Pope is here because Smurf told him the property needs checking on. At least that’s the story he’s feeding himself.

And it makes sense. There’s water damage in one of the downstairs units and some dipshit’s been stripping cooper out of the laundry room again. If it’s not one thing going wrong, it’s another.

This building’s always two steps away from falling apart. Someone has to stop it from going to hell completely.

Plenty of good, rational reasons to be here. 

None of which do a thing to explain why he does not move from being propped on the hood of his truck just yet.

He stays at the curb as he watches the building’s familiar pulse of seedy activity.

It’s not even the worst spot owned by the Codys, not by far, but that doesn’t make it good. It’s definitely not good enough for you, not by a long shot. Run-down. Full of people who loiter outside longer than they should and pay too much attention to things that aren’t theirs.

A woman argues fervently on the stoop, body tense enough he can see the harsh jut of her collarbone from here. Two boys pretend to clean their bikes by the courtyard, their hands moving in repetitive, meaningless circles, rags never actually removing any grime.

And then there’s the smoker, with a long beard and crooked nose, leaning near the stairs, smoke rising around him.

Pope watches his sleepy gaze harden suddenly, tracking something straight ahead.

Pope’s neck cranes as his vision tunnels into pinpoint clarity, finding what the man found first: you.

Walking up the sidewalk with two grocery bags hooked over your wrists, pink flats picking their way carefully over the buckled concrete, skirt the same shade catching around your knees every time the breeze shifts. White cardigan buttoned all the way up over your chest despite the heat.

You don’t hurry. That bothers him.

You move through the courtyard with no care in the world. Unaware of the eyes that linger on your body, the curiosity you unwittingly ignite.

God he hates this place most when you’re in it. Without you, it’s just brick and mortar. But with you here, everything is suddenly hostile. A million scenarios blooming in his head. Someone following you from your car, someone hiding just around the corner waiting for you to pass by, a neighbor deciding your door lock doesn’t look so hard to force open.

He has tried to get you to stay at Smurf’s countless times now, using different tactics each time. Gentle coaxing, stubborn demands, pushing you into the kind of corner where the only real choice was already decided for you.

And those all work most nights. 

Still, every now and then, for reasons unbeknownst to him, you insist on sleeping here.

So every now and then, he comes and sits off to the side, his truck parked discreetly out of view. Always staying within striking distance should anyone dare to try anything stupid.

Thankfully he hasn’t had to act yet, people know better, whispers exchanged in doorways and hallways: that pretty little thing tucked away in apartment 2B is Cody territory. Off limits.

It takes him four long strides to reach you. 

He comes up behind you without saying anything, partly because he doesn’t want to startle you and partly because he wants to see how long it takes before you notice a man his size coming up behind you. Too long, apparently. 

You don’t notice him when his shadow cuts across the pavement beside yours, not when his boots hit the concrete close enough you should hear him, not even when he’s right behind you, inhaling the faint sweet drift of your perfume over the dirty air of the courtyard.

You just keep walking, grocery bags bumping into your legs every second step, head angled down as you watch your feet over the cracked walkway. 

Then you stop so suddenly he nearly runs into you, boots scuffing against the ground in the process.

Nearly turns into definitely when you move again, bending at the waist to grab a little carton that had tumbled out of your bag and rolled near your shoe.

He can’t dodge you fast enough before he’s crashing against you, the ample of your backside pressed flush against him, your skirt skimming his denim-clad thighs.

He grits his teeth, swallowing down the groan lodged somewhere in his throat, and his hands shoot out to grip at your waist. Half to steady you, half to hold himself back.

You jump, a sharp little gasp tearing out of you as you twist in his hold, eyes wide, lips parted.

But the fear vanishes when you realize it’s him. Dissolves so quickly into relief, then blossoming into that lovely smile of yours Pope spends half his days obsessing over. Lip gloss glistens like honey under the afternoon sun, squinting at him through the harsh glare.

“Pope,” you breathe, like he’s something good that happened to you rather than the man who decided to follow you through a parking lot to prove a point.

His fingers flex once before he makes them let go.

“You don’t pay attention,” he tells you plainly.

You smile pinches at the edges a little, like you’re trying to decide whether he’s teasing you or scolding you. You seem to assume the later. A good assumption.

“I do pay attention,” you insist, the words coming out with the stubborn certainty of someone who has already decided they're right. Then you glance down at the sidewalk as though it might testify on your behalf. One of the grocery bags slips lower on your wrist, plastic stretching, and you hitch it back up with a small huff of effort. “I was paying attention to the ground. Because last week I almost twisted my ankle right there.”

Pope follows the line of your finger.

Without a word, he reaches for the bags. His hand closes around the handles and lifts them clean off your arm before you can object. You make a small noise of surprise, letting him take them.

“What if it wasn’t me coming up behind you?” 

Your brows pull together. “But it was you.”

“Yeah, but what if it wasn’t?”

You hesitate visibly, your fingers weaving together, rocking onto the tips of your shoes. You look almost apologetic when you speak. “I dunno.”

Exactly, he thinks.

He breathes out very slowly through his nose to keep the worst of his frustration from showing. It still sits heavy on his face, he’s sure. In the hard line of his mouth, in the way his hands tighten around the plastic bags until the handles stretch thin. 

“You gotta be more aware,” he says, dipping his face towards yours, almost pleading. His gaze flickers anxiously over your face, desperate for more reassurance. “Can you do that for me? Check around when you get out of the car, look before you walk up the stairs, take a second before you open your door.” 

You open your mouth to speak, something potentially defensive at the tip of your tongue, before you reconsider, shoulders sinking just a fraction. 

“For me,” Pope urges again. No room for misunderstanding.

And because you are you, you give a gentle, almost reluctant nod in surrender. You have a hard time fighting him on anything.

He returns the gesture with his own stiff nod. He knows you don’t fully understand the fuss, not completely, but you’re trying, and that has to be enough for now. He’ll shoulder the rest.

He moves towards the staircase, leaving you to catch up. You hurry to follow behind him. 

“Why’re you here anyway?” you voice after him. “Did I miss rent or something?”

Pope doesn’t turn around; doesn’t trust himself to look at you without giving too much away.

“No,” he replies, casual, like it’s not something he thinks about every single month.

You would never be late. You are a meticulously precise creature. Keeping track of everything, neat little numbers, due dates, confirmations, all of it lined up exactly the way you like, and then you get that pleased look on your face when you send the payment, like you’ve done something worth being proud of.

Which you have. He lets you have that. But he can’t stand taking your money.

So every month he waits until that little deposit appears, waits another day or two to avoid suspicion, then finds a way to get it back to you.

Sometimes it’s hidden in elaborate Cody business expenses; other times Craig’s buddy does some invisible computer shit to push numbers back into your account, nothing ever traced to pope.

And occasionally, he just leaves cash in places he knows you’ll find it. In your purse, between pages of a book you’ve left out, tucked behind a coffee mug. 

He loves hearing you puzzle over it. You always chalk it up to luck, or fate, or some karmic gift from the universe. Never once suspecting Pope’s fingerprints on every cent.

It all sounds more complicated than it actually is.

Really, it’s just logical. You need the money. Pope has the money. Problem solved.

At the steps, Pope pauses, gently nudging you ahead of him.

It’s a selfish move. He’s got a bad feeling you don’t have shorts under that skirt, and he’s not in the mood to have that confirmed by anyone standing behind you. Better him at your back than anyone else. Better him blocking the view.

As if to confirm his fears, someone over his shoulder lets out a short laugh. “Man, a girl that pretty oughta let me buy her dinner. Hell, maybe I’d even send her home wearing a pearl necklace.”

Pope looks back and finds the bearded cigarette smoker slouched against the vending machine, filter hanging loose between two fingers, eyes still fixed on you with that same open, filthy interest. He’s got a buddy with him now, some wiry little shit standing half a step to the side, not looking too sure of himself now that Pope’s facing him. 

Pope thinks about how easy it would be. Pin the guy up against the machine, forearm to windpipe, watching the smartass shine drain out of his eyes. Pictures crushing the cigarette into the soft part of his cheek. But he can’t do that without scaring you off.

So he crouches just enough to place the bags on the stairs without jostling them, eggs and bread and whatever else cushioned upright where it won’t tip. 

When he rises, he goes back the way he came, jerking his head in your direction. “You talkin’ about her?”

“Just complimenting her.”

“No,” Pope says. “You weren’t.”

The wiry friend shifts back half a step. Smart. 

The bearded man tries to recover, but it’s too late, Pope can already see the little glint of fear sputtering in his eyes, igniting as he sizes him up.

He lifts the cigarette to his mouth. “Ain’t that serious, man.”

Pope reaches out and plucks the cigarette from his fingers before it gets there. Drops it to the concrete. Crushes it under his boot. 

“Look at her again, talk about her again, I’ll make sure the next thing I crush under my boot is your throat.”

The bearded man opens his mouth. 

“Don’t. I’m tryin’ real hard not to scare her,” Pope growls. “Don’t make that difficult for me.”

The man’s eyes flick once past Pope, towards the stairs, toward you, then snap back fast like even that was a mistake.

“Alright,” he mutters finally, hands lifting a little. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

A lie. A terrible one, at that. But Pope doesn’t spare the man another look. Just turns, grabs the grocery bags, and comes back up the steps to where you’re perched on the landing, watching him with that dazed little expression of yours. 

“I don’t even like pearls,” you whisper to him the second he gets close enough. “They’re kinda old-ladyish.”

Pope shuts his eyes for half a beat.

“Yeah,” he finally sputters, tips of his ears burning a little. He ushers you towards 2B. “C’mon. Inside.”

The inside of your apartment is cute. Small as it looks from the outside and from what he can see through your window at night, but it’s cute, all pinks and whites and soft little girlish details scattered across every surface.

There’s a coffee table crowded with tiny trinkets he can’t make heads or tails of, glossy little objects with no obvious purpose except that you liked them enough to bring them home. 

And it’s clean. He likes that it’s clean. Clean means he won’t spend the time here distracted by dust in the corners and fingerprints on glass, trying not to imagine bleaching every inch of it.

He carries the bags into the kitchen and sets them on the counter one by one. Behind him, you wobble a little taking off your shoes and catch yourself on his shoulder.

It leaves a searing brand behind when you pull away. 

“What was that out there?” you ask.

Pope shrugs. “Nothin’. Guy’s just a dick.”

He winces inwardly as soon as he says it. Dick feels too crude aimed anywhere near you, and he has to resist the urge to take it back and replace it with something nicer.

“It’s not like he said anything really bad or anything,” you say, shrugging in a way that suggests you’re used to it. 

Used to being stared at, cat called, talked about. And maybe it shouldn’t surprise him, given who you are.

He’s seen it before, at Smurf’s parties, men practically stumbling over themselves to offer you a drink, eyes tracking every movement you make. Drivers nearly wrapping their cars around telephone poles because their heads turn too fast when you walk down the street. 

You’re beautiful. Beautiful enough that people can’t help staring at you. But Pope’s never been forced to hear it firsthand, never had to stand there while some pervert talked about putting a pearl necklace across your throat and chest. And you don’t even understand what he was saying. 

He could handle it. He could handle it right now. If the guy’s still lingering around when Pope leaves, he might just have to. The asshole will be out of this building tomorrow regardless, he’ll will make damn sure of it.

Your hand touching his arm snaps him out of it. He looks down and sees your painted fingers resting there, cautious like you’re not sure what’s going on in his head. 

“Pope?”

The heat cools just enough for him to breathe. He rubs a hand over his jaw. “He said somethin’ bad enough.”

You cock your head to one side. “Taking me to dinner isn’t exactly the worst offer I’ve ever had. And like I said, pearls aren’t really my thing, but it’s a nice sentiment, I guess?”

Pope shoves his hand through his hair, forced to take a step back because standing this close to your face is messing with him. 

“Look a pearl necklace isn’t… it’s not jewelry, okay? It’s not fuckin’ nice. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

You fold your arms over your chest, your hair slipping forward and partly covering your face. Pope’s fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the impulse to reach out and brush it back into place. 

“Not really… I— well,” you pause, fingers drumming along your left arm. “What else could a pearl necklace be, if it’s not jewelry?”

His blood pressure ticks up exponentially. Why must you make everything so difficult?

“I’m not gonna explain it. Just trust me, it’s not somethin’ appropriate for anyone to say to you.”

“What happened to ‘I’m an adult’ and ‘it’s my call if I wanna know stuff’?”

Shit. He did say that, didn’t he?

Pope takes a deep, irritated breath, wishing he could turn back time and rip his own vocal chords out. This must be his own purgatory. Cursed to answer all your sex related questions for all of eternity and unable to do anything about it.

You trust him. That much is obvious. He doesn’t want to abuse that trust. A Sisyphean task. Endless. Futile.

“Alright, look. It’s slang for a guy… finishin’ on you. On your throat, your chest, wherever.” His voice is strained, worried he might break something delicate in you just by saying it. “It’s disrespectful. Sleazy.”

You blink, eyes huge as you look up at him, clearly stunned by what you just heard. You shake your head slightly, trying to puzzle it out. “So it’s… disrespectful if someone does that to you?”

Pope cracks his neck, wincing slightly, as if the right words are somewhere trapped there and refusing to come out easy. 

“Christ — yes,” he grumbles. Then quickly, backtracking, “I mean no — no, it ain’t disrespectful if it’s something you, uh, wanted someone to do, but it’s disrespectful for someone to say shit like that to you unprompted.”

“Oh, well, yeah, that was gross,” you agree, wrinkling your nose.

Then you turn away from him, starting to put away the groceries with a distracted, absent-minded care. He thinks he’s in the clear, that you’re satisfied with his sparks note version of the definition.

He’s eyeing the door, when you pause again, bottom lip caught between your teeth, a bag of carrots dangling in your hand.

“Why would someone even want to do that to someone? The guy, I mean? Not him specifically, just, like, any guy? Is that something… you think about? Like a lot?”

He coughs, almost choking, and a hot flush creeps up the back of his neck.

There’s an instant headache pulsing behind he eyes as he tries desperately not to picture exactly what you just asked him.

Is it something he thinks about? Not until this moment. Not until he imagines those same wide and trusting eyes looking up at him as he spills milky white ropes of cum across your bare chest.

Christ. He’s no better than that asshole downstairs, thinking shit like that about you. 

He presses two fingers to his temple. “No, it’s not like I sit around thinking about stuff like that.”

It feels like a fib now.

“So why would someone wanna do that at all?”

Because it would feel good, he thinks. Immediately. The act itself, yes, but the claim in the aftermath. The evidence left behind.

The way people are always trying to leave marks on things they like. Names carved into desks. Initials scratched into trees. Dogs pissing on fire hydrants. 

You stare at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. 

He looks at the wall behind you, at the cheap paint and the little crooked shelf you’ve decorated with candles and a tiny ceramic flower.

Anything but your face. Anything but the curve of your throat. Anything but the where your shirt dips when you shift closer. 

“It’s…” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “It’s visual.” The word sounds dragged out of him. “That’s part of it. Men are wired like that. And part of it’s ego. They wanna see you messy like that. Wanna see that you let ‘em do it.” His mouth flattens. “It’s not always romantic. A lotta the time it’s just selfish.”

“But maybe it depends on who it is? Like doing it to you?” You continue to worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Like… if it was someone safe. Someone you trusted a lot.” A tiny crease forms between your brows. “And if it was something you wanted too, couldn’t it be kind of romantic?” 

Pope goes still. All his blood seeming to rush downwards as the question lands between you like something lit, something rolling close to dry brush.

He can feel the conversation slipping somewhere it shouldn’t. He needs to reign it back in, regain control.

Instead he says, “Could be. If you trusted ‘em. If it was somethin’ you were askin’ for, or… into. Not somethin’ that’s being pushed on you.”

You go quiet, turning that over.

Then, in that soft, absentminded way of yours, like you don’t realize you’re lighting a match in a room full of gas, you say, “I guess that makes sense. A lot of things probably feel different with a person you trust.”

You’re looking at him so intensely he has to take another step back. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Can’t. Your gaze moves back down into the grocery bag with a shrug, sweet and unaware that you’ve just handed his imagination enough to ruin the rest of his night.

He’s corrupt for wanting to be that person for you. The one you trust enough to paint your body. To teach you all this dumb shit, but with his hands, with his mouth, with his cock.

He clears his throat hard, grabs the last bag off the counter even though it’s already empty, then sets it right back down like he forgot what he was doing in the first place.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice flat in that way it only gets when he’s holding too much under it. “Maybe.”

He leaves not long after that. Before you ask anything else. Before he can give into his urges and contaminate you with his darkness.  

By the next afternoon, the guy downstairs is gone.

Smurf’s property manager tells the tenants it was a lease violation. Some issue with unauthorized guests, late rent, maybe smoking too close to the building. Nobody asks too many questions. Nobody wants to.

And a few days later, you mention in passing that the creepy man by the vending machine must’ve gotten into some kind of accident.

“His face looked weird when he was packing up all his stuff,” you say, frowning a little. “Like he burned himself or something.”

Pope just hums, eyes on the road.

He doesn’t tell you cigarette burns heal terribly.

Pope is here because Smurf told him the property needs checking on. At least that’s the story he’s feeding himself.

And it makes sense. There’s water damage in one of the downstairs units and some dipshit’s been stripping cooper out of the laundry room again. If it’s not one thing going wrong, it’s another.

This building’s always two steps away from falling apart. Someone has to stop it from going to hell completely.

Plenty of good, rational reasons to be here. 

None of which do a thing to explain why he does not move from being propped on the hood of his truck just yet.

He stays at the curb as he watches the building’s familiar pulse of seedy activity.

It’s not even the worst spot owned by the Codys, not by far, but that doesn’t make it good. It’s definitely not good enough for you, not by a long shot. Run-down. Full of people who loiter outside longer than they should and pay too much attention to things that aren’t theirs.

A woman argues fervently on the stoop, body tense enough he can see the harsh jut of her collarbone from here. Two boys pretend to clean their bikes by the courtyard, their hands moving in repetitive, meaningless circles, rags never actually removing any grime.

And then there’s the smoker, with a long beard and crooked nose, leaning near the stairs, smoke rising around him.

Pope watches his sleepy gaze harden suddenly, tracking something straight ahead.

Pope’s neck cranes as his vision tunnels into pinpoint clarity, finding what the man found first: you.

Walking up the sidewalk with two grocery bags hooked over your wrists, pink flats picking their way carefully over the buckled concrete, skirt the same shade catching around your knees every time the breeze shifts. White cardigan buttoned all the way up over your chest despite the heat.

You don’t hurry. That bothers him.

You move through the courtyard with no care in the world. Unaware of the eyes that linger on your body, the curiosity you unwittingly ignite.

God he hates this place most when you’re in it. Without you, it’s just brick and mortar. But with you here, everything is suddenly hostile. A million scenarios blooming in his head. Someone following you from your car, someone hiding just around the corner waiting for you to pass by, a neighbor deciding your door lock doesn’t look so hard to force open.

He has tried to get you to stay at Smurf’s countless times now, using different tactics each time. Gentle coaxing, stubborn demands, pushing you into the kind of corner where the only real choice was already decided for you.

And those all work most nights. 

Still, every now and then, for reasons unbeknownst to him, you insist on sleeping here.

So every now and then, he comes and sits off to the side, his truck parked discreetly out of view. Always staying within striking distance should anyone dare to try anything stupid.

Thankfully he hasn’t had to act yet, people know better, whispers exchanged in doorways and hallways: that pretty little thing tucked away in apartment 2B is Cody territory. Off limits.

It takes him four long strides to reach you. 

He comes up behind you without saying anything, partly because he doesn’t want to startle you and partly because he wants to see how long it takes before you notice a man his size coming up behind you. Too long, apparently. 

You don’t notice him when his shadow cuts across the pavement beside yours, not when his boots hit the concrete close enough you should hear him, not even when he’s right behind you, inhaling the faint sweet drift of your perfume over the dirty air of the courtyard.

You just keep walking, grocery bags bumping into your legs every second step, head angled down as you watch your feet over the cracked walkway. 

Then you stop so suddenly he nearly runs into you, boots scuffing against the ground in the process.

Nearly turns into definitely when you move again, bending at the waist to grab a little carton that had tumbled out of your bag and rolled near your shoe.

He can’t dodge you fast enough before he’s crashing against you, the ample of your backside pressed flush against him, your skirt skimming his denim-clad thighs.

He grits his teeth, swallowing down the groan lodged somewhere in his throat, and his hands shoot out to grip at your waist. Half to steady you, half to hold himself back.

You jump, a sharp little gasp tearing out of you as you twist in his hold, eyes wide, lips parted.

But the fear vanishes when you realize it’s him. Dissolves so quickly into relief, then blossoming into that lovely smile of yours Pope spends half his days obsessing over. Lip gloss glistens like honey under the afternoon sun, squinting at him through the harsh glare.

“Pope,” you breathe, like he’s something good that happened to you rather than the man who decided to follow you through a parking lot to prove a point.

His fingers flex once before he makes them let go.

“You don’t pay attention,” he tells you plainly.

You smile pinches at the edges a little, like you’re trying to decide whether he’s teasing you or scolding you. You seem to assume the later. A good assumption.

“I do pay attention,” you insist, the words coming out with the stubborn certainty of someone who has already decided they're right. Then you glance down at the sidewalk as though it might testify on your behalf. One of the grocery bags slips lower on your wrist, plastic stretching, and you hitch it back up with a small huff of effort. “I was paying attention to the ground. Because last week I almost twisted my ankle right there.”

Pope follows the line of your finger.

Without a word, he reaches for the bags. His hand closes around the handles and lifts them clean off your arm before you can object. You make a small noise of surprise, letting him take them.

“What if it wasn’t me coming up behind you?” 

Your brows pull together. “But it was you.”

“Yeah, but what if it wasn’t?”

You hesitate visibly, your fingers weaving together, rocking onto the tips of your shoes. You look almost apologetic when you speak. “I dunno.”

Exactly, he thinks.

He breathes out very slowly through his nose to keep the worst of his frustration from showing. It still sits heavy on his face, he’s sure. In the hard line of his mouth, in the way his hands tighten around the plastic bags until the handles stretch thin. 

“You gotta be more aware,” he says, dipping his face towards yours, almost pleading. His gaze flickers anxiously over your face, desperate for more reassurance. “Can you do that for me? Check around when you get out of the car, look before you walk up the stairs, take a second before you open your door.” 

You open your mouth to speak, something potentially defensive at the tip of your tongue, before you reconsider, shoulders sinking just a fraction. 

“For me,” Pope urges again. No room for misunderstanding.

And because you are you, you give a gentle, almost reluctant nod in surrender. You have a hard time fighting him on anything.

He returns the gesture with his own stiff nod. He knows you don’t fully understand the fuss, not completely, but you’re trying, and that has to be enough for now. He’ll shoulder the rest.

He moves towards the staircase, leaving you to catch up. You hurry to follow behind him. 

“Why’re you here anyway?” you voice after him. “Did I miss rent or something?”

Pope doesn’t turn around; doesn’t trust himself to look at you without giving too much away.

“No,” he replies, casual, like it’s not something he thinks about every single month.

You would never be late. You are a meticulously precise creature. Keeping track of everything, neat little numbers, due dates, confirmations, all of it lined up exactly the way you like, and then you get that pleased look on your face when you send the payment, like you’ve done something worth being proud of.

Which you have. He lets you have that. But he can’t stand taking your money.

So every month he waits until that little deposit appears, waits another day or two to avoid suspicion, then finds a way to get it back to you.

Sometimes it’s hidden in elaborate Cody business expenses; other times Craig’s buddy does some invisible computer shit to push numbers back into your account, nothing ever traced to pope.

And occasionally, he just leaves cash in places he knows you’ll find it. In your purse, between pages of a book you’ve left out, tucked behind a coffee mug. 

He loves hearing you puzzle over it. You always chalk it up to luck, or fate, or some karmic gift from the universe. Never once suspecting Pope’s fingerprints on every cent.

It all sounds more complicated than it actually is.

Really, it’s just logical. You need the money. Pope has the money. Problem solved.

At the steps, Pope pauses, gently nudging you ahead of him.

It’s a selfish move. He’s got a bad feeling you don’t have shorts under that skirt, and he’s not in the mood to have that confirmed by anyone standing behind you. Better him at your back than anyone else. Better him blocking the view.

As if to confirm his fears, someone over his shoulder lets out a short laugh. “Man, a girl that pretty oughta let me buy her dinner. Hell, maybe I’d even send her home wearing a pearl necklace.”

Pope looks back and finds the bearded cigarette smoker slouched against the vending machine, filter hanging loose between two fingers, eyes still fixed on you with that same open, filthy interest. He’s got a buddy with him now, some wiry little shit standing half a step to the side, not looking too sure of himself now that Pope’s facing him. 

Pope thinks about how easy it would be. Pin the guy up against the machine, forearm to windpipe, watching the smartass shine drain out of his eyes. Pictures crushing the cigarette into the soft part of his cheek. But he can’t do that without scaring you off.

So he crouches just enough to place the bags on the stairs without jostling them, eggs and bread and whatever else cushioned upright where it won’t tip. 

When he rises, he goes back the way he came, jerking his head in your direction. “You talkin’ about her?”

“Just complimenting her.”

“No,” Pope says. “You weren’t.”

The wiry friend shifts back half a step. Smart. 

The bearded man tries to recover, but it’s too late, Pope can already see the little glint of fear sputtering in his eyes, igniting as he sizes him up.

He lifts the cigarette to his mouth. “Ain’t that serious, man.”

Pope reaches out and plucks the cigarette from his fingers before it gets there. Drops it to the concrete. Crushes it under his boot. 

“Look at her again, talk about her again, I’ll make sure the next thing I crush under my boot is your throat.”

The bearded man opens his mouth. 

“Don’t. I’m tryin’ real hard not to scare her,” Pope growls. “Don’t make that difficult for me.”

The man’s eyes flick once past Pope, towards the stairs, toward you, then snap back fast like even that was a mistake.

“Alright,” he mutters finally, hands lifting a little. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

A lie. A terrible one, at that. But Pope doesn’t spare the man another look. Just turns, grabs the grocery bags, and comes back up the steps to where you’re perched on the landing, watching him with that dazed little expression of yours. 

“I don’t even like pearls,” you whisper to him the second he gets close enough. “They’re kinda old-ladyish.”

Pope shuts his eyes for half a beat.

“Yeah,” he finally sputters, tips of his ears burning a little. He ushers you towards 2B. “C’mon. Inside.”

The inside of your apartment is cute. Small as it looks from the outside and from what he can see through your window at night, but it’s cute, all pinks and whites and soft little girlish details scattered across every surface.

There’s a coffee table crowded with tiny trinkets he can’t make heads or tails of, glossy little objects with no obvious purpose except that you liked them enough to bring them home. 

And it’s clean. He likes that it’s clean. Clean means he won’t spend the time here distracted by dust in the corners and fingerprints on glass, trying not to imagine bleaching every inch of it.

He carries the bags into the kitchen and sets them on the counter one by one. Behind him, you wobble a little taking off your shoes and catch yourself on his shoulder.

It leaves a searing brand behind when you pull away. 

“What was that out there?” you ask.

Pope shrugs. “Nothin’. Guy’s just a dick.”

He winces inwardly as soon as he says it. Dick feels too crude aimed anywhere near you, and he has to resist the urge to take it back and replace it with something nicer.

“It’s not like he said anything really bad or anything,” you say, shrugging in a way that suggests you’re used to it. 

Used to being stared at, cat called, talked about. And maybe it shouldn’t surprise him, given who you are.

He’s seen it before, at Smurf’s parties, men practically stumbling over themselves to offer you a drink, eyes tracking every movement you make. Drivers nearly wrapping their cars around telephone poles because their heads turn too fast when you walk down the street. 

You’re beautiful. Beautiful enough that people can’t help staring at you. But Pope’s never been forced to hear it firsthand, never had to stand there while some pervert talked about putting a pearl necklace across your throat and chest. And you don’t even understand what he was saying. 

He could handle it. He could handle it right now. If the guy’s still lingering around when Pope leaves, he might just have to. The asshole will be out of this building tomorrow regardless, he’ll will make damn sure of it.

Your hand touching his arm snaps him out of it. He looks down and sees your painted fingers resting there, cautious like you’re not sure what’s going on in his head. 

“Pope?”

The heat cools just enough for him to breathe. He rubs a hand over his jaw. “He said somethin’ bad enough.”

You cock your head to one side. “Taking me to dinner isn’t exactly the worst offer I’ve ever had. And like I said, pearls aren’t really my thing, but it’s a nice sentiment, I guess?”

Pope shoves his hand through his hair, forced to take a step back because standing this close to your face is messing with him. 

“Look a pearl necklace isn’t… it’s not jewelry, okay? It’s not fuckin’ nice. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

You fold your arms over your chest, your hair slipping forward and partly covering your face. Pope’s fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the impulse to reach out and brush it back into place. 

“Not really… I— well,” you pause, fingers drumming along your left arm. “What else could a pearl necklace be, if it’s not jewelry?”

His blood pressure ticks up exponentially. Why must you make everything so difficult?

“I’m not gonna explain it. Just trust me, it’s not somethin’ appropriate for anyone to say to you.”

“What happened to ‘I’m an adult’ and ‘it’s my call if I wanna know stuff’?”

Shit. He did say that, didn’t he?

Pope takes a deep, irritated breath, wishing he could turn back time and rip his own vocal chords out. This must be his own purgatory. Cursed to answer all your sex related questions for all of eternity and unable to do anything about it.

You trust him. That much is obvious. He doesn’t want to abuse that trust. A Sisyphean task. Endless. Futile.

“Alright, look. It’s slang for a guy… finishin’ on you. On your throat, your chest, wherever.” His voice is strained, worried he might break something delicate in you just by saying it. “It’s disrespectful. Sleazy.”

You blink, eyes huge as you look up at him, clearly stunned by what you just heard. You shake your head slightly, trying to puzzle it out. “So it’s… disrespectful if someone does that to you?”

Pope cracks his neck, wincing slightly, as if the right words are somewhere trapped there and refusing to come out easy. 

“Christ — yes,” he grumbles. Then quickly, backtracking, “I mean no — no, it ain’t disrespectful if it’s something you, uh, wanted someone to do, but it’s disrespectful for someone to say shit like that to you unprompted.”

“Oh, well, yeah, that was gross,” you agree, wrinkling your nose.

Then you turn away from him, starting to put away the groceries with a distracted, absent-minded care. He thinks he’s in the clear, that you’re satisfied with his sparks note version of the definition.

He’s eyeing the door, when you pause again, bottom lip caught between your teeth, a bag of carrots dangling in your hand.

“Why would someone even want to do that to someone? The guy, I mean? Not him specifically, just, like, any guy? Is that something… you think about? Like a lot?”

He coughs, almost choking, and a hot flush creeps up the back of his neck.

There’s an instant headache pulsing behind he eyes as he tries desperately not to picture exactly what you just asked him.

Is it something he thinks about? Not until this moment. Not until he imagines those same wide and trusting eyes looking up at him as he spills milky white ropes of cum across your bare chest.

Christ. He’s no better than that asshole downstairs, thinking shit like that about you. 

He presses two fingers to his temple. “No, it’s not like I sit around thinking about stuff like that.”

It feels like a fib now.

“So why would someone wanna do that at all?”

Because it would feel good, he thinks. Immediately. The act itself, yes, but the claim in the aftermath. The evidence left behind.

The way people are always trying to leave marks on things they like. Names carved into desks. Initials scratched into trees. Dogs pissing on fire hydrants. 

You stare at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. 

He looks at the wall behind you, at the cheap paint and the little crooked shelf you’ve decorated with candles and a tiny ceramic flower.

Anything but your face. Anything but the curve of your throat. Anything but the where your shirt dips when you shift closer. 

“It’s…” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “It’s visual.” The word sounds dragged out of him. “That’s part of it. Men are wired like that. And part of it’s ego. They wanna see you messy like that. Wanna see that you let ‘em do it.” His mouth flattens. “It’s not always romantic. A lotta the time it’s just selfish.”

“But maybe it depends on who it is? Like doing it to you?” You continue to worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Like… if it was someone safe. Someone you trusted a lot.” A tiny crease forms between your brows. “And if it was something you wanted too, couldn’t it be kind of romantic?” 

Pope goes still. All his blood seeming to rush downwards as the question lands between you like something lit, something rolling close to dry brush.

He can feel the conversation slipping somewhere it shouldn’t. He needs to reign it back in, regain control.

Instead he says, “Could be. If you trusted ‘em. If it was somethin’ you were askin’ for, or… into. Not somethin’ that’s being pushed on you.”

You go quiet, turning that over.

Then, in that soft, absentminded way of yours, like you don’t realize you’re lighting a match in a room full of gas, you say, “I guess that makes sense. A lot of things probably feel different with a person you trust.”

You’re looking at him so intensely he has to take another step back. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Can’t. Your gaze moves back down into the grocery bag with a shrug, sweet and unaware that you’ve just handed his imagination enough to ruin the rest of his night.

He’s corrupt for wanting to be that person for you. The one you trust enough to paint your body. To teach you all this dumb shit, but with his hands, with his mouth, with his cock.

He clears his throat hard, grabs the last bag off the counter even though it’s already empty, then sets it right back down like he forgot what he was doing in the first place.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice flat in that way it only gets when he’s holding too much under it. “Maybe.”

He leaves not long after that. Before you ask anything else. Before he can give into his urges and contaminate you with his darkness.  

By the next afternoon, the guy downstairs is gone.

Smurf’s property manager tells the tenants it was a lease violation. Some issue with unauthorized guests, late rent, maybe smoking too close to the building. Nobody asks too many questions. Nobody wants to.

And a few days later, you mention in passing that the creepy man by the vending machine must’ve gotten into some kind of accident.

“His face looked weird when he was packing up all his stuff,” you say, frowning a little. “Like he burned himself or something.”

Pope just hums, eyes on the road.

He doesn’t tell you cigarette burns heal terribly.

Pope finds you sitting on the low concrete step out back with your legs folded to one side. Delicate and stunned-looking in the harsh afternoon lift. A figurine dropped by accident and left there because nobody wanted to be the first to check for cracks.

You haven’t been drinking, he knows that much. You don’t really drink to begin with. Not in excess, anyway.

He scans you to find the problem. Head. Fine. Chest. More than fine. Stomach. Normal.

Knees.

Your knees are scraped raw.

The marks are not serious, technically. But serious enough that the skin has split open into two wet little blooms, blood bright against the grit, dust clinging where it shouldn’t. It runs down your shins in thin, crooked tributaries, and he hates it. 

Hates the sight so sharply it feels like a physical punch. Hates that the world got its hands on you for five seconds and already made a mess of what it shouldn’t have touched. Someone like you who is so pure and untouched.

Pope stops where he is.

His hand closes at his side. Opens again. That is his first correction. The second is his face, which he makes blank, or tries to, because you’re already looking up at him, head snapping back too hard, and his mind supplies the sound of it hitting the door before it happens. 

It doesn’t happen. Still, his jaw tightens. Careless with yourself, he thinks. 

You swipe at your face with the heel of your hand, and say, “I’m fine.”

No, you’re not, he wants to say. Who the fuck taught you to say that so fast?

Instead he takes a few careful steps toward you, keeping his face still, keeping everything locked down, even as the agitation climbs up the back of his neck.

If he gets close enough, he’ll be able to see it clearly. Where the damage starts. Who he’s supposed to blame.

“What happened, kid?”

You sniff once and straighten your back. Brave little thing. Ridiculous little thing. “Nothing.”

Pope doesn’t respond. His eyes stay on you, molten enough to become a thing in the yard, another source of heat in the sun, and he can feel himself doing it only after your fingers move to your mouth. One neat pink nail presses into the swell of your lip, picks at it, worries the softness there.

He wants to tell you to stop. Wants to take your hand away from your mouth. Wants too many things, which is usually the first sign that he should do nothing at all. So he waits for you to fold.

He knows the first answer was bullshit. Flimsy as tissue paper and he lets it tear on its own.

“I tripped,” you admit finally.

“Where?” he asks.

Your lashes are wet when you blink up at him, clumped together in little dark points, and your mouth does that small uncertain thing, twitching at one corner like you’re embarrassed to explain yourself.

“By the pool,” you say. “There was, like, a crack. Or something.”

He knows the crack. He can see it without looking, some warped seam in the concrete by the shallow end, something everyone steps over, steps around, ignores because it’s just part of the house being what it is. Broken things everywhere. Broken people too. 

But you didn’t know to look for it. You move through the Cody house like bad things are theoretical, like the ground itself wouldn’t dare rise up and bite you. It did anyway. 

Pope lets out a slow breath through his nose and drops into a crouch in front of you. 

Bad idea, probably. Everything is worse down here. It’s inflamed, scratches packed with dirt, blood drying in jagged lines.

You don’t like that part. The mess. He can tell by way your hands twitch helplessly in your lap, like you want to wipe it away, clean it up, make yourself presentable again, but the pain is winning. 

Your dress, meanwhile, is perfect. Some pink little sundress cut high over your thighs. No wrinkles or stray staining.

From where he is, he could see up it if he tried. He doesn’t. He keeps his eyes where they belong, on the blood, on the damage, on the part of you he can pretend is the only thing he wants to touch. For now. 

You try to pull your leg back the second he reaches for your ankle, some quick little prey-animal flinch that might’ve worked on someone less ready for it.

Pope catches you easily. His hand wraps firm before you can get very far. Not hard enough to hurt, not gentle enough to suggest he’s asking.

“Quit that.”

“It stings,” you protest.

“Yeah,” he says flatly. “That tends to happen when you eat shit.”

Your bottom lip wobbles. You gather it back up so quickly it almost disappears, smoothing the expression off your face like a ripple flattening on water, and Christ, you’re pretty when you cry.

It’s a rotten thought. He knows that. He knows that, and still his body reacts before morality can catch up, because his body is old violence and bad wiring and appetite with a pulse. 

He drags his thumb down the line of your calf, feather-light, careful to avoid the scrape itself, as if gentleness in one place could cancel out the ugliness in another, as if he could make himself clean by touching you like you’re made of glass. 

“You cryin’?” Rhetorical. More of an indictment.

“No.”

“You are.”

“‘M not.” A tear slips free and runs down your cheek as you say it.

Pope watches the trajectory, the thin shine over warm skin. He wants to lean in and taste it. Salt. Flesh. Proof. He kills the urge under the toe of his boot.

You stare past him, surely furious with yourself for the anatomical betrayal.

He lets out a short, humorless breath that almost passes for a laugh and shakes his head. “Tough girl, huh?”

You nod right away, stubborn as hell. “Mhm.” 

Another tear comes down. That settles it. Pope looks at it, then at you. Tough girl. Sure. Tough like a rabbit holding still under a hawk shadow. 

“C’mere,” he says.

“Why?”

“So I can clean it.”

Your eyes widen immediately, suspicious now, all that fragile toughness collapsing into practical fear.  “Is it gonna hurt?”

“It’ll hurt more if I don’t.”

He’s not actually sure that’s true, but he doesn’t know how else to sell this to you. He just knows he doesn’t want you leaving gravel in there and calling it day.

This patio has probably seen every kind of gross substance known to man. Beer, mud, oil, spit, ash, drugs, blood. A dozen things he doesn’t want in your skin. Enough random bacteria to make him think infection before anything else. Enough that he can already picture your knees tomorrow, swollen and pink and you still insisting it’s nothing.

It seems convincing enough for you because you let him pull you up, though you hiss when your knees straighten.

Stiff little steps. Swallowed noises. A terrible attempt at limping in a way he won’t notice, as if Pope has ever missed anything in his life, as if he might tease you for it. 

He probably will, a little, because sometimes teasing gets you moving better than sympathy does, but not much. 

Inside, he sets you on the bathroom counter and starts digging through the cabinet for peroxide and gauze. The bathroom is too small for both of you. It shows in the way he can clearly inhale the flowery perfume you have on. Sprayed at the base of your throat and insides of your wrists, most likely.

When he turns back, you’ve gone very still, hands braced on either side of your hips, shoulders pulled up nearly to your ears, eyes fixed on the brown bottle like it might lunge at you. 

“I don’t like that.”

“No one likes it.” 

You pull a face, and your foot kicks forward once, restless and nervous. Your heel brushes his side. Barely. An accident. Pope feels it through his shirt like a warning shot. You retract your foot immediately. 

“Well, I like it less than most people,” you mutter.

He steps in between your knees before you can fuss any more, the cap twisting loose between his fingers. 

“I think you’re being a little bit of a baby,” he says, then, before you can get offended, adds, “which is fine.” The cap clicks against the counter. “You can sit there and look at me like I’m about to torture you if that helps. But I’m still gonna clean it.” His eyes flick to your mouth, to the pout already threatening there. “You can do that too. Still not gettin’ out of it.”

You seem to consider pushing back one more time, then don’t. 

“...Kay,” you say, barely above a mumble. Giving in. Like you’ve made up your mind, like you’ve already accepted he knows what’s happening next better than you do and you’re fine with that. 

He isn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Hold still.”

The peroxide strikes the raw skin and you jolt under his hand, a soft whimper escaping before you can swallow it back, your eyes pinching shut like that might save you from the burning.

Pope gets a hand around your thigh before you can yank it your leg back, a quick learner when it comes to your habits.

“Easy,” he says, tipping the bottle back. “You’re alright.” Another careful pour, less this time. Another little flinch. “You’re doing good, doll. Almost done with the worst of it.”

Your lips push out further, eyes going a little softer and shinier. You shift toward him, knees parting just a little more around where he stands, one hand coming off the counter to catch at his side, then his shirt, then just staying there.

He wipes away the last of the pink fizz and dirt in slow passes. 

“There. See? Survived.” He reaches for the bandaids, peels one open with his teeth, and smooths it over the first scrape with the flare of his thumb. Then the second, just as careful. “Wasn’t so bad.”

“Easy for you to say.” Your hand stays bunched in his shirt, fingers curled into the cotton like you forgot you were holding on or decided not to care. 

Pope looks down at it for half a second too long, then back to the bandaid before it can become anything. The corner of his mouth pulls, barely. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right. Sorry, kid.” He presses the left bandaid down where it’s already trying to peel at the edge.  “Next time watch where you’re going, yeah? Makes my life easier.”

Your nose wrinkles. It’s cute. Freckles dotted across the bridge, fanning outward in a constellation of sorts. “Sounds like victim blaming to me.”

“You can be a victim and careless with your well-being at the same time.”

You cock your head at him, considering this, “So… are you done now?”

“Mhm. Done.” His hands settle at your waist and lifts you back off the counter, steadying you once wobbling feet hit the floor. 

You look up at him then, and your mouth softens into a small, toothless smile. It’s already too much for him. Already better than the pinched-up expressions you’ve been wearing since he found you outside. 

He almost makes the mistake of pointing it out. Before he can, you rise to your tip toes, light hands still at his sides for balance, and press those pretty lips to his cheek, just off his mouth. 

When you pull away, your teeth find your lower lip and you look at him from under your lashes. “Thank you, Andrew.”

He wants, suddenly and stupidly, to tell you not to thank him for things like that, not for basic shit, not for cleaning blood off your knees like it’s some grand gesture. But then again maybe in your life it is. Maybe that’s the part that makes something protective rise in him. 

So all he says is, “Yeah,” low and rough, like the word cost him a little. He keeps a hand at your waist a second longer than necessary before he lets you go. Watches you walk away. 

Later, when you’re distracted somewhere inside the house, he goes back out and finds the crack by the pool.

He fixes it the next day. 

A/N - popping my pope cody fanfic cherry!!!!!! yipee

Admittedly, Frank wasn’t incorrect. Originally, you had disappeared into the living room in order to at least begin to organize your vast array of bookshelves, however the task had become larger and more overwhelming the longer you had debated where to start. You had sat down to get a look at the big picture, somehow ending up on your back and distracted by the rays of sunlight coming through the windows.

There’s a huff as you take his outstretched hand, letting him drag you up onto your feet. You take the opportunity to slide your palm along his abdomen, appreciating the soft twitch of muscle that happens in response. As much as you love all of his reactions to your touches, you love the unintentional ones the most. 

Noticing your lack of response and the forlorn gaze you have trained on the bookshelves, Frank presses his face into your hair, breath brushing against your hairline. “Do you want some help?” he mumbles gently. The question comes out almost hesitant, aware that you didn’t like to ask for help much.

You stay silent for a breath, eyes glancing over the books you’ve hoarded over the last few years. You debate just giving up on the project completely, leaving the literature to spill wherever it’d like, spine showing or not.

Finally, rationality wins out and you groan, turning to bury your face into his sweater. “Yes, please.”

He holds you for just a moment, thumb brushing along your shoulder from where his arm has curled around your body, before you finally separate to get to work.

The plan is simple at first. Frank grabs the books from the higher shelves while you start on the lower, pulling them out so that they can stack on the floor and await their sentencing. Color-coded or alphabetically by author or separated by just genre - the possibilities are endless.

That is, until your boyfriend pulls off his sweater, revealing the curve of muscles that are his biceps.

You’re quickly distracted by the sight, staring up at him with parted lips. Poor, sweet Frank just continues working, surprisingly focused on the task at hand despite being so blatantly ogled. 

Perhaps he’s used to being stared at by you. Perhaps he’s just happy to be allowed to help you out, for once.

Now, you’re on the same bookshelf in the middle of your array, your elbow pressed into his abdomen with every reach forward. His arm is right there, muscles tensing every time he reaches up for another book to place it in the growing stack in his free hand.

You try to push back the urge. You really do. You press your tongue between your teeth, biting down on it just enough to feel the pressure. Remind yourself that it’s not normal to want to consume your partner whole, to cause them pain out of pure love and lust for them.

But then he reaches up again, that dip of muscle stretching from just beneath his elbow all the way to his wrist, and your brain shortcircuits. 

It happens quickly. Your chin tilts forward slowly and your lips part, the top set of your teeth finding the juiciest part of his muscle and pressing down. For a moment, you don’t even worry about if you’re causing him pain. The squish of his arm beneath your teeth is satisfying enough to dull out everything else.

Frank yelps in surprise, dropping the book in his hand to press the heel of it into your forehead with just enough force to push your head away. “Hey!”

You give him a sheepish smile as his hand moves to rub at the teeth-shaped indents in his skin. His face is an array of emotions, although amusement and confusion ring out above them all. The only thing missing seems to be anger, or anything similar, which only makes you fall more in love, if possible.

His hand darts out to slide over your head, fingers curling around your skull to bring your head into his chest. His fingertips press into your scalp as he scrunches at the roots of your hair, chest rumbling with a laugh as you wiggle in protest. “That was mean! I’m trying to help you and you bite me!”

“You were the one slutting yourself out, this is not my fault!” Your palm presses into his abdomen, whether out of your struggle or a need to objectify him more, trying to pry out of his hold on your head. “Waving it in my face like a dog with a bone!”

Frank laughs as he finally lets you go, playfully shoving at your shoulder to get you away. “Start organizing your books, puppy. Stay far away from me until you learn how to control yourself.”

2. GAINING THE UPPER HAND

“The fact that you are a doctor and save lives every day never fails to astonish me.” You deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest as you look down at your boyfriend.

It had been Frank’s idea to build a fort. Something about how his parents had never let him make one out of blankets and pillows, too afraid of the mess he’d make, and how he thought it’d be fun to eat dinner. 

You had been ecstatic. That is, until you realize that your boyfriend was completely incapable of doing anything that didn’t require too-complicated words and needles.

His brow is furrowed in slight irritation, a lot of confusion, as he stands up, kicking off a throw blanket that had snagged around his ankle. His elbow brushes against your arm as he crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursing as he stares down at the mess he made. “It’s just not staying,” he mumbles beneath his breath.

“Because you’re not anchoring down the blankets. You can’t use pillows to hold up a blanket, babe, they’re not stable enough.” Your fingers point at the decorative pillow he had placed atop the corner of the blanket, glancing up at him through the corner of your eye. “You gotta go find some heavy books or something.”

Frank’s head turns to look at you, wrinkles forming on his forehead as he raises his eyebrows. “Books? In our fort? That doesn’t sound too comfortable.” Then, he steps to the side, curling his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“Well, you’re not laying on them, are you?” You tease back, tilting your head to touch your temple to his.

He huffs, breath brushing over your collarbone, before his fingertips are pressing into your ribs. “Oh, yeah? You’re the fort expert now, huh?” He locks one arm around your waist while the other continues poking and prodding, ignoring your squeals and wriggling. “A little fort architect, aren’t you?”

“Frank!” You squeak, laughing as you crouch down to attempt to slide out of his hold. “Let me go!”

Your boyfriend crouches with you until both of your knees are on the ground, his arm loosely locked around your neck now while fingertips dance on the most ticklish parts of your body. Your hands grab at his forearm, attempting to pull him off, but he simply just wrestles you onto the heap of blankets that was his attempt at a fort. 

The two of you roll on the floor together in a mess of limbs, Frank curling both of his arms around you at every chance that he could get. The blankets curl around your legs and waist as you twist and wriggle, laughing until your lungs hurt and you’re begging him to let you go.

The wrestling only ends whenever he moves to wrap his forearm around you again. Willing to try to get anything to get out of your predicament, your teeth find his skin easily, sinking in just enough to leave a bitemark.

As any grown man would, Frank squeals, removing his injured arm away from you while his other one just tightens around your waist. “What have we said about biting me?” He scolds playfully, pulling you closer to the curve of his body, until your hips are flush to his. 

“You wouldn’t let me go!” You retort, although you make no attempt to pull away from him. Instead, you roll over to face him, passing him an innocent smile.

He softens when your fingers wrap around the forearm you had bitten, your thumb brushing against the indents in his skin. Leaning down, he presses his lips to your mouth, kissing you sweetly for a brief moment before pulling away just enough to mumble. “Can we give up on the fort?”

You laugh, then shake your head. “Nope. But I will finish it for you.”

“Deal.”

3. RUIN THE MOMENT

Frank had to stay late at work. And while you didn’t mind, you had to admit to yourself that you missed your boyfriend more than probably healthy.

Rather than be dramatic about it or just sit wallowing until he somehow managed to find his way home, you decided to do something nice for Frank. He did sweet gestures for you like it was as easy as breathing, and now was the perfect time to do something for him.

In the couple hours it took him to finally get off of work, you had made the relaxation spot of his dreams. The comfiest throw blankets on the couch, greasy boxes of his favorite takeout on the coffee table, the big lights off and only a small orange lamp illuminating your cozy living room.

When Frank gets home, you’re tucked into yourself on the couch, scrolling through something on your phone aimlessly. Your head perks up like a dog at the sound of the front door opening, hanging off the back of the couch to grin at him as soon as he’s stepped through the doorframe.

“Hi, baby.” You greet him, voice quiet. The hospital was always overstimulating, therefore you always made sure to keep calm and gentle when he got home. Like a dog coming home from a shelter.

Frank drops his bag onto the ground to pick up later, hand raising to rub at his face. He shuffles over to the couch at the sound of your voice, plopping down beside you and placing a hand on your thigh to remind you that he’s present. “Hi.”

After a moment of just staring at him, you slowly move to crawl behind him, propped up between the back of the couch and his back. Your fingers find his shoulders, pressing into the tight muscles there and letting yourself smile at the soft hum of relief it draws from him.

“Exhausting day?” you murmur. Your thumbs find a particularly large knot, rubbing firm circles to try and loosen it.

He nods slowly, head dropping forward with a quiet groan. “Just a lot happening. Didn’t have a chance to sit down all shift.” His eyelashes flutter closed as he lets himself relax, sinking further into your touch.

After the knots are nonexistent, you curl your arms around his neck, leaning over his shoulder. Your lips press into the hinge of his jaw first, sweet and chaste. A rush of air leaves his mouth as he sighs, back pressing into your chest.

“I’m sorry you had a long day.” You mumble the words into his skin, pressing a kiss to the space beneath his jaw before along his carotid. You reach the juncture of where his neck meets his collarbone, the rest of his shoulder covered by his scrub top, huffing in playful petulance at the lack of skin.

Frank tilts his head to the side just a smidge, the muscle in his neck tensing at the movement. There’s a small grin dancing across his lips when you spare a glance up at him, causing you to smile against his skin. “Feelin’ better now,” he muses.

A giggle bubbles out of you, moving your arms to wrap them around his waist. Now, you’re fully curled around him from behind, palms pressing into his abdomen and lips traveling along his neck. His body’s a heavy weight pressed into your front, welcomed in the quiet serene of your dimly lit apartment.

Now, one would say that your priority was ensuring that Frank stayed calm and lax, especially with the lengths you have gone to ensure that your home was a place of relaxation. Unfortunately, you love your boyfriend to the point of wanting to consume him, and the way his neck is flexing is way too tempting.

One look up at him and a distracting slow kiss to his neck reveals that his eyes have closed, lost in a trance of your hold and the feel of your mouth against his skin.

It’s your time.

You place a few more kisses along his neck before you nip at his carotid, giggling softly at the surprised gasp that it elicits. Frank groans in mock exasperation, one hand reaching up to cup the side of your face. He turns to look at you, sleepy blue eyes narrowing at your beaming expression.

“This fuckin’ mouth is going to get you in trouble.” He grumbles tiredly, hand sliding down until his pinky hooks beneath your mandible. 

His thumb presses at the seam of your lips until you part them, sliding inside your mouth to slide against your top teeth, pushing up gently against the pointed end of your canine. Your jaw raises at the push, lips widening in a grin at the touch. Your bottom teeth move to press up against the skin of his fingertip, laughing when he finally takes his finger out of your mouth.

“Bad dog.” He playfully remarks, fingers patting against your cheek.

“Woof,” you respond.

4. CAN’T BEAT ‘EM, JOIN ‘EM

The best thing about having Frank Langdon as a boyfriend is that whatever clingy level you were at, he would match. If you chose to have your own space, he’d respect it and find something else to do somewhere else. If you wanted to cling to him like a koala, he’d ensure to have two hands back on you at all times. If you wanted a happy middle, he’d be glad to just sit with one hand on your knee while you watched television.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten all forms of boundaries today. The worst part about Frank’s off days is that he tended to get bored and understimulated without the buzz of the Pitt, and therefore he loved to bother you while you were trying to take much needed alone time.

“Honey.” The pet name drips off of his tongue in a purr as he hangs his body around the threshold of the kitchen, pretty face poking in as he grins. “You almost done with lunch?”

You look up from where you’re pushing vegetables around in a pan, eyebrow quirking. It was never very good when he started off any question with a pet name, much less said like that. “No,” you respond, drawing out the word. “What do you want?”

Frank huffs as he steps into the kitchen, almost immediately crawling into your personal space. One arm curls around your waist while he leans on your other side, peeking at the stove like a curious child. Boredom practically radiates off of him, especially with the way his finger taps against the counter.

“Nothin’. Can’t I just ask my girl a question?” He presses a brisk kiss to your cheek, arm tightening around your waist slightly. His palm flattens on your abdomen, pinky brushing the waistband of your shorts. Devilish.

You keep your spine straight, attempting to brush him off. The last thing you need is to get distracted from filling your grumbling stomach, no matter how good your boyfriend smells or how warm he feels behind you. “I know when you want something, Frank.”

His chin tucks into the crook between your neck and shoulder, a hum reverberating from his chest into your neck. “Just to be with you,” he cheekily responds. His thumb brushes along your sternum from where his fingers have splayed further.

“Frank.” You warn, although there’s no irritation in your tone. “Let me finish lunch.”

He whines like a petulant child, pulling you closer with a tighter grib on your stomach. “I’m bored,” he complains. 

You choose to ignore him, instead focusing on turning the heat down on the stove. In retaliation at being ignored, his lips find your shoulder, exposed by the thin strap of your tank top. 

A sudden pinch spreads across your shoulder as he nips at the skin covering your collarbone not once, but twice, closer to your neck on the second one. Despite the shiver that crawls up your spine at the cool feeling of his teeth against you, you manage to stay strong. 

Unfortunately, your boyfriend is stubborn and very attention-seeking.

His next bite is a bit harder, directly on your neck. He soothes the slight sting with an open-mouthed kiss just above where your skin reddens, tongue lathing as an apology. “Too hard?” He mumbles teasingly.

“Don’t be an ass.” It’s meant to be a tough remark, something to show that he isn’t affecting you as much as he thinks he is, but it comes off as more of a whine.

He continues to kiss along your neck, laughing slightly at your remark. When your head tilts and your grip tightens on the spatula in your hand, his hand moves from your abdomen to the knob on the front of the stove, turning it until he clicks. Then, he gently grabs your jaw, tilting your head to kiss your lips.

Despite the fact that he finally has your direct attention, he still nips at your bottom lip, grinning victoriously as he pulls away.