lou

At the end of the day, he was still just a boy trapped in a man’s body. 

And somewhere along the way, you had become a woman. A woman carrying a restlessness she couldn’t explain. A hunger that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with becoming. It lived beneath your ribs like a living thing, stretching and clawing for space. You had desires that were burning inside of you, festering like a disease in the pit of your stomach. 

Sweat slipped down your skin, from your forehead down your neck, settling in the valley between your breasts. You imagined a tongue licking it off of you, fisting your fingers into curly hair. In your imagination, when you pulled the head up in between your hands, it wasn’t his eyes you were seeing; it was his father's. 

Jack Abbot had been the star of all of your late-night fantasies for longer than you’d like to admit. Sometimes you wondered if there had ever been a beginning at all, if the feeling had simply lived somewhere deep inside you for years unnoticed, waiting quietly beneath the surface until you became old enough, restless enough, lonely enough to finally recognize it.

You spent too many nights lying there staring at the ceiling, Romeo’s cum leaking from between your legs while he lay snoring next to you. You’re wide awake and unsatisfied, a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to after nights with him. Which is how these thoughts started. 

Jack Abbot was sex on legs, from his sun-damaged skin to his bow-legged gait; every inch of him was to be desired. You’d seen him shirtless with sweat dripping down his muscles, his jeans that fit snug against his ass. All you could think about was his body, and just what he could do with it. Now he was a man.

You’d think of his lips dragging down your neck, his hands against your neck, his cock deep inside of you, turning you apart in his hold.

Your hand would slip into your underwear, fingertips dipping into your neglected heat, and you would come the hardest you ever have before. 

They were just harmless thoughts, until they weren’t. 

It was another one of Romeo’s get-togethers. His friends filled the backyard like a plague of locusts, loud and careless, sprawled across truck beds and lawn chairs with beer cans crushed beneath their boots. Drugs were hidden in hoodie pockets and carelessly left on whatever flat surface they could find. 

You were drunk on cheap beers and stumbling over your boots that were a few sizes too big, but they were only ten dollars at the flea market. The night air had chilled a few degrees, making your exposed skin prickle with each sway of your body. You could see Jack, his shoulder pressed against the porch. The night smelled of woodsmoke, and fireflies buzzed around you, almost guiding your gaze to him. 

Jack was watching you; it was hard for him not to. His eyes found yours like the moonlight finds the water in the backyard pond. It was happening more and more often these days.

You‘re not sure whose hand pulled you up on the creaky old wooden table, but you went up there gracefully. Your hips swaying lazily to the 70s love song playing, while cheers echoed from below, beer bottles raised toward the sky at each shake of your ass. Your sundress riding up your thighs, showing a little too much skin. It was playful, a girlfriend pulling you towards her, harmless even. You were lost in the haze of the heat and too many beers. It was all fun until Romeo saw you.

Jack watched his son’s expression darken from across the yard like an accident waiting to happen.

One second, Romeo was laughing with his friends near the cooler. Next, his jaw tightened, and something ugly was flickering behind his eyes. Before the crowd could understand what was happening, Romeo was already pushing through them. He shoved shoulders aside without apology, boots kicking up dust as he crossed the yard. The music continued playing, and people continued laughing, oblivious to the disaster about to unfold. You barely had time to register his presence before his hand closed around your wrist. Hard. 

Hard enough that Jack set his beer down on the porch, watching you wince in his hold.

Romeo’s fingers tightened around your wrist until pain shot up your arm, the pressure enough to make your smile disappear as quickly as it had come. Bystanders watched while the music droned on; you already knew no one would step in. No one did once Romeo had a few drinks. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, jerking you off the table hard enough that your boots nearly slipped beneath you.

You stumbled when you landed, catching yourself before you fell completely. The alcohol swimming through your veins made the world tilt unpleasantly, but it did nothing to dull the anger rising inside your chest.

“Let go of me.” Your voice comes out more slurred than you want it to. 

“You think this is cute?” His breath reeked of cheap liquor and stale cigarettes. “Dancing on tables like some damn whore for everybody to stare at.”

”You’re hurting me.” You try to pull your wrist from his hold, to no avail. “Romeo, what is your problem?” 

“You’re my fucking problem.” He spat, dragging you further away from prying eyes. Usually, when he did these things got worse, so you dug your heels into the dirt. 

“Let me go.”

Romeo laughed, but there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it. “You always gotta make a scene. Am I not giving you attention, huh?”

”No, not really.” His grip tightened when you scoffed.  The bruise would be ugly tomorrow.

For a moment, he just stared at you, chest rising and falling heavily, eyes glassy from whatever combination of liquor and resentment had been brewing inside him all evening. Then something shifted. The fight drained from him all at once, leaving only annoyance behind.

He dropped your arm aggressively, nearly pulling your arm from the socket from the force. 

“Fine,” He laughed, but there was no amusement in it, “Go, run off and cry until you decide you wanna act right." 

”Romeo-“

“I said go, get the fuck out of my sight.”

This time, you didn’t argue. You turned and ran. The music faded behind you with every step. The bonfire became a distant orange glow swallowed by darkness. Soon all that remained was the sound of your own breathing and the steady chorus of crickets hidden among the reeds.

The lake waited beyond the edge of the property, hidden beneath moonlight and cypress shadows. You finally slowed when you reached the shoreline, your lungs burning from the run.

As you tried to catch your breath, the tears came hot and unrelenting. Embarrassment burned in your chest. You wrapped your arms around yourself and stared across the glistening water. The bruises on your wrist were already beginning to darken beneath your skin. Fingerprints. Evidence. Proof of something you had spent far too long pretending wasn’t happening.

You heard a twig snap behind you, making you still. It was then that a timber voice spoke out, soft enough not to spook you even further. 

“You alright?” Jack asked, slowly appearing through the trees. 

You sniffled, wiping your eyes harshly. 

“He do that often?” 

Shame crawled through your stomach, your eyes drifting back down to the bruises. They weren’t the first ones he’d left on your skin, and you were afraid they wouldn't be the last. He’d wake up tomorrow hungover, kiss you breathless, and take you to the farmers market in town with a smile on his face. Then, the beers would appear again, an endless cycle you couldn’t seem to escape from.

“Not all the time…” You whispered, “He just gets short-tempered when he’s drinking.” 

The silence is deafening in the woods this late, just water lapping against the dirt shore and the occasional croak of a bullfrog. 

Jack looked out across the water before speaking again. “My wife used to say that.” 

Your neck snapped to look at him, his gaze haunted as he stared into the darkness. There was very little mention of the late Mrs. Abbot; Romeo never once uttered anything about her when she passed a few years back. 

“He’s only like that when he drinks.’ His voice was quiet enough that the wind nearly carried it away. “‘He’s only like that when he’s angry.’”

A bitter smile touched his mouth. “‘He doesn’t mean it, not really” 

“Man, we used to argue so much about him,” He laughed, “Momma’s boy I called him. He’d never come to me when he got in trouble, she’d always run up to him. They’re just alike, that’s what scares me.” 

“I would have thought he’d be more like you,” You admitted. 

Jack finally looked over at you.

“What do you mean?”

A small shrug lifted your shoulders. “You don’t exactly seem like the type to hurt a fly.”

”Oh man,” He shook his head, “You don’t get to this age without stepping on a few flies.”

”Okay, I didn’t say that now,” You laughed a little, tears drying up from your cheeks in the night air, “It just seems like you know how to treat a woman, s’all.” 

“I’m sure my son doesn’t know how to treat a woman in any way,” He said, and he meant it as a joke. But the words made your stomach burn, and all you could think about was how his plump lips wrapped around the top of his beer bottle. 

“No, no, he doesn’t.” You said with a weak laugh. You wanted it to come out playful, a light-hearted joke, but instead it came out meek. 

Jack’s eyebrow quirked, but he didn’t say anything. 

You were suddenly aware of how your breath sounded, how it didn’t quite match the stillness around you, how everything in you felt slightly off balance.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you added after a moment, though you weren’t sure what you were correcting anymore, and Jack gave a quiet hum that wasn’t agreement or disagreement, just acknowledgment that he was still listening, still there. His silence was making your heartbeat drum underneath your skin. 

Jack stepped nearer without announcing it, closing the distance in a way that felt like he had decided something quietly and was no longer interested in talking himself out of it. Your back met the rough bark of a cypress tree before you realized you had even moved at all, or perhaps he had guided you there with his presence alone. 

When you looked up at him properly, you saw the restraint in his face, the careful control of a man who understood exactly how wrong this could be and still hadn’t stepped away.

“You shouldn’t be out here with me,” he said slowly, though it didn’t sound like a warning so much as an admission. “S’trouble waiting to happen.”

Your laugh came out softer this time, breathier, almost disbelieving. “Then why are you still here?”

Jack exhaled once, slow and controlled, and then his hand came up to rest against the tree beside your shoulder, not touching you fully but enclosing you in everything but distance.

His lips met yours softly, warm and a little unsteady. Cautious at first, before the floodgates opened between you. He tasted like Marlboro Reds and smelled like grease from his ’78 Chevy. The kiss turned ferocious and fast, his tongue prodding your mouth open for him.  Lips devouring each other’s mouths as hands roamed. Your fingertips prodding at his belt buckle while his fingers were pulling the thin fabric of your dress down to squeeze your tits harshly in his hands. 

You were moaning pathetically into his mouth, practically grinding against his body that was slotted in between your legs. Your back scratched harshly against the tree bark, but you didn’t care as long as his lips were on yours and his hand kept going down. 

Down and further down until they were prying your thighs apart, pulling frantically at the thin fabric of your underwear on the sides of your hips. The fabric fell to your ankles, his hand slipping right in between your thighs. As soon as his fingers made contact with your sopping heat, you moaned louder than you should have. The sound bouncing off the trees. 

His body stilled. Then, he’s stopping you with his hands, pulling back as if your touch had burned him. 

“Stop, stop,” He rushed out, lurching himself backward a few feet, “Fuck, I shouldn’t have-“

You cut him off quickly, “It’s fine, it’s fine.” 

Your underwear is still around your ankles, your dress pulled down, still exposing your tits as you froze against the tree. 

“It’s not-“ He cuts himself off, his fingers anxiously running through his hair, “Fix yourself up, now.” 

His orders make the embarrassment from earlier come back tenfold, as you redress yourself in the thick silence. He’s scrubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans frantically as if he could wipe away the touch of your skin. 

“But-“ 

“No,” He cuts you off, his voice low and final, “This never happened. Now go on home and get some sleep.” 

“Okay-“

“This never happened.” He snapped, as if he just needed to hear himself say it again. He took one more look at you before turning around the same way he came. 

Your eyes fluttered closed, leaning your head against the tree, partially unsure if it really had happened at all. If this was just another late-night dream you couldn’t wake up from.

“Party’s over,” You could hear Jack yelling, whistling between his fingers, “Go the fuck home.” 

Truck engines rattled to life one by one. Headlights swept through the trees in brief flashes of gold. You could hear Romeo’s friends complaining from somewhere near the bonfire, their drunken protests dissolving into the darkness as vehicles rolled down the dirt road and disappeared into the countryside.

That night, you went to bed alone. The space beside you remained empty, though it wasn’t Romeo occupying your thoughts. You lay awake staring at the ceiling while your fingertips brushed absentmindedly across your lips, the phantom taste of Jack haunting you. The house creaked around you as it settled. Crickets sang beyond the open window. Sleep refused to come.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him standing beside the lake. The feeling of his lips against yours. The rough, frantic touch of his callused hands. 

You wondered if he was going to fuck you right there, just a few hundred feet from his son. You wondered if you would have let him, but you knew the answer.

The next morning arrived in a flood of sunlight. Golden light spilled through the sun-bleached curtains, illuminating the dust floating lazily through the room. You rolled onto your back and stared up at the crack in the ceiling.

For years, you had looked up at those cracks in the ceiling and imagined your future already written for you. Marriage. Children. A little house as soon as Romeo made enough money to buy you a home. The same story, every woman in town seemed destined to inherit from the one before her. The life your mother laid out for you, the only one you thought you could have. You had spent so much of your life allowing other people to decide who you were. 

Your fingers drifted absently across your stomach while you stared at the ceiling and allowed yourself, for once, to stop pretending. You were tired of apologizing for wanting things. Tired of shrinking yourself into shapes that made other people comfortable. Tired of convincing yourself that desire was something shameful.

You wanted the freedom to act on your desires. 

You were in charge of your own destiny, no one else. 

A clatter of tools took you out of your thoughts, lifting your head to peer out the window. Jack lay half beneath the old car parked in the carport, one arm stretched above him while a wrench flashed in the morning sunlight. The sleeves of his worn T-shirt clung to his shoulders. Grease marked his hands. The radio nearby crackled with an old country song as he worked.

A smile tugged unexpectedly at your mouth, your legs swinging off the bed with a newfound fire lit beneath your feet. 

The sun had already warmed the house by the time you were closing the screen door. For a moment, you just stood there and watched him, hearing him softly grunt as he pried a bolt out from the car with pure strength. 

You weren’t sure when he noticed you, but his voice emerged before you could get a word in. 

“Where’s Romeo?” He gruffed; you could still only see his lower half as he rolled underneath the car. 

You shrugged despite the fact that he couldn’t even see you, “Probably getting high somewhere.” 

He lets out a scoff, “That’s not funny.” 

“Who said I was trying to be funny?” You deadpanned, “That’s all your son does nowadays.” 

The answer sat heavy between you; only the faint sounds of him working filled the silence.

You wandered closer, pretending an interest in the scattered tools around the driveway. The morning sun felt warm against your bare legs while the scent of cut grass lingered in the air. Everything looked painfully ordinary, even though nothing felt ordinary anymore.

“Been thinking about leaving him,” You admitted quietly, but you knew he heard you by the way the sounds ceased. 

”And why is that?” 

“I just don’t think he can give me what I want.” 

The words sat in the heavy air for a moment before he finally rolled out from underneath the car. Grease streaked across one forearm and darkened the front of his shirt. Sweat glistened faintly along his neck from working in the heat all morning. He pushed himself upright and wiped his hands on an old rag, carefully avoiding your eyes.

“He can be a good boy, he’s just lost,” He gruffed out, throwing his tools to the ground, “He’s your age, he’d give you a good life one day. Don’t ruin it because you’re confused.” 

His words were going in one ear and out the other as he used the rag to wipe the grease off his fingers. It was almost teasing how he did it, twisting his fingers through the rag while his eyes were locked onto yours. 

“That’s just it. I don’t want a boy,” You scoffed, looking back up at his face. Sweat pooled at his forehead, and stray curls clung to his skin. He had a smudge of grease still on his chin; he looked older in the light. The sun damage on his skin, the freckles lining his arms. He’s never looked as sexy as he does right now. “I want a man.” 

He mimicked your scoff, “Oh, please. You wouldn’t know what to do with a man. You’re just a child.” 

“Patronizing, wow.” You rolled your eyes, crossing your legs. The strings on your cut-off jean shorts were flowing wildly in the sticky summer breeze. “I’m 22. Fully an adult.” 

“Baby,” He sighed, fingers thumbing around his faded blue jean pockets to find his pack of Marlboros. “That’s a child to me. I could be your dad, hell, your granddaddy, really.” 

You squinted in the bright sun, watching the cigarette filter dangle between his lips as his rough, calloused hands flicked the lighter open. When he took in a deep breath, you shivered, watching the smoke linger around the space still between you two. 

“You know,” You hummed, your hands behind your back as you leaned against the car, “I think you’re just scared.” 

“Yeah? Of what?” 

“Of just how fucking badly you want me.” You shrugged, his hands stilling right before he went back for another drag. 

His eyes were darker now, his tone unwavering. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You smacked your lips, shaking your head a little. “You play like you’re looking out for me, that you want what's best for me. You want me to fuck your son? Want me to marry him?” 

He stayed still, his eyes squinting at you. A threat in and of itself, but you refuse to back down. 

Your voice raised, “Want me to let him get me all barefoot and pregnant? Keep me locked in his house like a good little wife? You wanna see me at every holiday gathering? Your grandbaby on my arm?” 

“You’re-“ He cuts himself off, flicking the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with his boot. A little harder than he should have. 

“I’m what?” You preened, thankful to have some reaction out of him. 

“A fucking problem,” He grunted, “Look at you, basically throwing yourself at me like a fucking whore.”

”Right now, I see it. Father like fucking son,” You nodded, a cruel laugh slipping out, “Like I’m the one who kissed me last night, who shoved his hands up my skirt-“ 

He was in front of you before you could register what was happening, his hand gripping your chin so tightly you winced. “ Shut the fuck up.” 

He smelled like cigarette smoke and danger. His fingertips were pressing bruises into your jaw, but you still felt weak in the knees. A ridiculous toothy grin on your lips at the feeling of his body against yours. 

“Why? Can’t take responsibility for your own actions?” You spat.

He scoffed, spit flying into your face. Spit you’d willingly drink if he so dared to give you the pleasure. With his body pressed against yours, the outline of his cock pressed hard against your bare thigh. You had him exactly where you wanted him. It should have been disgusting, you should have been scared and offended, but you’ve never felt so alive seeing the threat in his eyes. 

“Watch your fucking mouth.” 

You smirked as much as you could in his bruising grip. “Seems like you want my mouth.” You shifted your legs, rubbing against the denim bulge. 

You could feel him twitch, his whole body jolting at the sudden touch. 

“Yeah,” You laughed, “That’s what I thought.” 

The look in his eyes shifted, his head tilting back. “Right..” He mumbled under his breath, almost in amusement. 

Suddenly, his hands were in your hair, yanking the strands harshly, dragging you down to your knees on the hot asphalt.  

You yelped out, your hands grabbing his wrists as he forced you down. “What-“ 

“You want it so fucking bad?” He asked, forcing your neck to snap up to look at him, “Then take it.” 

With a little nudge, it didn’t take long to realize his denim-clad bulge was pressing into your face. His hand dropped your head harshly to unbuckle his belt. 

Your mouth watered, looking up at him in the late Summer sun, his boxers getting pushed down to his knees for god and everyone to see. His hard cock slapping against your cheek, the tip red and veiny. You knew he’d be huge, but seeing it in front of your face made your eyes widen. 

“Open. Up.” He grunted, fisting his length to press his tip in between your waiting lips. You obliged, opening wide to let him use your waiting mouth. 

You nearly gagged at the sheer size of him, doing your best to relax your throat to take every inch of him as you bobbed your head quickly. 

“Fuck,” His hand went back into your hair, guiding you to take more of him on each bob. “That mouth is good for something, ain’t it?” 

The sounds of his cock fucking your mouth echoed through the space, as he takes and takes. Each gag of your throat has his eyes rolling back into his head. His pace is relentless, unwilling to stop until your nails are digging into his thigh, desperate for a breath of fresh air. He groans, gripping your hair hard to pull your mouth off of him. Spit is dripping from your mouth down your neck as you let out pathetic gasps for air.

”I thought this was what you wanted, wasn't it? You wanna kiss my son’s lips with his daddy’s cum on your breath?” He mocks, before violently pushing your head back down. 

You’re choking around him once more, his pubes tickling your nose. His balls were slapping against your chin as you let him abuse your throat until his thighs began to tremble. You licked your tongue against the underside of his cock as he came, a guttural groan leaving his mouth that went straight between your thighs. 

You had a mouthful of his release when he pulled his softening cock from your lips, cum leaking from the sides.

Your jaw dropped, showing him your cum covered tongue before you swallowed, his eyes lit ablaze. 

“Fucking disgusting, you loved that shit,” He spat, but pulled you up for a bruising kiss anyway. Giving himself a taste.

Your knees were bruised and aching by the time you were on your shaky legs. Your hair was in knots, and your throat aching from his abuse. He pulled away from the kiss too quickly, looking down at your disheveled face. 

“Go clean yourself up.” He was already shoving his limp cock into his pants, leaving you there with your aching throat and bruised knees. 

It felt like trading one cruelty for another when you pressed your fingers into the fading bruises on your knees beneath the table that night. 

Dinners went on as normal, as normal as they could with the lingering taste of Jack on your tongue. You stomached down the food, avoiding eye contact with both of the Abbot men as they talked. Sports, weather, work, something about a neighbor’s truck breaking down again, their voices folding into each other as they belonged in the same breath. And there you were, just existing in between them. Waiting until Romeo had you clean his plate, or bring him a beer. It was jarring, receiving abuse from one man while craving it from the other. 

That night was just another one of the same routine, Romeo would fuck you with a hard, unsatisfying pace and then cum. He’d make a ridiculous face, pant into your chest, and then roll over. His snores would start soon after, leaving you complete and utterly alone. There was no love, no attention. You stopped faking your enjoyment a long time ago, and you’re not sure if he ever noticed. 

So you lay there, cunt throbbing in need as it often did. Your brain conjures up memories of Jack’s head thrown back, his teeth biting down on his lip as he fucked your throat. The way he sounded when he came made goosebumps rise on your skin. 

Then, a horrifically delicious idea popped into your head. Jack was just down the hall. 

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you slipped out of bed, padding down the hall to his room. You knocked softly, doing your best to keep it quiet. He opened the door, a knowing look on his face. 

The only thing he had on was a pair of boxers, the bulge of his cock evident from the sheer weight of it. His chiseled arms flexed as he leaned against the doorframe, a line of curly gray hair going from his chest down his pelvis. The sheer thought of dragging your tongue down it had you squeezing your legs together again, which Jack didn’t miss.

“You need me, don’t you?” He asked, no trace of sleep in his eyes.

You wonder if he couldn’t sleep due to the sound of the headboard hitting the wall, or if he knew you’d all but be begging for him just a few hours later. 

You nodded pathetically, his hand gripping yours to pull you into the darkened room. The door shut with a quiet click, making your heart skip a beat in your chest. 

His shadow walked back to his bed, leaning back against his headboard without a care in the world. The small bedside lamp vaguely let you make out the pout forming on his lips. His hands patted his thick thighs mockingly. “You just gonna stand there?”

You leaped into action, your knees hitting the plush mattress. 

“He can’t make you cum can he?” He pouts, watching you crawl across the bed onto his lap. Already knowing why you were practically shaking with desire. All he had to do was look at you, and you were gone.

You were straddling his lap, your sleep shirt riding up to give him a view of the damp patch just below the pink bow on your underwear. “N-no.”

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “What a shame.” 

With one hand on your hips, the other one finds itself between your legs. Fingertips twirling at the bow, as if it were a present for him to unwrap. “When was the last time you came?” 

“Last night. Made myself,” You panted, “Can only cum thinking of you.” 

Jack raised his brow, “What a nasty girl.” 

“P-please.” 

“Please, what?” 

“Touch me.” You cried, trying to force your hips to grind against his teasing fingers, but he held you still. 

“I am touching you.” He cooed, still rubbing softly on your clothed mound. Far from where you throbbed for him. 

You let out a childish huff, “That’s not what I mean.” 

“Tell me how to touch you then.” His lust-filled eyes were on yours, his tone demanding. 

Your face burned, “Please, make me cum.” 

He huffed in amusement, letting his fingers dip inside your panties. Brushing softly against your warm heat, arousal soaking his digits with each stroke and circle against your clit. The pleasure licked up your spine, foreign and so far away. It had been years since you came from anything other than your own hand, and it had you reeling. 

“That feel good, baby girl?” He hummed, drinking in every moan and twitch of your hips. 

Your neck hurt from how fast you nodded, “Need you.”

“S’needy.” He huffed playfully, but knew not to tease you any further. He pulled your underwear to the side, slipping his thick fingers into your wet heat easily. Your cunt accepted him greedily, the slight stretch making you wince.

But it still wasn’t enough.

“Jack,” You begged, lips pouting, “Need you to fuck me.”

He met your eyes, “Say please.”

The words left your mouth pathetically, “Please, please, p-please.”

He let you beg while he pulled his boxers down, his cock slapping against his bare chest.

“Hop on, baby.” He ordered, his hands only on your hips to keep you steady as you hovered above him.

“F-fuck.” You hissed, sliding down on him. He slipped inside you with little to no resistance, your wet cunt accepting him greedily. By the time you were seated on his lap, you could feel him in your throat. A bulge pressing against your lower stomach, showing you just how deep he was inside of you.

“You wanted this,” He leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head, “Work for it.” 

You huffed, but swiveled your hips anyway. Your palms flat on his chest as you worked yourself up and down on him, slowly at first until you were riding him within an inch of his life, taking and taking every inch of him he would give you. If this were the only chance he gave you, you’d make every second of it count.

“Oh my god,” You gasped, legs shaking as you struggled to keep up with your movements, “S’big.”

“I know, baby,” He cooed, “You’ve never had a real man’s cock have you?”

“No, no.” You babbled out, barely able to grind against him. “Never made me cum.”

This information seemed to light a fire in Jack, his hips thrusting up from underneath you.

“He doesn’t know how to please a woman,” He grunts, planting his feet flat on the bed to help fuck up into you despite his earlier protests. “Don’t know how I raised such an embarrassment.” 

His tip was hitting your sweet spot, making your vision go blurry from the sheer force of it. 

“Can’t even speak, can you?” He grunted, his joints aching with each thrust into you, his pleasure outweighing the pain to come after, “Fucking the thoughts out of that pretty little head.” 

“J-jack,” You cried out, loud enough to make his large hand slap against your mouth. 

“Shhhhh, you don’t want my son to know his daddy is fucking his little girlfriend, do ya?” 

It was rhetorical, you knew that, but the way your eyes rolled back was enough of an answer for Jack. A devilish glint in his eyes. 

“Oh, or do you baby?” He slowed down a little, causing your hips to pathetically grind against him. He could feel your cunt squeezing him at each word he spoke. ”You do, huh?”

You shook your head, still unable to speak as he kept his palm harshly against your mouth. 

“You can’t lie to me, I feel you dripping around me,” He laughed, fucking up into you harshly once more, “You want him to hear you cumming on my cock? Want him to hear how a real man should fuck a woman?” 

“Oh, my god.” You cried, biting your teeth down on the callused skin of his palms, “Jack, Jack.” 

He knew you were close because Jack Abbot paid attention to women and their pleasure. He knew exactly how to angle his hips, when to speed up, and when to stay exactly the same. His other hand pulls your hips onto him, grinding your clit against his graying patch of hair above his cock, while he fucked up into you without a care in the world. 

When you came around him, it was like seeing the world in color for the first time. Every single night of dreaming of this, none of it compares to the real thing. When you came back, Jack was still thrusting into you, his sharp moans of praise filling your ears. 

“There you go, s’good baby. Yes, just breathe, baby.” 

“Jack.” You slurred, your body falling limp into his arms. 

“S’good, gonna make me cum.” He panted, “Baby, where d’ya want it?” 

“Inside, please, please.” 

He cut off your pathetic babbles with a kiss, slotting your lips together as he came inside of you with a grunt. His eyes squeezed shut as he filled you full of his cum. It was so warm and soft, you melted into him. 

“You ‘kay, honey?” His sugary sweet voice whispered into your ear, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head. 

“Hmm.” 

“M’gonna pull out.” He warned, leaving you with a soft hiss. 

As soon as he did, you whined at the loss of him, almost too much to bear physically. His cum was dripping out of you, dribbling down onto his chest where you hovered above him. His fingers reached down, scooping through the mess he had made, plunging his fingers deep inside. 

“Gotta keep it there f’me.” 

You sighed, sitting against his chest, rocking against his fingers greedily, itching for another release with his cum inside of you. 

“You’re already dripping in my cum, and you want more?” He’s out of breath, and there’s all but stars in your eyes as you nod greedily at him. 

He lay there, looking up at the crucifix crookedly hanging on the wall above him. He’d repent later, he thought, watching you grind your leaking cunt against him. God would forgive him, but let him relish in his sins a little longer when they felt this good. 

That night opened the floodgates between you two. It was all stolen glances, ankles locked underneath tablecloths, and nights spent aching for each other within the tiny house, letting yourself be consumed by the Abbot men, while your heart only belonged to one, and it wasn't the one you were sharing a bed with. It was wrong, God, you knew it, but why would something so wrong feel so right?

Romeo dropped the bombshell out of nowhere, while you were in the middle of dinner, listening to the news drone on in the background. 

“I’m gonna be out of town for a few weeks, trying to get that job at the oil rig.” He beamed, “I wanna give you a good life, Y/n.” 

“Y-yeah,” You stuttered out, your grip on your fork tightening as the seconds passed. You avoid Jack’s eyes; you can’t think about being stuck in this house with him, all alone. “It’s gonna go great.” 

“Hey,” Romeo smiles, placing his hand on your thigh, comfortingly taking your discomfort for something else entirely, “It’s only a little bit. Besides, Dad will take good care of you. Won’t he?” 

Jack gave you a toothy grin, taking a huge bite out of his steak. “I sure will, son. I sure will.” 

“Make sure she doesn't get into any trouble either,” Romeo said, a glint in his eye as he squeezed your thigh tighter in a silent warning. 

Romeo’s departure had your nerves on edge, as you kissed him goodbye, all you could think about was climbing into Jack’s worn-out recliner and getting your lips on his again. 

Jack could see it on your face, just how bad you wanted, no, needed this.

“Ain’t nothing gonna happen, darlin.” He hummed, his eyes still on the grainy television. You pretended not to notice the tick of his jaw, or the way his fingers gripped his whisky glass even tighter. “S’not right and you know it. You heard him, he’s gonna give you a good life.”

“Yeah, of course not.” You smiled, knowing the two of you were lying through your teeth. Weeks in this house alone, you barely gave it a few days before one of you caved. 

The window in your room gave you the perfect view into his workshop, watching Jack with his sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing with each tool he picked up. When the sun got too much, he’d slip off his shirt, his bare skin glistening. You’d rest your head on the window, letting your hand glide down between your legs. Your fingers slipping underneath your skirts to press harshly into your dripping cunt. 

You’d finger yourself to the image of him below, sweating and unaware of how you were moaning his name and falling apart to the memory of his cock inside of you. There were bitemarks in the cheap wood of the windowsill from trying to stifle your moans. By the time he’d come back inside, all exhausted from a day’s work, your legs would still be shaking, still unsatisfied. And you felt that you would be until you had him again. 

Like two peas in a perverted pod, Jack would end his days with a cold shower and his hand wrapped around his cock until he was shooting blanks down the drain. You’d lounge around in the thinnest white dresses; you might as well have been naked, with how he could see the outline of every curve and dip on your body through them. You watched his knuckles whiten from how hard he squeezed his fists together, but still, he tried to remain a righteous man. 

You were walking sin, and Jack had never wanted so badly to betray God. 

It took him less than 48 hours to give up. You were lying on your stomach on the floor of your room, flipping through some old magazine before the door swung open, his face flushed and pants still halfway undone. 

“Hi-“ 

You had on another one of those god-forsaken night gowns, the sheer fabric lifted above your ass, giving him a perfect view. This was the last straw, he decided, as he pulled his jeans down. 

“What-“ 

He cut you off, dropping his aching bones to the floor, pressing his entire bodyweight on top of you. His hard cock pressing against your ass, his hand reaching forward to grab you by your neck. 

“You and these fucking dresses,” He scoffed, pushing his tip through your still wet folds, “You this wet for me?” 

You were mewling against him, jaw dropping when he sank into your cunt without warning. Still wet from your fingers failing at filling you up as much as he did. “Y-yes. Needed you.” 

“You got me,” He grunted, his hips meeting your ass with a loud smack. “You gonna take me like a good girl?” 

“G-god, yeah. M’your good girl.” 

Jack’s bad knees be damned, he was fucking into you heavy and fast against the scratchy carpet. He was so deep at this angle, making your limbs limp in his hold as he kept your neck up, whispering filthy words in your ear with each thrust. 

“Can feel you squeezing me s’hard, soaking my cock,” His hand gripped your throat tighter, making your head spin, “S’such a good girl, daddy’s good little girl.” 

“Daddy,” You gasped, eyes rolling into the back of your head as he hit your sweet spot, your legs trembling against his body weight. 

”This is the last time.” He grunted, his balls slapping harshly against your ass. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room. “I swear, we can’t keep doing this.” 

“I know,” You sobbed, “Just this time, making me feel so good, daddy. L-last time.” 

“Cum for me,” He barked, feeling his balls tighten, “Let daddy feel that little cunt cum around him.” 

“F-fuck yes, don’t stop, don’t stop.” You cried, feeling his teeth bite down on your neck as you came around him. Tears leaked down your cheeks from the overwhelming sensation, gasping for breath when his hand dropped from your neck. 

He came deep inside of you with a shout, filling you so full it leaked out onto the carpet. 

“Last time.” He mumbled, his panting body on top of yours. You both knew it was a lie, but it made him feel good to say it out loud. 

This became the new pattern of those two weeks. You’d sneak into his bed, grinding your ass on his morning wood until he woke up and fucked you hard and fast over the side of the bed. 

Or you’d wake up with his mouth in between your legs, tongue deep inside of your cunt as he mumbled just how he needed one last taste. 

“God forgive me.” He panted, his palms spreading your legs open wide before he wrote gospels on your cunt with his tongue. 

It was blasphemy in its purest form. 

There were late-night calls with Romeo while his daddy was making you cum upwards of 20 times a day. You desecrated every part of the house, even outside. There was no holy land left on the Abbot property. The birds and bugs became accustomed to the sounds of you as he pushed your skirt up, taking you over the hood of his car or down by the creek. 

It was filthy, and it felt like it would never be enough. It was living out every dirty fantasy of him you’d ever had before; there were things not even your brain could conjure up. Things that would make the devil blush. 

One night, Romeo had called you, no doubt drunk as he slurred tirelessly about how he missed you. He could hear you through the walls, kicking open his son’s room to see you lying on the bed, phone propped up against your ear. 

“I don’t think I wanna do that, Romeo.” You whispered into the phone, jumping when the door swung open. Jack's finger went up to his lips as he wordlessly sat at the edge of the bed. 

“Why not?” Jack could hear the slurring voice of his son through the phone, faintly, “Don’t be a bitch.” 

You bit down on your bottom lip, about to hang up on him, before you saw Jack's eyes, full of jealousy and something else you couldn’t name. 

“Hang up.” Jack mouthed alongside a warning look. 

You should have hung up. Romeo would hardly remember it in the morning, but all you could think about was how hard Jack would fuck you if you disobeyed. He knew that’s exactly what you were thinking too, when your teeth bit down on your bottom lip.

“O-okay.” You sighed into the phone, pretending like he really convinced you. Your eyes locked onto Jack’s as your hand trailed up to your tits, pulling at your hardened nipples through the fabric of your top. “M’touching my tits.” 

The phone was abandoned against your shoulder, his responses falling on deaf ears as you only focused on the brown eyes in front of you, that drank up every movement and every gasp that left your lips. 

“You want me to touch my pussy?” You moaned, but you weren’t talking to Romeo. Jack nodded, and you could hear shuffling on the phone. 

Your fingers slipped inside your panties, fingertips rubbing soft circles into your aching clit. Rubbing your wetness around until you could slip a finger inside of your wet heat. 

“Feels so good.” You sighed, seeing Jack's pants harden with each rise of your chest. “Wish it was your cock.” 

“Yeah, baby.” The phone buzzed, “I’d fuck the hell out of you.” 

Jack rolled his eyes, pulling his belt off quickly. Crawling up to the top of the bed to meet you. 

Your eyes widened, feeling his hands pull at your hands, pulling them out of your underwear and pulling them down your legs. You let him throw them somewhere across the room, but paused when he lined his cock up with your heat. 

“What are you doing?” You whispered, trying to lift off the bed to push him off. 

Jack just shook his head, an evil look on his face. “Talk.” He mouthed, pointing to the phone where his son was still babbling about something. 

Jack's cock prodded at your cunt, his tip squeezing inside of you, making you yelp.

“What are you doing now?” Romeo asked boredly, “What would you do to me?” 

“Talk, or I stop,” Jack demanded.

“Uhh,” You stuttered out, Jack’s cock deep inside your guts now. Slowly dragging his hips in and out of you. “I’m just t-touching myself, babe.” 

Jack resisted the urge to laugh, watching your eyes roll in the back of your head with each perfectly angled thrust. 

“Y-yeah, it’s so good.” You droned on, your legs getting pushed up, only deepening the angle Jack was hitting perfectly. 

His fingers tumbled down to your clit, fumbling around with the sensitive bud. 

“O-oh my god, right there.” A pornographic moan escaped you as your hips arched into him. 

“What?” The phone crackled, making your body go white: 

“N-nothing,” You tried, Jack only speeding up his thrusts as soon as you tried to speak, “I’m just-“ 

“What the fuck is-“ 

“I  g-gotta go,” You squealed, cutting him off, fumbling around to end the call as Jack pulled himself out of you harshly as soon as the phone rumbled down, making you wince. “Why’d you stop?” 

He didn’t answer; instead, he pulled your hips in his hands, flipping you over onto your stomach. Drapping you over his lap, while your phone buzzed against the mattress. 

“Why didn’t you listen to me?” He asked, his hand coming down in a smooth, harsh strike against your ass. 

You cried out in pain and pleasure, the sting making your cunt throb.

”I’m sorry-“ 

Another slap, followed by his hand gently rubbing the stinging skin. 

“I don’t believe you.” He hummed. 

Another slap, harder this time. Tears sprang in your eyes, your hips wiggling in his tight hold. 

“Daddy, I’m so sorry.” You cried, your hands digging into the sheets, “P-please-“

“You wanted this,” He mused, another hard slap against you, “This was what you wanted? Isn’t it? To be punished? Couldn’t just be daddy’s good little girl. Had to be a little. fucking. whore.” 

Each word was punctuated with another slap until your ass was bright red, raw to the touch, and your sobs had been stifled by his hands pushing you further into the mattress each time he heard you. One hand in your hair, and the other assaulting your ass. 

“I can feel you leaking against my lap, just desperate.” He shifted, spreading your legs open for him. His fingers are trailing down your ass into your open cunt. “I bet you’re begging to be touched, huh?” He mocked, and you could only answer in muffled sobs and shouts. 

He let his fingertips sink into you, feeling just how desperate you were for him. 

“Daddy-“

“Shut the fuck up,” He seethed, his fingers sank in deeper, moving so fast you could barely pinpoint where the pleasure started and where the pain ended. 

You shook in his hold, moaning desperate pleas as he pried orgasm after orgasm out of you. Each time you’d cum, he’d slap your clit harshly, before continuing to stroke the spot inside of you that had you shaking.

You could feel his cock twitching against your thigh. After the third orgasm, he acted quickly after that. Wasting no time in asking before he was throwing you on your back into the sheets. 

“He never made you feel this good, ever. Did he?” He gruffed out, hands wiping away some of your dried tears as his cock found its home back inside of you. 

“No.” You croaked, so sensitive you were blubbering in tears with each sloppy thrust. Your fingernails were digging into his back as his hand gripped your throat once again. 

“Now every time you're in his bed, you’re gonna think of me wrapping my hands around this pretty little throat.” He growled, gripping you tight. 

“Only want you,” You coughed, face turning red with each harsh crush of his hands against your throat. 

You didn’t even have to tell him you were close again; suddenly, his hand was off your throat, and you were thrashing against him. You swore you blacked out, the pleasure so overwhelming it was all you could feel. All of your other senses dulled, 

When you came to he was cumming deep inside you with a shout, your inner thighs soaked from your multiple releases. Both of your cum mix together and plopping out into Romeo’s sheets. 

“I’m sorry,” Jack sighed, pulling your shaking frame into his chest after he pulled out of you with a wince. “Got a little rough with ya.” 

You yawned, “S’okay, I liked it.” 

Your eyes were glazed over, hazy, and still coming down. 

“Let me draw you a bath with them fancy oils that stink.” He gruffed, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, “Then I’ll feed ya.” 

The nights that weren’t filled with indulging in carnal desires, the two of you would end up on a picnic blanket, deep into the woods underneath the old bridge. By the creek bed, the world felt farther away than it had any right to, like the town and its names and its judgment had all been left upstream somewhere, tangled in branches and forgotten water. You leaned back against Jack’s lap without thinking too hard about what it meant, letting the rough hum of the afternoon settle over both of you while birds circled lazily overhead. 

“I don’t wanna be with him when he comes back,” You sighed, “Wanna leave.” 

Jack didn’t answer right away, just shifted slightly beneath you, his hand resting somewhere near your shoulder. “Yeah, where you gonna go?” 

You realized you didn’t have an answer that made sense outside of him.

“Why can’t we be together?” you asked, turning your head just enough to look up at him.

A small exhale left him, something almost like a laugh but not quite, “We are together.” 

“Jack.” You pressed, unamused by his attempt at a joke. “Think about it, us together. Me hanging off your arm every day.” 

“Yeah?” His tone was sharp, almost mocking, but you ignored it, “Want me to marry you too? Get you a white dress and some flowers.”

”Actually, yeah,” You huffed. 

“You wanna marry this old man?” His smile was crooked, the crinkles by his eyes deeper the harder he smiled. 

“You know I’d let you knock me up too,” You teased, “Make you a daddy again.” 

His hands reached forward and grabbed your tits harshly through your top, “Hm. I would love to see these all big and swollen.” 

Your mouth went dry, smacking his hands away with a playful giggle before the moment fell solemn again. 

“Seriously, you wanna be with me?” You asked, your voice a little quieter than before. 

“Honey, I do-“

”No more buts, why not?” You pressed harder, “Who cares what anyone in this podunk town thinks. We can leave. Romeo will find some two-bit hooker to marry, he’ll forget about me within a month.” 

His fingers played with the ends of your hair, drinking in the hopeful gaze on your face. “Let’s just focus on the next few days, okay, baby?” 

You frowned, but leaned further into his touch. While you lay in his arms, watching the sunset over the town for just a little while, you could still dream of a future that had him in it. There was only the sound of water and insects and the distant hum of a world that didn’t know how close you were to imagining something different.

The rest of the week was spent in bliss, a bubble of just the two of you together. Where weeks felt like years. 

And all it took was one person to see the two of you in his truck for that bubble to burst.

 It wasn’t even in a compromising position, just you in the passenger seat smiling ear-to-ear with Romeo’s daddy while Romeo was out of town. Your feet on the dashboard, with some song playing too loud in the busted speakers of his truck. But that was enough. 

 Small towns were built of this; gossip spread as fast as wildfire, and you were not immune. You thought you had enough time to get ahead of it, to feed lies to Romeo about this horrible town, but the day he was meant to come back came sooner rather than later. 

You’d learn there was no time when your bedroom door slammed open, Romeo’s eyes were bloodshot, and his knuckles were already bloodied. 

“Is it true?” Romeo’s voice was slurred; you didn’t even have to be close to him to know his breath reeked of cheap whiskey, which he probably stole from the corner store. 

You froze for a second, your hands stilling in the pockets of his dad’s camo jacket. The same one he lay on the ground to fuck you on top of just days before, overlooking the wheat fields. The picnic where he fed you strawberries and promised to always take care of you. Now the fabric felt stifling against your skin.

“Is what true?” You squeaked, your voice betraying the confidence you were failing to fake. 

The words barely came out before he was yelling again, “Don’t play fucking stupid, bitch.” 

His voice rattled the windows of the houses, making your heart race. 

“Out of everybody in this town, out of every man on earth, you picked him?” The hurt in his voice made your stomach twist, but the violence in his eyes had you frozen. 

“Romeo, please-“

He was on top of you in an instant, his hands fisted in your shirt, spit flying. “You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” 

“Romeo,” You cried, trying desperately to pull yourself away. “Let’s talk about this when you’re sober.” 

“I should fucking kill you-“ 

The door slamming open cuts him off. Jack is standing there with his eyes wide, chest heaving as he runs from his shop all the way here. 

“Son, get your hands off of her now.” His voice vibrated off the walls. 

All Romeo could do was laugh, holding his hands up in surrender. You took the chance and fled into the corner of the room, watching the two of them circle each other like prey. 

“Course you show up,” Romeo scoffed. “Her night and shining armor, huh?” 

“Son, I know you’re upset, but let’s not do anything we might regret-“ 

Romeo was not in the listening mood, kicking the trunk at the end of your once shared bed as hard as he could. The wood splintered. None of you even flinched, too hardened by violence and chaos over the years. 

“Regret?” He screamed, zoning in on his father now. “Do you regret fucking my girlfriend?”

Jack’s face hardened, his body stilling. “Where did you hear that nonsense?” 

“The whole fucking town knows!” 

“Well, it’s not true.” Jack scoffed, unconvincingly. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to make yourself as small as possible. 

“Bullshit,” Romeo scoffed, “You can lie to everyone you want, but you can’t lie to me.” 

Jack’s silent, his face falling as he realized that the truth was out there. There was no hiding or outrunning it. 

As soon as Romeo saw this, it was like throwing gasoline onto a fire. His hands itched for something to throw, settling on the vintage wooden dresser next to him.

The dresser tipped under his hands, not fully thrown so much as shoved with all the force of everything he couldn’t hold inside himself anymore, wood scraping against floorboards before it collapsed into itself with a crack. Drawers burst open on impact, scattering old things across the floor, splintered pieces of something that had once been carefully built and now existed only as damage.

You flinched without thinking, your back thudding against the wall. 

Romeo stood over it for a moment, chest heaving, staring down at what he’d done like he wasn’t entirely sure when he had started or how to take it back. 

Jack’s voice came again, quieter this time, strained at the edges. “That was your mother’s.”

Romeo didn’t answer right away, just looked at the broken wood splintered around his feet. 

”You have no fucking right to bring mom up.” He seethed, making Jack nearly take a startled step backwards.

”That dresser was the last thing she ever built.” Jack said calmly, too calmly for the weight of the situation unfolding around him. 

“Yeah, well,” Romeo shrugged, “She’s not here, so.” 

Jack was in his son's face within seconds, spit flying. “How dare you-“

“You’re the reason mom is dead, you know that, right? I’d drink myself to fucking death too if I had to deal with you.” He scoffed, their faces nearly touching. 

Watching them like this was like watching them in a mirror. It was Romeo’s future lying in front of him, a little older, less angry. It was at this moment that you realized just how much he looked like his father, carrying his anger, you didn’t know he even had. 

“Don’t talk about your mother like that,” Jack scowled, “Real fucking mature. She’d be disappointed to see you ended up like this.” 

The punch came so fast you barely saw it. Romeo’s fist connected with Jack’s jaw hard enough to send his head snapping sideways. The sound echoed through the house.

 You screamed his name, but neither of them seemed to hear you. Romeo swung again, years of resentment finally spilling free. This time, Jack caught the blow with his shoulder, refusing to raise his hands. 

“Stop,” he warned. “I’m not fighting you.” 

That only made Romeo angrier. Another punch landed. Then another. 

“Fight me!” he shouted. “For once in your life, fight me!” Jack’s expression twisted with pain, not from the blows but from the words. When Romeo charged forward again, Jack finally moved. He caught him around the chest and pulled him backward, locking his arms around him just tightly enough to stop the attack. It wasn’t a fight. It looked more like a father trying to hold together something already shattered. Romeo struggled violently, cursing and yelling, but Jack held firm.

 “Enough,” he said, his voice breaking for the first time. “Enough.”

 Romeo’s movements gradually slowed until all that remained was heavy breathing and quiet rage. When Jack finally released him, neither man looked at the other. Romeo wiped at his face angrily, whether from sweat or tears, you couldn’t tell. 

“You’re dead to me,” He huffed, still a little unsteady on his feet, whether that was from the alcohol or the exhaustion, you couldn’t tell. “Both of you.”

When the front screen door slammed, both of you flinched, not at the sound but the finality of it. 

For weeks, you had buried every warning beneath desire. You had covered guilt with longing and loneliness with excuses, convincing yourself that love transformed wrongdoing into something beautiful. But here it was, something ugly and too shameful to face.

Jack hadn’t moved. You watched the rise and fall of his chest. You watched him drag a hand across his jaw and wince. Beneath the guilt and the horror and the undeniable ugliness of what had happened, something warm and terrible unfurled inside your chest.

It made you feel monstrous at how relieved you felt. 

Your skeletons were out of the closet. Now there was nothing left to hide.

The truth had finally clawed its way into the light, ugly and bleeding and impossible to ignore. Romeo knew. The town would have confirmation soon enough. Every church pew and grocery store aisle and gas station parking lot would eventually carry whispers of what had happened here tonight. Your name would become something people shook their heads over. 

The bridge had collapsed behind you both. The life that existed before tonight had vanished the moment Romeo walked through that door and discovered the truth. There would be no returning to it now. No apologies could undo what had happened. No amount of regret could rewind the clock.

And if there was no going back, then the only thing left was forward. 

“Come on,” You whispered, reaching out to grab his wrist and gently urging him to follow you out of the house. You lead him down the creaky front porch steps, into the pathway into the woods at the edge of the property line. 

You’re thankful that the sounds of the forest overpower your rapid heartbeat. You take the trail you always did, past the old oaks and through the old clearing to get to the small creek underneath the bridge. Wordlessly, he followed, letting you take him all the way to the water’s edge. 

Clothes were stripped off, abandoned on a rotted fenceline as your bodies disappeared into the water. He kept his hands in yours until you stopped, waist-deep in the water. 

Jack had always belonged to places like this. Not houses or towns or churches. He belonged to rivers and backroads and stretches of land too wild for anybody to claim. Maybe that’s why you loved him, every scar, every wrinkle told a story of how he had lived, truly lived. 

You could see the exhaustion in his eyes that had nothing to do with tonight and everything to do with years of holding things in place that were never meant to stay together. 

You cupped water in your hands and gently brought it to his face, wiping away traces of blood and dirt with a care that felt almost absurd given everything that had just happened. He didn’t flinch. He just watched you like he was trying to memorize something he already knew he was going to lose.

“You alright?” You asked, though the question felt like it belonged to another version of you, one from a different night entirely, one where things hadn’t already crossed so many invisible lines. 

For a moment, he didn’t answer, his gaze drifting past you toward the dark shape of the trees, like he couldn’t quite anchor himself in the present. Then his expression shifted, something breaking quietly in the way he swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice came out rough, stripped of everything except truth.

“I’ve ruined your life.” Was all he said. 

“No,” You said, cupping his face in your hands once more, “You are my life now. Doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.” 

He pressed a kiss to your wrist, his stubble scratching against your skin. 

The creek moved lazily around your waists, carrying away dirt and blood and pieces of a life neither of you could return to. Above you, the bridge groaned softly as a truck passed overhead, its headlights briefly flashing through the trees before disappearing into the deepening dusk.

“Let’s go home,” you said gently, your fingers lingering against his jaw. The bruises darkening beneath his skin seemed worse every time you looked at them. “We gotta get some ice on these.” 

He ignored you, his mind somewhere far away.

“Have you ever seen anything outside of this shithole town?” His timber voice broke the silence.

“Nothing you can’t drive three hours in each direction to see.” You admitted. Your life had never stretched farther than a few county lines. It never felt sad, until you said it outloud. 

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It settled around the two of you like the evening air itself. The creek whispered over stones. Crickets sang louder from the tall grass. Somewhere farther down the bank, a frog croaked into the gathering dark. For the first time all day, neither of you seemed in a hurry to fill the quiet.

“Do you wanna go on a little road trip, see the world with me?” 

You could see it so clearly right in front of you, hanging out the window of his truck. Your life unfolding behind your eyes like a dream you’d been having your entire life without realizing it. Endless highways cutting through states you’d only seen on maps. Desert sunsets bleed gold across the horizon. Cheap diners with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that tasted burnt, no matter where you ordered it. Dusty motels glowing beneath neon signs and falling asleep beside him with the windows open and waking up somewhere entirely different than where you’d gone to bed.

For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like a cage.

You looked up at him, your chin digging into his sternum. “Can we see the west?” 

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.

The first time it happens it's an accident.

There’s people in his house when there shouldn't be.

The music is too loud, the bodies too hot and sweaty.

He’s standing in the kitchen like a weirdo, even he can acknowledge it.

But he truly doesn’t know what to do. Where to go.

He’s been gone for three years. He doesn’t recognize anyone anymore. Where the fuck is he even supposed to start?

It’s your meek “excuse me” that breaks him out of the spell he’s under, gaze finally sharpening as he comes back down to the present moment.

Everything rushes back to him, overwhelmingly. He’s suddenly too aware of it all, especially your timid grip on his bicep as you try to move him out of the way.

The touch doesn’t linger. It’s fleeting, unlike the reality that Pope finds himself in.

You side step around his imposing frame, a shy smile on your lips, one that makes his head spin.

You shouldn’t be nice to him, hell, you shouldn’t be nice to any asshole you don’t know. Did no one teach you—

And then you turn on the kitchen sink, gently cleaning the glass you’ve been using unlike everyone’s disposable, plastic ones.

An air of familiarity courses through him. You’re…comfortable in his home. You’re taking care of the space that no one, not even his brothers, could give two fucks about.

He can’t help but stare, his thoughts rendering him unable to look the other way, to go back to being stoic and uninterested.

If you feel him glaring you don’t let him know it, your body language remaining relaxed all the way through wiping the glass dry and standing on your tip toes to place it back on the shelf above you.

That’s when he moves.

It’s instinctual. His mother’s voice clear in his ear, urging him to help a lady in need.

He steps up, crowds your personal space yet gives you room to escape if you feel uncomfortable.

You turn to him then, your bright eyes meeting his as your fingers barely touch. He instantly forces himself to look away, afraid that he’s going to let the glass fall if he loses himself in your gaze.

“Thanks,” you mumble, shooting him another smile as you settle back down on your feet, the movement shifting you closer against his chest.

It honestly makes Pope dizzy. Feeling your warmth, smelling the faint softness of your perfume.

You don’t turn to move for the millisecond it takes for him to finish pushing the glass into place, perfectly aligned with the others.

It’s only when he too settles back down that you turn to him expectantly.

“You’re welcome.”

Pope guesses that’s what you’re looking for and he’s proven correct instantly as you bless him with another blinding smile.

His stomach does another flip.

Who the fuck are you?

Before he can ask, what he believes to be your name is called because you instantly turn towards the sound.

He commits your name to memory, such a fitting one for such a—

“Angel! There you are!” Daren breaks through the crowd like a lifeline, one that you instantly take, stepping away from Pope and towards him like a magnet.

You settle against his side like you’re meant to be there, his arm leisurely draping over your shoulders in a familiarity that makes Pope’s blood boil with a flurry of emotions he simply cannot pinpoint.

“See you’ve met Pope,” Deran notes and you turn back to Pope with wide eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you start, tone remorseful. “I had no idea you were Deran’s brother, I would’ve introduced myself.”

You genuinely mean it and it almost causes Pope to snap at you. You don’t owe him anything.

“’s okay,” Pope mumbles instead, his gaze piercing.

“Well it’s really nice to meet you,” you hold out your hand for him to take.

Pope’s jaw clenches. He makes no effort to move, to reciprocate your kind gesture. He can see the disappointment in your face, how it falls instantly. You’re not used to being denied, to being told no, and for a second Pope almost cracks.

But he can’t. He won’t let himself do it.

No, because he knows that the second you give him even an inch of familiarity he will devour you whole.

“Don’t take it personally, angel,” Deran practically glares daggers at him. “He’s not really into that.”

Your mouth curls into a silent oh and Pope shrugs in response.

It’s all he can do to not come across as a complete weirdo instantly upon meeting you, more than he already has.

You copy him, shrugging like you’re unbothered but he knows for a fact you aren’t as your hand instantly retracts back towards you, seeking Deran’s instead.

His fingers interlace with yours like it’s second nature, overly intimate. Pope’s brows scrunch in confusion, barely. Are the two of you…a couple?

“Anyway, I’ll see you around.”

Pope gives you one last grunt of acknowledgement before Deran is pulling you away, back towards the backyard where all the action is happening.

He obviously keeps his eyes trained on you as you leave, on how your jean shorts hug your ass, how your body is sun-kissed and a little burnt from the summer heat wave, how your hair flows effortlessly.

And then you turn to glance back at him for what feels like minutes, your eyes filled with nothing but curiosity. 

His eyes force him to blink then and he loses you to the crowd.

Fuck.

The next time Pope sees you, you’re back at the house for a pool day with his family. It’s a small gathering this time around, just their inner circle which apparently now includes you too.

You’re in a striking blue bikini, the color contrasting beautifully against your skin. You’re sitting on one of the lounge chairs, your legs open so a hyper Lena can settle in between them.

You can barely contain your laughter as the young girl tells you a silly story from school, your fingers working overtime to braid her long hair in one of those fancy styles that Pope could never name so that it won’t get too tangled from the pool.

Your laughter hits him like a disorienting grenade. It’s like he's never heard anyone feel joy the way you do. It's infectious, making him wonder if he’s ever actually felt a real emotion in his life.

“There, all done,” you tie up Lena’s hair and give her back a little pat before the girl practically bolts from your embrace, yelling a swift thank you before cannonballing into the pool as everyone cheers.

Andrew’s about to move forward, to settle down beside you, a pull to be near you clouding his senses.

But then Craig has to go and ruin it.

“Me next,” the oaf practically towers over you, settling down between your legs like Lena had, taking advantage of how you haven't moved.

You roll your eyes playfully but don’t complain.

Pope watches as you take his hair out of the messy bun that he’s got it in, gently scratching his scalp. His younger brother moans, causing you to stop and smack the side of his head.

Pope’s lips quirk up into a smirk. Good, set his brother’s straight.

But Craig is not deterred, simply reaching back and squeezing your thigh cockily.

It takes everything in Pope not to lunge forward. He doesn’t understand it, how protectiveness practically flares up in his chest at the sight of someone else’s grubby hands on your soft flesh.

He honestly doesn’t know how Deran lets it happen. They both know his brother so why is he letting Craig be so chummy with you?

Unless…you’re not actually together, together.

Is it possible that you’re just like this with everyone?

You finish braiding his hair then, meanly tossing it over his shoulder so that the tail end of it smacks him on the face.

“There princess,” you tease. “All done.”

Craig flinches as the band hits him, bursting out into a fit of laughter as he stands up and follows Lena’s example, splashing into the pool so hard that he ends up soaking you completely.

Lena laughs as you gasp dramatically. “You meanie!”

“Payback’s a bitch—” Craig starts, quickly correcting himself as you glare at him. “Payback, angel.”

Deran snorts, taking a swig of his beer from his spot at the other side of the pool. A spark of something is set ablaze in your gaze, a playfulness that borders on mischief. 

“Oh yeah?” It takes them a few seconds to process what you’re doing as you sprint towards them, throwing yourself in the pool as close to Deran as possible.

Pope audibly snickers as you drench his youngest brother.

The backyard is set ablaze with teasing soon after, every single member of his family sans him and his mother engaging in a water fight for the ages.

Pope settles on the lounge chair that you’ve vacated, your warmth still lingering on the fabric beneath him.

He’s transfixed by you. By the ease in which you can bring lightness to his family, as though you can lift the weight they all carry on their shoulders, even if it’s just for a little while.

Another thought crosses Pope’s mind then — is it possible that you could be like this with him too?

Laughter only turns even more boisterous as you enter the living room, a baking dish in hand.

“Angel!” Both Deran and Craig greet you, your smile beaming as you round the table to say hi to Smurf first. You know the rules of this house well by now, a genuine comfort to Pope who at least doesn’t have to worry about you with his family.

He watches intently as you chat with the older woman, handing her the dish, humble enough to tell her it’s not something as grandiose as the roast she has prepared but you didn’t want to show up empty handed.

His mother smiles at you, her ego fed enough as she stands up and goes to heat it up in the kitchen.

You don’t let her comments get to you, instead you go around the table, saying hello to everyone, your touch always lingering, always soft and playful.

Deran gives you a hug, Craig kisses your cheek affectionately, Baz only gives you a nod in acknowledgement and Pope can’t help but smirk satisfactorily against his beer. You ruffle J’s hair and give Nicky a kiss to her temple.

You’re comfortable, confident, secure in your place within their family. You don’t back down to his mother, you don’t shrink away to Baz’s hesitancy, you—

Your eyes catch him staring from across the room. He’s subconsciously backed away the second he saw you come in, practically hiding in the threshold.

You give him a shy wave over Nicky’s shoulder, a gesture he reciprocates with a grunt and a barely there head bob.

Fuck, he’s even worse than Baz.

But you don’t look at him with the same disdain as you do his half-brother. Instead, something else ignites in your eyes. A challenge, almost, to chip away at the ice around his heart. But little do you know that it’s already melting away, and neither of you can stop it.

You eagerly help Smurf bring the rest of the food out before the entire family sits down around the overflowing table.

You make it a point to sit next to him, to never once let him think that his presence is unwanted, even if he refuses to give you the type of relationship that you want, that you crave.

You fill up his plate without asking him and if you weren’t so damn adorable he’d be angry about it. But he simply cannot be. He just lets you, watching silently as you tell the room a story from a crazy class you had to experience the week before.

Your hands move in tandem with your voice, making it a point to not draw attention to what you’re doing, as if serving Pope food is somehow normal. And for a second he can let himself believe that it is, that you taking care of him is how things are meant to be.

It’s only when Deran whispers something to Craig that has the two snickering that Pope finally breaks free from your spell, mumbling a quick thank you under his breath before you settle down to eat as Lena tells the table what she got up to in school over the week now.

You hum in acknowledgement, listening to his niece intently, like you actually care about her babbling, because you do.

After lunch, the crowd disperses throughout the house, the kitchen settling into a comfortable silence where Pope can finally breathe again.

He’s always relegated to clean up duty, mostly because he likes it that way, it’s something he can control.

“Where do you want these?” You ask, causing him to turn to face you from his spot in front of the sink.

He stammers for a second, blinking away the brain fog that you always seem to bring with you every time you bless him with your undivided attention.

He crooks his head towards the left side of the sink and you move swiftly, placing the stack of plates you’ve gathered into the space.

You don’t linger this time, no, you make it a point to step away as soon as you can but not before Pope feels his body shifting towards you.

Oh, you definitely know what you’re doing.

He shakes his head as he returns to his task of dishwashing. You return periodically, bringing by glasses, cutlery, baking dishes and everything else his family could’ve thought to leave behind like the animals they are.

Once the entire table is cleared, you settle beside Pope, dish towel in hand and begin drying what he's just washed.

It’s…nice.

Pope’s not used to someone actually wanting to help him but he finds himself quickly falling into the rhythm of your comforting presence.

“I never really asked,” you start conversation after what feels like a small eternity, turning to face Pope curiously. “Do you prefer Pope or Andrew?”

You ask as if it’s not a loaded question. Well, to you it isn’t, there’s no way for you to know about the weight his name carries over him. To you it’s just about making sure you’re calling him by the name he wants to be called, nothing more, nothing less.

But to Pope it’s…euphoric.

He stays silent for a while, thinking, and you let him without an ounce of judgment. You return to your repetitive motions, to working side by side, in tandem, coordinated.

Meanwhile, a storm rages waste in his brain. He’s never allowed himself to want, to put himself first, and for the first time in his life, someone is allowing himself to do just that. 

But is it real? Do you actually mean it?

It’s only when he’s finished washing the last plate, handing it over to you that he finally allows himself to look your way.

“Andrew,” he mumbles before he loses the courage to. “Call me Andrew.”

You turn to him, setting down the plate atop the mountain you’ve created, nodding your understanding. 

“Andrew,” you repeat back to him. “It suits you more.”

He can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck and to his ears, the heat that blooms in his chest, the way his intense gaze falters like a lovesick teenager as his mouth devolves into a dopey smile.

You don’t make fun of him for it, don’t even acknowledge it. You just stay there with him, following through with your help and leaving the kitchen spotless.

A few hours later he finds himself protectively escorting you out to your car, much to the snickers and teasing of his brothers which, thankfully, you’re not privy to as you say your goodbye to Lena and Cath. 

“Bye Andrew,” you call out to him, and like a moth to a flame, he can’t help but step towards you, almost expectantly.

You hugged everyone else in his family, maybe—

Your eyes sparkle with delight as his body leans towards your again, a reaction neither of you was expecting.

You close the distance without hesitation, getting back up on your tip toes to plant a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s over as quickly as it started, no lingering, no invading his space more than needed. 

He’s certain he stops breathing, his brain short circuiting as you settle into the driver’s seat and follow Baz out of the family compound.

You’re not special. He reminds himself. She’s like this with everyone.

And yet reason doesn’t quell the pounding of his heart, the way his breathing hitches as he finally wills himself to take in a deep breath, the need to see you again.

He doesn’t see you for a while, exam season taking over most of your time and planning a new job taking up most of his.

He’s just had a disagreement with his brothers, it’s the only reason why he finds himself out by the pier, supposedly clearing his head with a walk like normal people do, but instead the voices are just getting louder and louder.

“Uncle Pope!”

Lena’s voice cuts through the noise. His gaze sharpens towards it, his frame lowering, arms opening, making space for her.

She doesn’t shy away from him, embracing him lovingly because to her, he’s just her uncle, a little weird but never dangerous.

It’s only when she steps back that Pope notices you.

You walk towards them leisurely, not wanting to break apart the cute display happening before you.

“Hi,” it’s the only thing that flows from his lips.

“Hi yourself,” you reply, placing your hands on Lena’s shoulders to keep her close to the two of you. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a family meeting all afternoon.”

Pope blinks back the shock. How close are you to his family? How much do you know?

“Ended early.”

You nod, Lena squirming in your embrace, gasping as realization dawns on her.

“Can Uncle Pope get ice cream with us?”

You chuckle at her impatience, causing Pope to huff playfully at just how adorable his niece is being.

“That’s up to him, sweetie.”

And how is he supposed to say no when his niece looks up to him with the most adorable eyes ever. “Please Uncle Pope!”

He nods. “Okay.”

Lena practically jumps into him out of joy, her tiny hand wrapping around his as she drags him towards the boardwalk shops.

You laugh behind them, jogging to catch up as she pulls you towards them, wrapping her other hand in yours.

Lena’s a bubblegum flavor fiend, extra sprinkles and gummy bears. You’re classic, rich and decadent, chocolate in a cup. Pope almost feels bad for getting a simple vanilla scoop in a waffle cone.

“Tell them to dip it in chocolate,” you whisper to him. “Trust me.”

He doesn’t know how to answer, blinking at you in surprise.

Trust me. Such a simple concept and yet…there’s still something that doesn’t let him take that leap.

But what does he know about ice cream.

So he does, he tries something new.

You smile brightly as you turn to receive your sweet treats, making sure Lena’s sitting down on one of the benches before you go up to pay.

But Pope’s quicker, pulling out a bill from his pocket and taking care of it before you can even ask the cashier how much it’s gonna be.

You roll your eyes at him when she tells you you’re too late and he can’t help but smirk victoriously.

“Thank you Andrew,” you relent, accepting your cup from his outstretched hand, your fingers gently grazing as you do.

The spark of electricity that snaps down Pope’s body is life inducing.

“You’re welcome.”

You settle next to Lena who’s munching ecstatically at her sugary confection, pink already staining her shirt.

Pope takes a seat on the other side of his niece.

He settles into the simplicity of intimacy with ease again, the gentle waves crashing up ahead, the cool afternoon air filling his senses with the comfort of saltwater.

Existing has never felt as easy as this. As something pleasant and unhurried, not having to pretend to be anything other than who he is. 

Pope can’t help watch the two of you in complete awe. How you dote on Lena and how she reciprocates the action, something he’s never seen her do in the months since he’s been back.

She feels free here, not like the little girl who’s quiet and reserved with her now estranged parents. No, she’s alert and alive, playful and aloof. It makes Pope’s heart soar as he watches the two of you so effortlessly blend together, his own ice cream melting and making a mess of him soon enough. 

The house is uncharacteristically quiet.

He’s the only one there, he’s sure of it. Smurf left the second she got the call that the job had gone sour and they had to split up, rushing to Baz’s because she knows Pope is too spiteful to die on her. Meanwhile J has gotten really injured and Smurf’s new baby comes first now.

It doesn’t matter to Pope. At least he tells himself he doesn’t hate himself a little more the second he hears his mother’s heels retreat down the hall, her car soon only a phantom noise as she speeds off.

Alone in the house, the quiet gets to him quickly. The typically bright and spacious home constricting in on him as he struggles down the hall to his old room.

He tries not to think about how the rough concrete walls feel against his sensitive fingertips, how the familiar pain in his side hums with the pressure of painful memories, how he’s definitely not back in that tiny jail cell after he had another psychotic break in prison and got himself thrown in solitary for another week.

No, he definitely does not think about how he was left struggling with his sanity, floating aimlessly, stuck inside his own head trying to desperately find some comfort to cling to as he curled in on himself to find a position where it didn’t hurt him to breathe.

He swings the door to his room open without thinking twice about it.

It’s early in the morning, no one’s been home since the night before, and yet, the second he comes inside, he instantly notices the way the air smells different, sweeter.

He stills, his hand not clutched to his side slowly sliding to the back of his jeans to feel the comforting weight of his gun handle. Meanwhile his eyes rake over the room, the unmade bed, the clothes—his clothes—scattered on the floor.

“Andy?” Your sweet, sleepy voice calls to him from his ensuite bathroom and he turns to it like an idiot boy with a childlike crush, eyes wide and heart practically beating out of his chest as if he isn’t currently in such devastating pain but he doesn’t dare make you uncomfortable.

Fuck, why does he feel like such a creep?

A sharp inhale springs you into action, crossing into the unlit room to take him in, suddenly wide awake it seems.

He doesn’t have the heart to stop you as your soft hands come up to inspect the gash on his brow, the purpling under his eye. Timid fingertips trace a path down his chest, landing softly over the hand at his abdomen.

You don’t say anything, don’t lash out at him, don’t flinch back in fear as you slowly lift his palm, assessing the damage. He doesn’t know why he lets you, it doesn’t make any logical sense, and yet he just melts into your hands, lets you maneuver him however you desire as he finally lets the dam crack.

You remain silent as tears stain his cheeks, as you gently pull him into the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub, as you wrap your hands on the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.

He knows you feel the gun tucked into his pants but you don’t let the shock show on your face. Instead, when you turn to discard his shirt behind you, he simply pulls it out himself, placing it on top of the counter, safety on always.

You turn to assess him then. Luckily the switchblade didn’t do too much damage, just one long enough gash that has since stopped bleeding, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to kill him.

You settle on your knees in front of him and he’s certain his heart skips a beat. You smile up at him, so unbelievably soft, like you’re trying to comfort him without touching him because you know just how uncomfortable it makes him.

And yet, he can’t help but crave your touch, like a reminder that he’s still alive, that he’s still here, with you.

He knows he can just ask. Knows he can put together a sentence, or not, just muster the courage and say please. But how can he? When not even his mother deigned him worthy of fussing over? 

“You don’t have to—” another sob breaks through him and it takes everything in him not to curse and scream and scare you.

His body begins to shake, shame bubbling from his stomach across his body until he’s nothing but a quivering mess before you.

He wants to run, to hide away and never have you see him like this ever again. This was a mistake, staying here, letting you see him this vulnerable. He needs—

He’s turned to stone as you pull yourself up from sitting on your heels and lean up towards him, invading his personal space now, all the voices in his head suddenly quiet. Your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs dutifully wiping away the tears that fall.

He feels pathetic, disgusted with himself at the sight you’re beholden to. But then your sweet voice begins to shush him softly, to tell him that he’s okay, that you’ve got him, that he can let it all out, and for a second he allows himself to believe it.

Andrew Pope Cody allows himself to feel, to not hide behind what he’s been groomed to be all of his life. He breaks down and you patiently wait for him to finish so you can help him pick up all the pieces.

It’s only when you no longer feel the wetness drip against your flesh that you pull back enough to take him all in. He forces himself to make eye contact with you, to show you as much as he can that he’s alright, that he appreciates you.

You swiftly rummage through his bathroom cabinets, searching for the first aid kit you know he has. He watches you intently as you clean him up with a wet rag first, removing all the blood from his abdomen, his hands turning white as he holds onto the side of the tub for dear life.

Your tongue pokes out between your lips as you lose yourself to the task, using that glue Baz got them in Mexico to close his wound. He can’t help but smile softly at the sight, finally allowing himself to rake his gaze over your body.

For one, you’re clad in one of his old shirts, the ones that no longer fit him after prison hardened his body into a bigger size. Maybe he’s not special, but he’ll be damned if possessiveness doesn’t boil over at the mere sight of you in his clothes.

He’s already slowly losing his mind, desire threatening to make him take a leap over that invisible line he’s drawn between the two of you in his mind, and then you shift a little, showing off his boxers underneath, your bare things practically causing him to salivate.

The decision settles with him with ease, dragging him down into the depths comfortably, like a sailor that has accepted his fate because it means he’ll at least get to kiss the siren.

“There,” you hum, tracing the outline of the bandage with your fingertips before you turn to look up at him. “All done.”

“Thank you,” he manages to choke out.

“My pleasure, Andy.”

Letting you go is the hardest thing Pope has ever done. You’d insisted he needed to rest after the trauma that he’d experienced and, not wanting to be an annoying patient, he’d conceded, settling down where you had just been sleeping, the sheets still slightly warm and smelling of you.

For the first time in a long time, Pope actually slept and slept good. But the second he’d woken up, you were no longer in the house.

He thought about calling, about making sure he hadn’t scared you off, but part of him preferred it this way. He was scared of his feelings towards you, so he chose indifference.

His mood soured, however. Every little thing his brother did made him snap, every time they brought you up in conversation, every time your name entered his orbit but your body didn’t made him go crazy.

He’s aware that it’s all his fault for not checking in, for disappearing into radio silence. But in his defense, you’ve never texted before, you’ve never even given him your number for fuck’s sake! It would’ve been weird to contact you out of the blue right?

Summer is coming to an end when you finally deign him worthy of your presence again.

Deran and Craig are throwing a party. Big surprise.

The house is packed, hot and sweaty. Everyone is scantily clad, if covered up at all. Even Smurf has left the premises for the weekend so it’s just a cluster of debauchery and substance abuse.

He should’ve left, he thought about it many times. But he knows you’ll show, even if it’s just to say hello, see how quickly things are devolving, and leaving immediately.

His eyes have been trained on the entrance all night, impatiently waiting for you to walk in. It’s nearing eleven and his palms are starting to get itchy with anxiety. What if you don’t show? He hadn’t even thought about that possibility.

It’s been a few days since Deran’s mentioned you. Even longer since you’ve babysat Lena. Could something be wrong? Are you okay?

His entire body bursts with uncomfortable heat. He needs to find Deran right now, needs him to tell him your address so he can go check on you himself, needs—

A loud squeal catches his attention, swiftly turning towards the backyard to catch you swung over Craig’s shoulder, your tiny jean shorts riding further up your ass as he spins you around.

You giggle brightly, not attention seeking, just pulling everyone’s gaze towards you with the ease in which you feel joyful. He watches, entranced, as his younger brother puts you down.

Pope moves instinctively, stalking towards the living room to get a better line of sight on you. You’re at least wearing a shirt over your bikini, your beautiful skin covered from the hungry gazes of those around you. If you realize just how many men are salivating after you, you don’t let it show, not as Craig lights up a joint and passes it on to you instantly.

Something constricts against Pope’s heart as he watches you inhale deeply, a primal urge to burst through the doors, grab the joint from your hand and toss it away before bringing you into the house and hiding you away.

He settles for sitting down on the loveseat. He can keep you safe from in here, from far away, from a distance.

The house only becomes more crowded as the night goes on and he unfortunately loses track of you two hours in, only noticing the second that annoying couple in front of him moves out of the way, the warm summer air hitting him in contrast to the air conditioned interior.

He panics instantly, his eyes jumping through the hazy bodies outside as he desperately tries to find you again. He’s about to stand up, to finally make a move and search for you when your body plops down on his lap instead.

“Andy!” You shriek, an airy happiness enveloping you as you settle over this lap. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Pope swallows thickly, feeling everything all at once, his brain having trouble processing your hands over his chest, your core pressed against the bulge in his pants, your hot breath on his face.

He’s certain he’s blushing crimson but maybe you’re too intoxicated to notice.

“Were you hiding from me?”

He doesn’t answer right away, causing your pretty little mouth to get upturned into a pout.

“I knew it,” you whimper. “You do hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, angel,” the words spill out of his mouth instantly, unfiltered since his stupid brain isn’t working anymore.

Wide eyes stare at him adorably. “You don’t?”

He shakes his head.

“Then…” you huff, clearly exhausted from all the mental gymnastics you’ve been doing too. “Why didn’t you call?”

He opens his mouth to answer.

I didn’t have your number.

I didn’t know I had to.

Why didn’t you call?

But he knows it’s all lies. He knows he deliberately didn’t call.

Didn’t text.

Didn’t anything.

Your eyes flicker down to his open mouth, your own hanging open as you stare hungrily at him, your hips grinding down against him involuntarily. 

He hisses at the contact, the sound so broken and foreign to him. His brows scrunch in desperation, his head angling without him noticing. And so you take the leap for him.

Your lips settle on his like a sip of water after wandering in the desert for an entire lifetime.

It takes everything in him not to kiss you back, not to run his hands over your back, not thrust his hips up into you.

He knows how high you are, knows your actions, while yours, aren’t sober ones. And he’d much rather kill himself than take advantage of you.

“Andy,” you whine into his mouth again, needy and desperate. “Please.”

 He stiffens beneath you, once again gripping the chair handles like his life depends on it. You frown as the wood creaks, a wicked smile curling your lips as you realize just how much he’s holding back right now.

“You can touch me, Andy,” you whisper, your lips starting their descent from his own down to his jaw and neck.

He shakes his head softly, not cruel, not rejecting, simply stating.

If anything, it spurs you on, determined to prove him wrong, to provoke him.

He can tell as your lips lock into the base of his neck, teeth nipping meanly at his skin, desperate to leave a mark on him.

He should stop you, should pick you up and tuck you into bed. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, his eyes close in pleasure, his fists practically snapping the wood between his fingers.

You’re hungry, having been kept from touching him for so long. He’s given you an inch and you’ll be damned if you don’t steal a mile. And he honestly doesn’t care, can’t care, when the realization that you were looking for him finally catches up.

You want him.

Desperately.

Your hands roam down his arms in tandem with your hip movements, your lips trailing back up to his mouth, but instead of diving in, taking the plunge, you hover above them, your hot breath taunting him.

“You’re so pretty, Andy,” you whisper. “Need you—” you huff, frustrated. “to touch me, please.”

He shakes his head again, this time accidentally brushing his lips with yours, groaning at the fleeting contact.

“‘M not gonna take advantage of you, angel,” he presses his forehead to your cheek, almost reverent.

You let out a sigh, deep and weirdly understanding, stopping your mindless torture as his words sink in. He stares at you, his heart finally pumping blood to the rest of his body normally as it sinks with your own, the raging storm calming into a consistent thundering.

“‘M sorry,” you mumble against his chest, settling down to rest your head against the crook on his neck. “I just…” you sigh, melancholic, the words not coming to you.

“I know,” he finally lets his hands break free from his self-imposed restraints, sliding them up your legs, taking his time feeling the warmth of your exposed thighs, the comforting weight of your clothes against your skin. You hum contently, like a cat finally being given attention, practically purring against him.

He settles his touch around your body, pressing you tightly against him as you slowly doze in and out of consciousness.

“Is this good enough, angel?” He’s never felt this soft with anyone before, his jagged edges usually too sharp, drawing blood instantly. But it’s as though you’ve smoothed him down, made him into someone that’s worthy of you.

You nod against him, fingers curling into his soft shirt, most definitely wrinkling the perfectly ironed fabric and he could not give two shits about it.

He’s acutely aware of how the two of you ended up asleep together.

All he wanted was to tuck you into bed, kiss your temple and then sit across from the bed, watching you sleep all night, like a messed up version of a guardian angel.

But you’d whined oh so loudly when he tried to peel away from you, your arms wrapping around his neck, your legs tightening around his waist. He couldn’t even get his shoes off, being forced down onto the soft mattress as you rolled over on top of him.

You settled down easy after that, your even breath soothing against his neck, the patterns he kept tracing over your back lulling you even further into the depths of rest.

He’s never fallen asleep this easily before, definitely not after the peak of adrenaline you’d just put him through.

But after exactly one thousand and sixty five seconds of watching your calm face, feeling your chest rising and falling steadily, something pulled him under, his eyelids becoming so heavy he could barely register as he stopped blinking altogether.

Your squirming wakes him up the next morning.

You’ve crawled on top of him, a comforting weight over his body. That is until you started to move, seeking something to put you out of your miserable restlessness.

“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice is deep with sleep.

You lift yourself onto a sitting position, straddling his hips once more, rubbing against the growing tent in his pants.

Part of him snaps awake at the mere inkling that you’re horny, now sober and wanting to torture him for denying you yesterday. But as his eyes focus on you, he finds an even deeper feeling he simply cannot name brewing in your pretty little head.

You scratch at your shirt, the fabric constrictive, your neediness for him overwhelming.

“’s too much,” you whine and he, for some divine reason, understands what you need.

He sits up, causing you to gasp as his erection thrusts up against you.

“Meanie,” you tease, pushing him to action.

He smirks as his hands gently trail over your exposed tummy. His hands grab the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head in one swift movement, quickly untying your bathing suit top and tossing the offending fabric to the floor. He doesn’t give himself the time to stare, not when you’re so desperate and time is of the essence, he’ll have time to properly worship you later.

Your nipples do harden as the cold air hits them, and he cannot fight the urge to take one into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the bud before he detaches so he can pull his own shirt off.

Your breathing gets caught in your throat as you watch him, brain already shutting off at the sight of his bare body. So much more real estate for you to touch, he thinks.

And touch you do, eager hands trailing the hardness of his chest and stomach all the way down to his pants. You make quick work of the button and his zipper and he lifts his hips so he can pull them off, hesitating with his boxers—

“All of it.” You answer for him.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you whine. “Please.”

And who is he to deny you now?

In one quick movement, he’s complete bare beneath you. But you’re still not content, no, you won’t be until you’re right there with him.

He takes care of your remaining clothes then, urging you up with two quick taps to your outer thigh and just as quickly hooking his thumbs underneath your bikini bottoms.

Your heat is so close to his face, so puffy and needy, he simply must lean forward and place a kiss over your hip bone. You hum contently, body buzzing with excitement as you practically tackle him back down on the bed and return to your earlier position.

At first you don’t want anything other than to feel him, your cheek pressed over his beating heart, legs spread over his lower abdomen, practically purring as his own hands wisp over your back.

You lay like that for a while, enjoying the gentle sounds of crashing waves and birds singing outside his window. But then you turn to look at him with those round, puppy eyes that he’ll be damned to cave to for the rest of his life.

“Andy,” you plead. “Need to be closer to you.”

He knows what you mean without you having to explain yourself. 

There’s just one more thing to do.

So he does, grabbing a hold of his rock hard cock and slowly sinking himself into your entrance. You wince at the stretch, eyes quickly becoming watery as he settles inside of you. He shushes you gently, shifting you slightly so he can reach your lips, crashing them with his in a sloppy, wet kiss that has you instantly melting into him further.

It’s only when he’s sheathed within you completely that you finally relax. But while you’ve found euphoria with such a simple action, Pope is anything but.

He lasts fifty three seconds before his hips begin shifting involuntarily. Your brow scrunches in confusion, pleasure shooting up your body when all you really wanted to feel was peace.

He coos at you softly. “I need to move, angel.”

You sigh, dramatically so, and he can’t help but smile brightly at your theatrics.

“May I move?”

You bury your face in the side of his neck, going limp over him. “I guess.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, wrapping his arms around you before he lifts his hips off the bed and begins to piston in and out of you.

You’re so wet it’s absurdly easy, the room quickly devolving into a choir of wet, slapping sounds and his moans harmonizing with your little whimpers. You hold onto him for dear life, relishing in the closeness that he’s affording you, and he…he’s certain that you’ve just unlocked something he’d buried deep in his psyche long ago.

A desire to long for someone.

An allowance to feel.

A chance to love again.

“An—dy fuck,” you choke. “‘M so close.”

He turns his head to press his cheek against your temple, tightening his hold on your body, possessive and claiming.

“Come for me angel,” he urges. “Let me make you feel good, please.”

You moan loudly, your body responding diligently to his plea. He can feel your body convulse above him, your walls tightening around him as a jolt of electricity snaps and you’re coming undone.

You cry against his shoulder, panting feverishly as he continues to pound into you, seeking his own release while also extending you own.

“In me please, Andy, need you—”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, burying himself as deep as he can inside of you before he’s spilling, locking you tightly against him and enjoying the feeling of joy that washes over his entire body.

He can’t stop kissing your cheek, his lips lapping up the wetness that has streaked like a devout man worshiping a gift from the heavens.

You stay like this until both your heartbeats return to their normal, synced rhythm, your nails scratching deliciously at his scalp while his own return to their soothing patterns against your back.

“Was that okay?” You ask him, finally returning to your senses it seems.

He chuckles lovingly. “It’s perfect, angel.”

“Good,” you hum.

“Good.”