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The first time Pope shows up on your doorstep is on a cool summer night. The sun has long since set, and the night sky provides a temporary respite from Oceanside's unbearable dry heat. A knock at your door draws your attention from your TV. Two gentle raps followed by a more hesitant third. Against your better judgement, you shuffle out from beneath your knitted blanket and approach the door.
Your heart is rabbiting against ribcage as you latch the rattling chain lock with a shaky hand and crack the door. He has already moved a step back, heavy work boots thumping on the porch as he pivots away. Quickly, you unhook the chain and throw the door open. Cool air rushes in, invading the space around you and pricking at your skin.
“Andy…?” He tenses. His arms hang at his sides, hands curled, and fingers twitching in that familiar habit. Your voice—his name slipping so delicately from between your lips—is an invocation that tethers him to you and roots him in place.
Hesitance is visible in every miniscule movement. The way he rolls his shoulders. The jut of his chin as he wars with himself before finally turning around to face you. A sliver of porchlight slashes across his face, limning the sharp edge of his features and burnishing the auburn in his curls.
He regards you, at first, with that look of his—with all the intensity of a predator assessing its prey. His gaze slides down your form then back up again, and you’re unable to gather anything from it until his expression softens. As if the mere sight of you is warm enough to thaw the ice caged around his heart.
There’s a different air about him though, like something has crawled into his chest cavity and hollowed him out. Guilt puddles in his hazel eyes.
“You shouldn’t be answering the door this late.”
You scoff and cut straight to the case. “How long have you been out?”
He refuses to look at you, hands balling into fists then unfurling.
“Couple of months.” His admission is a bare utterance, dredged raw and ragged from him because he never could bring himself to lie to you. He exhales, nostrils flaring as he debates his next words. “I’m sorry, kit.”
The nickname feels damning. Once upon a time you had been Pope’s shadow, a scrawny kid taken into the Cody household out of what must’ve been nothing more than pity. You were like a stray kitten, always trailing after him. It’s how you earned that nickname. Kit. Well, those days didn’t last long. The instant Pope was out of the picture you were discarded.
It had taken a while to reckon with the whole ordeal. It took even longer to find your footing all on your own, but eventually you did. You managed just fine. You are at peace with that part of your past. At least you were until the man that was the very center of your universe, for a time, came knocking and you answered. You think that you will always answer for him. Even in the dead of night. Even after all those letters you sent went unanswered, and visits declined.
Chin wobbling and lips quivering, he is searching for vindication. What he asks of you is your forgiveness, your grace, and to pick up whatever remains of what the two of you had. And you falter. You do. Even though you shouldn’t—even though every fibre of your being tells you to put him at length and savour the distance like it is your last breath of fresh air. Do not crawl back to him. Do not go willingly into that quick sand.
But Andrew looks at you like you cradle his entire reality in the palms of your hands, and your trembling fingers threaten to crush the weak and whimpering whole of it. You can’t find it within yourself to close your fist, or shut him out, or let the last embers fizzle out. You can’t bring yourself to hurt him the way he hurt you.
Instead, you step past the threshold and into that lonesome night, permeating all space left between the two of you. He threads himself into you, hands clutching at you, scooping you up and pouring you into his embrace. Carding your fingers through his hair, you whisper, “It’s okay.”
---
It stings. You wince, fingers curling tight over the marble lip of the bathroom counter. Pope tsks, hovering close. His breath fans over you. He dabs a cotton swab over the split skin at the corner of your brow. The whole thing was stupid. Nothing made into something.
“Why do you even hangout around him?”
“He’s my friend,” you say, hissing as the alcohol seeps into the cut, singeing the edges of your wound. You jerk away, but Pope grabs your chin and reels you back in with an iron grasp. You omit the fact that you and Matt have been tip-toeing a blurred line over the past year. Somewhere between friendship and some place else. The last thing you want to do is further stoke the anger that’s radiating off of Pope.
“He’s a piece of shit,” he corrects, “you need better friends.”
The statement rings true. There’s no denying it. Not when your head is throbbing the way it is, and certainly not with the blood that saturates the cotton pad, courtesy of the ring he had been wearing.
You’re not really in the position to challenge the allegation. Especially not after the man you claimed to be a friend of yours sucker punched you in his drunken stupor. You’d simply been trying to get him to lay off the drinks and coax him away from the rest of the party. Matt had the tendency to overindulge and get himself into trouble. You became that trouble. Or rather, Pope did.
“You broke his jaw,” you say, “probably.”
It looked pretty gnarly that is. Pope was across the yard in a nanosecond and on top of Matt. Fist to jaw with a sickening crackle. Matt scampered away, tail tucked.
“It’s the least he deserves,” Pope says with certainty. You don’t doubt the vitriol behind his words for a second, nor the fact that he would’ve beat Matt to a bloody pulp if Craig hadn’t pulled him off. Your phone buzzes, lighting up with the aforementioned man’s contact.
You sigh, slipping off the counter and knocking into Pope who refuses to step back. You’ve come chest to chest with him, and your heart threatens to jump to your throat. He looms over you, glaring down at your phone like it’s done something to personally offend him.
You snatch it up before he can. He grumbles, flicking the bloodied piece of cotton into the garbage bin.
“Ah, it’s the man of the hour,” you say, but neglect to decline the call.
“Don’t answer that.”
You meet his gaze head on and he looks livid—scary, but Pope doesn’t frighten you. You turn your phone in your hand.
“Or what?” You ask, punctuating your words with a tap of your phone against his sternum. His breathing picks up. The line you tread is treacherous. There’s nothing but jagged rock and torrents below with no real reward on the other side.
In an instant he’s going for your phone again, one hand tightening around your wrist while the other tries to tug the device free. You yell, wrestling against him, but it is a losing battle. He pries your phone free. You stumble forward to grab at his shirt, bunching handfuls of the fabric in your fists, but he’s already moving. One step. Another. His hand hovering over the—your phone drops into the toilet bowl with a deafening plop.
“What the fuck?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says. “That asshole hit you and you’re still taking his calls.”
A hush falls over the room. You rub at your wrist gingerly where he grabbed it. His eyes flit to the movement. His throat bobs, and he takes the smallest step back. The newfound space allows you to breathe again.
“I’m sorry.” Half of what comes out of his mouth feels like apologies lately. You shake your head, avoiding his gaze entirely as you step past him, shoulder brushing his.
“Yeah? You can make up for it by fishing my phone out of the toilet.”
---
The party has died down a little, but there will be strays hanging around well past midnight. You step into the spare room. Atop neatly tucked sheets rests a pile of folded clothes. A black t-shirt and a pair of boxers.
You sigh, crossing the room to place a freezer bag on the nightstand. It’s filled with uncooked rice and your waterlogged phone. You shimmy out of your clothes, kicking the garments aside.
The clothes smell vaguely of him, or whatever detergent he uses. You sit on the edge of the bed and fold your hands on your lap. Alone with your thoughts, you’re not too sure what to do with yourself. Probably sleep off your pounding headache.
There's a knock at the door. You recognize the rhythm. “Come in.”
The door peels open, slowly swinging inward. Andrew looks like a kicked puppy—dejected, admonished, and coveting sweet exoneration after doing something he knows was wrong.
You're at odds for a short time, and then you're basking in the simplicity of respite from all the chaos that lies beyond. Three things exist. You, him, and at last, some peace.
You’re reminded of all those times you and Andrew snuck off; when the parties got too rowdy, the people too drunk, the music so loud that the bass would vibrate the walls of the house. You would take refuge in his room and in each other's company. Huddled atop his twin sized mattress. Sometimes you would watch a movie, always your pick, hunched over a laptop screen.
Other times you would merely talk. For hours on end, until all the noise dwindled, and you were too sleepy to stay awake any longer. Your own slice of sanctuary. Now Pope stands at the edge of the room, silently pleading to be let back in, and you realize that his presence puts you at ease. More so than when you’d been sitting there alone.
Maybe sanctuary isn’t a quiet room. Maybe it’s him. For all the fear he can’t help but instill in most, you have never known him to be anything but sweet and kind to you. Though his efforts can be unorthodox, to say the least.
Your phone is a testament to that.
“Come here.” You pat the spot beside you, and he perks up. Still, he remains slow in his approach before sinking onto the mattress. Not a single word is said. Everything is passed between your linked gazes. His stare, seldom soft, has grown apologetic once more.
“You don’t have to look after me anymore,” you begin, testing the waters, “I can take care of myself.”
He looks doubtful.
“Clearly I do,” he mutters, lifting a hand and brushing his thumb at the corner of your eye where your skin has grown mottled and swollen—deep marbling across what was once unmarred. As gentle as he is, you wince and he frowns.
You’re unable to stop yourself from tipping forward instead of veering away like you should. An inkling of the helpless kid you used to be shines through. Lost with no way to navigate the world you’d been sucked into. You’re being dragged into his orbit again, and you wonder if he has a single clue what he’s doing to you.
“I missed you, Andy,” you say.
His hackles raise as if he isn't the one who initiated the closeness. He's on the defense. It feels like a threat to him, you realize—this kind of closeness. Proximity offered in kindness.
“Why didn’t you write me back?” The question is one that has been living on the tip of your tongue for months, from the minute you opened the door and saw him on your porch. It has wrangled itself free from your reluctance. “I tried to visit, but…”
He pulls away, and your heart sinks. His fingers twitch atop his thighs as he looks anywhere but at you.
“Nothing you do will scare me away, okay?”
You place a hand on his, but he inches it away.
“You don’t know that,” he says, and his voice cracks on the last syllable. “I’m not a good person.”
He’s wrong. You know that he’s wrong. The man who took you in when you were nothing, and looked after you for years isn’t a bad person. It would be an impossible feat to convince you otherwise.
He's patched up your scraped knees. He's made sure any boy who picked on you once never did it a second time. Through every small trouble you’d experienced, he’d been there—to tend to you, to hold you up. Andrew isn’t perfect, but he isn’t bad.
“You’re good to me,” you say.
“That doesn’t—” He cuts himself off. “You shouldn’t have answered the door, kit.”
He sounds so distraught. Your heart aches. You realize then, if given the chance to go back in time, he might not have shown up in the first place. That hurts. If nothing else, you want to be there for him—to spend even one more moment at his side—more if possible, as many as you can hope to hoard.
“Why not?” you question, “you think you’re gonna make me regret it.”
“You will.” He sounds so sure of himself, as if it’s a prophecy written in stone. And perhaps that’s exactly what it is. This cycle. Maybe you will continue to return to him, over and over. And you will be left regretting it each time, but the lesson won’t ever stick. It will slide off your back, and you will crawl back to him no matter how many times he has wounded you. Though if he doesn’t want that, what choice do you have but to let him be?
“Then leave,” you say, “if you truly think it’s for the best.”
He stiffens. For all the pushing and shoving he’s done—all the distance he’s carved out between you, he doesn’t look like he expected you to say that. There's no taking it back.
He shakes his head, fists furling. “I’m a selfish man.”
“Be fucking selfish, Andrew.” Suddenly you’re pleading with him. “For once in your life, be selfish.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, but he brings himself near. So catastrophically close that you think he’s going to bring to fruition the biggest mistake either of you will ever make.
But it never comes. He doesn’t close the distance. His lips never graze yours. You don’t fall into him. Instead, he turns his head and kisses your temple, then he’s moving away again.
You watch flustered as the distance between you grows again, whisking away whatever fantasy you shouldn’t have imagined.
“You should get some sleep.”
Terrible advice from the man who will be the reason you don’t get any for days to come.
---
The day is turning golden beyond the large windows at the front of the diner. The setting sun heralds the end of a long day. A day in which you’ve spent far too much time thinking of Pope. In fleeting thoughts that go as quickly as they come, but as frequently as you blink.
He’s avoiding you. Probably making himself busy getting into trouble with his brothers. You hate them for it. Fresh out of prison after three years, and they've already got him running jobs with them. Though you know he's just as responsible.
Part of you thinks he’s taken your first piece of advice. Another part of you can’t quite fathom him being able to do that. You’re not sure which you want to believe. Either way, your shift is coming to an end, and you don’t know if you have a ride home anymore.
Ever since your shitbox car broke down, Andrew has been picking you up from work. He’s offered to fix it himself a handful of times, but you’ve never been quick to take him up on it. You have grown sort of accustomed to the routine.
It’s always the highlight of your day after working a shift at this dingy diner where you are subject to the company of some rather unsavoury individuals. The kind whose stares made your skin crawl, but for the tips you grin and bear it. It makes Pope’s company afterward all the sweeter. So, with that in mind, it’s a little upsetting not to have it to look forward to.
The dinnertime rush is just beginning to pour in by the time you’re off the clock and ready to hightail it out of there. After spending all day on your feet, getting home is at the forefront of your mind. A warm soak in the tub before donning the comfiest pajamas you own, and cozying up in bed to watch a movie. Maybe you’ll even treat yourself to some one on one time with your vibrator. Lord knows you need it.
You wave goodbye to your coworker, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you leave.
Goosebumps prickle your skin. There’s a light breeze, and you must’ve forgotten your sweater in Pope’s truck the last time he picked you up. Normally, he would have jumped at the opportunity to visit you, but seeing as he’s been avoiding you that clearly didn’t happen.
Out of habit, you survey the parking lot. A car pulls in, thunking over a pothole that customers have been complaining about for months. The vehicle you’re hoping to spot is nowhere to be seen.
Pope’s Ram isn’t parked where it usually is, or anywhere else. The disappointment you feel is expected. It’s the hurt that you didn’t fully prepare for, despite the dull ache of it that has been stubbornly burrowed within your chest all day.
Uber it is, but even as you click on your phone to open the app you hesitate. Your thumb hovers over the messaging app. You click and your eyes instantly find Pope’s contact—the expressionless selfie you’d forced him to take brings a small smile to your face. Last messaged three days ago.
You’re so engrossed in your internal debate over whether or not to message him that you don’t hear the footsteps approaching. By the time you do register the sound of sneakers scuffing over concrete a shadow has already cast over you.
For a heartbeat you’re relieved, but then you look up and your excitement is shot. It deflates quicker than it ballooned.
“Matt,” you say, saving him from none of the disappointment you exude. “What, are you stalking me now?”
“Huh? No,” he says, brows furrowing. He turns defensive, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “I wanted to apologize… for the other night.”
There’s a pause. You look at him expectantly, but he says nothing else. “Well, go on.”
He has the nerve to look shocked, ducking his head and kicking his foot over the pavement like a petulant child. “I’m sorry. You know I can get out of hand when I’m… out of it.”
Placing the blame on his inebriation feels par for the course, but that doesn’t make it any less irritating.
“You’re an asshole.”
Matt scowls, throwing his hands up. “What else do you want from me? I’m trying to make amends here.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” you say, “You’re the one who came to me.”
His eyes flit over you, lingering on the fading bruise that he left. He still has quite the shiner of his own. He’s calculating—thinking over his next words carefully.
“Give me another chance.” Not carefully enough apparently.
So there it is. You barely had to prod to happen upon his ulterior motive. He only wants to find a way back into your pants.
“You’re funny,” you scoff, getting ready to walk past him.
“I’m being serious.” Matt plays goalie, blocking your path when you try to sidestep him. You stumble back. “We were good together—we can still be good together.”
“Fuck off.”
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he says, taking another step into your space. He reaches out, grabbing your wrist and tugging you forward. You jerk your knee up, aiming right for his groin.
“Bitch,” he groans, releasing your wrist. For a second, you think you’re home free, but then he shoves you, and your head knocks into the wall behind you. Your surroundings turn hazy. The panic that rushes over you makes you feel queasy.
You hear him before you see him. The low timbre of Pope’s voice is like a rake over gravel. When your blotted vision clears, you look up. He has cut across the parking lot on a warpath. His intent is clear. You push off the wall to—you don’t even know what—but he’s already closed the distance.
“Didn’t I already tell you to stay the fuck away?”
Pope shoves Matt to the ground, and kicks him hard in the gut. He groans, rolling over and shielding his stomach with his hands. The situation is getting away from you, spiraling out of control. Your panic compounds on itself.
“Andrew, stop,” You say, but it’s like he doesn’t even hear you. "He's not worth it.”
Your words still don't phase him. To him, you’re not even there. He drops down on top of Matt, not giving him the chance to recover. His thighs lock Matt in place. You’re helpless to stop it. Pope brandishes his fist before bringing it down with all his force.
Matt’s head snaps to the side.
“I should cut your fuckin’ tongue off.” So he may never speak to you again. His fist comes down a second time. A harsh thud followed by another pained groan.
“I should gouge your eyes out.” So he may never look upon you again. Another punch. Cartilage snaps and cracks under brute strength. Still, Pope doesn't let up.
“Should saw off your hands.” So he may never lay them on you again. The fourth and final strike lands. Matt manages a feeble, wheezing breath after, spitting out a piece of a fractured tooth.
“You’re lucky,” Pope utters, leaning dangerously close, “for whatever reason, Kit is fond of you.”
You take what feels like your first breath in an eternity. He sits back as Matt gurgles incoherently. His skin has deepened into a ruddy purple, eyes swollen shut. A mixture of blood and drool trickle down his chin. After all the carnage, you're sure his face will be permanently disfigured.
Pope sneers, and stands up, wiping the dirt from his jeans. He takes a deep, ragged breath, then turns to you. He appears to remember himself, lowering his head as if it will hide what he’s done.
“Get in the truck.” It is not a request. He is making a demand, but you remain deathly still.
It's not like you haven't been privy to Pope's violence. You're not blind to the reputation he carries around with him. The Cody's enforcer. He's always been the one knocking on doors, collecting debts, doing what needs to be done.
You've just never come this close to it.
Nothing is said once you’re both in his truck. You’re forced to exist in a silence so deafening it’s suffocating. You wait for Pope to say something—anything, but words never come. Not that you’re even sure what you would want him to say. His eyes remain straight ahead, bruised knuckles over the steering wheel as he pulls out of the lot.
It remains that way for a little while, but you can’t take it much longer. All the words and things you shouldn’t say are bubbling up. You open your mouth to speak, but he beats you to it.
“Sorry I was late,” he says. You find yourself backtracking, wishing he had remained silently instead because what are you supposed to say to that? “Got caught up in a job.”
Oh yeah, a typical Thursday for him you suppose—doing a heist before showing up at your work to assault a man.
“You can’t keep doing this.” Pope doesn’t react much outwardly. His brows twitch and he rolls his neck, but he doesn’t make a real effort to respond. He really thought you were going to brush past it. “Are you listening to me?”
“He could report you,” you go on to add when he continues to ignore you. That gets to him, eyes flicking over to you quickly.
“He won’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because guys like that don’t.” His grip on the steering wheel tightens, his arms tensing.
“You know, I’d take your word for it if you hadn’t assaulted him right outside of my workplace,” you say. His jaw cinches.
“I can look out for myself, and I can look out for you,” he says, “if you would stop surrounding yourself with people like that…”
You bite your tongue, stopping yourself from saying something you’ll regret—something about him taking a look at himself.
“I don’t need you to look out for me anymore.” You roll your eyes. Not this again. How does he honestly think you survived three years without him and his family? On your own. Through no one’s volition but your own. “I’m an adult.”
“Is that right?” he huffs like you’ve said something amusing.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Instead of answering your question, he piles on another one. “What would you have done if I hadn’t been there?”
“Desecalate. I don’t know! I…” You shake your head, clenching your eyes shut. When you open them again, it’s with a new sense of clarity. “I need you to stop.”
“I’m not pulling over.”
“No, I need you to stop getting yourself into trouble,” you say, “especially on my account.”
You observe his expression for any sign of him truly receiving and reflecting upon your words, but he looks as tense as ever—frustration broiling below the surface. He still has an impenetrable wall up. “This way of life isn’t sustainable.”
“It’s all I’m good for.”
“It’s all you know,” you correct, “but don’t kid with me, I know you’re not incapable of better things.”
You don’t fully recognize that you’re crying until you take your next breath, and your chest constricts so tight that you struggle on the intake. Then you process your blurred vision. The view through the windshield warbles from behind a glossy sheen. You fight for control as best you can with your next inhale, but you choke on it.
Your shaky hands swipe at the tears vigorously as you swing your face away from him. Silently, you hope he hasn’t noticed your tears. The truck gradually slows to a crawl. Your hopes are in vain. He says your name. It's barely audible, and yet it beckons you to look back at him. You don’t resist. His eyes ping-pong between the road and your quivering form.
Pope never could stand the sight of you crying. That much hasn’t changed, and knowing he’s the cause of your tears? Well, there’s nothing that feels quite as terrible as that. He’s trying. You know that. He’s trying to do right by you, but if the way he goes about that lands him back in prison, what’s the point?
“I can’t lose you again.” The truth is out in the open. Your deepest fear, and the root of all your worrying over him. It’s because you can remember it all like it was yesterday—the day you found out Pope had been caught after toeing the line his whole life. You can feel the loneliness like it’s still there, closing in around you. All your talk of not needing him, and still, the sheer panic of losing him remains the core of your frustration with his actions.
“I—I can’t do it.” You try to swallow down the sob that comes along with your words, but they're a package deal. You’re pathetic. You feel crazy. He makes you fucking crazy. “Don’t—do not leave me again.”
He pulls onto the shoulder of the road. You let out a garbled sound, shaking your head as you drag your hands down your face.
“Take me home. Please,” you mumble in defeat,’ I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”
You're tucking your vulnerabilities away again—shrinking back against the leather seat.
He catches your wrist, and gives it a gentle tug. You shake your head again, but he is insistent in coaxing you closer and over the center console. Once he’s got you settled on his lap, his thumbs move to catch the tears that haven’t stopped pouring down your cheeks. Tears that he caused.
“I can’t promise you much.” You crumple and try to retreat from his touch. It’s not what you want to hear. He doesn’t let you though, turning your head back towards him and forcing you to meet his eyes. “But I’ll be more careful.”
“That’s it?” He’s unphased by your disappointment.
“I’ll stop getting into… altercations with your shitty friends.”
“That’ll be easy,” you say with a weak and watery laugh. “I don’t think Matt will step within a five foot radius of me again.”
“Good.”
“But you won’t stop doing jobs?”
His lack of response is answer enough. It’s his family business, you know. As fucked up as it is. This compromise of his—the promise to be more careful—quite frankly, is awful. It shouldn’t be enough to appease your anxiety, but you really hate arguing with him. Some wistful part of you had hoped maybe he’d give it up for you. Of course, it runs deeper than that.
As you stare down at him, you’re not sure what possesses you to roll your hips downward. He freezes, tensing up below you.
“What’re you doing?”
His question pulls you back down to earth from wherever you’d gone to. Emotions are running high. You’re confused. You bumped your head pretty hard earlier. Any excuse under the sun will do, but your mind draws a blank. It feels like everything’s crashing down around you.
“I don’t know… I’m sorry,” you whisper. Regret is already pooling into every crevice of your being. It’s hot and shameful, pouring from your head downward.
He lifts you from his lap, and you’ve never felt more mortified in your life. This is it. You’ve ruined everything. One spur of the moment decision has destroyed it all. He guides you between the front seats and into the back, hand at the small of your back. You’re confused, but too embarrassed to question him after what you’d done.
Pope trails after you quickly. Clumsily, he clambers over the center console. Pure electricity pulses through you. He topples into you, caging you against the back seat. You gasp.
Time stops and your gazes clash. You glean hesitance in his. This—whatever this is between you—it’s wrong. The silent acknowledgement of that is what gives him pause. He has no right to be anything more than he already is to you, which is already too much.
He is your lookout. Your pillar. The only person who has ever looked after you without seeking gain. He is twice your age, and definitively shouldn’t be having these feelings for you. He is damaged beyond repair.
And you… you are not. When he looks at you, you know he sees a bright future—one that doesn’t have any room to spare for the likes of him.
It is wrong. Undoubtedly. Others will judge you. Nothing about the two of you will make sense to the outsider looking in, but when absorbed in one another none of the rest of the world exists. It feels so damn good. Resistance has become futile.
You told him to be selfish, didn’t you?
Bruised and bloody fists. Soft skin to roughened hands. The kind of hands that have only ever known violence—raised for it, worn and made for it. Fury wrought. Yet they’ve seated themselves underneath your jaw so timidly even as blood flakes his knuckles and smears your tear stained face.
He’s got you. Hook, line, and sinker. Like barbed wire strung through your guts, threatening to pull into knots. You are defenseless. Given no choice but to go along, and even if you were afforded the luxury, you would follow him through rings of fire. To hell and back.
Some might call it stupid, and a couple weeks ago you might have agreed, but Andrew is holding you like you’re the most precious thing in existence—though his claws have already sunk deep into your flesh—looking at you like he's loved no other.
It's intoxicating.
Breaths leave him fast, in warm puffs of air that flitter below your nose. You’re a hair’s breadth away. Even so, your desire is a gaping maw that hungers for more.
The gap is bridged by your lips on his. They’re softer than you’d imagined. Pillowy and parting beneath your own. The kiss carries the air from your lungs in a soft sound that wells up your chest.
His body presses to yours, moving in slow, roiling fluctuations. The sensual ebb and flow of two forms completely entangled in one another. Your fingers lace through his hair, hauling him closer.
There isn’t enough of him to satiate the bone deep need that coils in your marrow. He’s close as can be, but you need him closer still.
He flounders above you. His shaky hands linger just shy of you. When you break away, the loss of contact leaves him blinking down at you.
“You can touch me.” Sliding your hands down his forearms, you bring his hands to your body. His breath stutters, catching in his throat as you lay his palms at your waist. Unsure of where to look, his eyes dart all around. Carefully, you circle one wrist and raise his hand to your chest. “I want you to.”
His pupils expand, fixating on the swell of your breasts, and the subtle rise and fall. The delicate expression he’d worn seconds ago morphs, betraying the hankering of a starved dog.
His fingers scrape against the plastic buttons of your uniform. With urgency, he splits it down the middle and scoops you out, supple flesh spilling into the palms of his hands.
He holds you like you’re a relic mistakenly bestowed upon him. One that he has no right to carry in his sawtooth hands. His thumbs rub over your nipples as he familiarizes himself with the act of touching you in such a manner.
The descent is slow as molasses. His mouth meets the column of your throat. A sluggish kiss to the hollow of your neck then the curve at the top of your breast to the pit between.
“Andrew…” you murmur.
Emboldened, he rises to kiss you on the lips again. You meet him with equal parts passion and desperation. It’s obvious that you’re aiming to draw it out as long as possible. Until the oxygen has emptied from your lungs. Until your throat is scathed from the lack of it. Until you’re dizzy and lightheaded. Until you’re unable to process anything but the feeling of his lips on your own.
Even though he’s the one that withdraws first, it pulls a whine from him. A sound so quiet it’s nearly imperceptible, but you hear it. You shift, and he follows your lead, moving to settle beside you. He leans back against the truck's door as you hike his shirt up. He takes over, pulling it up and off of him.
The sight isn’t unfamiliar. You’ve seen him shirtless countless times. By the pool or at the beach, but in this context, there’s a different kind of intimacy. You steal the moment, taking in the sight of him. His toned abdomen up to his chest. Just the right amount of muscle. Freckles dot his shoulders like a sprawling galaxy made up of millions of stars. They speckle the broad stretch of skin and down his arms.
And oh his arms. Sculpted to perfection with protruding veins that branch up them. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Those arms might be your favourite part of him, but your love for every one of his features grows greater with each passing second.
Andrew shrinks under your gaze, relaxing when your eyes move back up to his face.
"You're pretty," you say. A quiet remark that is more an involuntary slip of tongue than anything else. Pure, unadulterated honesty. You delight in the redness that spreads up his neck to the tips of his ears.
He doesn't have to say anything for you to know he doesn't believe a word out of your mouth. The way he's gone all misty eyed gives it away. That and the subtle shake of his head.
" 'M not," he says, voice mellowing out from its usual gruffness. "You're the pretty one."
You smile. "Can't we both be pretty?"
"Not if we're being honest."
"I am."
"Pretty or honest?" He asks, being purposefully obtuse. It's got him smiling now too. Small and delicate, but a smile nonetheless. Your heart thrums. Even in your frustration.
"Both!” You laugh and his smile widens. The urge to tell him his smile is beautiful nearly consumes you, but you’re not trying to spend the rest of the evening going back and forth with him. Other plans have begun to take shape in your mind.
And on that note, your hands pounce at his belt buckle, tugging it open. He lifts his hips, and you shuck his pants down. When you move for the waistband of his boxers next, he shuffles and straightens up.
“Sit back,” you say. He pauses, looking ready to protest, but the look you give him is enough of a warning for him to heed. The ease with which he submits to you sends a thrill through you. “Good boy.”
A strangled sound claws its way up his throat. Somehow, his face turns even redder than before. His hips give a little buck. Oh, he likes that.
You rid the last layer, freeing his cock. It’s pretty too, like the rest of him, you note. He shudders as you wrap your hand around the shaft, giving it a few drawn out tugs. Your palm drags up the length of it then back down.
His thighs tense when you hunch forward, muscles straining in anticipation of the warm, wet heat of your mouth. You linger at the precipice, watching him struggle to hold himself together.
He says your name—more like whimpers it, and you give in a little too easily. You mouth gently at his fat tip, taking it between your lips. He keens, head tipping against the glass behind him with a painful sounding thud.
“Careful,” you withdraw to say. He cups the back of your head in an attempt to press you back down. “You okay?”
“Yes!” He whines, “Just don’t stop…”
Fuck if that doesn’t ignite a fire beneath you. Sparks burst into blazing flames. He sounds miserable. Tormented by what you dangle in front of him, but withhold. You smile before inching closer to run your tongue up the underside of his cock, latching your lips at the head again.
When you feed more of his cock into your mouth, his eyes shutter and his face twists. You’re addicted to the pitiful moans that tumble from him. You want to uncover every note of his pleasure—pull and tug on that thread until he unravels into incoherence. Despite your best efforts, you gag around him.
His fluttering eyes meet yours, hand sliding around to cup your face. He exhales sharply, mesmerized by you in a position he’s never had the privilege to witness before. Tears prick the corner of your eyes. Drool spills from the corner of your mouth. A muted ache in your jaw.
Andrew looks like he could finish from the sight alone. You hum around the girth of him, and begin working in earnest. For a little while, his hips meet your bobbing movements, fucking into your mouth, but then he stops abruptly.
“Stop, hah…!”
“You’re giving me whiplash here,” you remark after pulling off of him.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, sitting up. The rest of your clothes are discarded before he pushes you back so you’re laying across the back seats. The tables have turned. He's hovering above you. Fingers prod at your folds, observing with a single-minded focus as he parts your lips. He breathes heavily. “Wanna be inside you…”
“Yeah?” You ask, your voice airy. He nods, and slides two thick fingers inside you. “Want to cum inside me, hm?”
He freezes, making the most delicious of sounds—something between a mewl and a whimper—dragged and drawn out as his eyes flit between your glistening pussy and your lips speaking such sinful words. “Please…”
“You’ve got to be good for me first,” you say with a small sigh as he begins to thumb at your clit. He rubs it in firm circles, hanging onto every word that leaves your mouth. “Can you do that?”
He’s nodding again, so incredibly eager to please. And even quicker to act, curling and thrusting his fingers inside you. He leans over you, and rests his forehead against yours. You leap to meet him in a kiss, moaning into his mouth. All messy and careless. Lips mashing and teeth clashing with no real rhythm, just a frantic need.
Steadily his pace picks up. You squelch around his fingers, but you don’t have enough time to stew in your embarrassment over the obscenity of the sounds. He crooks his fingers, pummeling that sensitive spot with each inward drag of them.
Pope pulls away from the kiss, a string of saliva connecting you. For a short time, you feel like you’re soaring. Then your quaking body slackens. He slips free and grabs you. Forthright in his intent, he yanks you by your hips, jolting you closer.
The weepy head of his cock notches along your slit, brushing up against your clit before sliding lower. He looks to you for reassurance, and when you give him a resolute nod he begins to push inside you.
He watches with vested interest as your cunt accepts him so willingly. His hands sweep up your sides, body moving to blanket yours as he ruts into you. You moan in unison, dragging your nails over his shoulder blades, feeling the muscles along his back flex and ripple with each movement.
There isn’t much romance about it. A sweaty heap sprawled across the backseats of his truck, pulled over on the side of a deserted road. But then again, it’s fitting, isn’t it? Perfectly imperfect. That sentiment could be used to describe most aspects of your relationship.
His head drops to the swan of your neck. He loses himself in you, lips lazily dragging against damp skin. You bear the weight of him, accepting him with open arms as he stitches himself to you. A distinct wetness drips onto your neck. Droplets of tears.
“Love you…” he whines into the crook of your neck. It becomes his mantra as he drives his hips forward over and over. “More ‘an anything.”
“I love you, sweet boy,” you coo in return, cradling the back of his head. You can hardly believe you’ve been denied this for so long.
He snivels, shaking his head against you. You lift his face from its hiding place so you can look at him. He looks at you, eyes shimmering with tears. The rhythm he’s set begins to taper off into staggered, uneven thrusts.
“Fuck,” he seethes. It’s like he’s seeing you—truly seeing you—for the first time. His voice wilts. “You’re perfect—!”
Pope lurches forward, stilling as he spills himself inside you with a loud moan. His body goes limp above yours. As you come down from your high, sensation returns to you—the feeling of your sweat slicked back clinging uncomfortably to the leather below. Yet he makes no effort to peel himself from you.
“Andrew…?” you call out, stroking a hand over the nape of his neck and down his back. “You still with me?”
He hums, but doesn’t offer anything substantial in response, seeming content to stay put for a lifetime or two.
“We can’t stay like this forever,” you say, trying to shuffle from beneath him, but he doesn’t budge. You laugh at his stubbornness. “Be a good boy for me… and move your ass.”
That gets him moving. He shoots up and stares at you, looking slighted. His cheeks tint pink. “It’s not—I’m not—would you quit sayin’ stuff like that?”
“Uh uh, I know your weakness now, Andy,” you say with a smug smile. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on in this matter, so instead he swoops down and steals another kiss. “We’re never getting home at this rate…”
“That’s fine by me.”
Yeah, you’re content to stay in this moment forever too.