brushing your thumb against his slit— It feels so much better than his own hands that his knees nearly buckle, Pope gripping the counter as you look up at him, a soft smile on your lips. You take him slowly into your mouth, tongue circling around the head of his cock before tracing the vein on the underside, your eyes never leaving his face. Your mouth is warm and flooding when you finally take him into it, the flat of your tongue pressing against his shaft, one hand on his thigh for balance while the other grips the base of his cock; your rhythm is slow, teasing, and Pope digs his fingernails into the marble to stop himself from grabbing you by the hair— He likes you, perhaps too much, and he doesn’t want to scare you. Maybe you’d let him fuck your face one day, but this time he wants to do this your way. 

You take him as far as you can, your nose pressing against his pubic bone and Pope’s eyes roll to the back of his head when your throat tightens around the sensitive head of his cock, a whimper escaping his lips that he tries to stifle with gritted teeth. He’s going to come just from that, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes as you pick up the pace, the wet sounds of your slurping and gagging whenever you swallow too much of him bringing him that familiar tightening at his navel. 

Pope grips your hair at last, pulling you away with perhaps a little too much force. 

“Get up.” He says, half an order and half a plea. You stare at him through wet eyelashes, still gripping the base of his cock for a long moment before you comply— Pope is about ready to yank you up himself, but you stand on wobbly knees before he turns you around, pressing your front against the counter. 

The positions change, with now Pope kneeling behind you while you bend over the counter; you’re in a yellow dress, modest enough that you could run around after Lena all day without showing too much— Modest enough that it would never have anyone thinking you’re the kind of girl to fuck yourself with a silicone cock while saying the dirtiest, nastiest things on a microphone but Pope knows better. He feels like he’s the only person in the entire world that truly knows you, and his hands shake in anticipation when he shoves your dress up to your hips. You hold it in place, taking a deep breath and pushing your ass out even more. 

You’re drenched, the gusset of your cotton underwear a shade darker than the rest, your juices starting to run down your thighs. He cusses under his breath, pushing his nose against your core and taking a deep breath. You gasp, surprised, but you still push your ass against his face. Pope leans back just enough to watch as he pulls your underwear down, mouth salivating as the gusset sticks to your cunt, stringy slick connecting the cloth to your skin before he’s letting it slide down your legs. 

“All this just from sucking me off?” Pope doesn’t mean to tease, the words more wondrous than anything else. Your entire body shivers when his breath hits your pussy, making you whine. Pope takes pity on you, using his hands to spread you open before his tongue runs across your cunt. 

You taste even better than he thought you would. The two of you moan in unison, your hand flying backwards to grip his hair, pushing him against you until he’s struggling to breathe but he doesn’t care— Pope would let you use his tongue and his fingers and his cock however it pleases you, his cock throbbing at the fact that he’s the one bringing you pleasure. He suckles on your clit, nose bumping against your entrance and you keen before you bring a hand to your mouth, trying to keep quiet. He pulls back just a little, watching entranced as you clench around nothing. 

“Talk to me.” He asks. “Like you do in your stories.”

“I need your fingers.” You say, voice a little breathy, the pitch just a little higher. It’s the voice you use in the app, still yours, still recognizable, but still different. “Please, Popey, I need it. Been thinking about them for so long, how thick and capable they are—”

The nickname does something to him and Pope whimpers against your cunt, pushing two of his fingers inside of you at once. It’s a snug fit and he can only think about how your pussy is going to strangle his cock, how he’ll stretch you open and leave you leaking with his cum. He moves his fingers slowly but purposefully, crooking them until you’re almost yelling, a string of yesses and his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

The noises you make as you come might be the prettiest Pope has ever heard, your already tight cunt clenching hard around his fingers, your slick dripping down his wrists as he suckles on your clit until it’s twitching, your hips spasming against him; you slump against the cold granite, whimpering softly when he pulls his fingers out of you but Pope’s not nearly close to being done— He hasn’t been this hard in years, the tip of his cock painfully red and leaking, and there’s nothing that can make him feel better than the moment he sheaths himself inside of you with one deep thrust. It’s a tight fit, perhaps a little too tight, your pulsing cunt tightening so hard around him that Pope thinks you might push him out.

“Fuck, you’re big.” You whine, more pain than pleasure— Maybe he should’ve prepped you a little better, and Pope makes a note to do so next time.

He starts rutting slowly against you, only pulling out a little bit before he pushes back in, his hands gripping your hips. Pope watches where he disappears inside of you, entranced by the stretch of your pussy around him, his cock coming out shiny with your wetness. 

“ ‘M so full” You moan, your voice back to the breathy one you use when putting on a show. “You’re everywhere. Biggest cock I’ve ever had.”

His hand tangles on your hair, pulling you back harshly so your back smacks against his chest and you moan. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” Pope growls against your ear, the hand not on your hair digging into the plush of your ass hard enough to bruise. “I saw that toy of yours. Such a naughty little slut, stretching yourself open with a big plastic cock, creaming all over it.” 

Your head whips back at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean you saw it?”

As much as he wants to hear your pretty voice singing for him, Pope doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t think you can understand it just yet, how good he would be for you, how well he can treat you.

“Shut up.” He says, picking up the pace of his thrusts; you squirm a little, mouth open in a way that he knows means another question is coming so he slams his hand over your mouth, holding your jaw tightly closed as he pulls your head back against his shoulder. “Just— Shut up.”

He sets an almost brutal pace, his cock pushing in and out of your cunt with indecent squelching sounds and he can see the exact moment that the hand you wrap around his forearm stops trying to pull it away and holds tightly to him, your moans muffled behind his hand. 

“Are you going to be good to me?” Pope mumbles against your ear, lips twisting into a small smile when you immediately nod. He lets go of your mouth, then, pushing you back against the counter— He would love to see your face when you come for him, but the sight of the creamy ring you leave around his cock is too enticing to look away, your pretty little asshole clenching whenever he hits the right spot inside of you. 

You’re moaning now, hips pushing back against his, your mouth hanging open as you rest your head against the counter. Pope spits, the glob of saliva hitting just half an inch away from your hole and he rubs his thumb against it, pushing just the first knuckle inside of your ass; you’re even tighter there than your cunt and Pope moans, his cock pushing so hard and fast against you that you jostle, your head hitting the marble counter with a loud thud; there’s a small pool of drool next to your mouth, your lips still parted, your moans being punched out of you with every snap of his hips. 

“Cum for me.” He all but begs, his voice shaky. “Please, please, cum for me.”

Your body shakes as you come, your wetness splashing against his cock, dripping down his balls and onto his jeans and Pope can’t stop himself. He comes with a loud whimper, both his finger and his cock pushing deeper inside of you. Pope drapes himself over you, his forehead dripping sweat into the tiny pool of drool you left behind and you raise a hand, fingers raking through his hair as the two of you catch your breath. 

“Clean me up.” You say. “I can’t go home dripping your cum.” 

Pope nods, even though you can’t see his face, and he needs to wait until he stops shivering before he pulls out; he tucks himself and then looks around, trying to find the paper towels. 

“No.” You say, looking at him over your shoulder, still bent. “With your mouth, Pope.”

He’s on his needs before you can ask for it twice, lapping at your cunt, licking his own come from inside of you. Your clit twitches when he tongues at it, making sure every single part of you is clean— It takes longer than he thought it might, his cum leaking and leaking and leaking but he does as you tell him to until you’re shaking, his face smeared with a mixture of your wetness and his, fingers digging into your thighs to keep them spread when you try to close them, overstimulated— You come again like that, so lost in pleasure that you’re completely silent, squirting all over his lower face. 

And Pope, because he’s nothing if not great at following orders, swallow every single drop. He keeps licking and sucking until your entire body spasms and you pull him away by his hair. You yank hard enough to hurt, your fingernails digging into his scalp but all Pope feels is pleasure. 

“Now,” You say, smoothing down your dress and leaning back onto the counter. He can see you’re trying to hold some composure but you’re sweating, your lips bitten raw and hair plastered all over your forehead. He notices how badly you’re shaking when you try to push the hair away from your face and Pope interjects, pushing the hair out of your eyes for you. “Now you’re going to tell me exactly what and how you saw anything.”

And he does. The two of you sit down on the kitchen floor, facing each other, and Pope tells you word for word of the night he saw you masturbating on your bed, the way he perched himself outside of your window and touched himself to the image of you. You don’t say anything, silent even when he begs you to say something, sitting on the ground until Baz and Cath come home; you bid them goodnight with an innocent smile as if you hadn’t just squirted all over their kitchen and leave without sparing Pope another glance.

Three days later, Pope gets a notification that you’ve posted a new audio; it’s not an update on the Folsom Prison Blues series but an entirely new one:

Late Night Cravings. It’s the tale of a young nanny that fucks her stalker in the kitchen of her workplace and, in the comments, you promise to soon share another episode.

interest check tag: @mytearsricochetm @that-antler-queen @pearlessance @honey-moon-13 @headcaase @crossfandomslut @slugarchives (i'm not tagging my general list since this isn't a ppcu fic so i just tagged the peeps that showed interest in me writing for pope! no pressure in reading it though 🤍)

[lasaraconor]

[theroaringhedgefoxblog]

years later both of them have a copy of this picture that they look at every once in a while

[nereidprinc3ss]

hot blooded

dr. langdon doesn't necessarily approve of you, the new hire. that doesn't mean he won't drop everything to help when you stumble into the ER, bloodied and disoriented under the unforgiving light.

frank langdon x girly!wardclerk!reader warnings/tags: reader is attacked but shes fine, hurt/comfort literally, langdon plays doctor, unidentified yearning, inappropriate workplace crushes being violently suppressed, Langdon in extreme denial, age gap but nothing has technically happened, blood duh hospital medical stuff Girl its The Pitt. wc 5k a/n: I am fucking crazy..... but I am free

Frank Langdon didn’t think that they needed another ward clerk. Lupe was more than adequate, splitting her duties with that older woman—the one with the gray ponytail and the purple framed glasses—and then there was that balding, lanky young gentlemen… Harold, maybe? Harlan? Hardy? 

Point being, he’s not sure why anyone felt the need to stretch the already sheer budget by onboarding someone who looks too young to have any relevant work experience. Nurses, is what they need. More nurses. Or better paid nurses. Definitely more security. The luck they’ve had avoiding any assaults for the past few months is sure to wear off soon. 

So yeah, it irks him a little when he comes in through chairs in the mornings and you’re already there behind your plexiglass shield, typing on Lupe’s computer in Lupe’s seat. Always with your hair done. Always in some new blouse you’d bought with a paycheck that could’ve gone toward, oh—another nurse, maybe? Frank begins to resent those little blouses of yours. Each polka dot, each cluster of ditzy flowers, every single stripe and every lacy neckline representing vital cents that Gloria might as well toss down a wishing well. 

Today you’re sunshine, butter yellow and cream stripes curving down a fitted cap sleeve number. Mother of pearl buttons and the tiniest hint of sugar-white lace, bridging the gap at your sternum where you stopped buttoning the shirt up. Frank wonders how many stylets they could’ve ordered with the amount of money you paid for this top. Then he wonders how long it took you to get your hair like that, with the tendrils curling just so, complimenting the soft line of your jaw and the shape of your mouth. The hair in question is pushed behind an ear as you look dutifully between your computer screen and a sour-faced man with a turgid beer belly, on whom your charms are entirely lost. He’s already taking up an attitude with you, at seven in the goddamn morning, and you’re utterly serene. That’s another thing you ought to work on—the way you look at these people, so openly, so receptively, as if it is your greatest, most earnest desire to get each and every one of them seen as quickly and attentively as possible. With your lips slightly parted, and your brows almost imperceptibly raised. It’s just a little too kind. You give these people an inch, and they’d be happy to use you as a rug between here and those all-powerful double doors. 

Frank eyes the man, assessing for any hint of aggression in his body language, and then looks back to you. Only sets his eyes squarely ahead when he’s sure you’re not going to look away from your charge and in his direction—in which case he’d be forced to offer a flat little smile and an indifferent nod of greeting. That happens some mornings. Most, probably. Other than that, and some brief parlay when he’s needed in chairs and you have the relevant patient information, the two of you don’t often have occasion to speak. And so he doesn’t have occasion to think about you. Or how whoever hired you was practically setting you up to fail. To be emotionally scarred for life, at the very least, and to have your confidence slashed in a million different ways. Ward clerks don’t need to be especially kind, or accommodating or pretty, or make every patient feel singularly special with that solicitous look in a set of sparkling eyes. In fact, they should be more like drill sergeants. They should lay down the law, and never take any bullshit from anyone. Frank has seen what scorned patients do to even the most hardened hospital staff given the chance. Putting you in chairs and saying manage these lunatics is like setting up a lightning rod on a roof and expecting it to clear up a storm. 

It’s irresponsible. And, mostly, an egregious waste of money. But he clears the double doors, and the antiseptic fluorescents embrace him like a weary partner, and there is no more cause to think about you. 

Not for a while, anyway. 

Not for a few hours, until he’s peeling off a pair of soiled gloves and absently catching a handful of sanitizer, and someone opens the doors to the waiting room and someone else’s angry words slide through the gap. 

His feet are moving before his brain has made any logistical decrees. 

Instead of the double doors, Frank takes the direct route to your little box office. It feels smaller than he remembers, and smells a whole lot sweeter, which is very odd until he realizes that it’s you, and then he’s inexplicably embarrassed at having considered what you smell like. And by taking note of the fact that it is rich vanilla and an almost arresting hint of lavender. It gets worse when he leans over your shoulder—the scent gets warmer, and a little disarming, the way a good fragrance always does when it sits flush to the skin and invites you to come closer, to try and parse the difference between synthetic and organic. He braces a hand on the desk next to you. No way you should be allowed to wear such a distracting perfume to work. It’s out of place. It’s just not what a hospital is supposed to smell like. 

This whole thought process unfurls in a matter of about three seconds before he’s cutting off the man who’d been yelling at you—the same one from earlier, he realizes with distaste. 

“No yelling in the waiting room. It’s distressing to the patients.”

“I am fucking distressed. I am a distressed fucking patient!”

“Sir, lower your voice or you’ll be removed by security. We have a zero tolerance policy for aggressive behavior.”

For good measure, Frank points to the sign by the nearest pillar. You look in that direction too, like you hadn’t know it was there. Seriously, did nobody fucking train you? Did you wander in off the street? Or maybe out of a perfume commercial?

“Are you going to treat me or is she just going to keep giving me the same bullshit line?”

You begin: “Sir, there are people ahead of you who need—”

“I wasn’t fucking talking to you!” the man explodes, hitting the glass with a meaty palm. Frank looks around for security, but there’s nobody to be found. Fucking budget cuts. Fucking ward clerks. 

“Dr. Langdon doesn’t decide who goes back. I decide who goes back,” you shoot, and while it’s not entirely truthful, Frank is caught off guard (and a little impressed) by the quick, clean jab. “Have a seat or I’ll call security and you’ll have wasted everybody’s time here today.”

The man looks at you, dumb and red as a brick. Then, he chuffs under his breath. That laugh does little to set Frank at ease—in fact, it has him tensing up. It’s a reckless laugh. Like this guy might be about to do something stupid. 

But he just turns around, shaking his head as he walks down the aisle of chairs toward the exit. 

“Unbelievable,” he laughs again. Langdon is pretty sure he’s actually burning holes through the back of this guys jacket as he tracks his flight path, still not quite believing that he’ll leave so peaceably. 

He’s proved right, at the very last moment, when the man is at the threshold of the door. Clearly a coward who knows he’s on the precipice of escape, he looks over his shoulder and yells: “Dumb fucking bitch!”

Frank immediately straightens, rigid with an innate impulse to chase this fucking guy down—but ultimately, is bound in place. Just barely. Just by nature of knowing dealing with assholes is a part of your job, and beating them up is not a part of his. Violence is not exactly endorsed in the Hippocratic oath.

“Dr. Langdon?”

“Hm?” 

He’s aware that he sounds disinterested, that he hasn’t looked away from the rectangle of bright midday light which beckons him in search of retribution. He’s also aware that he might break off a piece of this desk with how hard he’s gripping it. 

“Should I call security?”

“Uh…” he’s drawn back to you, briefly distracted by your proximity when he looks down. You’re expectant looking, eyes clear and wide as usual, combing for information and ostensibly unrattled—but your lips are pressed together somberly. Like you’re keeping something in. “Uh, no. No, if we had security chase down every disgruntled patient there wouldn’t be any left. I’m sorry about that, though. Guy was an asshole. You okay?”

A little nod. One of your earrings catches a drop of light, twisting and arcing brilliantly. Distractingly. 

Jesus, he’s out of it today. 

“I’m good.”

Unconvinced, he does another quick scan of the room. 

“Are you sure? How about you take a break, where’s, uh…”

He draws a blank. 

“Honald? He’s on lunch, I think he’ll be back soon.”

“Okay, why don’t you take yours when he gets back? Just, you know, take a beat. Relax for a minute.”

It’s ridiculous for him to be telling you how to take your break, and he has no idea why he’s doing it, but you nod. 

“Yeah, okay. I will.”

“Good.” Frank straightens fully, pats your shoulder even as he’s already turning around to leave and immediately wonders if that’s something he usually does with his coworkers. “You’re doing great.”

The door is closing behind him before he has a chance to hear your reply. 

Frank is visibly shaking his head and muttering to himself as he walks past central, where Robby is consulting over some files with Dana. He feels Robby’s eyes catch on him and follow his path for a moment before calling out, “Alright?”

“Alright,” Frank mutters uselessly, and goes to make himself useful. Hopefully someone is on the precipice of death via massive internal bleed. That, at least, would make sense to him. There’s an area in which he can demonstrate absolutely competence. 

-

No internal bleeding, but a couple of burns and concussions need dealing with. He handles them quickly and is sauntering up to Dana for something a little more challenging when the door opens again—and there you stand, cradling one limp arm against your chest, and Frank can’t quite make sense of what he’s seeing at first, but he’s aware that Dana is exclaiming in that jaded way of hers, already making her way toward you. 

You—looking out of place as you blink against the white light, dazed, glancing around furtively, uncertainly. 

Blood, oozing from your cheek and arm, matting your carefully styled hair to your face and ruining your brand new sunshine-yellow shirt. Frank is in action, beats Dana to you, calling over his shoulder for assistance as he takes you by the shoulders and guides you to a nearby chair before kneeling in front of you. 

“I don’t need—I can walk,” you insist, a little breathless. He sees your gaze drop to the floor as you speak, and your brows furrow a little—surprised by your own pain. 

“What happened?”

“Um, that guy—” you wince as Mattheo, who  seems to have materialized out of nowhere, dabs at your bloody cheek with gauze. 

“Hey, woah, no,” Frank interrupts. “Don’t touch her face. Look at the arm, I got her cheek. Which guy?”

“The guy who was yelling at me earlier, I guess he waited in the staff parking lot, and, um, I went out to grab my lunch from my car, and I saw the tires were slashed, and then, like, he just—I don’t know, someone just grabbed me, I don’t even know what he was holding—”

“He attacked you with a blade? Did you call—”

Frank is forgoing his own sentence, rising up and shoring in a sturdy breath to yell for security, but your hand catches on his forearm and it jars him enough to stop him clean in his tracks. 

“It’s fine, Orlando was right around the corner smoking. I think he got the guy, I don’t know, I just turned around and came right here, I didn’t know—I wasn’t sure what I supposed to do.”

“No, you did great. You did good, you did the right thing. Did you at any point hit your head?” He takes your face in his hands and turns you this way and that, searching for any signs of head trauma. 

“No. I don’t think. I mean, I staid on my feet.”

“Ooh, making me look bad,” Dana mutters, fussing in her way as she sets up makeshift first aid station. 

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Frank insists as he very carefully slides your sticky hair off your cheek and smooths it out of your face. “You didn’t see what he used?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Woah, ward clerk,” Robby says, and Frank is inexplicably annoyed by his presence. “What we got?”

“A low patient satisfaction score, I guess.” You wince even as you say it, and Frank grimaces in sympathetic pain, hand darting back from where he’d been trying to assess the wound. 

Any humor melts from Robby’s voice. “Are you serious? Where the fuck is security?”

“I’m wondering the same thing,” Frank murmurs to himself, impossibly gentler this time as he dabs away the blood. 

“They got him. Right away. It was my fault, I—”

Frank cuts you off. “No it wasn’t. That’s all on me. I should have taken that asshole seriously.”

“Arm lac is superficial and clotting,” Mattheo reports. “How’s the cheek?”

“Ah… can’t tell. We need a bed.”

“What? No, we don’t, I’m genuinely fine.”

“South 15 is open,” Dana barks. “You’re gonna want that bed, Scarface.”

Robby slams a folder on the counter. “I’m going to find Gloria.”

“Gloria?” You frown, twisting to look at him. 

Frank gently redirects your head and puts a square of gauze in your palm. “Right here, just look forward. Can you hold this to the wound?”

“What does he need Gloria for?”

He’s up and wheeling you with purpose toward the south wing. “How’s the pain?”

“It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“When was the last time you received a tetanus shot?”

“Uh… I don’t… remember?”

“Okay, we’re going to need to administer one just in case. Mattheo—”

“I’ll put in the order. Analgesics, too. Any allergies?”

“Not to medicine.” You slump fractionally in your chair, still holding the gauze dutifully to your head. “Fuck.”

“Still doing okay?”

“Yeah. Pretty embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. This happens all the time.”

“What—patients attacking staff?”

“Absolutely.”

“Shouldn’t we have more security, then?”

We should, Frank thinks as he wheels you into South 15 and cranks the bed up to 45 degrees before guiding you to lie down. But we have you instead. 

“I think Dr. Robby is on his way to make that case as we speak. Can I see?”

Carefully Frank pulls your hand from your face, taking the bloodied gauze with it and does a quick visual examination. The bleeding has stopped and all signs point to a shallow wound. He begins configuring the setup for a quick irrigation and primary closure. Realistically, he doesn’t need to be the one handling such a simple case—in fact it would be a better utilization of resources to have a nurse handle the whole thing so he remains free if he’s needed—but Frank can’t help but feel a little responsible for the whole thing. It was him who said you didn’t need to call security, he who sent you on your ill-fated lunch. 

“Fairly clean job,” he mutters as he irrigates the wound. “Almost incised.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the wound edges are straight enough that we can use glue instead of staples or sutures. Better outlook in terms of scarring, too.”

“Oh, god. I didn’t even think of that. Is that gonna happen?”

“No damage to the dermis, and it’s a low tension area. I can’t make any promises, but scarring should be minimal.”He sets the irrigation tub and syringe on the cart before patting your cheek dry with sterile gauze. “No foreign material in the wound. Cut and dry.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Only if it was funny.”

Frank allows himself to examine the rest of your face for any cue that he might’ve offended you, just in time to watch as you huff a quiet laugh. The corner of his own mouth tugs in response and he focuses on the cut once more—setting aside the shimmer on your eyelids, and the way you haven’t totally eliminated all the stray hairs around your brows. He wonders for no particular reason if you matched your blush and lipgloss on purpose.

Up close and personal, he finds himself searching for indicators of age. Crow’s feet? Smile lines? The working theory is late twenties. Not that it matters. But it could clue him into how much work experience you might have. If you’re in school, and this is just a job to pay for ramen, or if you’re an over-qualified graduate trying to afford downtown rent.

Probably he could just ask, he realizes as he breaks open an ampoule of skin glue. It might even be appreciated—the silence is getting increasingly sticky. 

“Alright, we’re gonna do three coats of Dermabond with thirty second intervals for drying. It may tickle a little, but no glue is getting in the wound itself. This method should minimize scarring. Sound good?”

Frank has the applicator poised above the cut and is about to begin before he realizes you haven’t responded. He leans back to catch your eye, and notes the vacant gaze, set astray at a waxed tile floor. 

“You okay?”

Finally you stir, eyes widening as they meet his and you realize you’d tuned out. “Sorry. Yeah, that sounds great. All good.”

“You heard what I said?”

“Yes. Three layers and it’s gonna tickle.”

“More or less.” Satisfied, he straightens once more, and very carefully, begins applying a thin layer of adhesive over where he’s pinched the wound shut. 

More silence. Adrenaline crash, probably. Someone will have to bring you a juice box. 

“Remind me. How long have you been here?” Frank asks, more in an attempt to make sure you’re not internally spiraling over the moral failure of humanity than because he wants to know. 

“About a month.”

Frank whistles. “Didn’t make it very long, did you?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t really expecting to be attacked, period.”

His hand pauses, and it’s good a time as any to let the first layer dry. Most normal people are pretty upset by witnessing violence, let alone experiencing it. Especially ones who haven’t worked in the field long enough to anticipate the accrual of a few battle scars. 

“I’m sorry this happened to you. For what it’s worth, I can guarantee that guy is already on his way to jail if Orlando caught him at the scene like you said.”

You pick at your white nail polish without moving the injured arm. “Mhm.”

Another silent beat. Frank is about to apologize for not doing more to prevent the whole thing when there’s a knock at the open door. Without looking, he’s sure it’s Dana. 

“How you doing, Doll? Langdon’s taking good care of that pretty face?”

“Yeah, thanks. We’re all good.”

It could be his imagination, but he’s pretty sure he feels your cheek heat under his gloved hand. 

Probably a physiological reaction to pain. 

He swallows. “Where’s Mattheo, Dana? We need those painkillers.”

“Backup at the ADC. Shouldn’t be much longer. The cops want to talk to you.”

You hesitate. Langdon chances a peek at the rest of your face as he brushes on the second layer of glue. 

“Do I have to do it right now?”

“No,” Frank interjects, though he doubts Dana would’ve pushed you on it either. “We need to finish this, get to your arm, and then administer your tetanus shot. After that you’ll need at least fifteen minutes of observation in case of any adverse reactions. Dana, can you get someone to bring her a drink?”

“You got it.” Then, very obviously aimed toward you: “Do you need anything else?”

“I’m okay. Thank you.”

“Of course. Keep me posted.”

“Always,” Frank assures, and Dana moves along. 

A quiet moment. 

“Does this actually happen all the time?” you ask without warning. “You guys seem really chill about it.”

“Not really, no. But pretty much everyone has a story.”

You hum absently, and Frank senses something about his answer needs amending. 

“It’s rare for clerks. You guys get that fancy plexiglass.”

“Have you been attacked?”

Memories stir loose, and Frank huffs a quiet laugh. No sense in scaring you with horror stories involving scalpels. 

“It’s pretty easy to win a fight when you have a syringe full of heavy duty sedatives.”

“Maybe I should keep one of those up front.”

“You won’t need it. Today was…” he swallows back ‘my fault’. “Atypical. Lupe’s been here longer than I have and I’ve never seen her get hurt like that. It won’t happen to you again.”

Because I will personally start beating asses if these people want to keep it up, is what he doesn’t say. Anyone who picks on the twenty-something glorified secretary at the front desk is a bully, and there’s no room for that in an ER. 

Frank carefully, unblinkingly watches the final layer of glue set. Wonders what would drive anyone to attack you. You, with your cheerful yellow shirt and that delicate necklace—the dragonfly pendant that dips into the hollow of your throat. The way your hair curls at the ends and dances when you move. Everything about you seems engineered to elicit positive reaction. No, not engineered—that connotes some sort of farce, or mistruth. The pleasantry that you inspire is one hundred percent you. All the pretty trappings just signal your expectations for how you’ll be treated, and consequentially, your inherent nature. 

Or—he assumes. He doesn’t actually know you. 

Regardless, you didn’t deserve the attack. Nobody would’ve, of course. But seeing your shirt all ruined, and the even finish of your face contorted by this long cut, drains Frank of a little of his belief in the goodness of humanity. There wasn’t much to begin with. 

Somewhere in this wash of pointless musing, he’s begun work on your arm. He’s distantly aware of your watching this work, and that you’re holding yourself a little differently with the pain. If Mattheo doesn’t come back soon, he’s going to have to get to the cabinet himself and find you some acetaminophen. 

Suddenly, you’re speaking: “I don’t know if…”

And just as quickly, the sentence tapers off. Frank looks up at you as he works, and then back down. It’s pretty easy from the pensive look on your face to determine your train of thought. 

“I promise you it’s not going to happen again. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t even like getting yelled at.”

“You are on the wrong career path, then.”

“I was waiting for it to get easier.”

He risks another glance. You’re fixedly watching rust-colored saline trickle from your arm into the collection tub. 

“It will. If you stick around.”One last push of saline gurgles from the syringe and into the tray. Clear, now. He sets the tools aside and finds more gauze to pat the wound dry. “Are you thinking of quitting?”

“Can’t afford to,” you say, all too quickly, like you had pursued the idea and run into this immovable wall minutes ago. “I’m very much in debt and looking to get into more.”

“Oh, yeah? Considering med school?”

“Maybe. Or a PhD. Not sure if I want to get into psychology or psychiatry. Now I’m wondering if this is, like… a healthy environment for me.”

Frank half-smiles. “Well, if you did go the med school route, you could probably avoid rotations in emergency medicine. Or—hey, you could come back here. Barring death, I’ll still be around in four years. It’d probably be less intimidating if you knew your attending.”

“Alternatively I’d be so preoccupied with trying not to look like an idiot that I’d accidentally kill a bunch of people.”

“I’m confident that you’re not an idiot. In practice or appearance.”Frank can hear you swallow as he dispenses a small amount of antibiotic ointment into his gloved hand and carefully goes about working it into your skin. “Sorry. Tender?”

“A little.”

“Mattheo should definitely be here by now. If he’s flirting with that intern again I’m going to kill him.”You laugh half-heartedly. Frank smooths a 4x4 over your arm, tapes it in place, and leans back, peeling off his gloves. “Should be good as new in a few weeks. When do you work next?”

“Monday.”

“I’ll find you Monday for a check-in. Until then keep it clean and dry. Princess or Perlah will put together a kit with everything you’ll need, and Mattheo will be here eventually with that other stuff. You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

“Uh—”

An intern sticks his head through the door—evidently one who hasn’t made an impression on Langdon. 

“Code blue in chairs.”

“Then you should get to chairs.”

“Right.”

The intern disappears and Frank stands, taking longer than he should to walk to the door and grab some hand sanitizer.

“All good here?” he asks, giving you a once over as his hands rub together. With an air of self-consciousness you smooth your skirt. It’s a nice skirt. Untainted by blood, as far as he can tell. 

You nod once, decisively. “Yup.”

“Good. I’ll make sure someone calls a tow truck and a car so you can get home. But don’t leave until you get that tetanus shot, okay? I’m serious.”

“I won’t.”

Frank nods slowly, and feels like there’s something he should say. He skims his teeth with the tip of his tongue. Nothing comes to him. He knows he’s wasting time. And probably making you uncomfortable—you, just sitting there, back rod-straight and ankles crossed, hands folded politely in your lap. He’s been told he has a tendency to stare. 

In the end, all he can think to say is, “Take care of yourself.”

Again you nod, and Frank is pulled by duty down the hall, leaving you there in your ruined sunshiney shirt, and with your hair streaked in drying blood. 

A strange image threatens to stop him in his tracks—one he hadn’t thought about in the moment, but now sticks to the inside of his retinas at half-opacity. Blooms in full, violent color when he blinks. 

A drop of your blood, tracing its way down the dip in your cheek, clinging to the hollow beneath your jaw. Tracing slowly, all the way down your throat. Catching on the dragonfly pendant, as had the quick, covert trail of his gaze. 

That’s weird, he thinks. An odd image to fixate on. 

Frank shakes his head like he could dislodge the memory. Snaps the edge of a fresh glove extra hard against his skin as he comes up to the edge of the heart attack’s gurney and someone fills him in. 

Yeah—the last thing they needed was another ward clerk. Broader, wiser coverage could’ve stopped the events of the day. More nurses. More security. Shit, you wouldn’t have been attacked if you weren’t ever hired. 

The heart attack is caused by a complete blockage in the left anterior-descending artery. A widowmaker. They stabilize the man, and get him up to an OR without a hitch. 

Afterwards, Frank finds himself passing by South 15. Casts a quick look inside, and finds the room completely empty. 

Good—room for another patient. The whole thing shouldn’t have happened in the first place. Shouldn’t have taken up time and space. 

We don’t need an extra ward clerk, he thinks for the millionth time. 

Then remembers the way the dragonfly had collected blood and smeared it in impossibly fine lines across the expanse of your chest every time you moved, tracing linked and overlapping circles, like a Spirograph on your skin. The gentle rise and fall of you. 

He comes to a standstill in the empty hallway, an unwilling hostage as something else hijacks his brain and projects the image onto the sterile white wall. Baffled and fruitlessly willing himself to move on. Flexing his hands in time with his own breathing. 

They don’t need an extra ward clerk. 

But the damage is wholly done. 

[estrelamuse]

⋆˙⟡ ma meillure ennemie part 2 | james moriarty x reader

—pairing: james moriarty x reader

—wc: 9.7k

—summary: after a passionate night together, moriarty and reader still have a case to solve - and sherlock has another mystery he wants to solve.

—content: smut (minors dni!!), 18+, friends to lovers, secret relationship, gunfight, fake engaged/dating (reader and mycroft hehe), jealousy ofc, possessiveness, humor, they're whipped your honor

a/n: this nearly killed me 🫣 thank you all so much for the love on part 1!! 😭🫶 i wasn't expecting it. also thank you for being patient while i wrote part 2 in between my busy schedule. every like and comment has meant the world to me! now i'm going to vanish cuz i have been staring at this for so long and i'm terrified lol

Before one opens their eyes upon waking, the mind seemingly lingers on the precipice of dream-land and corporeality: a hazy, gauzy place where life doesn’t quite sink in just yet. The shadows of sleep keep a hold while the slowly waking mind straddles this line. Nature’s soft nurse, Shakespeare said. And that’s how it feels this morning: comforting, gentle.

Memories of the night before slowly flood in as [Name] stirs, a soft sound escaping her as she turns on the unfamiliar bed, stretching and then tucking back into herself like a quotation mark. Sunlight paints her eyelids red, but the light isn’t what warms her face—no, it’s the sudden, pressing thought of a hand between her thighs—the muscles sore with the memory—and a voice whispering bone-shivering obscenities into her hair.

A thoughtless smile presses against her cheeks—until a throat clears.

“Hello, pretty.”

Her eyes open, lazy and pleased. James is standing by the side of the bed, drinking from a cup with raised brows. He’s wearing only pants, his chest and stomach bare and refined with little touches of dark hair that, for some reason, dizzy her mind. It’s all a bit much for so early in the morning. At least let her clear the sand from her eyes first.

She pushes herself up, face burning at this point because the memories are spinning around in her head, haunting her like a ghost. It’s like remembering things said and done while drunk and wondering, Who the hell was that? I was out of my damned mind. It feels as if she has opened her chest and let James see right through her. Will he think differently of her? Will he toss her aside like she told Mycroft he would?

“We should put a bell on you,” she says. The sheet is warm from her sleeping body but still, a shiver ripples through her, shoulders curling and nipples pressing against the fabric. She knows how he tastes, yet this is what feels strangely intimate: sitting naked before him, hair tousled, covered only by a sheet.

James tilts his head. He’s having fun and there’s a lightness to him, an ease that wasn’t ever there before. “Having a lovely dream?” His voice is a purr, his lips curling. He knows he has her.

“Yes,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “I was all alone.”

James beams. “You wound me.” He touches his chest like she shot him. “Would you like tea?”

“Yes, please. A dash—”

“Dash of milk and a pinch of sugar, aye,” he finishes for her, already disappearing into what is meant to be a kitchen.

Warmth floods through her as smooth and languid as honey. There is something terribly delightful about being known.

[Name] tucks the sheet against her chest as she leans practically entirely out of the bed, grabbing at the first article of clothing she finds, which happens to be one of James’s button-ups. As she pulls it on, she basks in his smell: masculine and perfumed with wood and neroli. Another strange intimacy that makes her almost giddy: her naked body against his clothing. It stirs something half-awake within her.

When James returns, cup in hand, his eyes seemingly twinkle upon sight of the shirt draped on her, but he says nothing. She sits on the edge of the bed, blushing and biting down a smile, legs dangling beneath his shirt. “Thank you,” she mumbles, suddenly nervous as she takes the cup from him. It tastes perfect and its heat settles in the pit of her belly. He’s silent still, smiling down at her. She wonders what the hell is happening in that head, wanting to gorge herself on every thought he has, then wonders if perhaps she is better off not knowing. She is all too aware of his heat and his nearness, how easy it would be to reach out and pull him to her and—

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”

She peers up at him, squinting and confused. “I do?”

He fiddles with his earlobe. “Aye, heard you this morning. Something like, ‘Oh, James, so handsome and clever and—’”

She glares, cutting him off with, “Are you perhaps remembering your dream, James?”

“Or perhaps just remembering last night, darling.” His eyes wrinkle, nearly a wink and just as teasing. He always knows just how to undo her.

(Only you get to see me like this, mo chroí.)

“I can hardly remember,” she lies through her teeth, chin tilting high.

“I can jog your memory, if you’d like.” The smile that follows is devastating and only makes her blush more.

It feels good, talking to him like this. Like nothing has changed—except that everything has changed and she knows they won’t be the same ever again, and it scares her, this thought. James and Sherlock and Mycroft are her friends, the people she spends every day with. She didn’t realize just how much it all mattered to her until right now, worrying at the potential of ruining things.

“Y’know,” says James, and he crouches in front of her, his elbows resting on his thighs, holding his tea very gingerly as he looks up at her, “despite the…confession of utter adoration,” he continues, waving a dismissive hand and rolling his eyes at himself, “I want to make sure that all is…well.”

Her heart sits somewhere inside of her throat. “Well?”

“Like…” He tilts his head from side to side like a pendulum, weighing his next words. “That we’re on the same page. That last night was not…”

Not just some one-time thing? Something loosens in her chest, and she realizes it was her own unease. She has never not felt safe with James—quite the opposite, actually—but it’s mortifying to lay yourself bare—literally and figuratively—and wake up to navigate the consequences.

It’s funny to remember telling Mycroft that James would discard and forget her, that she would just be a prize for him to win. How could she have ever thought that when he stares at her this softly? She remembers his caresses the night before, face aflame, and knows that is not the touch of a selfish, uncaring man. 

“Last night meant a lot to me,” she says softly because if her voice gets any louder, she may burst into tears.

James smiles, and it seems he breathes more easily.

“It’s…strange, though, isn’t it?” she asks, brow pinching as she mirrors his smile, abashed and quiet.

“A wee bit,” he agrees, squinting with a pinched nose.

She laughs a little, barely a breath, but her eyes lower, suddenly shy.

He tilts his head in order to catch her eye, which only makes her smile widen. They’re like two schoolchildren blushing on the playground.

James says, “We can take our time. How does that sound? We’ll be the first folks to go from crime partners to engaged to…whatever this is.”

“Crime-solving partners,” she corrects. “We aren’t committing crime together.”

He makes a doubtful little sound, his mouth turning downward. “Debatable.” A touch of sincerity smooths his face, the weight of his stare heavy. “So, what do you say? We can figure this out as we go.”

“It’s a deal, Moriarty.”

She offers her hand, which makes James laugh, those little lines by his eyes crinkling, and when they shake on it, James yanks her forward. She squeals, nearly falling out of the bed as James brushes his nose alongside hers, his breath warm and flowery from the tea. It’s hard to think straight when he’s so near to her, his presence overwhelming and impure. 

It’s even harder to think when he kisses her, his lips feather-light but possessive, literally making her melt into him until she almost falls out of the bed again. His hand clasps her neck, holding her still. When he pulls away, her lips follow him without thinking, chasing for more. Slowly, her eyes open, greeted by his soft smile.

The deep rumble of his voice makes her thighs squeeze as he whispers, “Can’t get you out of my fuckin’ head. You—”

There’s a very hard, very abrupt knock on the door, so loud that she jumps. Even James seems surprised, pulling away to peer across the room.

Then there’s a voice, dreadfully familiar: “James, answer the bloody door! I know you’re in there!”

Sherlock.

“What should—”

James silences her with a single look. “Perhaps you should hide.”

“Hide?”

Sherlock pounds harder on the door. “I’ll just keep waking your neighbors if you don’t open up!”

“He’s on the warpath after we ditched him,” says James, bouncing his brows as his mouth presses into a line. He rises, staring down at her. “I’ll take the bullet. Here,” he adds, grabbing her clothing from where it lays thrown over the table. Her dress, her corset, her undergarments. “Dress in the washroom. I’ll handle our dear friend.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice. She would hate to be caught in a state of considerable undress in James’s apartment, especially with how things were left last night. And Sherlock will get far too much enjoyment out of teasing her, she imagines.

These damn boys, her mind hisses as she runs off to the washroom, locking herself in right as James opens the apartment door. She can practically see him leaning against the frame, calm as still waters as he asks, muffled through the wall, “How are you on this fine morn, Mr. Holmes?”

“How am I? How am I?” Sherlock must’ve shoved past him because suddenly he’s in the apartment, the floors creaking as he paces. “You abandoned me at Whitby! They were wondering why I was locked inside of a room with an unconscious man.”

“Aye, I did, didn’t I?” James has the decency to sound sheepish, probably rubbing the back of his head, but even Sherlock must be able to hear the falsity in it. James is practically grinning through his words. “See, I was wondering if you could—”

“Mycroft had to explain that I was looking for Moreau and happened to find him unconscious. I spun some story about how he must’ve slipped and hit his head while he was checking on his artwork,” Sherlock says, ignoring James. “Fortunately we still had our carriage to ride back in—which Mycroft spent the time accosting me for my carelessness, thank you very much—but you and [Name]? Vanished!”

“About that—”

“Yes. About that,” says Sherlock. She can hear the arms crossing, the patronizing look he must be giving James. “Would you care to explain?”

[Name] is slowly and carefully dressing as they bicker back and forth, and she’s sliding her red dress on, twisting her hips, when Sherlock says this, and she freezes in the silence that follows. She waits, holding her breath, to see how James can get out of this one.

“She was sick,” says James flatly.

“Sick? Of you, perhaps?”

“You should really be on a stage with that wit of yours, Sherlock,” says James, and the floor creaks as he separates from Sherlock, maybe even shaking his head a little. She knows her boys so well that she can see it all playing out in her mind’s eye: Sherlock glaring, James taunting. Maybe a little finger wag, too. “It’s a talent that truly shouldn’t go to waste—”

Sherlock overtakes, his voice louder and cutting like a blade with its gravity: “You promised to leave her be. Then I get to Whitby and what do I see?”

James is quiet, so quiet that she knows he is suddenly very mindful that she is just on the other side of the wall hearing every word. Her own breath quickens, trapped in her chest like a bird in a cage. 

“Look—” says James, but his voice is so soft that Sherlock has no trouble interrupting with, “I see the way you look at her, James. I know you’ve told me it’s not just…concupiscence—”

“What an interesting choice of word,” mutters James.

“—but I…”

A silence follows, thick enough to cut through. A breath comes in deeply through a nose and out of a mouth, and she knows it’s James.

“Am I so bad, Sherlock?” It’s meant to be something of a joke, but it’s betrayed by the flatness of James’s voice.

“No,” says the other, so quickly that it must be the truth. “You’re my friend, James. But to me she…she’s like a sister. That’s what worries me.” The last words deflate in his mouth, like he hears himself and feels vulnerable, bare.

Sherlock has lost one sister; he is fearful of losing another.

“She’s a big girl, Sherlock. She can take care of herself against the big bad wolf.”

“That is not what I meant,” says Sherlock in a voice that brooks no argument. “About her or about you.” He pauses, then softly adds, “I know she is…fond of you, too.”

Blood rushes through [Name]’s ears. Has she always been so obvious? Has everyone always been able to see what even she couldn’t?

“Scared I’ll turn her against you?” James asks.

This time the pause is broken by a short laugh from Sherlock. “Now that I could see.”

The tension shatters like glass. James chuckles, too, and [Name] feels she can breathe a little more easily. She would hate to see them fighting, especially about her. She has half a mind to burst from the washroom and throw herself into James’s arms just to prove a point, but she stays put. James can handle himself. She rests her forehead against the door, hovering in her unlaced dress.

“We have Bernard to track down, still,” says James, an attempt at redirection. Nothing can steal Sherlock’s attention better than a mystery.

It works. The two discuss the case as [Name] steps away and attempts to lace up her dress, her arms twisted around to her back. A huff escapes her, feeling a little claustrophobic and trapped—in the room and in the dress. How in hell did she wear this all of last night?

From the footsteps, James must be leading Sherlock towards the door. He’s telling him about how he’ll find her and the three of them can decide their next move. The two of them are adamant about finding her first, wanting to make sure she is well before they continue on, which she would be appreciating more if she weren’t beading with sweat as she hops up and down, trying in vain to get the laces right—and then she stumbles.

She doesn’t entirely fall, but she accidentally kicks a wastebasket and sends it onto its side with a dreadful clatter, and the boys fall silent.

“What was—”

“I have mice,” says James. “Look, I’ll go deal with…that…and we can meet at the university library at, say, noon. Sounds good?”

His voice has quickened, rushing Sherlock out the door.

“Sure. I may have to bring Mycroft—”

“Whatever you need, sure. Alright, then. Good—” The door swings shut. “—bye,” finishes James with a relieved sigh. He waits a moment before calling out, “Now, how much did the little mouse hear?” as his steps come closer to the washroom.

The door swings open.

Her hair is tousled about her face, her breasts hiked up to her chin, the dress half-done as she holds the laces out on either side of her, and it’s all quite silly, but the look she gives James through the strands of hair is pure consternation. “What did you promise?”

James sighs deeply, holding the door open. “Sherlock asked me not to try anything with you. It wasn’t so much a promise as a…suggestion…early into our friendship.”

She has a few questions—more than a few, really—but they seem to dissolve in her mouth before she can say them. 

“Seems I’m so obvious with my feelings for you that I may as well be wearing a sign,” he says.

“To everyone but myself,” she agrees, softly.

James’s lips press into a line, humble and sympathetic. Never did she think humble would ever describe James Moriarty, but it’s not the first surprise she’s had this morning. She’s quickly learning that anything is possible when it comes to James.

“Can you help me with this bloody dress?”

James’s head hangs as he smiles. He twirls his finger and she spins around, holding her hair out of the way as he jerks her laces tight, a yelp escaping her. “Are you angry with Sherlock?” he asks as his deft fingers work.

“I’m not mad,” she says, holding her stomach, and it’s only in saying the words that she realizes the truth in them.

He may be an idiotic man, but at some point that is to be expected. She will have to give him a frank talking-to about her capabilities and independence, but in the meantime, she is flattered to know he thinks so highly of her. That he wishes for her safety and happiness. There are much worse things to learn about a friend behind your back.

“As tricky as this has suddenly become,” says James, and just from the purr in his voice she knows she’s in trouble, especially when his mouth finds the shell of her ear and whispers, “it’s a little thrilling, aye? We might have to hide this from him. Since we’re not allowed.”

“Is that so?” she says a little breathlessly, still holding her hair up and out of the way.

James tucks his nose against her bare neck. His breath is ticklish, enticing. “Puts us in a tough spot, doesn’t it?”

Trust James to find a way to make anything sound so alluring. And it’s hard to argue with him when he’s pressed against her back, his soft lips brushing against the nape of her neck as he ties up her corset. He knows just what thread to pull to make her unwind.

Her eyes flutter shut. He will make this as difficult as possible, she knows.

Once again, here they are: the game is afoot.

————————

When [Name] gets home, slipping out of the dress feels a bit like how a snake must when it sheds its skin. It truly is a beautiful, rich garment, but she can’t wait to feel a bit more like herself after so much pretending. Not to mention the looks she drew when walking home; perhaps the eye-popping evening dress was a poor choice for her morning stroll home, but now she knows.

Bruises trail along her arms, the inside of her thighs. Her fingers brush over them, fascinated by the memory they leave with them. Proof that what happened the night before isn’t all in her head.

[Name] opens a window for some fresh air.

It isn’t until she has dressed again—attired in her normal affair: a brown pinstripe dress that she often wears around Oxford—that she discovers she is missing something: her engagement ring.

Well, her fake engagement ring.

When did she last see it? She has no memory of taking it off. She offers the room a cursory glance, even kneeling and looking beneath her bed in case it happened to slip off and roll away, but it is nowhere in sight.

It was worth a pretty penny, surely. That will have to be a problem for later, though.

She smooths out her dress and leaves her place almost as soon as she arrives and takes a carriage to the school. She arrives at the Oxford library about twenty minutes before planned, so she sits on a bench and waits, pulling a book from her bag to pass the time.

Mycroft finds her first a handful of minutes later, ever the punctual. “Miss [Name].” Just from the way her name rolls across his tongue, she knows she’s in a spot of trouble with him. Perhaps being abandoned at a party in a stranger’s home alongside an unconscious man isn’t the most ideal circumstance. She’ll have to remember for next time.

“Mycroft,” she says kindly, rising and offering a hug—a meager attempt at placating his iciness. She does hate to be in trouble with him.

It seems to work, judging by the pink in Mycroft’s cheeks. He clears his throat and adjusts his tie after they separate. “You had us rather worried last night,” he says. “We had no clue where you and Moriarty had run off to.”

“A bit too much to drink for me, unfortunately,” she says. “James was ever the gentleman and helped me home.”

Mycroft hums, more like reluctant acquiescence than complete agreement. His eyes venture about, seemingly looking for their companions. “I hear that you may have need of me again?” He doesn’t hide the nervous skepticism, his brow tilting as he looks back at her.

“I know nothing of the sort,” she admits, hands behind her back, “but it’s always a delight to have you around, Mycroft.”

Mycroft falls into another fit of clearing his throat when James and Sherlock arrive together. When she meets James’s eye, something in her feels like she has come home. He’s wearing a rich brown, crosshatch-patterned suit, and cutting a rather imposing figure, his legs looking a mile long, his shoulders broad. The smile they share is soft, meant only for them, and then he winks.

The game is afoot.

“We need to discuss our next move,” says Sherlock, all business.

“How about over drinks?” proposes James, the image of ease with a hand in his pocket.

But just then Sherlock seems to really see [Name], eyes alighting, and he asks, leaning in, “Are you feeling well?”

“Much better.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You did look a little peaked at the party,” says Mycroft unhelpfully, gesturing towards his cheek.

Her head tilts to accommodate Mycroft, her mouth pressing flat. “Thank you for that, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s eyes widen. “You looked lovely. I–I only meant—”

“Drinks, for the love of God?” asks James again. Unamused. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was jealous.

————————

The pub is unusually raucous, especially for the middle of the day. The foursome somehow find a table in the corner, fortunately. The chaos of the pub is perfectly suited to the secrecy of what they’re planning, the sound so loud that there is no way for anyone to possibly overhear what is being said. [Name] sits across from James, the Holmes brothers on either side of her like a human wall. Every time James catches her eye, a firework seemingly bursts in her chest. 

When did she fall for James? When did she know she was in trouble?

The moment she first met him: his outstretched hand, that handsome face, the sonorous Irish lilt. When she helped them crack a clue with their first case and his eyes had nearly twinkled when he looked at her and said, Well done, darling. Just those three words made her flush with the joy of pleasing him, which didn’t usually happen to her. She has no interest in pleasing men—but James has always been different. He can make her laugh like no one else, and he is endlessly surprising. She has always liked puzzles, and James was just made for her.

Or maybe it was the first time laying in bed after a night spent solving crime with James, and her hand had slipped between her legs as she remembered his smile, his hair, his voice. 

Sherlock sputters, his drink nearly spewing from his mouth. “James, you’ve just kicked me.”

James looks at [Name]. “Apologies, lad.”

She rests her elbow on the table, hiding her laugh behind her hand. No doubt that foot was meant for her. Scoundrel, she thinks with adoration.

“What do we do about this?” asks Sherlock, and he slaps the business card onto the table. Mycroft takes it up and tilts it at every angle beneath the bulb that hangs over their table. “We have an address, but I discovered last night that it leads to a shop, not a home.”

“Did you truly think it would be that easy?” asks James. He takes up an English accent, presumably in imitation of Sherlock, and knocks thrice on the table. “‘Oi, sir can I get a spot o’ tea? Also, have ya murdah’d anyone?’”

She sighs through her nose. “Perhaps if you had let me get to know Moreau a bit better—”

“No,” barks James. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” says Mycroft as he tosses the card back onto the table, “but I’m in agreement with Moriarty.” He sits back in his chair, legs crossed. He levels his gaze with [Name] and says, “That Moreau seemed like a proper rogue.”

“More than these two?” she asks, tossing a thumb towards James and Sherlock.

Mycroft considers this. For a bit too long, seemingly, because James snaps, “Alright, then. We have a way to contact Bernard—but now what? The man is still elusive as all hell. Unless we try planning a meeting with him to buy some shite antique vase.”

“What shop is this address, Sherlock?” asks [Name], tapping the card.

“Some high-end dress shop. I wonder if that’s how he finds his victims.” He poses this last bit to James, who merely shrugs.

The moment the first few words leave Sherlock’s mouth, something must shift in her face because James looks at her with a deep suspicion. With eyes only for her, he asks, “Do I dare ask what is happening in that pretty head of yours?”

“Probably not.”

Something sunny rises in his eyes. “Should we reprise our roles, darling?”

“I had someone else in mind,” she says, relishing in the thunder that suddenly rolls into James’s eyes. Then she turns to her right. “What do you think, Mycroft?”

————————

The foursome stand across the street from the dress shop. Business seems to be bustling, couples coming and going as they keep an eye on the front door. Through the window, [Name] sees women in beautiful dresses twisting and turning for a mirror, looking absolutely delighted.

That’s when a thought occurs to her, one she should’ve had much sooner.

She holds her palm out for James.

“Am I meant to pay you?” he asks, brows raised.

“I do require a ring," she says, leering.

James’s mouth curls into a devious little smirk. He digs into his pocket and produces her fake engagement ring, just as she suspected, and drops it into her open palm. Her fingers close around the ring, warming the metal instantly.

“Were you afraid I would pawn it off and run with the money?” she asks.

James ducks his mouth to her ear. “I needed to give you a reason to come back.”

Damn him, she thinks, face hot—especially when James steps away to reveal Sherlock looking between them, his brows low as he inspects them like a case to be solved. [Name] steps back even further, desperate to keep distance between them because God knows what will happen if they get too close. Can Sherlock—the great detective—see everywhere James has touched her?

She knows her body will betray her. Now that she knows James in such a unique way, it is harder to deny the familiarity. And she feels like anyone, not just Sherlock, can read her like a book.

She stares daggers at James—How dare you—and says in a much-too-sharp voice, “Mycroft. Let us go, shall we?”

“What’s your angle?” asks Sherlock, teetering. He wants to keep her there. He wants to get a better look at the pink in her cheeks and figure out what the hell happened last night.

And she wants to run away. She grabs the sleeve of Mycroft’s stately navy blue coat and drags him away from the two scoundrels, stepping off of the curb and onto the cobblestones, ready to dash at a moment’s notice. Mycroft, all the while, seems dreadfully flustered but ready to go along with whatever is happening.

“Well, we—” Her voice catches, mouth agape as she tries to elaborate, but she knows the boys have her: she has no clue what she is doing, and only one of them knows why she is desperate to run off.

“How about me and Sherlock join you two lovebirds?” James proposes, a clever little grin dancing across his face. He buries his hands in his pockets, standing tall beside Sherlock. The two boys inspect her with a scrutiny she doesn’t appreciate: Sherlock with the mind of a detective, doubtless lost somewhere in his overactive imagination, while James basks in keeping her on her toes, always three steps ahead at any given time.

“Yes,” says Sherlock in such a way that she knows he has an ulterior motive.

Good Lord.

“In what regard?” she asks, tilting her chin up.

“A brother and friend of the groom,” says James. He seems much too pleased with himself. “You two can distract the shopkeep while Sherlock and I get a good look around the place.”

Unfortunately, it makes perfect sense. “Fine.”

James shoots her a wink.

Two can play at this game, it seems to mean.

Amazingly, it is Mycroft who makes the first move: he holds his arm out for her. Smiling like a villain, she takes Mycroft’s arm, smiling up at James on the sidewalk all the while. His own smile sharpens with venom, and she knows she will pay for this later. Terribly, she feels immense delight at the very thought.

“Come,” says Mycroft. “Let’s get this over with.” He leads her from the curb and across the road, dodging a carriage as they go.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” she mutters under her breath.

Once they step inside the dress shop with a tinkling of the bell hanging over the door, there is an endless flurry of movement and fabric. It is abruptly overwhelming and calls to mind the party at Whitby the night before: a cacophony of voices, the pressing of bodies. The storefront is deceptively small, but the inside is long, stretching back farther than she can immediately see. Racks of utterly divine dresses line the walls. Patrons stand before mirrors wearing some of these dresses, twisting and turning this way and that. There are workers crouched beside them with tape measures, others assessing with a finger to the lips. 

She finds herself tucking closer against Mycroft, intimidated by the busyness.

“Hello,” chimes an employee, a man with a mustache to rival Mycroft’s. “What a fine couple you are. How could I be of service?”

[Name] jumps in before Mycroft can even think to draw breath. With a big smile, she says, “My dear fiancé thought it a good idea to bring me to get my measurements for our wedding."

“My congratulations,” says the man as Mycroft peers at her from the corner of his eye, stifling a cough. “May I…oh, my,” he says, holding a hand out to inspect her own, her engagement ring glinting in the daylight. “Such a handsome ring for a beautiful woman.” He leans closer, wiggling his glasses to see the jewel better.

“I’m quite pleased,” she gushes. Her teeth may rot out of her head if she keeps piling on the sweetness.

Mycroft says nothing, seeming utterly baffled by the entire performance. She would never tell the man himself, but a part of her misses having James for a scene partner.

Perhaps more than just a part of her.

“Well, let us get you to a station—”

The man leads the two of them away, his attention stolen as James and Sherlock stroll about the place, inspecting dresses as if they have a personal interest, blending in with the chaos and going utterly unseen as Mycroft falls into a chair and [Name] stands on a pedestal before a mirror. The man falls to a crouch as he measures seemingly every corner of her: her ankles, her hips, the swell of her arms. He mutters numbers under his breath like a gifted mathematician, working at a swift pace that utterly baffles her. He could give James and Sherlock a run for their money.

She holds her arms out at her sides as he measures her waist and she turns her head just enough to catch James and Sherlock deeper in the shop, swept up in conversation with another worker. James has a big smile, which can only mean they are attempting charm to learn more about the shop. She’s desperate to be in the thick of the investigation, but she needs to keep the man preoccupied.

“Now, precisely how many shades of white do you do?”

The man’s eyes glint like he has been waiting to be asked this question all his life. “Well—”

Mycroft pulls back his sleeve to peer at his watch. He drums his fingers on the sides of the chair, his chest rising with a deep breath.

The bell over the door chimes just then. [Name] hardly hears through all of the noise, but something makes her turn. And standing there, donning a hat and a pristine suit, is Algernon Moreau. 

“—cream is a popular choice in recent years, although ivory is a personal favorite of mine—”

[Name] whips back to the mirror. In her own eyes, she sees the panic, like a mouse caught in a trap. Does he know they are here, or is this some terrible coincidence? What is most likely is that he woke from his unfortunate punch, searched his own person—aided by the vague memory of leading a woman to a room full of artwork—and discovered his card for Lucas Bernard missing. Of course, his first step would be to come to the address on said card.

Perhaps to find a familiar face…

“Oi!”

James—unaware of the man’s entrance—whips around at the voice that is, unfortunately, meant for him. Silence falls like a cloak over the shop. Also unfortunately for James, his handsome face is much too memorable for a man like Moreau to have forgotten, even if he had only seen it for a split-second the night before.

And it is made worse when, like a magnet, Moreau’s eye is drawn to the pedestal where [Name] stands, and as soon as he sees her, all else is lost. 

There is no escape.

“Thieves! Crooks!” Moreau shouts.

All heads in the shop spin towards [Name] and Mycroft, even as Moreau points at James, who is coming slowly closer with Sherlock at his side.

Mycroft rises from the chair, rebuttoning his jacket with one hand, and asks, “What seems to be the problem, sir?”

Moreau is red in the face, his stylish hair falling out of place and in disarray around his face as he sputters, “The—She—She stole from me! That woman!” He spins towards James. “And him! The two of them!”

“There must be some mistake,” starts James, his Irish lilt cool and unassuming.

“What was stolen from you, sir?” asks the employee working with [Name].

“They took—They—” He is indignant and losing his last traces of control.

Then he reaches under his jacket.

All within a single second, several things happen: Sherlock shouts, “Gun!” which causes an outburst of screeching amongst the patrons of the shop; Mycroft stumbles back and knocks over his chair, which goes clattering to the ground; and hands slip around [Name]’s middle and pull her behind a solid, familiarly warm body. Wood and neroli meet her nose, and for some reason that is all she can think about when the gun goes off.

More screaming. The sound is deafening and echoes in her ears with great pain, but then people are running and the body that shields her—James, it’s James—takes her hand and he runs to the back of the store with her. She has no problem keeping up. Everything narrows like she is inside of a tunnel and all she can see is what is right ahead of her. She looks back and finds Mycroft and Sherlock following—they aren’t hurt, thank God—the smoke from the gun drifting to the ceiling, but Moreau is right there. 

He’s coming.

James slams his shoulder into a door at the back of the shop and it bursts open as if a bull hit it. They skitter, a slight stutter-step, and with a hand on her waist, James pushes her in front of him and then they’re running again, the clop of their shoes filling the dirty, gray alleyway they race down, splashing in puddles as they go. Another gunshot rings out, and James and her instinctively duck their heads, a yelp involuntarily slipping out of her. Never has she felt more like her heart might just burst straight out of her chest.

They come to the end of the alley and James shouts to the people standing confused in the street, “Gun! There’s a man with a gun!” right as another shot goes off, chipping the stone beside James’s head. The mere sight makes [Name] the one to grab his hand this time, leading him down the road right as Mycroft and Sherlock reach the street, too. 

It is utter chaos in the street now. James’s warning not only alerted them, but it caused a scene, making it harder for Moreau to find them in the throng. 

James whips around. “Sherlock!”

“Hide!” calls Sherlock, and he and his brother slip into the closest building right as Moreau spills out of the alley.

“Fuckin’ hell—” breathes James, stunned, right as Moreau raises the gun, staring down the barrel through the running mob. 

“More running,” she instructs sternly, grabbing James around the forearm and yanking him away. She is so mixed around and has no clue where in Oxford they have spilled out from, but her feet do all of the thinking for her. The panic within her is choking her, fingers trapped around her throat and her chest, constricting and unthinking until she is merely a thing that runs. How a hare must feel against a fox.

Two more shots follow them out of sight. She can only hope that nobody has been hurt.

James’s palm is slick against her own. They shove through people inside of a department store, unaware folks that yell at them to slow down, show some decorum. Somehow, even with everything blurring past, she spots a cleaning closet. [Name] pulls James there and, mercifully, the door is unlocked. They slip inside and slam the door shut.

The small, dark space fills with their heavy breathing, the smell of their fear. Hands come up to her cheeks and she waits, expecting James to say something, but instead, his forehead tips to hers and they stand there like that, coming down from the adrenaline in each other’s arms, just grateful to see the other still alive. 

Voices rise, some confused and then turning to panic, but no more shots ring out. Either the man is out of bullets or he, too, is sapped of energy.

She swears she hears Moreau yell, asking some question or another. Hopefully no one points him to their hiding place.

But everything sounds so far away, like it all doesn’t even exist. For a moment, it doesn’t. This strange, smelly closet is their own little world. 

James holds her close still, like he can’t bear to be separated from her. “Are you alright?” he whispers, and his voice in the darkness is all she knows. Like she is engulfed by him.

Their foreheads still together, she nods. “Are you?” she asks, even softer.

“A little fuckin’ panicked,” he says, “but I’m in one piece.”

“Good. That’s how I prefer you.”

A sigh escapes him, but it is one of immense relief and a bit of madness. He grasps her face more tightly, their noses brushing as he tips her face up. In the darkness, where not even God can see them, they can be themselves. No performance, no game. Just them. Just like in the garden at Whitby: the only two people on the planet.

Then James kisses her forehead, a lingering, sweet kiss, before he wraps his arms around her waist with a firm but careful reverence and her own slip around his neck. Perhaps this is all nothing but a dream. That strange place before waking up, buried in the darkness of sleep with her greatest joy. The way her heart calms when she is near to him. Like magic. 

A swell of adoration fills her when she remembers James putting himself between her and the gun. It astonishes her. So simple, yet it means everything. 

She hugs him tighter. Words won’t come close, but she still whispers, “Thank you.”

“For pissing off a madman with a gun? You’re welcome, I suppose.”

In the darkness, she smiles, just to herself. Her eyes shut, strangely content in this fetid closet. 

————————

A second day in a row of abandoning the Holmes brothers at a moment of great peril doesn’t sound very appealing, so when it is safe to, James and [Name] emerge from the closet. With their heads on a swivel, Moreau is nowhere to be found, but one can never be too safe. They make their way—slowly and cautiously—to where they last saw Sherlock and Mycroft. On their way, they find only the aftermath of the chase: chipped stone and bullet holes, but nobody is hurt. The relief nearly makes her burst into song.

The brothers are nowhere to be seen, but there has always been a rule that if they are ever separated, you return to the last decided meeting place.

The library.

Minutes later, there are Sherlock and Mycroft, a little wild-eyed and disheveled—although Mycroft was quick to put himself back together as best as he could, she notes—and when the brothers spot the couple coming toward them, they don’t even question why James and [Name] are holding hands. Sherlock closes the distance and sweeps her into a hug, hounding her with questions about if she got hurt, if she is alright. This, finally, is what makes a tear slip down her cheek.

“Let the poor woman down,” says James, chuckling to himself. 

Sherlock sets [Name] back to earth. He looks into her face and she can see the pain leashed within him, that constant fear of something going wrong yet again and him unable to stop it. So she gives him a little smile of reassurance, one that transcends words. Her and Sherlock don’t need them: I’m safe. So are you.

Sherlock nods once. He steps away, letting her breathe.

“What on God’s green earth is wrong with you three?” shouts Mycroft, practically stomping a foot.

The trio stand together, having the decency to look sheepish.

“Now, Mycroft—” says Sherlock.

But Mycroft has only just begun. “You three have to be the most puerile and hazardous group of people I have ever had the misfortune to know. Running straight into danger like it is calling your name! Is there not an ounce of sense in any of you? You play with your lives like—like—” His hands wave around, grasping for the right word.

“You’re causing a scene, mate,” says James, goading the poor man with a devilish smile. 

“As much of a scene as a bloody gunfight?” insists a steadily-reddening Mycroft. Her brows rise; Mycroft must truly be mad if he’s cursing. “I would say that you are the problem,” he says, stabbing a finger at James, “but Sherlock has always been an absolute animal to control. He has dragged you two down with him! His damned cleverness has doomed you!”

“That’s rather kind of you, brother.”

“It is not a compliment!”

[Name] would say something, but there’s no arguing with Mycroft when he gets this way. He’ll scold them for all they’re worth, but the next time he catches wind of whatever shenanigans they’ve got themselves into, he’ll suddenly be there to help and make sure they don’t accidentally kill themselves.

“I am going to return to my office and try to forget this day ever happened,” he says. He fixes his hair, which is threatening to slip out of place. He takes a short, quick breath, like a weight has lifted from his shoulders. “I suggest you three do the same. Now, if you will excuse me.”

And with that, Mycroft spins on his heel and vanishes from the courtyard, shaking his head and grumbling as he goes.

“Well.” Sherlock turns to his friends. “That was almost as exciting as being chased by a madman with a gun.”

“Aye, about that. Wasn’t…ideal,” says James, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Not at all,” [Name] says. “Do you think he’ll be looking for us?”

“Possibly,” says James. “We’ve slipped the man twice. It’s personal now.”

“Keep your heads on a swivel. We will find some other way to track down Bernard. It’s enough that we all live to see tomorrow.” Mischief twinkles in Sherlock’s eye. “I have solved one mystery, though.”

“And what’s that, mate?” asks James.

Sherlock’s stare drops down—to James and [Name]’s clasped hands.

Her stomach drops. “Sherlock, it—”

But Sherlock shakes his head, interrupting her. Unbelievably, a lonely smile dances across his face. “It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?” and it’s not a question, not really. Where she was expecting an interrogation, perhaps some bickering, instead there is a peculiar contentment in Sherlock’s face. Like seeing the proof before him has shown him all he needs to know. 

Perhaps he can see the devotion radiating from them. 

His face is soft. “Just promise not to abandon me on a balcony again.”

“Can’t make any promises, mate,” says James, still recovering, but his smile puts the sun to shame. He squeezes her hand.

————————

May I walk you home, madame? and a proffered arm. That’s how her terribly eventful day ends and she wouldn’t have it any other way. She tucks against James, basking in his solidity, his closeness. With the shenanigans they get into, she knows never to take it for granted. Even if he does happen to annoy her on occasion. 

Her apartment is cool, the curtains gently whispering against the floor as they blow in and out of the room. 

James tucks his hands in his pockets, looking around the room with fresh eyes as she digs out a stash of whiskey from her kitchenette. He has been here a handful of times with Sherlock, but they never linger for long. “That surprised me,” he says. “Sherlock.”

“He’s a strange man,” she says offhandedly, crouched and reaching for her bottle. 

“After this morning, I thought he would give me the noose if he ever found out.”

“He is all bark, that one.” She pours a finger of whiskey for each of them and returns to James as he hovers, dazed yet focused. He takes the glass gratefully. “A reward for our survival,” she says, lifting her glass. He does the same, and they sip. 

“What changed his mind, do you think?”

The whiskey burns in her throat, leaving a trail down to her chest. It warms her from within. “You.”

“Me?” James snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “Certainly not.”

“He knows you’re a good man.”

James makes a face. “Stop, or I may hurl.”

Trying—and failing—to suppress a smile, she does stop. There is nothing worse to an Irishman than to applaud him, particularly for heroic acts. 

She looks down into her drink, swirling it around the glass. 

Something must cross her face because James says, “Let’s sit.”

The two of them perch on the edge of her bed, his hand coming to her knee. She knows he wants to talk about it, but she doesn’t. Not now. She wants to forget the rest of the world is out there for the moment. She wants to pretend she’s back in that closet, cocooned in the darkness with James. 

“Have you ever hurt someone?” James asks in a different voice than she has ever heard from him. 

She looks at him. There is no smile, no light. He is still her James, but something is happening behind those eyes that she knows she will never get a look into. “Accidentally, perhaps,” she answers slowly. 

“Have you ever wanted to?”

Their eyes hold. 

“I’m not sure,” she breathes out. 

James swallows. He’s the first to look away, and he watches his thumb rub the edge of the glass. He tells the whiskey, “Today, I wanted to hurt Moreau. For trying to hurt you. Still do, really,” he mumbles as an afterthought. 

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to protect the people you care for.”

“Yes, but…I want him dead.” The rage that has always sat buried within James snaps at the end of its leash for a moment, gnashing its teeth: she can hear it in the tightness of his voice. 

His jaw clenches after the words escape. Like he didn’t mean for them to. 

She touches his hand. He looks at her. 

“I’m ok, James.”

His pretty brown eyes are wet. “If something happened to you, I don’t know how I could survive it.”

The words kick her in the gut. She stares at him, her own eyes watering, and she swallows the sadness threatening to rise in her. Her clever, sweet James has never been so serious before. It has knocked her off of her own axis, like suddenly a curtain has been pulled back to show everything making the play work. 

She’s here. So is he. 

She doesn’t want to think anymore. She doesn’t want him to either. 

So she kisses him. A firm, sweet kiss that seals an unspoken promise: I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Her hands clasp in her lap, unsure of what to do with themselves, afraid of her own desire.

James breaks the kiss just to put his whiskey on the nightstand beside them. The glass clinks on the wood. His heavy-lidded eyes never leave her, his nose pressed beside hers. He kisses her again, and desperation has possessed him. 

His hands come to her cheeks and he pulls her in, his thumb parting her bottom lip so that his tongue can fill her, dizzying her. She melts, helpless and satyric, and falls into James’s arms. 

Sounds from the outside world whisper into the room—a bird calling, voices down below, a chiming bell—but it strikes her as unreal, like none of it is happening and only this is: James’s mouth, James’s hands, James’s body. 

Clothing starts hitting the ground. First he slips out of his jacket, then she undoes his tie with shaking fingers, then he finds the lacing of her dress. Without a word, James yanks her up and helps her out of her dress as she unbuttons his pants. Excitement shoots like lightning through her and she can’t help smiling against his mouth, like she can’t believe she can be so lucky. It makes her head spin when James smiles, too. She’s happy to make him happy. 

The cool afternoon air raises goosebumps all over her as James takes off her clothes. It is perfunctory, but there is a slowness to their undressing, basking in the resplendence of being together, right here, right now. 

James takes her up into his arms and he lays her on the bed. His fingertips whisper across her ribs, into the divot of her waist, then the swell of her hip. Memorizing her. Watching keenly as she shivers against his feather-light touch. Her nipples harden as her shoulders bunch, staring up at James with wonder. The things he does to her. 

His hot, wet mouth lowers and captures a nipple. A soft moan leaves her chest as her head falls back, trembling beneath him. She is so wet that it’s almost painful. Like he knows this, he touches her: slippery, soaked. She gasps, fingers slipping through his curls. His mouth works at her nipple as his thumb flicks the other, clasping her breast, all the while he slips two fingers inside of her and slowly fucks her with them. 

“Oh,” she gasps out, hips rolling to bury him deeper. She didn’t know she could feel this good. The heel of his palm grinds into her clit, the skin just rough enough that it makes her shiver. 

His teeth pinch over the hard bud and she cries out, a soft keening cry that makes James groan, the sound muffled. She can hear his fingers fucking her and her cheeks warm, embarrassed and unbelievably aroused all at once. She’s soaking wet and squeezing him so tight, especially as he adds a third finger, stretching her more and more. His thick, calloused fingers. 

James releases her nipple with a wet sound, then he’s kissing her breasts, her chest. He sucks on the skin, teeth holding her in place, until dark spots blossom like roses. Memories for later.

Her hips are thoughtlessly rolling, chasing her pleasure, and James rides with her, letting her use him. The pressure builds and builds until she is wriggling beneath him, moaning and sweating as the thread grows tighter and tighter. She knows she’s close. James knows she’s close. 

So when he suddenly pulls his fingers out of her, right before she trips into oblivion, it feels like the worst betrayal. She gasps, eyes fluttering open to stare at him, confused. Her body hums with need, burning with an animal desire for what she wants. “Wh—”

“I never want to see you hanging off of Mycroft fuckin’ Holmes again.”

Her chest rises and falls with her frenzy. Heat pools between her legs. She can feel her wetness seeping into the sheet beneath her, her heartbeat throbbing in her cunt. Her hand, with a mind of its own, moves to touch herself, but James is too quick. He catches her wrist and holds her hand at her side. The other one, too. 

She whines, bucking against his hold. “James.”

“You’re mine, mo chroí.” His brown eyes are almost black. His cheeks are flushed and his cock is hard against her thigh, dizzyingly close to where she wants him. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she cries. “Yours, James.” He could get her to say anything right now. 

“That’s right, pretty.” He noses at her cheek. Her eyes shut, basking in the touch. He stills for a moment. His ruined voice recites, “‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you.’”

Then he yanks her up.

James pulls her into his lap. He sits with one leg dangling over the side of the bed, the other stretched out. Her thighs fall open as she straddles him, her body trembling. She feels oddly vulnerable like this, breasts under his nose, hovering inches from his cock. 

“Be a good girl for me,” he whispers as he runs a hand through her hair. The Irish lilt, husky with his arousal, only makes her tremble more. 

She wants nothing more than to please James. 

Her fingers wrap around his cock. His lips part, staring at her with heavy eyes, a whisper of a smirk. Her fingers don’t quite meet around him. She runs her hand up and down the velvety length, and perhaps she does know what she’s doing because a soft sound leaves James, one she would very much like to hear again and again. 

A hand holds him up while the other finds her back. He touches her, pulling her close until she nearly falls into him. “Sit,” he says, like he’s being kind. Such an innocuous thing to say with an entirely new meaning now. Just that one word and she’s a goner. 

She sits—slowly. His cock stretches her open and she somehow forgot just how good it felt, like her mind couldn’t handle the memory. There are no words for the relief she feels as he fills her. He curses as he buries his face against her neck, his hands moving to her hips as he helps her lift them before sinking back down. 

The last dregs of coherence leave her. 

She is nothing more than a body seeking pleasure from a man she loves. James meets her thrusts, his hips rolling, and he buries himself deeper and deeper as she moans, calls his name, begs for more. He holds her waist until there are bruises. He tells her she is doing so good, taking him so well. 

She holds his shoulders and grinds down on him, James’s hands all over her as his mouth explores her neck, his mouth greedy and hot. She moves a hand to his hair, pulling on his soft curls as she rides him. 

The pleasure builds and builds again, her clit rubbing against him every time he sinks into her. James has his face in her hair, his mouth right beside her ear, when he asks if she can come for him. 

She shudders, gasping and holding him tighter, and James holds her down, thrusting in and out of her until a broken moan leaves her and heat flushes through her. 

She comes with stars behind her eyes. Her body quivers as her back arches, pushing deeper and deeper. “James,” she moans, loud and begging. 

“I know,” he breathes out, a wild look in his eyes. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” 

He holds her as he softly uses her, burying himself and caressing her as he fucks her, like she is a piece of glass he can’t help wanting to shatter. Her arms circle his neck and he kisses her breasts, smothering her in adoration as he comes, warmth filling her. 

She falls into him, spent and tired and content, as her cheeks rests on his freckled shoulder. Her eyes linger on the curtain as it sways, dancing from the window before falling back into it. She catches her breath, coming down from her pleasure as James traces shapes against her spine, soft and caring. 

After the chase and making love, she wants nothing more than sleep. She doesn’t know she has drifted off until she feels James laying her against the pillows. He curls in beside her, kissing her forehead and her cheeks, his fingers dancing along her sides. He loops an arm around her, his chest against her back. He’s so solid and warm that it instantly relaxes her. 

As sleep tangles her in its web, she hears James whisper one last thing: “Stay, mo chroí.”

taglist: @bravo4iscool, @cipheress-to-k-pop (thank u sm for the love!!)

[estrelamuse]

⋆˙⟡ ma meillure ennemie | james moriarty x reader

—pairing: james moriarty x reader

—wc: 8.2k

—summary: james and reader pose as an engaged couple to find a man who can lead them to solving a case.

—content: smut (minors dni), 18+, friends to lovers, fake engaged/dating, jealousyyyyy, humor, james is a total flirt, slow dancing, tension, reciting poetry??, everyone knows they're in love except them hehe

a/n: i think i blacked out when writing the freaky bits 😵‍💫 i had wayyyy too much fun writing this and i really hope u like it! donal finn is a beautiful man so i had to do something about it

The carriage rattles on the dirt road. The golden gleam of the streetlights guide them away from Oxford and into a night that is pure dark, especially out in the country. Trees hang with their canopy of leaves over the road, grass meadows stretching for miles beyond the cobblestone walls on either side of the road. [Name] has never been in this part of the country before, but it seems lovely, even in the darkness. 

It’s a beautiful night, really: a cool spring air, the moon full and high. It lights the road ahead of them as [Name] occasionally glances up through the window as the horses and their driver push them on. With so much to see, it is hard to forget James beside her, rendered in outline in the shadows of darkness: his strong nose, the ever-mischievous tilt of his mouth. Much to her annoyance, she keeps looking over at him, but she tries not to linger long; he’ll enjoy it far too much, and the last thing she needs is a cockier James Moriarty—if that’s even possible.

[Name]’s thumb slides along the smooth, gold band on her ring finger. The simple diamond set in the band catches the moonlight. James claims to have bought it, but she knows him too well: surely he stole this lovely ring from some poor, unwitting individual. She can only hope that they don’t miss it too much.

She fiddles with the ring as her hands sit in her lap, lost in thought. “What are you, again?” she asks.

James is straightening his cuffs, his suit jacket. He’s in his black pinstripe suit with not a speck on him. Perhaps he stole the suit, too. One can never know when it comes to James. “A banker,” he says. His voice is low and rumbling, as biting as stone. He glances up like he’s pondering something. “Perhaps I took it over from my father.”

A shiver passes through her, undoubtedly from the night air. She’s squeezed into an evening gown that is only a shade darker than blood: it’s bold and it shows off her figure in a way she normally doesn’t dress, but she has to stand out tonight. Her arms are bare and every breeze makes her shoulders hunch, which certainly doesn’t help the corset she is tied into. She feels like a Christmas present, meant to be unwrapped.

Her chest, too, is bare with a scooping neckline—save for a glittering necklace. This jewelry came from Sherlock, and he claims to have procured it from Mycroft. Again, she isn’t sure if that is the truth, but being friends with James and Sherlock has made her come to expect that most things they darn her with have likely come to them through unfortunate circumstances. There is only so much they can throw together at the last minute.

“Is that how we met?” she asks.

James pouts, thinking. “Secretary?”

She scoffs and looks outside. “So very original.” Through the trees, lights wink at her. They must be getting close to the manor.

“That’s usually how it goes, darling,” says James, leaning towards her as he fixes his cuffs.

“It is much too overused.”

“Perhaps that’s what makes it so believable. Occam’s razor and all that,” he adds, waving a dismissive hand.

Persistent, she says, “If we are to be convincing, James, we have to feel real. We haven’t spent nearly enough time on our stories.”

“I do best when I improvise.”

She can’t help the snort that escapes her. “Yes, I’ve seen you improvising in the past.”

“Were you not impressed?”

“Are you referring to the time that you told that poor shopkeep that I was Sherlock’s wife whom you had stolen without his knowledge? All to find the owner of some hat.”

James shrugs a shoulder. “I thought you were rather…stirred at the time.”

“Mortified, more like.” The weathered stone of Whitby Abbey rises over the trees as they get closer and closer. There are more carriages ahead of them now, other guests waiting to be dropped off. “Only God knows whatever will come out of your mouth next,” she says. “I don’t think even He knows half the time.”

“I love to keep my captive audience forever on their toes.”

She shoots him a look that says Oh, I know you do. “I would at least like a hobby,” she insists after a moment’s silence. “Something to make me stand out.”

It was the wrong thing to say—especially to James, of all people. 

Before he can speak, she blurts out, “Perhaps I write poetry.”

That damned smile. Those teeth may very well cut her one of these days. “Oh? Are you any good, mo chroí?”

“Of course,” she says, offended he even has to ask. James is smiling at her as she adds, “I can lift some Browning if I’m questioned. I doubt anyone there knows a lick of poetry.”

Their carriage rattles as they sweep through the gravel in front of Whitby. The historic home sits with golden windows and the distant whisper of string music playing from within. There are many folks in their resplendent eveningwear wandering the grounds—smoking their cigars, sharing whispers—while the rest vanish inside. Not for the first or last time, she wonders why she lets Sherlock and James convince her to do these things with them. Her life used to be so quiet and simple and she resented it, but these men are terrible influences, even if she does love life a bit more with them in it. 

She’ll never tell them that, though.

James sighs deeply, resting his head back against the seat until he is nothing more than a silhouette again, calling to mind a Roman marble bust: hard, strong lines. His Adam’s apple shifts as he recites in a rough voice, “‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’”

Staring up at the manor, almost wistful, she breathes, “‘I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach.’”

Her voice is so soft that she thinks James didn’t hear, but the silence is heavy. She turns and finds James looking at her, the smile lingering even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks to be somewhere else, dazed and a little distracted, and her immediate thought, for some reason, is Take me to wherever it is you’ve just gone.

The carriage comes to a stop, and the door swings open, startling her. A small gasp and she spins around.

But it is only a valet in a tailcoat, a white-gloved hand extended towards her. “Welcome to Whitby Abbey, madame.”

“How kind,” she says, a hand to her chest, still recovering, while the other slides across the palm of the valet. Her ring winks at her.

There she is, standing in her blood-red dress and similarly painted lips, a mere ant beside a home she has no right stepping inside of. In those handful of seconds, all she can think about is the little girl she used to be: so lonely, always on the outside. She had grown used to it, found comfort there. Lately it seems as if life has done what she can only compare to shoving her from behind the curtain and onto the stage. 

The melancholy threatens to drown her, but then a hand slides across the small of her back and her shoulders rise, turning to find James. He smiles at her, and it is such an honest, familiar smile, one that she knows better than anyone else’s, that when she smiles back, it is like their own little language.

“Are you ready, mo chroí?”

He refuses to tell her what that means. She only hopes it isn’t some joke he’s sneaking by her. “Let’s.”

————————

[Name] hasn’t been in a home quite like this before. They glide through the foyer—gray stone, curved archways, five-figure vases and marble busts—and into the ballroom, which opens up before them like a cloudless sky. A neck-breaking ceiling with shimmering chandeliers, white-draped tables with elaborately arranged centerpieces: flowers and flickering candles. There’s a stage off to the right-hand side of the ballroom where a string quartet plays.

“Fuckin’ hell,” mutters James, staring all around.

She was thinking the same thing. “Sherlock will be here soon?” she asks.

“So he claims.” He slips back his sleeve just enough to peek at a watch. He pauses for dramatic effect, then adds, “Him. And Mycroft.”

She can hardly hide her surprise. “Mycroft?” The only reason he would possibly be coming along is if his hand was forced. 

“He’s the reason Sherlock procured our attendance. I believe he wanted to be here to make sure we don’t humiliate ourselves.”

Naturally. She tilts her head and says, “So, I could’ve had Mycroft to pose as my fiancé.”

James, smiling like the cat that got the cream, tucks a piece of her hair back, his fingertips ghosting across the shell of her ear. It’s a mere whisper of a touch, yet she almost forgets to listen as he says, “I gallantly offered to take the role.”

“Why am I not surprised?” she asks, her voice breathy and trying to hide the very fact.

His eyes drift down to her painted lips, and she doesn’t want to even imagine what is stirring behind those dark eyes. “Would you have preferred Mycroft?” 

“He wouldn’t have been so lascivious,” she says, her cheeks warming. Thank goodness her face is buried beneath so much makeup. “He would have been a perfect gentleman about the whole thing.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing, darling,” says James, taking a step closer, and then his mouth leans into her ear, his hand slipping around to the middle of her back, caging her there. Just being near him, she can feel the warmth of him. Her eyes flutter, especially when his breath touches her ear: hot, ticklish. “I don’t think you want a gentleman.”

When James pulls away, she glares at him—or what she prays looks like a glare. If she thought she was blushing before, she certainly is now. She resists the urge to stamp on his foot or some other such childish thing.

This may be the worst idea they’ve ever come up with—and that’s truly saying something.

“How about a drink?” asks James, and he winks.

Right then, a servant passes with a tray of whiskey. James sneaks two from the tray, his naturally quick fingers making the glasses vanish in a blink. He turns, handing her her glass, and he makes a point to glide his fingers over hers, reveling in the way she scowls. His hands are much larger than hers, calloused from his schoolwork, but soft still, like he takes care of them.

She tries to put any thought of his hands out of her mind as she sips the whiskey. It’s harsh, but she relishes the way it helps her think more clearly. 

“Have you seen Fontaine yet?”

Damn. She’s been so distracted by James and his games that she hasn’t even looked. She does now, turning with her whiskey glass tucked against her chest, trying to cool herself down, appearing as if she is only taking in the sights. There are so many people, at least a hundred, and at times the voices rise right over the music, their own chorus. So many faces and smiles and laughs and beautiful clothes—and she doesn’t see their mark.

“Not yet,” she says, still looking. She cranes her neck. How in hell will they find him in this sea?

As if reading her thoughts, James says, “Don’t worry, love. He’ll find us.”

“How so?”

“He’ll find you, I should’ve said.”

The red dress, the red lipstick, James as her fiancé—this performance is all for Algernon Moreau, a celebrated art dealer. Although he is a married man, he is famous for his love of women, particularly those that are also married. Perhaps he likes the feeling of taking another man’s woman, [Name] had raised, and James and Sherlock agreed. 

Moreau is a mere stepping-stone in their plan—they believe he is acquainted with a murderer and thief they are hunting down; they know they work together and he may have something on his person—but tonight must work without a hitch if they are to get anywhere.

“Should we split up?” she asks.

James makes a doubtful sound. “It would be best if we stick together, I believe,” he says. “We have to be a convincing couple, eh?”

“This won’t be enough to tip him off?” she asks, holding up her hand and showing off her ring.

James squints at her, his nose wrinkling as he leans close. “Just to make certain, darling.” He finishes off his whiskey as another servant passes, and he replaces his empty glass with a fresh one. He downs the new glass with his head tipped back and when he finishes that one, he asks, “Care for a dance?”

So they make their way to the floor. They slip in among the couples, careful to stay visible on the edge of the circle, and her heart trips as she nearly does when James reels her in, his hand falling to her waist as the other takes her own hand, holding her fingers so delicately. Her arm goes around his neck. Has she ever danced with James before? No, she realizes, because she would’ve remembered this panic in her chest: like a bird in a cage.

James, of course, is a great dancer. How he learns all of the things he knows, she cannot begin to understand, but he seems good at everything he sets his mind to. It’s incredibly annoying. 

What’s more annoying is how their bodies move like water together. The space she has put between them shrinks as they step and turn with seemingly one mind. All the while James smiles down at her, like he has her right where he wants her. 

“Do you try to drive me to madness, or does it just come so easily to you?” she asks.

James laughs, his cheeks and the lines around his eyes bunching. And most annoying of all is that James is handsome and he knows it. He has a way of making one feel special and he often directs this superpower towards her. She wishes he wouldn’t, but she knows she would miss it if it were gone. She would never tell him any of these things; it’s embarrassing enough to think it in the privacy of her thoughts—but even then she wonders if he can see those, too.

“Can’t a man just dance with a beautiful woman?”

“There you go again,” she says, rolling her eyes as she looks beyond his shoulder. “Always there with a comment in hand. Ready to flatter at a moment’s notice.”

“Do I flatter?” he asks. His breath whispers past her ear, stirring the hair. “Or do I tell the truth?”

“I think,” she says, looking him in the eye, “that you show flattery to anything that draws breath.”

“If it gets the job done,” he agrees.

She guffaws. “So shameless!”

“Have I ever lied to you, mo chroí?”

“I would have no way of knowing, so I’m inclined to say yes.”

James spins her underneath his raised arm. Her heart spins with her, weightless as a feather, and then she is reeled back in just as quickly, nearly collapsing against him. Her hand falls on his chest to steady herself.

“Every word I say to you is true. I would swear my life on it.”

A little breathless, she says with a slight laugh, “You have told me some rather incredible things, Moriarty.”

There’s a sudden sobriety in his eyes. “As I said.”

She has only his word to take, and how good is the word of a thief? For she knows how good of a thief he is: he steals her heartbeat with a single look.

————————

People mingle amongst themselves, enjoying finger foods and drinks; others greet acquaintances and share stories, laughing together. Eyes catch on [Name] as she passes, some curious, others intrigued. She lets her gaze linger over them—all men. That feeling returns: a present to be opened.

Moreau is nowhere to be seen, though, and neither are the Holmes brothers. And she is bored—well, as bored as she can be with James. He flirts and he flatters and she parries every word with an acuity that has become their custom. 

At some point she wanders off, obtaining a little sandwich and a fresh gin, and when she returns to James—only ten minutes have passed—he has found himself an audience. He stands there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding whiskey, and he waves the glass around as he speaks. When [Name] approaches, the crowd has just started laughing. He flashes a winning smile at them, and his eyes alight when he sees her. “Ah, here she is,” he says, extending an arm.

Confused, she comes to him. His hand falls to the small of her back as he says, “Darling, I was just about to tell the story of my proposal to you.”

“Oh, please do!” says an enthusiastic and very pretty redhead. The man at her side seems utterly bored. As a matter of fact, the women seem most delighted by James, while their men stand there, some looking rather angry at James for distracting their partners.

“Yes. Do,” says [Name] with a sickly sweet smile.

“Well,” he begins, and they fall silent, only the string instruments accompanying his story, “I made sure to cancel any prior engagement she had, and I told her we were spending the day together. I took her on a tour of the city. With my job and her writing, we are so very busy. I wanted to treat her to a day of no obligation or worry. Anyways, I brought her to the university library where I read some Shakespeare to her—” The women coo, some clutching their chests; [Name] fights not to roll her eyes at him. “—and got into some business I would rather not share at the moment.” The audience laughs, gasping and scolding. [Name] wonders if perhaps she should vanish into a ghost about now. 

“We went to eat after, and then we went for a walk through the park,” he goes on. “I didn’t tell her where we were going, but I’m sure she could guess.” He looks down at her with such soft reverence as he says the words that she wonders, again, how he can be so good at lying. “The gardens. I knew it was her favorite place in the city, so I made sure to end things there. There were butterflies, more than I had ever seen in one place, and they were of every color under the sun—and perhaps some new ones. The look on her face was…” James’s voice drifts off, staring at her, seemingly lost in a memory that doesn’t exist. All breathing seems to stop, waiting for him. “She was beautiful.” James clears his throat. “We hardly said a word as we walked through the flowers. I was scared to ruin the moment. But eventually we found a bench and I recited some of her poetry to her. I had found a piece she had written privately. I recited it from memory and then…I asked her to marry me.”

The words flow from him as if they are real. How could he improvise such a story with so many eyes on him? Her face warms under the adulation they receive. The story is all a bit saccharine and certainly meant to flatter the audience, but it’s the sentiment that renders her speechless. How easily he toys with her and his flirtations.

Two can play at this game.

When a woman asks, “What was the poem?” [Name] jumps at the chance.

Turning to James, she warns him only with a devilish smile of her own as she recites, “‘I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out.’” 

Somewhere in saying the words, her smile vanishes until she is just standing there, staring into James Moriarty’s eyes, and declaring her love to him.

She hardly hears the fawning of their captive audience with their hands clasped, mouths falling into perfect o’s. It’s at this moment that some of the men slip away, tugging their wives along behind them, and there, just for a second, she sees him, watching with keen interest.

She stands on her toes and presses a kiss to James’s cheek, which seems to leave him rather flummoxed, judging by the way his fingers dig into her waist. She whispers, “Moreau is here.”

————————

The battle wages on. For every flirtation that slips past James’s lips, [Name] is shooting back. It’s as if all of the months of dealing with James have bubbled over within herself. She is sick of being the business end of all of his jokes and teases, rendered speechless and flustered by his practiced advances. She hates the way he affects her, and she is determined to put him in his place.

All the while, Moreau is circling. The dress has done its job, but it was James’ and her performances that caught him like a fish on a hook. He is here with his wife, but he lingers and he leers, trying to catch [Name]’s eye. She needs to encourage him to make the first move.

That’s when Sherlock and Mycroft arrive, looking utterly dashing in their spotless suits. Sherlock’s eyes roll practically to the back of his head when he sees James’s arm around [Name] as they sit at their table. “Truly selling the part, are you?” asks Sherlock.

“Aye. It’s the best role I’ve ever played,” says James, beaming.

[Name] jumps up from her seat. Moreau has been staring at the foursome like a hawk; this is the perfect opportunity. “Mycroft, would you mind sharing a dance with me?”

The elder Holmes pauses as he unwinds his scarf. “Really?” asks Mycroft.

“Really?” asks James, leveling his gaze.

“I’d love a dance,” she says, tucking her arms behind her back, her chest pitching forward.

Mycroft keeps his eyes firmly on her face, his mouth tight. He looks over her shoulder—at Sherlock? James? Whatever he sees there must help convince him. “I’d be honored.” 

As she takes his hand and leads him to the floor, she hears a chair scrape back and an Irish voice bark her name, but she doesn’t dare look back.

There is a tinge of pink in Mycroft’s cheeks as he takes her into his arms. His touch is much more delicate than James’s: James is firm and so sure of himself and what he wants, while Mycroft is the consummate gentleman, plagued with nauseating politeness and concern. She takes his wrist and raises his hand higher until he is right in the divot of her waist. The look he gives her is of pure shock. “[Name]?”

“It’s all a performance, right?” she asks, meaning to jest—but it comes out drenched in quiet resentment.

“Are you well?” asks Mycroft. She nearly steps on his toe as they twirl around the floor.

“Perfectly fine, Mycroft,” she says. She smiles at him, and wonders if she is trying to convince him or herself. “An evening spent with James Moriarty can fray the nerves.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” grumbles Mycroft. “Speaking of, my apologies that we were so late. Sherlock got himself into a—well, a bit of trouble, as he often does.”

“Oh, goodness, what was it now?”

“Well—” And here he dives into a story of a night of errors, constant delays, and nonsensical trouble hindering their arrival to the party. Mycroft says it all with a straightfaced, despairing tone that makes her smile, basking in the pure enjoyment of having a friend that is so utterly himself. She laughs at some parts, and they shake their heads about the chaos of Sherlock, even if they love him.

“Your brother is a handful,” she says. 

“I am well aware.”

“He is a good man,” she says softly. Tucking her cheek against Mycroft’s shoulder, she is suddenly so tired. She stares at the couples dancing all around them, wondering what their lives are like. “In his own crazy way.”

Mycroft breathes in sharply, his chest rising beneath her. “Yes, he is.” He clears his throat and asks in a clearer voice, “How is the business with that man going?”

“He’s rather like a gnat: constantly lingering,” she says. She casts her head about, wondering if she can spot him. “If he doesn’t make his move, I’ll have to.”

“Are you so sure about all of this?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You’re…well—” The pink returns to Mycroft’s cheeks.

“Luring him in?” she asks. It’s the kindest way of putting it.

Mycroft seems grateful. “Yes,” he says through tight teeth.

“Well. There are some other ways I’d rather spend my Thursday evening,” she concedes, “but if it will save lives, I’m willing.”

“Don’t let these boys make you a martyr.”

She laughs. “I can handle myself, Mycroft.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” he says, nodding to himself as he stares over her head.

“I’m sorry to involve you, Mycroft.”

He meets her eye. He really is very handsome; she wouldn’t have minded playing as his betrothed. “It’s…nothing. Somewhat.” His mouth presses into a line. “The less I know the better,” says Mycroft, but he smiles kindly. His eyes lift beyond her and into the crowd. “Those boys are trouble.” His brow knits, eyes narrowing. “Good God,” he mutters almost to himself, dropping his head. “I’m being glared at.”

“Moreau?” She forces herself not to turn; she doesn’t want to look too interested.

Mycroft loosens his touch. “Not him.”

Oh. 

Her eyes drop between their bodies, suddenly fascinated by the way her dress sways against the floor. Now that it has been pointed out, she can practically feel the hole being burned into her back. She won’t dare look. “Yes, he’s been playing his role rather well all night.”

“What role?”

“As my fiancé.”

Mycroft’s mouth pinches. “He’s always like this.”

She doesn’t know she has her jaw clenched. “Like what?”

The look that Mycroft gives her can only be described as: oh, poor thing. “Dear, he looks at you like he wants to eat you alive.”

She hates how those words move through her: in the way honey pours from a spoon; the way water flows through a river. But she knows James. He loves the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of winning. He knows he is handsome and he knows she finds him so. 

She wishes she didn’t. 

“He’s a cad,” she says, scoffing. Trying not to care. “He would tire of me the moment he has me.”

Mycroft’s brow is tight. He stares at her, confused. “I don’t think—”

A finger taps on Mycroft’s shoulder. The two of them turn and there is Moreau: he’s about Mycroft’s age, handsome enough, with slicked blond hair. His blue eyes don’t leave [Name] as he asks, “Mind if I step in?”

————————

All they know about Algernon Moreau is his notoriety in the art world: supposedly he is a highly regarded dealer. Their interest is his connection with Lucas Bernard, an antiquarian who works with a select few—including Moreau. The two men and several others are all connected to an underground market. Bernard doesn’t deal to just anyone.

They found a woman who spent some time with Moreau. She told them that Moreau has cards on him for all of the men in this little gang.

You’ll need to get him alone, Sherlock had suggested. They had stood around the table, looking at blueprints of Whitby Manor. He had his closed fist to his chin, staring down at the map as he pondered.

That should be easy enough, she’d said. Would [Name] a mere year ago have been so willing to do any of this? Probably not. But getting tangled up with these two boys had brought out a piece of herself she never knew was buried within her. 

Then what? asked James. He had looked across the table at her, hands buried deep into his pockets. He looked up at her through his lashes, his brow framing his suddenly serious face. She wasn’t used to such a grim James Moriarty.

She had met his eyes like it was a challenge. I’ll get the card. 

How, though? He said the words slowly, circling the table until he was standing beside her. He could be imposing when he wanted to be, and he was right then. Are you going to ask for it? Or do something else to convince him?

Whatever it takes.

James’s stare was hard enough to cut a diamond. Without his eyes leaving her, he told Sherlock, I’ll follow them. I can take care of it.

Do you have no faith in me, James? She had a hip cocked, a hand resting on the table.

He looked her up and down. The opposite, actually. That’s what worries me.

She thinks of that night and James’s face—the flickering candlelight, the low rumble of his voice—as she dances with Moreau. Unfortunately for her, Moreau is a dreadful bore. It amazes her, sometimes, how men like this can secure such lovely women and reel them into their net. But she laughs and flatters like he is the most fascinating man in the world.

As Moreau blathers on about selling a painting overseas, there is James, waiting. He is sitting at the table where she left him. When their eyes meet, he gives her a small nod. 

(I can take care of it.)

“I’m holding a few paintings here,” Moreau is saying. “There’s an auction in a few days' time. Would you like to see them?”

Her eyes alight. “I’d love to.”

The pair separate from the dancefloor. Moreau lets his hand fall to the small of her back as he guides her through the crowds, an innocent enough gesture if she didn’t know him.

[Name] holds her dress to keep from tripping as they mount the stairs.

“How far is the art held?” she asks, suddenly realizing she will be alone with this man.

Moreau turns, looking down at her heels. “Don’t worry,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “You won’t hurt your feet.”

She laughs. “I’d hate to have blisters.”

He tuts at her. A red and gold carpet softens their steps as they reach the second floor. Nobody is up here except for them, the music and voices dissipating with every step. “I saw you dancing all night,” he says. “The stairs shouldn’t be an issue.”

Boring and condescending. What dreadful company. He’s walking ahead of her, so she lets her eyes roll. Then she softens her voice: “I know you saw me.” It must’ve been convincing enough because Moreau turns as he approaches a door, giving her a lingering look before opening the door. 

Light spills out from the room. Across the way, a balcony door hangs open, a cool breeze wisping inside. There are about a dozen paintings of various sizes spread around the room, all of them in heavy gold-filigreed frames. These paintings must be hundreds of years old and even though she knows nothing about art, they are undeniably beautiful. She allows a gasp, not entirely fake, and steps into the room. He closes the door behind them with a soft click.

“Oh, these are beautiful,” she says. She tilts her head, approaching the first one in front of her. It’s a seascape with crashing waves, the whitecaps so realistic that she has to resist the urge to reach out and touch them. Moreau stands by her side, a little too close, with his hands clasped behind his back. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“I thought the same.”

She finds him looking at her. Gross. But she feigns a blush, turning away as if to hide her reddening cheeks. “These will be up for auction?”

“This Sunday,” he says, nodding. “You should come.”

“I don’t know if I could afford these,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Perhaps a generous benefactor can lend a—”

There’s a knock at the door.

Moreau stops mid-word, his mouth hanging open. Casting her a look of confusion, Moreau goes to the door. Right as he opens it, he says, “How may I—” but unfortunately, a fist shoots out and meets his nose. Immediately stunned, Moreau collapses back and hits the ground with a thump that makes [Name] wince.

James steps over Moreau’s body. “Fancy meeting you here,” he tells her.

“You didn’t take long.”

“I was wondering where my darling fiancée had wandered off to.”

James hooks his arms beneath Moreau’s pits and drags the man farther into the room. Moreau is out cold, his mustache practically twitching with his snores. James kicks the door shut as he crouches, digging through Moreau’s pockets.

“I could’ve done all of this,” she reminds him, a hand on her hip.

James glances at her before returning to Moreau. He says nothing.

She smirks at the top of his head. “It would’ve been so easy to—”

“Please stop speaking.”

Another knock. Her brow pinches, ready to panic—their plans never do go well, do they?—when the door opens and Sherlock’s head pops in. “Did you—oh my. So you did.” He slips inside and shuts the door, lazily leant against it. “Well done, [Name]. Anything of note?” he asks James.

James lifts up a wallet. “Just this.” He stands, picking through the sleeves. He pulls a note from the billfold and when [Name] scoffs, he shoots her a wink before pocketing the money. “I’ll use it to get you dinner.”

“How romantic.”

“There,” says Sherlock, pointing at a card buried within the wallet.

James pulls out a stack of business cards. He’s grinning as he picks through them, until finally he says, “Ha!” Between two fingers, he holds a white card with a looping black script. The two men cock their heads as they read the card, slow smiles spreading across their faces. “Good work, folks. We’ve got the bastard.”

[Name] stands on her toes to look. James hands it to her, dropping back down to drag Moreau farther into the room. Sherlock stands before her with his hands on his hips, saying, “This might just be our cleanest heist we’ve ever—”

There’s another knock on the door. James’s head snaps up, still carrying Moreau, whose head lolls drunkenly. Sherlock stops mid-word. [Name]’s eyes widen, her hand coming to cover her mouth. Please be Mycroft.

“‘Ello? Monsieur Moreau?”

Oh, no.

“Sherlock,” hisses James. He nods his head at the body. “Take him.”

“Where?” whispers Sherlock, spreading his hands. There were no secret passageways in their blueprints.

“To the balcony. Hurry.”

The pounding on the door grows louder and more insistent. “Moreau? Moreau!”

As Sherlock drags Moreau away, grumbling to himself, James returns to [Name]. “Mess up my hair,” he tells her. She hesitates for only a heartbeat before she ruffles his hair—soft, so thick between her fingers, good lord—and he takes her face in his hand, cradling her jaw. Her breath ceases in her chest, wondering if he is about to kiss her, the knocking at the door long forgotten. Can he feel her pulse beneath her jaw? But he only smears his thumb across her bottom lip, spreading her lipstick onto her cheek. As he goes to open the door, he undoes a couple of buttons on his suit and rubs his thumb across his own lip.

James opens the door. He stands there with a drunken grin, leaning against the frame and looking rather ravished: his tousled hair and the open suit paired with a look of absolute lovesickness on his face. “Ever heard of privacy, man?”

“What—” The man cranes his neck to look around James. The man is tall and lean, dressed in a nice suit like any other guest. Did Moreau have a guard they didn’t think to keep an eye out for? “I thought I saw—Is there an Algernon Moreau in here?”

“I hope not,” says James, practically pitching forward. “Just me ‘n my girl.”

“Your—?” The man sees [Name] for the first time. He turns away just as quickly, no doubt stunned by the state of the pair. “That’s the woman I just saw with Moreau. Is it not?” he asks James.

“She’s wit’ me, mate,” says James, pointing at his own chest. 

“How did you two get in here?”

[Name] says, “The door was unlocked, sir. We’re very sorry.”

“Get out of here,” snaps the man, finished with them. “There are absolutely no guests allowed in here.” James hooks an arm around [Name]’s waist and follows the man out of the room. The man pulls a key from his jacket pocket and locks the door. He pockets it again, staring them down. “Because you two are so young, I won’t say a word. But you damned lovebirds better find somewhere else to do…whatever the hell you were bloody doing.”

“We will, we will,” says James, miming a drunkard’s slow nod. [Name] has to hide a laugh behind her hand. “C’mon, girl. Let’s leave the man alone.”

James seems to gain his sobriety the moment they hit the stairs, dashing hand in hand down the steps as they both fight to keep their laughter down. [Name] is practically shaking as they return to the party.

James rests his hands on his hips and looks back up the stairs, his teeth glinting as he raises a hand. “Fuckin’ hell, Sherlock is stuck up there,” he says, and hardly finishes the sentence before he bursts out laughing. She tries shushing him, even as she trips over her own hysterics. Has she ever seen anything funnier than a ruffled James Moriarty, her lipstick across his mouth?

Some eyes land on them, shooting curious looks, so she takes his hand and runs again, holding her dress up as they run out of Whitby Manor, pushing past people. “We have to find the balcony,” she says, giggling. She goes from dragging along James to hustling with him alongside her, their shoes crunching on the gravel the moment they step outside. The night air brings shivers, but she can hardly feel them through the heat in her chest.

They find the balcony after a few minutes of searching. “Sherlock,” she calls, and James snorts. She elbows him before daring to shout louder. “Sherlock!”

When his head pops out over the railing, James bursts into laughter again. He stumbles away, a hand on his chest, as she says, “Sherlock, you got locked in!”

“You don’t say!” says Sherlock.

“Is there a way for you to get down?”

Sherlock hits his hands on the railing. “Well, there isn’t a damn ladder!”

James regains himself enough to say, “‘Wherefore art thou—’”

[Name] reels on him, smiling despite herself. “You—”

“James, do you think—” But Sherlock stops, his eyes going wide before retreating from the balcony’s edge.

She’s about to call out his name when James shushes her, a hand on her bare arm. Goosebumps rise at his touch. “Something tells me our dear friend has been found out,” he whispers. “It’s best we find somewhere else to be.” James slips his fingers into hers and they run deeper into the yard, towards the gardens.

————————

Moonlight leads the way. The trees around them seem to shimmer as if painted with silver. The golden glow from the windows beckons to them, but there is something oddly cozy about being on the outside looking in, trapped in their own little world. James doesn’t let go of her hand as they stroll through the garden, accompanied by the occasional hooting owl or yip of a fox deeper in the forest beyond the property.

“Do you think—”

“—Sherlock will be fine? Sure. He’ll give them some story,” answers James flippantly. “He has his brother.” The moon casts shadows across his face, just as it had in the carriage. Was that really all tonight? The carriage ride feels like a thousand years ago. She only knows now, here, with James.

She feels drunk: she hasn’t stopped smiling. She trips over her own feet, stumbling and knocking into James, and his arm comes around her like it belongs there, his own bashful smile so big and bright that her heart swells with warmth: they’re so young and beautiful. James stares into her eyes for a long moment, teetering on the edge—she knows not what’s at the bottom, but she knows she wants to fall. 

“James?”

“Yes.”

“What does mo chroí mean?” After hearing those words in James’s raspy, deep voice, they sound softer in her own mouth, timid and unused to shaping the sounds. 

Has he ever looked so handsome? The moonlight sands down his hard edges. His soft black eyes and his just-as-black hair and his beautiful nose and the tilt of his roguish lips. And the way he looks at her. Has it always been right in front of her? She doesn’t see James look at anyone the way he looks at her.

“My heart,” he breathes. 

Much too enticing.

[Name] kisses him with a desperation like she has been left without air. She holds his cheek—soft, shaved—as she fits her mouth to his, and James meets her with equal enthusiasm, his hands circling around her middle and tucking her in until she knows nothing but the firmness of his body, his touch. Her fingers slip back into his hair, digging in and pulling him in as if he can get any closer. James’s teeth brush her bottom lip, threatening to bite.

When she spreads her lips, the press of James’s tongue is dizzying. She falls against him, her knees weakening. In a hurried, breathless voice, James whispers, “About fuckin’ time, woman.” She laughs against his mouth, her teeth brushing his lip, then his nose. James dives in to press his open mouth against her bared throat, and [Name] stares up at the stars and the moon, praying to be consumed.

————————

James kicks the door to his apartment shut, his hands never leaving her face. He kisses her like she is about to vanish. His feverish hands work at her skirts, shoving them off and out of the way. “Do you have any idea how often I’ve dreamt this?” he whispers against her lips. The excess fabric spills from her waist. Still in her corset and inner skirt, she feels even lighter—and James lifts her into his arms, carrying her to the table.

He lays her down after sweeping everything off of the surface with a sharp clatter. He buries his mouth against her neck, making her shiver with his hot breath. He is a man undone: his ruffled hair, the flush in his cheeks. He can’t keep his hands off of her. His mouth traces down to her heaving chest, her breasts pressing against the corset. His teeth graze against the swell of her breast and she wriggles, begging, “James.”

“Patience is a virtue, mo chroí,” he says with a villainous smile before burying his hands beneath her skirts, drawing them up around her trembling thighs. He kneels at the end of the table and she’s blushing. “Be good,” James warns as he opens her legs, and then his mouth finds her aching, weeping cunt. The first touch of his tongue leaves her lightheaded, her lips falling open as she cries out. He gathers her wetness from bottom to top, licking her up so thoroughly that her hand claps over her mouth, moaning as her fingers find his hair and pull. 

James groans against her cunt, which only makes it better. He blindly reaches up and pulls the hand from her mouth, holding it hostage by her side, burning bruises into her wrist. His nose—that damn nose—rubs so nicely against her clit and her hips move with a mind of their own, chasing the pleasure he provides her. His tongue is relentless, like he’s kissing her all over again. The very thought makes her face burn.

Never has she felt so good. Her fingers have never brought her such joy, nor has anyone else. It feels like James knows every inch of her and can read her every thought, knowing just what to do at just the right time to get her whining and moaning beneath him. 

Without removing his mouth, James releases her wrist and slips free of his jacket, tossing the clothing somewhere in the room. She grinds up against his nose, relentless, as James undoes the buttons of his shirt, the fabric falling open to expose dark chest hair and firm muscle. The sounds of his mouth against her wet core would be humiliating if she didn’t find it so provocative.

“James,” she begs. She needs to be full of him. She has never wanted anything more in her life. A finger, his tongue—anything.

Her fake engagement ring shines with her hand in his hair. 

James kisses her thigh before rising, the sudden loss of his mouth devastating. She gasps, hands reaching up to slip beneath his shirt, desperate for contact. His skin is hot enough to burn, but she pulls him in, greedy for more of him. She worries it’ll never be enough.

He works at unlacing her corset as she pulls on his pants, slipping the button free and drawing the pants down. Her nails trace along his ribs as she loops her arms around him, forcing him nearer. James sheds his shirt. “You’re beautiful,” he’s saying, his voice slurred, and when he kisses her, she tastes herself on his tongue.

[Name] sits up from the table, dizzy. She scoots to the edge of the table and loops an arm around his neck, fingers returning to his hair as they kiss, James slipping his cock from drawers. He falls hot and heavy against her thigh and she’s already shaking, desperately impatient, and James laughs, the sound aching, before he lines himself up and presses into her.

They gasp, their kiss halted by the sudden intrusion. Their lips brush, open-mouthed, as she adjusts to the size of James, steadily pushing deeper and deeper. He’s thick and long, stretching her open until every thought has left her. Her head falls back with a soft, “Fuck.” James buries as deep as he can before stopping, letting them catch their breath. 

Then he moves. 

He rocks out of her before bullying his way back in, leaving her a trembling mess. She clutches his bicep as she meets his every thrust, the next somehow always better than the last. They move in a rhythm that comes naturally, like their bodies have waited an eternity for this. Like a dance.

“Doing so well,” he whispers. He’s groaning at the slide of her. “Just made for me, darling.”

That fucking voice really isn’t helping her regain her sanity. 

With her corset loose around her middle, James’s mouth lowers to her breast, catching a nipple between his lips. She moans, her thighs trembling, hardly able to think. He knows just what to do, how to undo her entirely. He smiles around her nipple, the pleasure blinding. She grinds harder.

James lifts her from the table and she gasps, clutching onto him. His cock stays in her as he carries her to and drops her onto the bed, the mattress creaking beneath their weight. His fingers clasp with hers and hold her hand beside her head as he fucks her harder, whispering in Gaelic the entire time. She flushes at his attention and the thunderous rumble of his voice. When he rubs her clit, urging her to oblivion, it is all too easy.

Her back arches and her nails dig into his back, leaving red marks as she squeezes him tight, moaning and crying out his name. James fucks her through the blinding pleasure, telling her just how good she feels, how beautiful she is. How long he has wanted her. 

Tears slip down the sides of her head as James finishes moments later, a beautiful sound slipping from his mouth as warmth fills her. 

She doesn’t know if she has ever been happier.

They catch their breath for a couple of minutes, recovering. James’s nose brushes against hers as he stares into her eyes, his own half-lidded, pleased and tired. His smile is lazy, and achingly beautiful. “What is it again?” His voice is a wreck. He swallows, clearing his throat. “‘‘To the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach.’”

She wonders if her smile is just like his: besotted and dazed. “Wait until I tell the world how much of a romantic you are, James Moriarty.”

His smile widens. The tip of his nose teases hers. “Aye, but they’ll never believe you,” he says. “Only you get to see me like this, mo chroí.” Brushing a fresh tear from her cheek, James can’t help stealing another kiss.