🪬Tallulah-Bell🪬

ONE-SHOTS:

Diner-girl 14K ❤️‍🔥🩵💚

Duffy 8.5K ❤️‍🔥🩵💚

Not as planned 21K 🩵 UNDER EDITING

PROMPTS:

“Jealousy, jealousy.” 5.3K ❤️‍🔥💗🩵

“Say please.” 2.2K ❤️‍🔥

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” 2K ❤️‍🔥

“I hate you.” 9K / “I hate you 2” 7K💗🩵💚❤️‍🔥

“Your eyes are pretty up close.” 4.7K🩵❤️‍🔥💗

“Please, just play along.” 2.1K 💗

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” 5K 🩵❤️‍🔥💗

“Let them hear.” 1.8K ❤️‍🔥

“You called.” 1.3K 💗

‘Home’ 1.5K 💗🩵💚

SERIES:

Facade- 1985 7.7K❤️‍🔥🩵💗

1986 6K ❤️‍🔥🩵💗

I won’t tell, if you don’t- Part One 4.8K ❤️‍🔥🩵💚

Part Two 8.5K 💗❤️‍🔥🩵

Part Three 5K 💗❤️‍🔥🩵

Part Four 8.3K 💗❤️‍🔥🩵

Selfish Series 42.5K total/Five parts 🩵💗❤️‍🔥

MULTI-PART:

Flight of the swallows 10.5K / Eventually 9.3K 🩵💗💚❤️‍🔥

You’ve never slept with someone’s partner before. You weren’t one for risky sex either. Even with the palpably clinical issues with your dad, you didn’t seek out comfort in men like many other people you knew did. It secretly made you feel superior in some ways. That you didn’t search for caregiving in the embrace of men.

But now you realise that your only comfort should’ve been that you hadn’t found yourself in the right circumstances for it. Frank had taken you by surprise. Caught you unprepared and in a rare moment of vulnerability. You want to excuse what you’d done by saying that this is only time you would ever do something like that. But maybe it was the only opportunity you’ve ever had. And you failed.

You know both of you over-indulged in wine. And maybe the intimate conversation had masqueraded closeness. Tricking you into thinking you weren’t mostly strangers.

Your body moves in dissociated rhythms dragging itself into bed. It isn’t until you roll your face into your pillow that you allow the wail of frustration out. Soft furnishing soaking up the crackle of your scream.

What a terrible thing you have done. What an awful, stupid, ridiculous mistake.

The faint memories of fingertips on smooth skin ricochet back and forth in your head. The reminder of the way his skin felt. And the urgency with which you fucked. You were sure it didn’t last longer than ten minutes. A blip in time. And yet those ten minutes could destroy a family and your career.

Sleep doesn’t find you. Not for a lack of trying. Every time you close your eyes you see the miscellaneous faces of women– attempting to curate the shape that could fill to be Abby Langdon. You presume she’s beautiful. You don’t assume to know anything other than that about her. You can’t. Not when you so viciously barged into her marriage with little to no thought.

Frank in his scrubs creeps in the furthest parts of your brain. Bumping into him in trauma rooms. If he’ll speak to you, just as wracked with guilt. If he would expect you guys to discuss what happened. You make vows and promise to deities of the great beyond that no matter what he says, you’ll never do it again. And if it could be avoided, you won’t even speak of it again. With him or anyone else.

The firm-hold lasts all through the sleepless night. Well into the morning where you talk yourself into getting out of your car at the hospital.

It’s a two-minute walk into the building. Barely a second thought. But as you stare at the doors inviting you in, they appear to shrink and wain in your eyes. Like it was getting steadily out of reach. Could be a panic attack. But you don’t need to be a doctor to know that your pulse wasn’t high enough for that. A guilty conscience was what you had.

—

The first couple hours of the shift seem to suggest you’ll have an easy day. An hour of paperwork, no calls down. You had skipped saying hello at the nurse's station, running headfirst up to the office. When Kiara mumbles the ‘Q’ word, you hiss at her. Slamming palm on wood to ward off bad luck.

Less than twenty minutes later, the phone goes. Seeing off all chances of peace and serenity. All chance that you mightn’t need to face Frank after all.

Comparatively to the peaceful emergency social work office, downstairs is carnage. Unusually busy, as though the crazies had waited for the day you were avoiding ED doctors to come out in droves.

No steps are taken without checking the coast is clear for married blue eyed men. And once you’re certain, you approach the desk. Billowy in false pretence.

It’s McKays page that brought you down. She waits cradling an iPad as though it were a fresh baby.

“You called, my love.” The words are light. But they feel so foreign that you barely hear them as your own. Like your secret had crawled down your chest and ventriloquised you.

The woman smiles up at you sardonically. You can already see the wear of the shift. And it was barely 10am.

“Thank god.” She whines. “I’ve got a kid on drugs. Room two. Doesn’t want me to call the parents. Refusing to disclose a real name.”

You pinch your brows. “Over-dose?”

“More like panic attack.” She clarifies, passing the tablet to you for inspection.

‘Adam’ approximately fifteen. Presenting with increased breath sounds, muscle fatigue, hyperhidrosis. Admitted to unspecified drug use. Stats normal. Suspected panic attack, social to advise on parental contact and addiction services.’

Relatively pain free for a first case of the day.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Cassie starts. “He’s rock solid. Won’t budge an inch, and Robby said I can’t discharge him till we get parental contact.”

You groan forcibly. “Yeah, of course. Why would it be straight forward? I’ll do what I can but if he doesn’t want help, we can’t force his hand.”

“If anyone can do it.” She smiles, not bothering to clarify her implicit trust in you. At least someone thinks you’re qualified. “How long did you stay at Robby’s after we left?”

You lock up rigidly. It wasn’t accusatory but you still look around to confirm he wasn’t anywhere in eye line.

“Uh…” you feign uncertainty, even though you know it was exactly twenty past 11 that you ran home. Out of the arms of one Frank Langdon. “Not long.”

Cassie side-eyes you a little. You hope you’ve sold it. But you had always been a crappy liar. A boyfriend had told you once that you had a tell. He never expanded on what it was specifically. Now you wander around the world aware that people see through you, with no earthly idea of what it is. For the first time in two years, you consider calling him up and demanding he tell. Now that you actually have something to hide.

“You feelin’ ok?” She mumbles lowly, not pushing. Maybe nudging slightly in case you wanted to talk.

The smile you force hurts the edges of your eyes. “Hungover, a bit. Not enthusiastic about the look of today.” You motion to the barely organised chaos around. “I’m just gonna get started, if that’s okay? Before I’m pulled in five different directions.”

She nods, still looking you over. You’re completely turned away from her when she calls you back. “Sorry, I forgot to say. Langdon was looking for you.”

You hitch in your step but say nothing back. Just a two-finger salute before pushing into the exam room.

—

You’re with ‘Adam’ who turned out to be Connor Smith for forty-five full minutes before you got a contact number for parents. He was sweet. Too young to understand the dangers he was putting himself in taking molly all weekend and then heading back to school on no sleep.

You reckon he’s just a kid experimenting, but you still plan to make a call to his parents and a support group for kids. It’s the only thing you intend to do on your way out of the room. It had taken your mind off of scurrying and creeping from your own problems.

You pace to the desk without a care in the world only to remember what you were avoiding. It was standing curled over a chart, muttering to Dana like nothing had ever bothered him before.

Frank looked better in scrubs. You decide it during the thirty seconds you get before devolving into pit sweating and battering heart. All these people around would stop any confrontation, you know that. You reason you’ll make the call using Dana’s landline. Then, creep away when there’s too many eyes for him to talk.

Dana looks up from the computer with a smile when you reach eye-line. “Here comes trouble.”

You smirk unconsciously. You would like to think you were more sensible these days, but you gave it a good shot being a problem kid before that. Not that Robby ever minded much. It wasn’t him who dealt with it. But still Dana and Abbot will call you trouble and act like you’d turned it all around just for their department.

“In the flesh.” You simper. You catch Frank jolting upright when you speak. It’s from the side of your eyes, refusing to acknowledge him. His whole upper body is tensed, hand unmistakably twitching around the paperwork.

“Bad one?” Dana asks, eyes falling to the exam room behind you.

Frank attempts to pretend he’s still busy, but you feel him look up and down like it was an unconscious tic. It seems frantic. As if he worried you would oust him in front of all staff and patients.

“Not really.” You sigh, sitting in the chair beside her. You drag the phone in front of you. “Kid on molly having a panic attack. I don’t think he’s in imminent danger, but I’m mandated to report it with his parents. Took the better part of an hour just to get his real name.”

“Fucking teenagers.” Dana mutters. “Better prepare for that Langdon.”

Suddenly, his eyes find yours. The whooshing of blood in your ears becomes so violent, it threatens to steal your hearing altogether. You try not to think about his kids.

He clears his throat. Uncharacteristically subdued. “Many years away from that, Dana.”

You busy yourself pulling out the notepad you scribbled Connor’s parents' number on.

The charge nurse hums. “Creeps up on you, Frankie. Look at this one. Gave Robby a panic attack every time she visited.”

You glare up at her, poking the numbers into the phone. “I was not that bad.”

You were. You just don’t like to admit it.

“You were wild.” She waves you off scoffing.

“I could imagine that.” Frank mumbles, like it was only meant for you.

Your heart misses a beat, and suddenly you’re thankful to hear the line being picked up on the other end of the phone.

“Hi there…” you turn yourself to face away from him, speaking carefully down the phone. “Sorry to catch you off guard but this is a social worker from the PTMC…”

You don’t need to look back to know he’s stomped off.

The day passes at a pace so rapid that you don’t even have the time to worry much about seeing him again. Every trauma room appears to give you grace. Meeting families in break rooms instead of hallways. And zero call downs for one of Franks cases.

You start to wonder if it was too good to be true. After you’d wrought such bad karma. Your suspicions intensify when Kiara says that a cup of expensive coffee is left on your desk with no note. You pointedly don’t drink it, especially when you ask Robby if he’d left it for you. (You don’t miss the perplexed look he gives you, as if it would be odd for a father to surprise his child.)

There’s a little voice in the back of your head that whispers you know where it came from. But Frank Langdon was not gracious like that. You sincerely doubt he’s dumb enough to think five-dollar coffee will smooth over last night.

Still, you don’t waste your time saying goodbye to anyone downstairs when your shift closes. Instead, you practically sprint to the parking lot. July is burning in a hole in the earth. 7pm and still hotter than the surface of the sun outside. Brighter than it too.

That’s why you don’t have any trouble seeing Frank leant against the dirty bumper of your old car. He’s waiting nervously, leg bouncing when he finally sees you approaching. He must have tricked Robby into letting him leave early. There was no way he beat you here without a head start. You consider just spinning around and leaving your car there for the night. But it would be no use anyway. He’d follow.

He stands more prone when you get into ear shot. Bracing for impact.

“Look, I’ve had a long day.” You start, clicking the lock from yards away. “Can we just not do this, Frank?”

He sidesteps your access to the driver's side, lifting his hands in some kind surrender. “I’ll be quick.”

You’re almost dancing as you step and step from different angles to shove past. “I really don’t want to talk. I don’t have anything to say.”

The chuckle he lets out sounds mean. So does the way he grasps your shoulders to hold you stagnant. The contact has you leaping backward, looking around to confirm there was no-one nearby.

“Would you relax?” He hisses. “I’m not diseased.”

“No, you’re just fucking irritating.”

Frank tilts his head back and shoves the balls of his hands into his eyes. “Why is nothing ever easy with you? I’ve been trying to find you all day. I bought you a fucking six dollar coffee. Asked every person in the ED if they’d seen you. I’m tired. Can we just get in the damn car and talk?”

The exasperation in his tone feels final. The intimation that he got the coffee fills you with an unspeakable rage. One that you can’t place. But you comply and allow you both to get into the car, hands curling around the steering wheel until the skin pulls tight around your knuckles.

It’s uncomfortable. And entirely too quiet. He just sits twisting the friendship bracelet his kid made him most recently. It’s like a punch to the kidney.

“Well?” You press. “You’ve hounded me all day. Better get your coffee money worth. And while we’re on that– terrible way to bribe someone. I think ‘don’t tell my wife we fucked’ bribes are probably worth an expensive purse at least.”

“Bribe?” He twists round. “I was being nice? I thought you’d be hungover, and…stressed?”

The laugh you let out is mirthless. “Oh yeah, I’m real stressed. Ashamed. Embarrassed. I could keep going.”

“And that’s why I want to talk.” He shifts round to look at you.

“What can you say that will fix that? What we need is a Time Machine.”

“Okay, well maybe we could start somewhere smaller. Maybe in this reality?”

“Okay, this reality?” You sigh. “In that case, what are you going to do? Are you gonna drive home and confess what you did to Abby?”

Frank face contorts into something incredulous. “Wha– no, Christ no. Why would you think I would do that?”

“Because you fucked someone else?” You shout at him, dam breaking.

“It was a mistake.” He shouts. “Do you know what would happen if we told her?”

“We?” You’re gobsmacked that he’s even comparing. You were going to live with the guilt for the rest of your life. But you weren’t married. You were uninvolved now. “No. Not ‘we.’ You.” You’re pointing now. Accusatory. “I don’t want any part of this.”

He smiles, but there’s nothing easy about it. “You’re entirely involved. I didn’t do it alone. Besides, it’s not about coming clean. It’s about what we do now.”

You hardly see any reason that you ought to work that out. Frank was a small annoyance in your life. You could go back to ignoring him. That would be just fine for you. You could ignore him. And his cute chin dimple. And the stretch of a scrub top over his bicep. And the way he smells faintly like antiseptics and amber.

“I presume we go back to pretending the other doesn’t exist.” You relent, falling boneless into the back of your seat. “It’ll be like it never happened.”

You watch him digest the suggestion. He sits back against the passenger door and folding his arms over his chest. Biceps flexing. You want to tell him to walk off the earth.

“I don’t know if I can do that.” He mumbles, biting at an already bit down nail.

“It’s not like we were friends before, Frank.” You point out. “Last night was the longest we’ve ever talked. And we were totalled.”

He shakes his head. “I told you I wasn’t that drunk.”

Neither were you. You just don’t have the heart to admit it.

You turn around entirely, pulling a leg with it. “Listen to me. It will never happen again. We could become best friends and hang out every day, and it still wouldn’t happen again. You’re married. And I hate myself for what I’ve done.”

He nods weakly. “I know all that. It’s just…” there’s a lull before he looks up to face you dead in the eyes. “I can’t remember the last time I felt like talking to someone about how I feel. I really enjoyed talking to you…before.”

You smile at him sympathetically, leaning forward to squeeze his hand quickly. Making sure not to linger, or look too much into the way your heart pounds at the small touch.

“I had a nice time talking to you too. And maybe, long in the future, when it’s not weird, we can be friends. But right now, it’s not appropriate.”

He doesn’t say anything back. Barely even acknowledges it. Instead, you watch him shake the faint sadness off his shoulders and the usual cocky take the wheel.

“How’s your shoulder?” He asks.

You flush. Up the neck and over the ears. You’d completely forgotten about the Frank shaped bite mark on your shoulder.

“Gnarly.” You confirm.

It was. Red and purple, with clear imprint from each tooth’s rims.

“Can I?” He asks, stretching his long fingers over to push your hair off your shoulder. Similar to what he did before you fled last night. “Doctors honour, I’ll behave.”

You swallow thickly but nod. He doesn’t waste time unbuttoning two shirt buttons (modesty still intact) and pulling the collar down to inspect. The pad of his pointer finger drags along the broken skin, pulling a small gasp out of you. You refuse to admit it’s not just because it was sore. That you can feel your heartbeat somewhere more south the border.

His eyes are transfixed on the bruise. Mouth slightly open.

“Will I live?” You joke breathlessly.

He hums a little, but shifts away shakily. “Ice it tonight. And no more sex with married residents. In my professional opinion.”

His hand rises to cup the side of your neck, and for a minute you think he might lean in. You think you’ll let him. But before it can escalate, he’s pulling away and opening the door of the car.

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, friend?” You catch the glint of his pearly smirk. He was fucking with you. On purpose. Trying to see if you’d crack under the pressure.

“Asshole.” You shout after him, through the ricochet of slamming door.

—

You won’t do it again.

You marble the words over and over. All night. All night thinking about his hand ghosting over the marks he left on you. The way he’d whispered how nice it was just to talk.

You lay head down on your sofa for an hour willing away the urge to look him up some kind of social media. Just so you could look at his face.

Frank Langdon was slowly becoming the mouse in your house. He existed in a hypothetical compartment of your mind. A puzzle to be solved. You hate him. You also like him, you guess? You know you want to sleep with him still.

Then there was the wife.

The way he’d looked at you when you asked if he would tell Abby. Like you were crazy.

But you’re not crazy. You’re well adjusted. For the most part. One mistake doesn’t change the twenty-six years before it. You wonder what his angle was. If he hated you and wanted to destroy your life. Even if it meant taking himself with it. Or if he had depths you were unaware of. Trapped in a struggling marriage in need of someone who will listen.

You suddenly understand those silly women become the mistress, and tell people that what they had was special. Special for a couple who see each other for hotel room fucks and never sleep in the same bed. That wouldn’t be you. You may sympathise with him. You may be disturbingly attracted to him. But you were no one’s mistress.

Robby had texted you six times since you left his place last night. Thank yous for cleaning. Enquiries about your hangover. And one ominous message at 7.30: “Frank said you guys had a nice talk last night. Glad you’re coming around.”

You almost threw up when it came through.

Sleep was closing in. You’re positively giddy at the prospect. You truly hadn’t rested a bit last night. Right before you give in, your phone pings next to your head like a defective clock.

Frank Langdon: followed you.

You follow him back without a conscious thought.

—

One full week passes. It’s almost normal again. Normal in the sense Frank no longer taunts and goads. But lingers? Like a looming presence.

You can tell he’s calling you down too much. Cases that you really don’t need to help with. Or ‘accidental’ pages. You don’t say anything. Just like you don’t say anything when he likes the story you post on Wednesday.

Cassie and Samira both remark the lack of taunting. You play it off as coolly as you know how. Shrugging and saying he probably got bored.

And without fail, you’ll find a cup of expensive coffee sat on your desk at some point in the afternoon. Like a bad omen. You drink it every time. You pretend that it doesn’t speak to a bigger issue. That it was like being courted. Emotional cheating adjacent.

You don’t ask him to stop. You invite it by leaving the office door unlocked. And not reprimanding him for wasting your time. Sometimes you feel like you’re looking forward to the call, just so you can see him for an extra five minutes in the day. In an innocent and non-mistress manner.

It isn’t until you have a bad day that you guys talk properly again.

“That kid you saw last week is in.” Cassie had informed you when you were called down for an immediate consult.

You were staying behind for this. She’d said to drop everything. The changeover rounds were happening, a peaceful lull before the night shift storm.

“Which one.” You press, eyeing Frank finishing the rounds with Night Shift. He was looking over at you too. You shake it off to focus on Cassie’s sad eyes.

“Connor Smith. Fifteen-year-old on molly. You spoke with his parents.” She clarifies. You brave what you can feel is bad news. “Came in an hour ago. Tachy, overheating with seizure activity. We put him on ice, bagged him. But he was already brain dead.”

You feel her hand clasp around your elbow; like it were centring you.

You blink away the vision of his young face and kind eyes. The voice of his worried mother.

“Over-dose?” You finally ask.

Cassie smiles sadly and nods.

You’re crying. It’s the type of tears that you can’t predict or stop. They pull from the parts of you unmanageable. Innate.

“I thought he was just playing, Cas.” You mutter. “He said he hadn’t done it before. I told his parents to take him to a support group and open dialogue. I’m such an idiot.”

You’d been off your game that day. You believed without reproach that he was telling the truth. He was coming down, anxious and bold enough to use on a school night. And now he was dead.

“Don’t do that.” The woman scolds, rubbing a thumb over the elbow she clasps. “You called his parents and you recommended the services he might need. I’m just telling you, so you don’t find out about it later.”

She’s saying the right stuff. It’s what you would say if you were in her position. But you don’t believe it. They’re pretty lies.

“And the parents? Should I…” you’re wiping the tears angrily. “Do you need me to talk to them?”

“No, your dads doing it. I need you to go home. Have a bath, have a beer, and pretend you’re on a cruise.”

The words are lost on you now. You don’t turn to the trauma bay to get out. Instead, you walk through the corridor to the first free on-call room. You know you can’t drive in this way. Not safely. You’re too distracted and emotional.

You barely register the body pushing into the room behind you, before you see Frank pulling the door shut behind him. He flicks the lock, but it doesn’t seem presumptuous. More like he wanted to give you privacy in your state.

“Saw you take off and wanted to make sure you weren’t planning on staying when you need to go home and decompress.” He says, moving to sit next to you on the cot bed.

The sentiment in his face takes you by surprise. All you had to do was cry for Frank to become human. It’s ironic.

You’re sniffling around words, trying to hide the blotch growing on your cheeks and forehead.

“Actually, I live here.” You muster. “That’s how I always get a good parking spot.”

The only reason you know he laughs is because of the way his shoulder brushing yours shakes.

“Humour to deflect. A dear friend of mine.”

You laugh a little, but it falls way to sobs before you mean it. You tilt forward and clasp your hands on your face. Letting them capture the noise of your cries. In any other scenario it would be humiliating. But you’re too sad to care.

Frank coo’s and wraps an arm around you. Tilting you into his warmth. “It’s okay. Kids are tough. Kids that you treat are tougher. Have the cry and then get the fuck out of here before it gets crazy.”

You’re hiccuping a little. “This is the first time.”

“Oh.” Is all you make out.

The silence is deafening.

“You’re going to want to blame yourself. But as someone who has literally watched dozens of kids die, you need to not.” He says.

It can’t be as simple as that. It sounds like too easy. Too robot.

“How do you do it?” You whisper, letting him sway you a little. You’ve curled yourself into him, fists balled in the fabric of his top. “How do you get up and keep doing it?”

The silence is even louder this time. The beats between words. You can almost hear him thinking. What lie to tell you. What words might convince you to come back tomorrow.

“The countless others I’ve saved.” He replies eventually. “And sometimes I call home. Just to hear Tanners voice. It’s selfish. Like it brings comfort that it isn’t happening to me.”

There’s no conversation after that. You digest the wisdom. Suddenly nothing else to say. He holds you till there’s no more tears. Until you feel strong enough to pull yourself back up, wiping away the evidence of your turmoil.

His hand clasps your knee. “Do you feel better?”

No is on the tip of your tongue. When you look at his earnest eyes, it dies. You hold them, just long enough to decide you weren’t that good a person anyway. You bridge the gap and press your lips on his.

You expect a shove. Or even a little resistance. But there’s no hesitation. He scoops you forward to cage yourself around his lap, thighs hugging his hips. For each push and pull of the lips, you find your head emptier. One thought less each brush of his tongue against yours. Each hand finding skin.

You can feel his cold ring grazing against the flesh of your ribs, but it’s distant. Distant enough that you let him strip you of your shirt.

When he twists you round onto your back, you expect him to crawl up to your lips again. Instead, he remains above, fingers curling in the waistband of your work jeans. You look up at him expectantly, quiet and concerned with how much harder your heart can beat before it bursts.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, stroking edge of your hip. You’re vibrating. Underwear clinging to you now.

It’s not okay. Not any of it. It’s not okay that kids die. And that the only person you feel like cuddling up to is another woman’s man. It isn’t okay that you’re willing to part with morals for some peace and quiet.

“I really just want you to touch me.” You whine pathetically.

His head tips forward a little to groan. Chin kissing chest. “Yeah. I can do that, pretty girl.”

You keen at the term of endearment and lift your hips to help drag your jeans down. He doesn’t pretend to preamble, just pulls the underwear with them. You want to be embarrassed at the way he has to unlatch them from the damp.

“You been thinking about this?” He asks, dragging two dept fingers across you. “Feels like you have.”

You huff a little, and shuffle down to try and chase the touch. All you get back is a tap on your wet and the tut of a tongue.

“Easy.” He breathes. “I wanna make you feel good. Just making sure it’s what you want.”

His fingers ghost over your sensitive bud. You feel like you could cry again. Weep at the desperation that claws to your neck.

“It’s what I want.” You gasp. “I want it so bad. Just– fucking. Please.”

Frank groans, like his resolve has broke. He falls forward to lick tentatively over your untouched centre. You crackle out a broken wail.

“I’ve thought about this a lot.” He whispers between kitten licks and nudges. “All I can think about really.”

You’re nodding, bucking up. Willing away specks of tears over how close you are to getting proper stimulation.

“You taste better than I imagined.”

You flinch when he presses forward and finally gives in to the intensity you desire. There’s nothing polite about it. Certain. Confident. Cocky. He mouths at you the way he runs a code. With passion. With the knowledge he’s damn good.

“Shit.” You yelp, dragging the pillow next to you into your face to absorb the sounds you know you can’t conceal.

It’s pulled away from you instantly. Frank throws it halve-hazardly to the floor, using the other hand to push a finger between your walls. Met with the immediate spasm and grind.

“Do that again, and I stop.” He says with force, grabbing your dropped jaw to look him in the eye. “Yeah?”

You nod wildly, just praying he’ll put his head back down. You could cheer when kisses back down your torso, meeting in the middle with a sloppy lick.

It could be seconds or hours when you finally start arching and cracking from the bed. Your hips move with a mind of their own. Grinding, shaking up into his movements. Fingers twisting in the darkness of what was once well styled hair.

“I’m really close,” you cry. “Don’t stop. Please. Please.”

He unlatches an inch, fingers still curling. “Go on then. You’re doing so well, pretty girl. Let it go.”

You lose all sense of time or place. The cracks of darkness creep into your vision before you have to relent and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream but instead bite teeth into your hand. Twisting and writhing through the sensations.

It’s overpowering. The flinches that follow are cataclysmic. Like aftershocks during an earthquake. When Frank collapses next to you, you can see the evidence of what he’d done for you dancing on the bottom of his chin. In any other world it would be disgusting. But there’s something primal about the way you press forward to kiss him.

He accepts it with a gentle lull. No undertone or expectation that you’ll have sex now. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t even hint. He just leans down and grabs your underwear (intact this time) to help them up your legs.

“Do you want to talk about it now or later?” He asks, curling himself into you.

You want to say there’s nothing to talk about. But you know it not to be true. There was something so tangible you can almost taste the greed you feel for him. You wonder if he feels it too.

“What is there to say?” You roll on your side to face him. “I don’t want to be a homewrecker. I don’t know why I keep doing this.”

He looks down at you like he shares the sentiment. Soft eyes and sullen brows.

“I won’t ever leave her.” He vows like a promise, stroking your cheek like he’d told you he loves you.

“I know.” You whisper.

“But I don’t want to not do this again.”

Affectionately– as much as you might muster– you called your dad “Robby.” As though you too were one of his protégé ducklings. Rounding through the walls of his emergency department, lost and confused. It wasn’t an act of defiance, so much that you felt him tense on automatic recall when you’d say something else. Like he hadn’t intended to be someone’s ‘dad.’

It’s easier now you’re older. Now that you work within the walls of his sanctuary. Socialising in the shift patterns that align with his. You slot yourself between him and the wall of a trauma room, advising on the services you might offer for a victim of child abuse, or the shelter for an unhomed man.

You never meant to move out to Pittsburgh in a full-time manner. But the job came up once you’d finished your degree. And in the only way he knows how, becoming somewhat your boss, allows Robby to be tender in a way that doesn’t cast him in a vulnerable light. So, you take the job, move three blocks around the corner from the townhouse that you would visit each summer. Occasionally attending a meal in his kitchen, or calling round for a coffee. But communicating almost entirely through work related banter. Co-workers bonded through DNA.

The PTMC is faster paced than you’d imagined a career in social work would be. It’s hard to acclimate to the bustle and chaos that used to be fuzzy when you were a kid. Hiding under nurses desks and napping in on-call rooms when you were too small to be left alone. But it’s home for now. And the coffee ain’t half bad.

“You’re quiet today.” Robby mumbles into his mug across the desk from you. You were only downstairs to check that the pregnant teenager you’d spoke to an hour earlier was getting treated.

You try to stay out of the way as much as possible. You have a quiet office upstairs, shared between kiara and the bank workers who take sporadic shifts.

Flinching your eyes up to your dad, who’s beard was now greyer than brown, aged marginally from how you distantly remember him. The sigh is unconscious when you see the almost amusement he gives back.

“I thought you preferred when I didn’t yap.” You prod, collapsing the file you hold shut.

You’re finished for the day. The night was closing in, and you’re keenly aware that the day-shift staff were prepping for the impromptu drinks and merriment to celebrate the looming graduation of residents to their next year. Robby had graciously agreed to host. You try not to grimace too much around the birthday parties he missed in favour of nights like those.

Your dad smiles chagrin and rolls the sleeves of his ancient sweatshirt up to his elbows. “Humour me, kid. Got a face like thunder.”

There’s an over-flowing list of things you’re worried about. Any would be a good excuse for your souring mood. The long night ahead of you. The uncertainty you have about making rent this month. The tiny sliver of home-sick nebbing in as you reach the third month of your big move from home. The fact that your mom can’t bare to ask about your day for fear of learning too much about her pseudo-ex. None of them you feel much like speaking about.

Instead, you swallow back. “I’m tired.” You shrug lazily. “And I’m worried about the girl in two. She told me the father is her boyfriend, but I don’t buy it.”

That was true. She’d came in with a weedy boy with baggy jeans and a hat, rolled up too high on his head. But the minute he left the room; she had quizzed you on the likelihood of babies looking like their dads. And if you were going to tell the uncle she was living with. Her panic left a bad taste in your mouth. Beyond advisement and placing a call to the social department to check-in, you had to send her home with a letter about medical abortions and well wishes. It never feels like enough. Not for a fourteen-year-old that you’ll probably never see again.

“What can you do?” He says, like it’s simple and easy. “She won’t out-cry. You took the steps you’re allowed to take. And according to my watch you’re off the clock. So, grab a water, wash the day off and I’ll see you tonight.”

That’s usually the extent of fatherly wisdom. You watch as he pushes off the desk with a soft look. He walks with intention over to the resident’s shedding goggles and gloves in trauma one. You also don’t miss the squeeze of the shoulder he offers Langdon who appears to be the golden boy this week.

There was a small part of you that wondered if you’d gone into medicine, you too would be offered tactile reassurance that you’re doing a good job. If you were about to be a senior resident, rounding the walls of his ER. It’s not worth the shiver it casts down your spine. It’s easier to turn away from their interaction.

—

You arrive at the dinner party late. Even though you finished your shift a full hour earlier than the nursing and medical staff. It took you a full thirty minutes of bashing your head into your steering wheel in the parking lot to work up the courage just to drive home. You like the people you work with. Dare say, that some of them were friends now. You socialised with McKay out of work. And Collins, although sometimes a substitute for your own mother’s affections, takes you out for coffee a couple times a week.

Its just this house. It’s the baby photos on the mantle, sent to him mail order for things he would miss. And the reminder that unless you could bag a convulsing MVC patient, you were of little purpose to your dad. The way he was with Frank was particularly grating.

His mentee. Treats him like a damn son. As if he wasn’t 30 years old, with a wife and kids of his own. You don’t have a personal grudge with him of course. It’s more an unconscious bias that he’s self-assured, cocky and your dad's current fixation. Being around him is a kick to the head. And you know he can tell.

Langdon doesn’t take it personally. In fact, it seems to encourage him to pour a lot of his jittery energy into making contact with you. Prodding you about what it’s like to have a hot-shot doctor for a dad. And why you didn’t use your connections to follow in those steps. Sometimes, during a long shift, when you’ve seen the darkest ebbs of people’s souls, he’ll jokingly say that you don’t know tired till you’ve resuscitated a child.

You know that tonight will bring all of that twitching energy he has to the forefront. And you’ll absorb all of it.

You let yourself into the house; already hearing the buzzing of chatter from the kitchen. You almost take pause about not knocking. Because it’s your dad's house. But is it yours?

“Angel.” Dana cheers, first person to catch sight of you in the doorway. “You made it.”

Dana probably spent more time with you when you were a kid than Robby did. You don’t tense up when she plants a smoke tinged kiss to your cheek. You do when your dad extends an arm around your shoulder. Like a dead fish. You know people notice.

“Sorry I’m late.” You smile softly. “Kinda lost track of time.” Lie.

“Better late than never.” You hear Frank mumble, gliding past your back at the kitchen island. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard that you worry it’ll bleed.

It starts as it means to go on. What was meant to be a dinner and drinks, becomes more people pecking at a sparse cheese board and drinking far too much. Dad makes a tender speech about the pride he feels knowing his two best residents are entering into their last year. Frank doesn’t pretend not to smirk at Samira and McKay at the intimation of favouritism. You chug your glass of red dry when the conversation inevitably turns to the craziest cases of the last four years.

You stay mute during the anecdotes. Laughing when you think you’re supposed to. Making a frown dent across your eyebrows at the mention of the losses. It isn’t until a full hour in that someone asks you a proper question.

“Todays your three months in the Pitt, right?” McKay mumbles, turning to face you on the sofa. It’s not meant to be a group discussion. Everyone’s dispersed in their own way, talking to each other.

Forcibly groaning, you swig another heroic gulp of Robby’s good wine. “Yep. Feels like a lifetime. Don’t know how you guys do it.”

McKay looks sympathetic. You wonder sometimes if you’ve made a name for being a bit sullen. She knows the history. You decided early on that she might understand the conflict you’re having being here in such permanent manner.

“We’re built different.” You hear the goad from behind you on the sofa. You hadn’t even noticed his looming presence. “Imagine doing it on zero sleep and two kids under your belt.”

You don’t know why he insists on taking everything you say personally. Or finding ways to devalue your choices. You know he’s cocky because he’s good. You also know that he’s like this with Garcia, and Collins, and some of the nursing staff. But there’s no need for competition between you and Frank. Other than that your dad seems to dote on him– more than he does you.

The wine turns into an ugly sneer before you mean it to. “I thought it was your wife holding down the fort?”

The wisps of his dark hair falling from the gel hold whip round at your words. You’ve never out-right snipped back at him. Seemed like too much for what is likely just his personality handicap, and not a personal agenda. But something in the drying glass of red wine you drink, screams: “tell him off.”

“Excuse me?” He hisses.

McKay shifts uncomfortably in her seat and you’re thankful that everyone else is out of earshot.

“You said you were doing all this and tending to two kids.” You point out. “But it’s her at home all day. Doing all the domestic chores, tantrums and scraped knees. It’s just an observation.”

It’s supposed to sound diplomatic. It doesn’t. You can hear the condescension dripping off your tongue. And if you were entirely honest, you were forming this opinion based on the gossipy whispers of the nurses who say that he’s almost never home when he should be.

His strong brows dip down into flexed outrage. You crane your neck round more to look him dead in the eyes, so he knows that you mean what you say. It’s a cold war. You’ve laid your cards down, if he wants to continue- you will. But it’s on his terms. You didn’t start it. Hell, you’re not even sure that you have the energy for it. But it feels akin to necessity now.

The slapping of skin on legs pulls you back from the stare you were holding with Frank. McKay was pulling herself up abruptly. “I think you’ve probably had enough wine. Let’s grab a water.” She insists, quirking her head to the kitchen.

You suppose she’s right. You also suppose that if you carried on much longer with the angry man behind you, that it would turn ugly sooner than later. You don’t miss the way his eyes burn into your back when you go.

—

You manage to control yourself for the rest of the night. Occasionally catching a stray look or sneer from Frank. McKay had politely suggested that you not drink anymore. It was said quietly and with a tone that didn’t feel cruel. But like a person wiser knowing that soon you would regret it. So, you sip instead of gulp. You notice the dark haired man doing the same with the neck of his beer bottle. Holding it as though it were a prop. Like an old smoker using the tip of their pen for chewing.

There’s a small thought in the back of your head that you had taken what might be a quirk of his— unintentional and innate— and assumed it was specific to you. But then you remember that you didn’t have years of time with the quick witted doctor. Your trips were sporadic during college. Other than passing him in the halls of the hospital once of twice over the past few years, he was all but a stranger to you. No lovable memories to quash bad feelings about riskier jokes.

People start filing out at eleven. Dad had narrowly clipped past you ten minutes earlier saying he was just going for a lie down. Which was code for, I’ve drank too much and must excuse myself post-haste. You’d seen him do it at countless BBQs since you were a kid. He wouldn’t emerge for the rest of the night. His dutiful staff knew it too.

One by one people shrugged coats on and did small waves on their way out the townhouse, until eventually you were alone in the living room. Intending to declutter the mess left in the wake. You could walk home in under ten minutes. And you knew Robby hates a mess.

You don’t analyse that you still want to please him in some manner– cleaning his home of wine bottles and cracker crumbs so he doesn’t have to in the morning. It’s too complex for you to work out what was courtesy and what was seeking approval from a distant father.

It isn’t until you hear the padding of steps on in the hallway that you realise not everyone had gone. An interloper had strayed the herd.

“Geez, everyone cleared out fast.” You find Langdon bustling into the room was a breeze of confidence. Undue considering the last interaction had mere hours ago.

You grumble, picking up glasses to place in the sink. “Figured you had too.”

It sounded hopeful. Like he might say that he was but left behind a watch or phone. Instead, he parks himself next to the sink you stand at. Lower back pressed against it, relaxing for longer stay. He’s stood so close that you can feel the heat coming off his skin. See the sheen of slight sweat, glowing from the wine and beers. You hold your breath, trying to stabilise the shake in your hands. It’s like he knows his proximity makes you uneasy.

“Robby’s letting me crash in the guest room.” He says, popping a spare grape into his mouth. Punctuating the sentence with a crunch through its skin.

Your hand tightens around the neck of the glass you’re holding. The guest room he refers to, was your room. It’s bare these days. But there was a time where your bedsheets adorned pillows. Stuffed toys lined uniformly.

“That’s my room.” You point out stiffly. Hoping to encourage the forethought that this was your house once too.

“Oh yeah?” He mockingly asks. “You planning on crashing in it instead of walking the five minutes around the corner?”

Finally, you break, clattering the wine glass down on the surface of the sink– just lightly enough not to break it. “What is your problem?”

You’re turned an inch to watch it register on his smug face. The dent in his chin more prominent when he looks surprised. His mouth is open ajar, trying to find the words– order them in a fashion that might explain the hostility. You’re drunker than you think, because you don’t wait for the excuse. You just barrel on as if he weren’t even there.

“You’re so weird. And like, competitive?” You accuse. “I don’t understand what the problem is. Have I offended you in some way? Do you not like me?”

He lets you trip over thoughts before they’re even fully formed. Neither interrupting nor picking. Just continuing to lean back into the counter, large hands gripping the marble. As though he’d fall without the centre.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He eventually says with little humour to be had. “You’re the one who brought up my wife tonight. Which was, for the record, not fucking cool.”

The laugh that topples out of you is mean. It catch’s on the base of your throat with bass.

“Sorry, Dr. Langdon. Where were my manners? I should be deferential to you in all ways because you’re a senior resident and I am but a lowly social worker.” You posture, reaching behind his back to grab your leftover wine. “Never mind that I work the long hours, and take care of the patients beyond the ED. Or that I studied and trained for four years to do what I do. Or that I’m the daughter of your boss.”

Frank clicks his finger like he’d caught onto something slippery. “And that’s it. That’s exactly it. Just because your Robby’s kid, doesn’t make you fit for the job.”

You look at him dumbfounded. You weren’t handed the job a given. You applied, interviewed, screened, trial shifted the way all other candidates do. The only advantage you might have had was that you knew your coworkers.

Plus Frank hadn’t ever given you the impression that he was against the idea of nepotism. He seemed more than happy to reap the benefits of being the prodigal son. The love child of Michael Robinavich and a Ken doll. Sure; it wasn’t nepotism precisely. But cronyism at least.

You snort before you can help it. “Yeah, being his kid has really done me a lot of favours. You’ve seen more of my dad in four years than I have in the last twenty-six. He missed every birthday to work in that fucking hospital. Not to mention the way he hangs on your every word. So, I’m sorry that you think it’s not fair I got the job. But don’t imply that I expect special treatment because the guy I used to see once a year is suddenly in my life with more permanence.”

The words land thickly. You watch Frank mull the words over. When he doesn’t say anything for the first few minutes, you turn your gaze back down to the dishes. Scrubbing and rinsing the stains away. It’s uneasy that he doesn’t respond. You feel naked. And consumed with the threat of having over-shared.

The sigh you hear him let out is palpable.

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I’m being like this.” Frank mumbles. “I think what you said about Abby sat wrong with me. We’re not doing too good right now.”

You don’t look back to him. You don’t feel much like telling him it’s okay. Because it’s not. And you don’t care about his marriage. He’s been nothing but bitter with you from the first day you’ve known him.

He carries on anyway. “I think you’re great at what you do. I guess I was a little threatened about the myth of Robby’s kid. Plus, I’m an asshole by nature. Ask anybody.”

You smile at the water below you hearing him admit that he sucks. Because he does. It’s nice to hear it said aloud.

“I did ask.” You say pointedly. “Apparently you’re also brilliant, which does not soften the way I feel about you.”

You’re not stroking his ego. If you walked around with the attitude he has all the time, you’d be called a bitch and laughed out of a job. People love a confident man. They hate when a woman knows she’s good.

“Well, I am also brilliant.” He huffs. “If I promise to stop being competitive, will you never analyse me like that again? I don’t think I can take the raw honesty.”

You pull your hands out of the warm water to look at the hand he’s outstretched to you. He seems earnest in the way he try’s to shake your hand in a broker of peace. You eye it with suspicion. He really has been an asshat. He’s also charming. In a way that makes you feel like he could chop women up and get away with it. But you’re sure if he was a Bundy type, he’d have already gotten you.

“You gonna leave me hanging?” He pokes.

Wordlessly you dry your hands, before clasping around his skin. He’s clammy. But also, firm. You can feel the ridges of veins and callous’. Eye contact is maintained during the waving of the white flag. It’s sharp. Twisting in your belly like a knife.

You pull back abruptly when you realise how engaged you were with the touch. And his eyes that seem to pull you in instinctually.

You busy yourself with the dishes again, but your heart rate is elevated now. You don’t look at him again you reason. It’s unnatural. You wanted to kill him a second ago and now he’s been a little kind to you and you’re thinking about the rigidity of his biceps flexing.

He fixes himself back into place next to you.

“You and Robby didn’t spend much time together when you were a kid then?” His voice drifts off next to your ear. Still too close for your comfort.

It’s a loaded question. Too personal. But the wine was relaxing your instinct to conceal.

“Summers and the occasional Christmas.” you confirm. “Usually cut short by being called in to work. I’m sure you understand the demands of the job.”

You feel him stiffen. Like you’d struck a chord.

“Intimately.” He confirms. “Abby tells me everyday that I’m not home enough. And when I am home, we fight. I just want to set the kids up. Set us up. She’s just too… it’s like shouting into the void sometimes.”

Your heart bends a little for both of them. Still you listen quietly. You figure he has something else to say when you catch the fidgeting of his feet.

“She…” he stops for a moment, like he’s deciding if he should say it. “She mentioned counselling. But I don’t even have time to come home for dinner. When would I find the time with that, sixty hour weeks and seeing the kids.”

You wonder why he’s telling you all this. Maybe he’s drunk. Maybe he needs someone uninvolved to know that he’s having problems. All you know is that the social worker in you desires to unpack and fix. Frank Langdon is no different.

“And the kids are more important than the marriage?” You ask delicately, stepping away from the sink. You push yourself to sit up on the kitchen island, directly opposite him. There’s a part of you that wants to joke about therapy being in session but you can see how serious he is.

“Obviously.” He says without hesitation. “I think she’d have left a while ago had we not have had tanner and penny.”

“That’s heavy.” You whisper. “You’re still in it right now, Frank. Last year of residency. Then you can specialise or study. I’m sure things will level off.”

He peaks up at you with a raise of the brow. Like he knows damn well you’re lying so as not to upset him.

“Do you honestly think that?” He asks. “Did you ever forgive Robby?”

You take in a sharp breath not expecting it to be turned around on you so suddenly. Had you ever forgiven him? Or did you rationalise? Compartmentalise the parts of your dad that can’t be explained. He was saving lives. He was training the future of medicine. He was also a stranger to you sometimes.

“You don’t want me to answer that.” You state firmly.

He chuckles weakly. “You’re right. I don’t.”

Silence falls between the two of you. Thick. Weighted. Two strangers who barely like each other, spilling sordid secrets. Unearthing troubles that are preferred to go unspoken. You can’t remember the last time someone tried to understand what being a Robinavich was like. Been a long time since someone inquired about your mental health; instead of their own. But it was the nature of the job.

“I should probably go home.” You say finally. Uncertainty leaping off your body. You want to wiggle yourself down off the seat you’ve made. But you’re also nervous to squeeze past Frank and make way out into the street.

There was a tension unspoken. Like a coil waiting to snap while he watches you squirm. Without warning he take one stride forward. Then one more until he had encroached onto your space. You attempt to shift a little further back. He doesn’t touch you. But there’s a twitch in his fingers that seem like he wants to.

“Yeah. You probably should.” He’s caging you. Circling like a predator.

You are aware of your own breathing. The hitch in your breath while he places one hand and then two on each side of the island you sit on.

“What are you doing?” You laugh breathlessly.

You know what he’s doing. You see the glint of the gold band on his finger staring up at you. His breath fanning slightly over your face now. There’s a distant pulsing in the lower region of your abdomen now. A temptation to wait and see how this might play out but to eventually stop it from escalating beyond the point of return.

“Do you want me to stop?” His hand inching to the outside your bare thigh.

You take a shaky breath in, watching it like a ticking clock. Waiting for the first brush of skin on skin. He must be drunk. Drunker than your cloudy thoughts and impulse controls.

“You’re drunk.” You point out weakly.

“A little.” Both hands are clasped on your thighs.

“We don’t like each other.” You gasp.

“I like you enough.” Your legs are parting.

“You’re– married.” You squeak when he drags your forward to edge of the counter, pressing himself into your crotch.

“Does that matter to you?” He quizzes. Fingers dancing upward to press against the clothed wetness between you.

You tip your head back shakily and let the first sensation roll over you. Hips bucking up to meet the friction.

“I don’t think it does.” He remarks, tilting forward to nip the skin above where your blood pumps. “I can feel how wet you are through your panties.”

Your resolve snaps in half. You push forward to clatter your lips against his messily. Mouth opening to let his explorative tongue into yours. He’s grinding into you, groaning into the kiss when you pull at the ends of his hair roughly. The blood in your ears sounds like an ocean swell, distracting you from the distant sound of your inner monologue.

The one telling you it’s wrong. That his wife and kids are asleep somewhere. That your dad was a floor above, snoring and stupefied from booze.

Instead you let him wrestle with the buckle of his belt, not breaking the heat of the kiss. Before you can assess whether you should do it, he’s free. Rubbing the blunt head against your still concealed core. The prodding does little to convince you to stop. Neither does the way he rips at the fabric of your unfortunately childish underwear. The burning snap of destroyed Cotton has you yanking away from moving lips.

“I’ll buy you new ones.” He groans flippantly, dragging himself over the weeping centre. Now bare.

You’re whining pathetically. Noises you’ve never heard before. You want to capture all of him. You don’t like him particularly. But suddenly it’s as though if he doesn’t fuck you with immediate effect, you’ll die.

“Inside.” You groan, blindly reaching down to grab at what you find to be a sizeable dick.

He’s panting on impact with the squeezing of your palm. “You sure?”

He rubs his thumb over your clit, making it almost impossible not to agree.

“God– fuck– just do it.” You groan, shifting so that you’re even further off the edge.

He doesn’t press further, except to break past your entrance. The initial burn is scathing. Stretching you immediately.

“Shit.” He breaths out. “You’re tight. Like fucking…”

The thought is lost in the moment. The shake of your thighs falling further apart on your dads island to accommodate inch after inch. When he bottoms out, meeting you in the middle, you’re all shattered breath. Nails dug into clothed shoulders. You’re full. So much so that there’s no room for the usual anxiety and uncertainty you feel.

“Oh my god.” You cry. His hand is over your mouth almost instantly. Face contorted in a warning– heavy lidded and desperate.

“Gotta be quiet. Robby’s upstairs.”

You clench around him on instinct. It’s not that you want to be caught. But there’s something to be said about getting one over on him. Fucking his golden boy in his kitchen.

“If you keep doing that, this will be over soon.” Frank warns, before dragging out and thrusting back in.

You barely listen, digging your teeth into the palm of his hand. It wasn’t going to last long anyway. Not with the stuttering of his hips and the way your eyes are almost permanently rolled back in your head.

“So fucking good.” He praises on what feels like an endless loop. “You gonna cum?”

You’re spasming around him, all cries being captured by the grip of his palm on your face. You try to nod around it. You’re seconds away, gripping the edge of the counter. The coil is pulled so tight it inside of you that when it finally snaps, it feels like a little death. You’re barely aware of his head falling into your neck, muffling his groans.

“Where do you–” he’s sporadic in movement, “where should I?”

You’re barely there still– overstimulated and twitching with every push inside. The question flies over your head. Gone in the wind.

It isn’t until he taps your hip that you pull back. “Inside.”

It isn’t seconds before he’s latching teeth into your shoulder. Gripping fists into your hair, releasing completely inside you.

You’re shaking. At least you think you are. It could be vibrations from Frank, who seems to have a shudder over his whole body. The reality only barely starts to sink when he pulls out with a hiss.

Then it’s back. The sobering reality of what you’d done. The way his ring dances in the overhead lighting. Reminding you of who he was. Where you were.

You fix your clothes with urgency and stumble down, planting feet on ground. You feel his fingertips grazing hair off your shoulder to inspect the imprint his teeth left on there. But you’re jerking back immediately.

“Hey,” he tries, pushing forward.

But you’re already scrambling away. Grabbing ripped underwear and your bag before careening through the house to the front door.

It had felt mostly a fact to you now, as true as water being wet, that since Sophomore Year you found the strange boy in your photography class fascinating. So much so that when his kid brother went missing one fall in 1983, you interjected your way into the search for him. Ingratiating yourself into his quiet company. Unwittingly wrapping yourself up into the mystery of the world that lived below Hawkins.

Any notion of the possibility of being with him was quashed fairly quickly when you realised that, even despite her being with Steve Harrington, Jonathan and Nancy had a connection. It was only then you had realised two things. One, that you could maybe rise above to be his friend just to have him near and two, that you were one jealous bitch.

You never fully got over it. Even once Nancy and Jon started up for real. You always in some ways held it over your head- a lesson in poised self restraint. A constant reminder when forced in such close quarters with the couple that there was always something more pressing at hand than your emotions. 

That couldn’t be more true than now. With Hawkins in complete lockdown, policed by corrupt militant soldiers and devoid of all real path forward. You needed to learn how to co-exist with tempered feelings to be a useful member of the team, trying to save the world from complete and total annihilation. Not that it was always easy. 

No, some days it was downright hard.

Today was a bad day. Today was the day that your friend, the sweet boy you’d cared for so deeply these years, had told you that he was going to ask Murray to get him a ring. 

The feelings for him were watered down these days, especially the longer the years dripped by watching him and Nancy remain strong. But it didn’t stop you from toying with secret hope when you saw how much Steve was pursuing her in the spring. There had been a part of you that hoped against hope that maybe she’d feel the same back. 

But there Jonathon was today, smiling shyly when he whispered to you in the quiet of the Squawk basement that he wanted to marry her. 

Your usual resilience was tested past its bounds and you found yourself pushing out into the vast grass clearings at the front of the radio station to find a moment of solace once you thought everyone had dispersed for the evening. 

You guys had all been spending an obscene amount of time here- so much so you’d had to find a place for quiet sometimes. In the depths of exploring a couple weeks ago- already a month  or so into lockdown- you’d found five yards out from the clearing a gate that led to a grassy alcove. It had felt like gold-dust. On nights where it was smothering to have to be there all the time, you could steal quiet moments alone. 

Up until today you were under the impression it was a secret, but like a vision in blue sweatshirt, Steve Harrington is pushing past the chainlink gate toward where you’ve sat curled around yourself. 

You guys weren’t close. Not even in the way that you don’t like him, just more that it never occurred to you to get to know him outside of all this. In spring during the first wave of Vecna, you’d spent day in, day out with the boy- but his attention was squarely on his ex. Not that you could blame him. You guys were in a similar spot so to speak.

He’s quiet on approach. It’s odd because it feels almost as though he knew exactly what you were out here for. You want to ask, but it would be dismantling to find out you were that obvious.

When he drops down beside you on the grass, there’s an ease with his smile. You forget how charming he’s known to be.

“Come here often?” He smirks. 

Without your say so, the giggle you wheeze out is tilted forward- strained, like you didn’t want to be cheered up but can’t help it. 

“Did you just use a pick up line on me, Harrington?” You jab weakly. 

He’s lazy in the way he shrugs back. It’s pleasant speaking to someone with whom there’s no stakes. It didn’t matter what he thought of you because he wasn’t your friend really. He wasn’t the girlfriend of the man you covet, or someone you want desperately to like you. He’s just simple Steve, who for some reason you’ve found yourself twined with through the strange hands of fate. 

If you thought about it more, you’d realise how much in common you have with him. Neither of you were tethered to this rag-tag team through blood or decades of friendship. You’d found yourselves enmeshed through a longing to be tied to different sides of the same couple. 

“Well, you looked sad- thought I’d give you some of my best work.” He breathes lightly, pulling his knees up to balance his arms upon. “Besides you’re in my spot.”

You steal a look of confusion to him. “You come here too?”

He nods curtly, eyes distantly misty, as if this place was a needed escape for him also. You suppose it must. It ought to be harder for him watching Nancy with someone else. It was no secret she broke up with him for Jon- at least tangentially.

You whistle slowly in surprise. “Sorry, I thought this place was a secret. I come here every other day and you’re never around.”

“Who’s to say I don’t forfeit it to you when I arrive and you’re already here?” He poses, with a flex of the brow. 

Your breath catches slightly. It would be kind of him to do that for you. Not that you could imagine why. He owed you little in the way of favors. 

“Well, if that’s the case it would seem I owe you one.” You challenge with a smile.

The grin that pulls to his face isn’t for you, it’s directed downward at his legs. “Nah, there’s room for both of us. You seem like you might need the contemplation space.”

Your heart feels suddenly heavy in your chest. You’re hyper-aware of the way it thuds in your chest. He’s trying to be coy but you know exactly what he means.

“And how would you know that?” The question needn’t be answered but it would feel remiss to ignore the way he presses you.

The look he gives you is knowing, a hue of sympathy for your troubles. 

“I know.” He tests. “What surprises me though is that I didn’t take you for the jealous type.”

Defenses build like slamming bricks. You want to encase yourself around walls of concrete to avoid talking about this entirely. It was mortifying enough to admit it to yourself- unbearable to admit it Steve. 

“I’m not jealous.” You argue, waving a hand away like you were swotting the thought from thin-air. “I just got some bad news, is all.”

Steve snorts indignantly, but not mean. In fact none of this interaction felt like an exercise in cruelty from the man who once used to be nasty for sport. It felt like comradery.

“I’m the last person you need to lie to about this. I’m intimate with the green eyed monster.” He muses, pulling strands of grass with his hands like a kid in a play park. 

You sigh in defeat, letting the rigidity in your muscles loose in acceptance to the fact he saw right through you. 

“God, it’s humiliating.” You mumble, wishing you could bury the feeling in the dirt beneath you. 

“Intimate with that feeling too.” Steve chuckles, throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into an awkward side hug. “If it helps you’re much more subtle than me.”

The tears are pooling slightly in your waterline but you laugh through them at the surprising kindness Steve was offering you. The hug isn’t necessarily fluid but you accept it anyway because it’s nice to be held for once.

You let yourself shuffle into the comfort, head buried into the warmth of his hoodie. He’s receptive to you seeking to be closer and encases both arms around you. 

A peaceful lull falls over the hidden acre, allowing the distant cicada hum to create sweet harmony between you and the man that wasn’t really a friend. Perhaps there was terseness with which you’ve judged Steve with. A finality in the judgement you’d made about you guys being almost co-workers. 

It was hard to ignore the fact that you feel for the first time in years somewhat calm. The town you grew up in has always been full of surprises and none more than Steve who was almost like an entirely different person to who he was in high school. 

The guy you remember goading Jon would never have held you through minutes of ruminative sadness. But this man does. This man strokes the arch of your shoulder in soothing sweeps. 

It’s interesting. Confusing? It’s too dense for you to analyse in this heightened state. For now it was good enough accepting that maybe you had a good friend all along and not realised it. 

When you pull back to look up at him you intend to be nothing more than appreciative for his kind nature, but there’s a sort of static hum that wills you to be silent with the stare you hold. He’s looking upon you but it’s not like he’s seeing you for the first time. It’s more like he’s been aware of you the whole time but is only now comprehending the possibilities.

You would be lying if you said you weren’t thinking the same thing. It wasn’t affection, or any kind of deeper meaning. It was simply at that exact moment you wanted to kiss him.

You wanted to pour all of the hurt and all of the sad into him. You wanted to do a hell of a lot more than make-out. 

Steve drags his eyes from yours, down the lips and back up again as if transfixed by something. You can feel your mouth part slowly, just a smidge- you can’t work out if it’s an invitation or a warning. A plea to let him know there still time to stop this before it was taken too far. 

He clears his throat roughly without taking his eyes off you. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“I think you’d better.” You say instantly, not even really considering the ramifications. 

You don’t care what the optics are. Not when you can feel the distant hum crawling down your spine and settling into the swell of your abdomen. It’s been so long since you felt like being with someone on this level that it almost feels like a foreign passenger. A creature possessing your better nature, who demands to be fed.

Steve lunges forward to grip into the back of your head before connecting your awaiting mouth to his. You moan on impact, uncaring of the aggressive way he paws at you. Not all kisses require politeness. This one demanded urgency. It cracked the sky to rain hellfire onto your desires. You had to have him. 

You push yourself forward to cage your thighs around his hips, straddling the width of his lap. He’s receptive to the immediate deepening. He seems to encourage it. His hands envelope each form of your hip, planting you right above what you can recognise as a hardening mass below you. 

You wonder into the impassioned kiss if it’d been a while for Steve too. You barely even have time to think these days, let alone play the field. He was usually a serial dater but it was clear he’d had a lot of fight taken out of him since Jonathon arrived back- capturing the attention of Nancy entirely.

When you drag your hips forward in a testing grind, the hands that grip you tighten bruisingly. You had escalated this past a point of being able to stop it. You’d passed the threshold of simple curiosity. You now believe with complete certainty that he’ll be the perfect medicine to take your mind away for half an hour at least. 

You can feel the fabric of your underwear now clinging to the wetness of your core. You were ready to fuck him in the grass outside of the radio station. Had you not been dampening more with each caged grind you’d take a minute to regroup, or at least get inside but both of you were gone on that.

He seems to understand that too. Even as he sneaks a hand under the cup of your bra, he’s not playing from beneath the fabric for modesty- he’s pushing the outer garment up over the mound of your boob, twisting and flicking at the now hard nipples. All it does is signal down at your hips to jerk with harsher force- to find something to fill you with.

You arch out at the contact, whining forwardly into his mouth. As if being moved by an unseeable force, urged with encouragement of your whine, he’s flipping your form from over to flat against the earth. You keep a grip of your eyes on his flustered face before he slides lithe against your body. There seems to be something unspoken in the way you interact. 

There’s no need to make sense of what it means because you guys understand at that moment that it doesn’t mean anything. It’s an exercise in independence- an emancipation from the grip of unrequited love. 

Steve sheds his sweater before he reconnects to your lips, hand dancing back to where your chest remains exposed. You’re thankful that it’s summer and that evening has come. It was bold for you to be so untethered to the bounds of being outside. Sure, it was concealed from any prying eyes, but you were still public, making out with Steve, shedding layer by layer of clothing. 

Steve’s hands are winding down the button of your shorts, releasing the zipper of its prison. Once he’s nestled at your centre, you won’t be able to take it back. You’ve had sex before but not with someone who’s so closely connected with your life. 

You think about sex ed classes when your teacher tried to caution you from sex by saying that some cultures believed that when you have sex with someone, they take a small piece of your soul with them. You don’t buy it. You’d never slept with Jonathon and you’d carried him everywhere you went for years. That is the first and last time you think of him before Steve steals under the fabric of your underwear. 

The drag of the pad of his finger spreads wet from your opening up to the throb of your clit, sending the spike of shivers down the expanse of your thighs. He seems to be devoid of focus on shedding himself of his clothes- or any seeming quest to meet his own needs. Instead he’s circling at your nerves watching intently as you cry out at first sensation.

You grip the earth from below you trying to ground yourself in the feeling of his fingers working over the shake of your centre. Each eager movement contorts your body upward into a curling arch, forcing wordless whimpers to fall out of your mouth.

Whatever determination is etched on his face to please you is settled on the hazel of his eyes. What are usually light, free of levity, are darkened to points- analysing each cry that escapes you.

He pulls back without explanation to yank at the waist of your shorts. You’re shaken at the sudden loss of contact. 

“Lift your hips.” He instructs firmly.

You plant yourself upward to help him succeed in getting the shorts over the swell of your ass, taking your ruined underwear with them. The cold air against the mess of you causes a hiss to bite at your throat. It doesn’t last long because he's back crowding you again, whispering his fingers up the inside of your thigh, threatening to finally plant them inside of you. 

It feels almost like he wants to see how far he can push it before you wail and beg for contact. 

He finally grazes over the entrance, eyes trained down at the way your legs shake in anticipation. Just when you think he’ll give into your silent pleading, he inches back over to the other thigh. If it wouldn’t call unwanted attention, you’d scream in frustration.

“Are you going to do something?” You huff.

Steve’s eyes shift up to find you, a smirk pulled to the edges of his mouth. It's a departure for the tender attitude he’d come over with in the first instance. It's surprising the way that it alights your centre to contract. You hadn’t spent a lot of time appreciating the way he looked- even when everyone around you spoke about it often.

“I didn’t take you for impatient either.” He mumbles before pushing down to capture you in a deep kiss. 

You’re receptive but almost as soon as you’re kissing back, his fingers have wound forward and into the depths of your warmth. Your chest hitches and without intention your nails dig into the top of his biceps. There’s no resistance, even as he pushes a second finger to continuously curl up within you- you’re beyond the point of desperateness. You were aching from top to toe.

His beat isn’t soft or tender, it's a barrage of coiling thrusts. Each one hits whatever spot causes your toes to curl down in euphoric precision. You’re sure you’ll finish before he gets anywhere near being properly inside you but he doesn’t seem concerned. 

The longer he thrusts with precision against you, the less you think he has any intention of having sex with you today. Not with the way he watches you fall apart with fascination. 

The heat in your abdomen is reaching boiling points unheard of for you. You’ve never had the brink of an orgasm feel like this. Like hanging onto the edge of the earth. And when you finally let go, you’re blinded almost. Bucking your hips up into hand, biting forward to sink yourself into his shoulder to fend off all urges of a scream.

He doesn’t stop, not through all tightenings or violent wriggling. Not until you push his hand away for the shakes of over-stimulation burning your lower half. 

Each breath you take is laboured, wracking through your chest in violent earthquakes. 

He pecks you once before he pushes back to sit on his shins, wiping the excess juices off of his fingers onto his jeans. It should be rank- knowing that you’re all over his clothes, but if anything it makes you want to please him more. 

“Good?” He asks with a smile, like he needs to know he’d done well. 

You’re pulling at your clothes for fear of being seen, suddenly sobered to the reality of your situation. Still, you want to offer him something in return. Especially since he’d taken your mind off your problems for a minute. 

You ignore his question stiffly. “What about you?” You motion to the obvious straining in his crotch. “Do you want me to…”

He waves you off dismissively. “That was about you. Just do the same for me if it ever comes up.”

You smile weakly, and you know it’ll happen again. You’re certain of it.

–

It doesn’t happen again for a while. Maybe a week or two. But there’s small hints of the dynamics having been changed between the two of you. He opens the door for you at the squawk when the opportunity arises. Looks are more lingering- almost amused because there’s something only the two of you know. 

It also helps the thoughts about Jon and Nance from haunting you with every turn. Now they only pop up when they’re unavoidable. Maybe after a long night of plotting, stuck watching them so obviously in love. But it’s not quite as debilitating.

It’s confusing to attempt to make sense of why it’s helped so much. Maybe it’s the twisted idea that  you were getting some kind of one up on them- which you’re not proud of. Especially when they're still your friends. You’re complicitly taking some kind of perverse joy in what you did with Steve because you think it would be bothersome to them if they found out.

Nevertheless, you and Steve don’t take it upon yourselves to talk more. It seems needless. But still you’re not surprised to find him leant against your car one night leaving the station. You’re often the last to go home, ever the clean freak trying to keep the space somewhat clear. 

And when he pulls you forward into him to kiss you with force you don’t pretend to be surprised. Instead you welcome the pulling hands directing you to the backseat of your car. 

After that it was ritual. It’s not as though there’s any verbal reasoning that you were doing it to attempt to forget. It’s obvious. And you don’t have sex. Not ever. Everything but. 

It’s not that you wouldn’t. You’ve wanted to since the first time in the grass. But there was always some kind of stall. A bridge that can’t be crossed. It’s months of clandestine meetings. Making out in cars, romping in the grass, secret kisses in the squawk. 

You guys sometimes talk about what it was that pushed you there that day. Nancy speaking to Steve for too long one day, Jon talking about the engagement, an old photo falling out of a book. But if you were completely honest with yourself, it’s not about that to you anymore. 

You barely think about Jonathon like that anymore. You’re too busy wondering when the next time you’d find Steve somewhere would be. Or what it would feel like to have sex with him for real. Maybe it was a crush- or maybe you were thankful for the peace of your own thoughts. You weren’t willing to face it down yet. All you know is that you count down the hours till you get to hang out with Steve, and that seems good enough for now.

Sleepovers are few and far between but when you get them, you hold them close to your chest. It’s the closest to a relationship you’d ever had. Steve wasn’t sparing with affection outside of sex stuff. Forehead kisses, hugs in the dark. It makes the lack of strings seem less cheapening to you. 

Tonight was one of those nights. One of the nights that feel so good you could cry. 

You’re folded around him, twined by the legs in his bed, waiting out the darkness for when you’ll fall asleep. But below the skin is a burning desire to ask a million questions that you shouldn’t. 

“Steve?” You mumble, head pressed into the bareness of his back. You’d drawn the short straw on spooning tonight, but you don’t really care. 

He hums sleepily back like it would be too much to verbally respond. 

You gulp back the nerves it takes to speak. “Do you think it’s weird we’re doing this?”

The silence that follows is a cavern of dark. It’s long enough that you worry he’s fallen asleep in the seconds it took to get them out. But you know he’s not. You can tell from the way his back clenched slightly.

“Cuddling?” He replies jovially, voice shrouded in a joking fashion. 

You sigh and flick him in the ear. “Forget it.”

He sighs slightly and rolls over to drag you into him. “Don’t be grumpy. I know what you mean, but honestly? No, I don’t think it’s weird.”

You nod statically- mute- trying to assess the words. He must read your quiet as rejection of some kind because he shifts up slightly to get a look at your face. 

“Do you?” He probes. 

You shift nervously, trying to think of how to answer it without seeming too eager. You didn’t think it was weird when you were doing it for a purpose but now without that? You were entrapping yourself in a circumstance that threatens to pull you apart from the inside. The more time you spend with him, the more you feel attached to him. It seemed futile if he was only here to forget about her.

You had inadvertently put yourself right back in direct competition with Nancy. It was like running a mile just to wind up circling back to where you started. 

“Do you still love Nancy? Is that why you’re doing this?” You ask gently. 

He’d never outright said this to you. Just as you had never directly admitted to ever having had feelings for Jonathon. It was humiliating without verbal confessions but you needed to hear it. There was a glimmer of sneaky hope that he might say that he had but no longer did. It seemed unlikely.

Steve looks hollow at your line of questioning. As if you’d broken some kind unspoken vow never to be so prying, even when you guys knew each other inside and out now- for lack of a better analogy. You don’t think it’s rational to be able to lay with each other in this manner but can’t be forthright with your words. 

Still he shifts uncomfortably before he answers. “Isn’t that why you’re doing this too?” 

The lack of an answer is all you need to know. He skillfully avoided the question. He didn’t want to say because it was exactly as you’d thought. You don’t get angry or distraught- because you hadn’t expected it to go any differently. Still when you eventually drop the conversation and roll over to sleep you’ve decided that it can’t go on.

You didn’t have it in you to follow the path that led you here in the first place. What were you going to do? Throw yourself head first into situations like this until eventually you drive yourself dizzy.

You avoid Steve like the plague for a week. At the rate you guys had been seeing each other, you were leaving with him from the squawk every other day- hanging back so that you guys could leave at the same time. 

This week you had made a concerted effort to be the first one gone at the end of the day. Fleeing so fast you were almost leaving your skin behind you. 

Steve’s noticed. He asks you subtly on Monday where you’d been going so fast at night but you’re so sickly avoidant that you don’t give him that inch. 

Instead of analysing every interaction between Jonathan and Nancy like you used to- you watch to see if Steve looks over them. If he keeps an eye on the way they hold hands or kiss ever so often.

The break comes ten days after the late night conversation you’d had. You’d had about all you could take of the way him and Jon would snip at each other. It doesn’t take a genius to know that it was over her. They were posturing against each other to vie for her attentions. And now it wasn’t just the fact it was Jon, now it was that the man you were involved with does it too.

You don’t make way for your car when you go. You pace into the same place where Steve had found you two months ago. You hadn’t been back since. There had been little need to, now that you’d found a better way to cope. You didn’t expect anyone to follow you. You should know better than to expect anything with Steve. He surprises you enough. 

Just as he had then, he’s pushing past the fence toward you- seemingly determined in the way he walks over. He doesn’t seem mad. Maybe agitated.

You don’t really want to talk. Not with the way you were feeling right now, but he can read the way you stand immediately. You want to get away without disagreeing with him. 

“I don’t want to talk right now.” You mutter, trying to walk past him the way he’d just come from. 

You’re stopped by the grasping of his hand on your wrist. 

“Not gonna happen. You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, trying to centre you in front of him. You downcast your eyes to avoid his stare. “What’s going on?”

You pull yourself back to shed his hold on you, trying to think of what way you want to go with this. 

“I just don’t want to do this anymore.” You croak. “I don’t think it’s healthy. I don’t even like Jonathon anymore.”

Steve registers everything but he only seems to grip onto one thing.

“You don’t like him anymore?” He asks with a pull of his brows. “Since when?”

You throw your arms in exasperation. You don’t see why it matters. You’re trying to put a full stop on this whole thing and that’s what he focuses on.

“Since when? Steve, I don’t even know why that matters.” You sigh.

He pushes forward to grab your arms, holding you firm in front of him, kneeling slightly to look in your eyes. 

“It matters. When?” He states.

Your heart stutters a bit at his intensity. “About two weeks after that day here.”

The admittance feels vulnerable, like you were laying yourself bare for him to judge or reject. 

“Then why have you been doing this?” He pushes, like he’s trying to get you to the point.

You’ve completely relented to it. You’ve little to no energy left to offer. 

“Why do you think?” You whisper, holding his stare almost like a challenge.

You expect him to drop your arms- turn away like you’d damaged the tacit understanding. But he doesn’t. 

The laugh erupts from him like a nervous tick. Your heart squeezes in a fiery rage. You’re sure that he’s laughing at you. 

You whack his arm. “Don’t laugh at me, Steve. I know it’s ridiculous.”

His laugh ceased with a clipped, forced manner. And only sentiment remains. He pushes forward to grab at your cheeks, pulling you into a light peck. You’re shell-shocked. You don’t even react to the surprising act of affection.

“I’m not laughing at you, idiot.” He whispers, pushing hair behind your ear. “I’m laughing because I’ve been thinking I can’t ask you out for real because you were in love with him.”

The smile that pulls up to you is creeping- slight embarrassment at the certainty you’d felt about it being impossible for him to feel the same. How dramatic you’d been with reacting on impulse and ignoring him. 

“You want to ask me out?” You press coyly.

“Shut up.” He mumbles fondly and drags you back into the kiss.