Oh Yes, In The Pit Of Despair

Two weeks. 

Fourteen days. 

Before Jack offered to be the father of your baby and so much more, you had waited that long and longer for yarn deliveries. But every morning after shift, as you crawled into bed and curled into Jack’s chest. Your mind was swirling with what ifs. It had even affected your work. You were security. You were supposed to wade into the fight, separate the drunks, try to subdue patients in the midst of psychiatric episodes. 

Now you found yourself hesitating, and one memorable night, when an angry patient in chairs had burst past a nurse, going to call another patient, had burst back storming toward trauma two. Ranting and raving about his broken wrist and the wait time. You had been alone in manning the floor that night. Ahmed had food poisoning, and Collins was visiting family in Hershey. So you had been alone trying to contain a powder keg waiting for a spark. And the spark was storming the central hub, looking unhinged. You had placed a hand on your taser and stepped forward. Placing yourself between Princess and the man. Holding one hand out, you had tried to defuse the situation, telling him to head back to the chairs, or you were going to call the cops.

The man, however, was in no mood to be cooperative and had swatted at you. Missed, stumbled, and nearly flattened both you and Princess when he tipped forward like a felled tree. Then Jack seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He drove his palm into the guy's chest and propelled him backward, where Mateo grabbed hold of his arm and forcibly removed him.

The look of terror as he turned, cupping your face as he took you in. Not seeing a scratch, he looked over your shoulder to check on Princess, who smirked, gave a cheeky thumbs-up, and hustled off, muttering about winning a bet. 

But it was after the holiday party for the kids, as your boobs throbbed in your Mrs. Clause costume, and you watched Jack interact with the kids, that the wait became unbearable. 

It was now three days before Christmas, and it was finally day fourteen. Jack was also a nervous wreck, but he hid it better. Hovering constantly, touching you, pressing kisses into your neck and shoulders, and promising that no matter the results, everything would be fine. 

You remember the sexy little grin he had given you that morning over breakfast. “Either way, I don’t intend to let you out of bed.”

His hazel eyes had darkened, and he dragged the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, and you flushed when a tiny whimper escaped your throat. His answering groan was deep and made his chest rumble against yours. 

“My girl likes the sound of that, huh?” He whispered hotly in your ear. He nudged your legs apart on the stool at your counter and stepped between your thighs. “Of your legs thrown over my shoulders.”

Your hands had gripped his bare shoulders, and you felt him hard and hot, straining against the front of his boxer briefs, pressing into the thin cotton of your panties. “My cock so deep inside you, you can’t even remember your own name.”

You tilt your chin up, nipping at his stubbled chin. The salt and pepper stubble rough against your lips. Your hands smooth up the warm flecked skin of his shoulders into his curls and try to pull him down. He gives a rough chuckle as you try to pull him down into a kiss. But he playfully pulls back, placing a kiss on your nose. His grin was smug as he pulled back with a soft tick.

“Ahah, sweetheart,” Jack growled, the hazel eyes totally eclipsed by black. But you could also see playfulness shining through. Your nails dug into his neck, but he just gave an approving rumble. “Your shimmying in your seat.” He drawled, one hand lazily tracing up your bare, thick thigh, his callused hand rasping across the smooth, sensitive skin of your inner thigh. 

“Hey, eyes on me, baby.” He squeezed your leg as your eyes squeezed closed at his teasing. “If I pushed aside these panties, just how wet would you be? Hmm.” 

“God, Jack.” You gasped as his fingers danced across the sopping cotton of your underwear. Your hips jerked on the leather seat. Jack’s answering groan was feral. 

“Good girl,” he gasped as his lips fell to your neck. Sucking a mark into the place where your shoulder met your neck. You gave a mew of desperation. “You’re fucking soaked. My girl always so ready for me.”

“Always!” You sobbed, your hands falling to his narrow hips to pull him into you, needing friction and pressure before you combusted. “Only for you, baby. Oh God—please!” You gasp out as one hand slipped around to slip beneath his boxer briefs to dig your nails into his ass. He gave a surprised hiss, and his hips snapped forward, drawing a soundless cry from your lips. Your head fell back, lips falling open in a cry that refused to leave your throat.

His callused fingers hooked in the wet fabric and pushed them to the side. There was a frantic fumble as you helped push his underwear out of the way. With one hand, he tilted your hips and pulled from your neck, resting his forehead against yours. Dark hazel eyes locked on your own and, with one smooth motion, slid deep inside you.

“Fuck,” he gasped, breath puffing over your lips. Your cry echoed through the kitchen. In the back of your mind, you hoped Kyle was anywhere else but on the other side of your shared living room wall. If that twitchy teen broke down another of your front doors, right now you would kill him. 

Unlike the night before, when Jack had insisted on edging you until your eyes crossed. This was in no way slow. Your bar stood rocked with each powerful movement of his hips. Your nails scored down his back as he nudged your head to the side and sucked a bruise onto your flesh. A mark that no doubt would not be hidden by your uniform top. 

Desperate to take him deeper, your knees crept up around his ribs, and you arched your back. His muttered curse and the bruising grip he had on your hip tightened. 

“Ja—oh—oh!” You could not form a coherent thought as the coil in your abdomen finally snapped and your blissful cry was smothered as you bit into his shoulder. Your teeth pressed into his flesh, leaving your own mark. 

“Fuck—baby.” He murmured as, with one final snap of his hips, he pressed as deep as he could go. Filling you.

It took a few minutes for your brain to come back online—sweat cooling on your skin, making you shiver. Jack nuzzled your jaw with his nose, leaving soft kisses along your jaw, before placing a reverent kiss on your lips. 

“As I was saying.” He rasped, a smug grin curling his lips, making his eyes crinkle. “Whatever the results. Whether it's another month of tracking and three days keeping you in bed.” Jack leaned in just close enough to catch your bottom lip between his teeth. “Well, who am I to complain?”

An hour later, Jack insisted on taking you to the outpatient lab at PTMC, which was why one young phlebotomist looked terrified as Jack hovered over his shoulder.

“Jack,” you sighed, turning your eyes on the anxious doctor. His arms were crossed tightly across his chest. His biceps were tense and flexing beneath his sweater, and you fought a besotted sigh. His hazel eyes were narrowed as he watched the tech tie the tourniquet around your arm.

“How old are you?” He drawled in that deep, gravely tone that seemed to drop an octave with every syllable. Despite why you were there, that deep rasp sent a shiver down your spine and made your thighs clench. 

Joel swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he fumbled with the plastic packaging of the needle. "I'm twenty-four, sir. Er, Doctor Abbot."  

"Twenty-four," Jack repeated, tasting the word as if they tasted rancid. He took a slow, intimidating step closer, casting a broad shadow over the small blue, uncomfortable phlebotomy chair. The pleather creaked as you shifted, trying to get comfortable. “And did they teach you in your vast experience that the median cubital vein requires a gentle touch, or were you planning to harpoon her?"

"Jack," you whispered, trying to place a placating hand on his tense forearm. But your own heart was hammering against your ribs. The full fourteen days of waiting had frayed both of your nerves, and seeing him go full protective-attending mode was both terrifying and undeniably hot. 

Joel's hands were noticeably shaking now. He tried to uncap the needle, but his trembling fingers slipped, nearly grazing his own glove. A tiny, pathetic sound escaped the poor kid's throat, and you could actually see a sheen of panicked tears welling in his wide eyes.

Jack’s patience, already paper-thin from two weeks of anticipation and tracking your cycles, completely snapped.  

"Give me that," Jack growled, stepping in and shoving Joel out of the way with his broad shoulder.

Joel stumbled back, practically hugging the wall of the outpatient lab at PTMC, as Jack took his place. The terrifying, overbearing doctor instantly vanished the moment Jack knelt beside your chair. His demeanor shifted into something so intensely gentle it gave you whiplash.  

He discarded the standard needle Joel had been holding with a scowl and reached into the compartment for a much smaller, pediatric butterfly needle. "I've got you, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice dropping into that soothing, low register.

His calloused hands were perfectly steady as he adjusted the blue rubber tourniquet around your bicep. With the precision of a man who spent his life saving people in the trauma bays, he slipped the tiny butterfly needle into your vein with barely a pinch.  

When blood appeared in the tubing, he pressed the vial into the hub. His hazel eyes locked on yours, warm and shining with an unfiltered, desperate hope that made the breath catch and your bottom lip tremble. Your nose burned in a herald to oncoming tears. You bit your lip and shifted your free arm slightly. Your chubby arm pressed heavily against your breast, making you cringe.

Jack froze his while his right hand kept the needle perfectly still, his left hand cupped your arm, his thumb dropping to the delicate skin on the inside of your wrist. He began to rub soft, rhythmic circles against your pulse point. The soothing friction grounded you, sending a wave of calm crashing over your jittery nerves and making your chest ache with how much you loved him.

"Almost done, baby," he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. He swapped the vials with practiced ease until they were full of the blood that would determine your future. “Then we’ll get you home and out of the bra.”

You nearly whimpered in relief at the thought of removing the torture device that was pressing into your sore breasts. For the past week, they had been sore and incredibly sensitive. You were desperately hoping it was from hCG levels and not your oncoming period. But only the blood test would tell. 

With a swift, fluid motion, Jack popped the blue rubber tourniquet, releasing the pressure on your arm. He grabbed a square of sterile gauze, pressing it gently but firmly over the puncture site as he smoothly withdrew the needle.

"Hold that," he instructed softly. As you pressed two fingers to the gauze, Jack secured it with a strip of medical tape, his thumb lingering on your warm skin for just a second longer than necessary.

Standing up to his full height, Jack turned back to Joel, who looked like he was contemplating a career change to something less stressful, like bomb defusal.

Jack gathered the filled vials, dropping them into the little blue plastic basket. He shoved the basket into Joel's chest. The tech scrambled to catch it, holding it like it was a live grenade.

"Mark this STAT priority," Jack demanded, his voice returning to its gruff, authoritative bark. He glared down at the trembling phlebotomist, his jaw clenched. "If I don't have those results uploaded to the portal in two hours, I am coming back down here, Joel. Am I clear?"

Joel gave a pathetic sound that sounded like a squeaky toy that Pebbles loved to chew on at 3 am. Turned on his heel, collided with the door frame, his head snapping back so as not to break his nose, and hurriedly corrected his trajectory and disappeared down the hall with a squeak of his sneakers on the tile. 

You gave Jack a look as he smoothed the red mark on your bicep with his thumb. “You didn’t have to scare him like that.” You scolded softly, and Jack gave an unrepentant roll of his eyes. 

“He looked like the type who had to play seek and find with your veins.” He grabbed your purse off the counter and handed it to you. His arm fell around your waist as he led you out of the room and into the hall and finally out into the cold halls of the atrium. 

You gave a fond sigh, and Jack felt the need to defend himself. “He was going to leave a bruise the size of a grapefruit on your arm.”

Now you laughed as automatic doors opened and you stepped out into the freezing late December air. It was three days til Christmas, and the cold bit at your nose. “So what, you're the only one allowed to leave a mark, Jack?”

He reached into his pocket for his key fob and hit the unlock button. He gazed down at you, pulling you closer into his side. He dipped his chin to look at you; the expression was both loving and possessive, and he answered. “Damn, straight.”

—-

Your apartment may not have been huge, but it was comfortable. Normally. Now it felt like a cage. You had tried to relax. You changed into your lounge pants and an old Army shirt you had stolen from Jack. It was nearing eleven in the morning, and both of you should have been asleep. You had work tonight, and this close to the holidays, there were always brawls over last-minute shopping, slips on black ice, or disastrous results from ice skating dates. Even the occasional burn from the test run from deep frying the holiday poultry that turned into a trip to the ED and having to endure debridement and cleanings. If these well-meaning people only knew what would await them if the deep fryer caught back, they would order takeout. You may only be a security guard, but you knew it was best to leave the deep fryer to the professionals. 

Jack was lying in bed beside you. His prosthetic rested against the nightstand; the light icy blue satin sheets pooled on the bare skin of his stomach. He was not much better. He had tried finding a movie. Lasted five minutes into Rush Hour before growing restless and flipping to the animal channel, where they took you behind the scenes of the San Diego Zoo.

But as much as you loved animals, you really didn’t care about the P Horses and the conversation project right now. By the time the clock struck 12:30 p.m., you could hear Jack’s teeth grinding as you sprawled across his chest, trying to get some sleep. But even the soothing stroke of his warm hand down your back did nothing to soothe you. If you looked up, you were sure you would see a scowl on his handsome face, as he plotted the demise of Joel. He had said two hours, and it was going on three. If they reached four without an answer, you had no doubt Jack would make a very unfriendly call or visit to the head of the lab. 

It was just when you thought you could hear the final threads of Jack’s patience crumble to dust that your phone dinged. If that was from the group chat and Dennis was asking if anyone had seen his ID badge again, you were going to scream. But you dove across the bed, your hand closing over your phone and spotting the notification on your MyChart app. You logged in with your fingerprint, then paused and handed it over to Jack. You couldn’t look. 

Jack propped himself up against the headboard, reaching for his readers on the bedside table and thumbing through the app, bringing up your results. Your heart fluttered against your ribs like a caffeinated hummingbird, your teeth clamped harshly on your bottom lip as he read. Then finally, when you thought you would scream, the phone fell from his fingers into his lap, and he turned wet eyes on you. 

For a second, you felt your stomach drop, worried that he was upset by a negative result. Then he laughed. Not one of his deep chuckles or even a belly laugh. This was a sound of surprise and all-consuming joy.

SET AFTER:

Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC's fiery new attending.

Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.

The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren't the only explosive thing happening at Jesse's Fourth of July party.

A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot...

This Is Not A Love Story - Brandon tries to set a rule after a 'sticky' situation.

The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.

Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.

Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.

The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.

Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.

Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.

An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.

THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.

Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...

Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.

Doctor Dick - Brendon's day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.

A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.

The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David's calls once and for all.

The One That Hates The Ravens - David's attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.

The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.

Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.

His Father's Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.

The Cost of Dignity - Brendon's greatest secret comes with a cost.

A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.

The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.

Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.

Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.

Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.

The Call Out - Brendon's focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he's called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.

Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you're in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.

Flayed - Brendon's world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.

Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.

The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.

Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that's happened.

Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.

SET BEFORE:

The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.

Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.

A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn't expect.

Home - Brendon introduces you to your new home after the accident.

The Change Up - When you struggle to reacclimate at home Brendon realises you need a change up.

Your mother is pissed.

Brendon knows that because apparently, she’s the one you get your temper from. The eyes that narrow, creasing at the edges breaking into crow’s feet. The flared nostrils that accommodate a heaving chest. The thin purse of her mouth, lips clamped together as she paces like a tiger, fists clenched in agitation, protecting her cub.

“Marianne…” Brendon begins as he slows his walk, his dark eyebrows etching into a deep frown. “What’s going on?”

She swings her gaze to the visitor’s chair outside of your room where a bouquet of roses sits. A dozen of them, blood red and peppered with baby’s breath like some huge horrific Valentine’s Day nightmare. There’s a card sticking out of the top, expensive cream with a gold inlay. Brendon snatches it up, his teeth grinding together as he reads words written in fountain pen.

I’ve told you before choices have consequences, now no one will want you, not even me.

Good luck, you’ll certainly need it.

- David

“That evil fucker.” He mutters, crumpling the card up in his hand. The sharp edges dig into his palm, the fury of a thousand fires burning underneath his skin.

“I’m going to kill him.” Marianne informs Brendon, using her hands to mime wringing someone’s neck. “I’m going to go to his shitty little hospital and stab the tires in his stupid Audi-”

“Has she seen this?” Brendon asks his gaze straying to the closed door where your nurse is helping you to dress.

Marianne nods, her eyes turning sad. “She tried to get rid of them, but her nurse pulled them out of the trash thinking it was a mistake.”

Brendon growls, a low involuntary sound that emits from the depths of his chest as his palm scrubs over the nape of his neck roughly. He wants to beat the shit out of your ex-fiancé, to choke the life right out of him but that’s not where his focus should be right now, it should be on you, the woman who received this spiteful little message. “Is she... ok?”

“I think if she could tape knives onto her wheelchair, she would have by now.” Marianne tells him, casting a glare at the roses. “She’s beyond pissed, she didn’t want you to see them just in case we had to bail you out for murder. Obviously, another thing she doesn’t need.”

The phrase is pointed, meaningful.

Don’t do anything fucking stupid.

It’s usually Jean that talks him down, Jean that…

“Where is Jean?” He asks because your father’s coat is lying over the back of that chair but there’s no sign of the man himself.

“He needed to take a walk after seeing the card, so he decided to get us all some coffee from the canteen before your shift.” Marianne informs him, crossing her arms over her chest. “He was so pissed off Bren, I thought he was going to smash the vase they came in.”

“The canteen doesn’t open for another hour.” Brendon says checking his watch. The thing is Jean would know that, the four of you have established a routine in the week since your surgery.

“Oh fuck….” Marianne curses, slipping her phone out of her pocket and hitting the number one on her speed dial. “Do not tell me he’s gone after that asshole.” The call goes straight to voicemail, and her eyes ignite with a new emotion, fear. “He never turns it off, he keeps it on in case Rae ever needs him.”

“Ok.” Brendon pinches his brow, rubbing the space in between his eyes as he tries to think through their next steps. “How would he even know where David is?”

Marianne’s finger flicks across her screen, bringing up Instagram. She types for a few seconds before holding the phone up for Brendon to see. There’s David standing outside the coffee truck that must park itself outside of Mercy Hospital, holding up the most complicated coffee order in the world. “It looks like he’s there, every day at 7am.”

“Shit…” Brendon mutters, raking his hand through his hair. “Look I’ll go, you just stay with Rae, make sure she doesn’t actually start taping knives to her wheelchair.”

He wouldn’t put it past you, he’s well versed in your acts of vengeance from the enemies to lovers part of your love story.

It takes him ten minutes to drive to Mercy, breaking a few speed limits here and there. He doesn’t bother with a parking space, he just swings in behind the coffee truck, throwing open his door, slamming it shut behind him with such force the Porsche rocks.

He hears the shouting before he rounds the side of the coffee truck and already, he knows he’s too late.

There’s already a small cluster of people with their phones out, recording what has got to be the most pathetic fight he has ever seen. It’s barely a scrap, just two men scuffling on the grass. David attempts to break away, but Jean grapples him, tugging him back by that pristine white coat of his that no fucker ever wears unless they want attention. David tumbles back onto the grass, his face dripping with blood from a nose that is most certainly broken. Jean straddles his hips, pinning him to the ground, drawing back his fist for another blow but Brendon intervenes, catching his arm before he can throw it.

“This isn’t going to help Rae.” He’s surprised how calm his voice sounds in the moment, how measured it is despite the fact he wants to take Jean’s place and kick the shit out of David. “She doesn’t need her dad locked up over him.”

He doesn’t use David’s name, he doesn’t allow him that importance, that dignity.

“He called her a slut right to my fucking face.” Jean snarls as Brendon drags him to his feet, his shirt stained with David’s coffee order. “He said he got what she deserves for slutting it up with a damn ortho surgeon.”

For a second, just one, Brendon seriously thinks about releasing your father, about just letting him beat that son of a bitch to death. But there’s a dozen witnesses, camera phones everywhere and he doesn’t want Jean in any more trouble than he already is.

“He’s a vindictive, petty little shit.” Brendon tells him, stepping between the two of them so Jean’s entire attention is focused on him and not the man currently lying on the grass, whining about his broken nose. “And I swear to you he will get what’s coming to him.”

“You don’t know that!” Jean shoves at his chest but Brendon’s a wall, firm and unrelenting. This man he saved him from doing something stupid once upon a time, now it’s his turn to step up.

“I do.” He says tripping Jean’s biceps to stop him from lashing out again, forcing him to listen. “You think I didn’t do a deep dive on him after he was harassing Rae? That I don’t know the real reason he left Philly.”

Jean’s gaze strays over his shoulder to where David is climbing to his feet, using the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his nose. “What the fuck did he do?”

Brendon sighs as he follows Jean’s glare, levelling his own at David. “He was accused of sexual harassment at his old hospital and asked to leave before they completed the investigation. I know there are a few very pissed off female residents out there who I’m sure would love a chance to tell their story.”

“It wasn’t my fucking fault.” David snaps, cupping his hand to his nose to stem the bleeding. “They came on to me, they wanted…”

“You fucking groomed them.” Brandon spits back, acid burning into his tongue as he escorts Jean towards the Porsche. “It all started the same fucking way, you have a pattern of behaviour, one I’m sure your hospital would be very interested in knowing about.”

“You can’t do that to me!” David shouts after him as Brendon holds the car door open for Jean, making sure his future father-in-law climbs inside. “I don’t deserve to be hung, drawn and quartered over a couple of fumbled passes.”

The audacity of this man, it makes Brendon want to throttle him.

“You should have thought about that before you fucked with Rae.” Brendon tells him as he moves to the driver’s side of the Porsch, yanking the door open. “Enjoy your shift, I’m sure it’ll be your last.”

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!

SET AFTER:

Before You -  Pope was in a dark place before he met you.

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

The First Job - Pope starts to develop feelings for you during that first job.

Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.

Made For You (NSFW) - Pope’s sexual encounters have always been paid for… until you.

Go - Pope doesn’t realise he has options, not until you.

The Gift - Andrew recieves an unexpected Christmas gift.

Compulsions - You realise something isn’t right in Pope’s world

The Octagon - Smurf decides to show you the real Pope Cody.

The Bathtub - After the fight at The Octagon Pope returns to the beach house to claim his prize, only to discover a change of plan.

Two Weeks - Two weeks is too long for Pope to go without you.

SET BEFORE:

The Skatepark - Pope reacts badly when you try to share your feelings.

The Journal - Pope accidently comes across your journal after an incident with Smurf.

Wild Boys - Pope gets a phone call he doesn’t expect in the middle of the night.

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope’s always been crazy but now he’s also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope’s family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Everything - Pope’s family life clashes with your time together.

Positive - Pope didn’t expect for it to happen sooner rather than later.

Four Bullets - Smurf finds out about you and Pope, leading to dire consquences.

Misery (feat: Baz Cody) - Baz starts to notice there’s something wrong with Pope.

The Gruffalo - Pope finally lays eyes on you for the first time in months.

Kill The Queen - Pope tries to come to terms with Smurf’s death.

Night Thoughts - You and Pope discuss your fears about becoming a parent.

Existential (NSFW) - You and Pope have another first in the aftermath of Smurf’s death.

Today (NSFW) - You and Pope both wake up excited for the day ahead.

Freya - There’s a reason that the wedding has to happen before the birth of your daughter.

Picture Perfect - Pope shares a quiet moment with his new daughter.

A Month In - Pope asks you to make him a promise.

In The Blood - Pope worries about his genetics.

Guilt - You return home to Pope wringing his hands and you know that something isn't right.

The Strawberry - You discuss what's next for you and Pope.

Pope doesn’t like roses.

He knows what they’re supposed to represent: love, passion, a deep ever-lasting commitment but to him they’re a lie. One that was perpetuated everytime some asshole wanted to get into his mother’s pants or good graces.

Billy with his gas station bullshit, stems bent, petals missing.

Jake wasn’t much better, his may have come from the grocery store but the stench of rot always clung to the leaves along with that thin coat of white mould at the bottom.

Just the thought of it leaves a bad taste in his mouth as stomach acid claws it’s way up the back of his throat.

“No roses.” He says, wringing his hands as he stands in a boutique florist that no fucker in his family would be seen dead in, taking to a sixty year old women called Amber-Lynn. “My…”

He has no idea what he’s supposed to call the person he’s currently in a secret relationship with. It’s his first time buying flowers and he’s not really sure what the protocol is when it comes to choosing something for the person who loves him so unconditionally.

“My girl…” He tries the term on for size, liking the way it rolls off his tongue. The wringing slows, his hands merely rubbing, one palm over the other as he thinks about you. “My girl, she enjoys the ocean, and surfing. She’s like sunshine in a bottle, always making me feel warm and safe… do you have something that says that?”

“We don’t.” Amber-Lynn tells him and he feels his stomach drop with disappointment. He’s always doing shit like this, asking for the impossible, fucking shit up. His hand rakes through his curls, tugging at them so hard his scalp prickles. “But I’m sure we can put together something special for her.”

She moves from around the worktable surveying the readymade bouquets that rest within their carefully set buckets. Pope steps back allowing her space to work as she plucks red poppies, dark blue larkspur and yarrow from her stock, gathering them into a bundle in her skilled hands. She finishes it off with a handful of white daisies, breaking up the intensity of the color before she returns to the work bench and sets them amongst the brown paper that’s rolled out across the work table.

“What do they all mean?” Pope asks as he watches her arrange them with interest. He’s never learned the language of flowers, their meanings, how to organise them, how to make something pretty for the special person in is life. Before you romance was never his thing, but he wants to change that, he wants to try to be the man that’s worthy of you.

Amber-Lynn smiles warmly at his question, her finger trailing along the stem of a poppy as she looks up at him. “When it comes to love, poppies represent a passionate devotion, the way you talk about her… I can tell that you’re committed, that she’s your entire heart. We’re using yarrow because I get the sense that she healed you in some way, that maybe you were a little bruised when you met and she helped with that.”

“What about the daisies and the blue?” He asks, the pads of his fingers brushing over the soft petals.

“Daisies bring the promise of true love.” She informs him as she begins to wrap the flowers with cream tissue and brown paper. The cream offsets the harshness of the brown, giving the bouquet a more rustic edge as she picks up a length of twine, carefully trimming it and twisting it around the bottom so the flowers stay secure. “The larkspur is true blue. It brings in that ocean theme, radiating a calm much like when you’re out on the water watching the sunset.”

Amber-Lynn holds it up for him to see and a warmth blossoms in his chest as he stares at the components of your love story, woven into a gorgeous and simple bouquet. It’s bright, it’s sunny, it’s you in all your entirety. “What do you think?”

“I think…” His words come out rough, a low gravelly rumble in his chest as he reaches for the bouquet, cradling it gently in his hands. “I think she’s going to love it.”

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