callsign-cacti

it’s a been a long week. your body is completely exhausted from your incoming period; shaky and drained, your emotions totally heightened. all you wanted was for sammy to come home and just… lay into you– like really give it to you before you both cuddled up and slept the wednesday away.

dishes were cleaned, leftovers away, the house locked up for the night by the time sammy gets home. it was a flurry of movement throughout your warm, amber lit home. standing from the couch, you curl and uncurl your toes excitedly as the door jingles with sammy’s key.

you can hear the rush of blood in your ears, tongue feeling swollen as the nerve endings on your lobes roar to life. itchy, itchy, itchy. your body is yearning for sammy as you try and cover your pout.

stepping into your shared home, sammy finally sighs in relief at the warm vanilla scent & the sight in front of him. his girl, his sweet baby, standing at the couch waiting for him, cozy sweats & t-shirt making her the picture of comfort.

fuck, he feels too far away already. his green eyes catch on the slight shudder of your body at the sight of him, too.

“hi baby” he tiredly supplies, dropping his keys in the bowl by the door and slipping his shoes off. truthfully, it takes everything in you not to fall to your knees and help him. not to press your cheek against the side of his knee and hug at his calf while he scratches at your scalp. another shudder, his poor baby.

“what’s goin on honey?” sammy coos, voice light and airy as he makes his way over to you. his large palms cradle your cheeks, his own red from being overworked.

you don’t want him to worry, it’s a torment to think that you have caused him more stress just because you’re feeling needy. he doesn’t need more expectations, right?

so you nod and plaster a smile, nuzzling into his hand with a cheery “‘m okay! just really missed you sammy!”

it’s not a lie, you did really miss him. especially when you were wearing his t-shirt and bucking into your fingers unsuccessfully an hour earlier. there was no weight, no hold on top of you that sammy’s thick body always provided.

his thumb runs softly under your eye as he agrees, “okay,” soft and sweet. and the rest of the night goes without a hitch.

dinner, though you are essentially sitting on top of him, is finished pretty quickly.

because sammy sees right through you, always has. it’s no surprise that you, very quickly, find your knees touching your earrings only 15 minutes later.

and it’s filthy. sammy’s tummy warm against the backs of your thighs as pushes in slowly, your toes once again curling and uncurling. his hand stabilizes his lower back a bit, as he wraps the other underneath your knee. “keep ‘em spread. atta girl. good girl, baby.”

it’s all so much, the rocking of your gorgeous wooden bedframe against the wall, the little bead of sweat sliding down sammy’s forehead, the incessant squelching of you & him, the sound of puffy, soft skin slapping. if you weren’t so fucked out, you’d reach out to crush him to your chest in a hug.

his lips are bitten, gel loosening out of his hair as it first happens. “so wet, too fuckin’ wet baby hang on, ah fuck.” he babbles, trying to slip his cock back through your folds as you whine. your chest feels so heavy, the room feeling smaller as you dig your nails into his planted wrist; needing him to feel stable.

he finds his rhythm again, wet plaps & wiggled hips pressing up into your belly. both hands underneath your knees, you’re a total mess, whining and squealing “sammysammysammy” as his speed picks up. puffy cunt sucking him in, binding him to you.

sammy’s own whines pick up “fuck, doin’ so good, so so good mmmm” as he spreads you further. again, the loss of his thick cock causes a loud gasp to escape you.

this time, he wordlessly pumps himself quickly, tapping the tip against your weepy clit before stuffing himself back in as you claw at him.

gritted teeth, you’re almost too loud as you beg “sammy don’t stop, fuckin’ me so good sammy please!” your eyes squeeze shut, so so close as he yanks you forward with two strong hands on your hips. the metal of his silver watch digs into your skin as he moves to lay on top of you, sandwiching your legs between your torsos.

again, the dreaded, agonizing feeling of loss. his cock comes sliding out, and sammy initially chuckles before he looks up at you. it’s the final straw before a long, menstrual cycle.

you’re let out a hysterical cry, hands shaking as you desperately try and stuff him back inside of you. chanting in bratty delirium “no no no!”

he belongs inside, want him inside, need him inside.

“b-baby, hey, hey. whatsa matter princess?” he stops, sitting back up to pull you up with him. that same, comforting coo that makes you feel even emptier right now. you don’t move though, dumb and needy for your man. your man.

“oh god sammy i just fucking need you” you sob, having sammy help sit you up for more air in your lungs.

lightly blowing cold air on your face, he nods along to your sobbing complaints and fights the urge to tuck at his cock. a part of him loves when you cry, and it’s especially doing it for him that you’re crying over a 3 second loss of his cock in your cunt.

frantically you weep, “it’s just been such a long day, and i’m getting my period, and your shift is so long, and i’ve missed you so much, and i’m so tired, and i wanna cum so bad, and i want you to cum in me, and my heart hurts i want it so bad, and i-“

shushing you, sammy’s heart nearly shatters at your need. it’s so basic, so primal, it feels like your chemical make-up could’ve never existed without him filling you every. single. day.

“lotta big feelings, it’s alright, okay i’ll help you. let your sammy help you.” he tuts, laying you back down as your hands stretch to grab him. “too far sammy” “okay, okay, i got you. i have you, ‘s okay.”

sitting back on his haunches, sammy’s cock stands so proudly that you can barely look at it. sniffling and whining, you don’t even recognize yourself as you plead “oh god sammy please” “shhh, ‘m comin, it’s all good”

pulling your hips flush against his, your thighs are thrown over his own as he slides in again. chubby fingers pumping the base until he’s seated so comfortably in you that you’re huffing in relief.

slow fucking, that’s sammy’s favorite. the kind where he can feel the intrinsic chill you get when his tip kisses your cervix. the kind where he can hear your huffs and pouty sobs from how good it feels from the movement and simple knowledge that sammy is as close as he physically can be.

“never gonna slip out again, okay?” he huffs pushing into you in a grind, his hands pressing your arms down into your sides as you tremble.

there’s something so special about your husband seeing your need to let go, and leaving no room for you to do anything but take it. take him. the thought alone has both of you spiraling.

mushy & sweet, like your love for sammy, your cunt swallows him. over and over and over. and sammy finds himself collapsing over top of you. tummy pressed into yours, big biceps wrapping around your head to cradle you as you wail.

“im givin it- i’m givin it to you baby. fuck! milkin’ me dry, ‘s all for you, ‘s all my love” he huffs, his own eyes squeezing shut as he whispers into your ear.

soon the sobs turn to near screams, your hand almost pounding on his back in pleasure. “i love you! sammy, sammy i love you!”

his hips stutter, speeding up his thrusts as his mouth hangs open. breath after breath, his cock keeps coming “i love you baby. never leaving this sweet pussy. never ever, oh my god. full ‘a me forever i promise, always gonna keep you filled up. c’mon baby cum, cum for daddy, that’s it.”

sammy’s gentle voice sends you over the edge, a slobbery open mouth sob leaving your lips as you clutch him closer to you. “that’s it. ‘s good, so good. oh fuck, i’m cumming, so wet.. fuck-fuck!” he shudders, spilling into you and laying his full weight on top of you.

A shout echoed somewhere down the hall—sharp, angry, clipped. “…can’t keep doing this with him!”

A calmer voice murmured back, “We’re trying.” Then silence.

Curiosity got the best of you. You slid off your chair and peered around the wall. In the farthest corner of the waiting area, half-hidden in shadow, sat a boy. He looked fourteen, maybe fifteen, but it was hard to tell. His dark hair was cut short, though the ends curled in slight waves. He wore an oversized gray hoodie—sleeves pulled low over his hands despite the California sun glaring through the windows. His shoulders were hunched, as if he hoped to become invisible.

No one was sitting near him. He didn’t seem to notice. His head stayed bent over a battered sketchbook balanced on one knee. The pencil in his hand moved with precision, making lines without a single hesitation.

Mrs. Bonner always told you not to bother strangers. But she wasn’t here. And the boy looked lonelier than you felt. Clutching your rabbit beneath one arm, you padded across the tile until you stood beside him. No reaction. You cleared your throat—soft, hesitant. Still nothing.

Finally you blurted, “Whatcha drawing?”

The pencil stilled. After a long moment, he lifted his head and met your gaze. His eyes were hazel—deep, weary, old beyond his years.

You waited, heart thumping. Instead of snapping at you, he turned the sketchbook around, revealing a single, breathtaking bird. Every feather was rendered with startling realism. Its wings were half-spread, poised seconds before flight.

You swallowed. “You made that?”

He gave a small nod.

“It looks like it’s gonna fly off the page.”

A tiny shrug.

You traced the lines with your eyes. “What kind of bird is it?”

His voice emerged—quiet, scratchy, as if unused. “Red-tailed hawk.”

“Oh.” You smiled. “I like hawks.”

He glanced up at you, just for a moment. “Yeah?”

“I read about them in library books.” You grinned. “They’re smart. So are crows.”

His eyebrows rose as you continued talking.

“Yeah,” you said. “They bring people shiny presents—my teacher said it’s because they like bright things.”

He actually looked at you then, full on. “They remember faces.”

“Really?”

He nodded once. “For years.”

“That’s cool.”

A comfortable hush settled around you. You shifted your backpack higher on your shoulder and offered your hand as you told him your name.

He hesitated. “Andrew. Everybody calls me Pope.”

“Pope?” You tilted your head. “Funny nickname.”

“I guess.”

Without asking, you eased onto the chair beside him. He didn’t tell you to go away. Instead, he returned to his sketchbook. You watched the pencil move.

“You wanna learn?” his voice was soft.

Your head snapped up. “I can?”

He slid the book toward you. Wordlessly, he handed you the pencil.

Your fingers trembled as you gripped it. “I don’t know how.”

He pointed at the drawing. “Just look. See how feathers overlap. Shadows aren’t black—see the gray in them? Nothing in nature is perfectly straight. Or black and white.”

You tried. Your bird on the page looked more like a potato with wings. You grimaced. “It stinks.”

His lips twitched. “Nah, that’s a pigeon.”

You stared. Then you burst out laughing. “It is not a pigeon!”

“It kinda is.” A hesitant smile ghosted across his face.

You decided right then that Pope smiled like sunshine.

Suddenly the office door clicked open. A woman in a sharp blazer called, “Andrew?”

He froze. His back stiffened, as if invisible strings had pulled taut inside him. He dropped his eyes to the floor.

“They’re ready,” the woman said, exasperated.

He gave a slow nod and snapped the sketchbook shut. Your chest twisted. “Are you leaving?”

He exhaled. “...Yeah.”

“Oh.” The word felt hollow on your lips.

Before you could say more, he tore a blank page from the back of the sketchbook, sketched a few quick lines, folded it into a small square, and pressed it into your hand. “For later.”

Then he stood and walked away, flanked by the social worker, shoulders still hunched.

Your fingers unfolded the scrap of paper. A tiny bird perched on a bare branch. Beneath it, in neat, careful letters: Keep looking up.

A smile warmed your face. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

An hour later, Mrs. Bonner reappeared with a fresh stack of papers. “I found you a placement.”

You only managed a nod before she steered you to the door. You glanced back once more. The waiting room was empty, the chair where Pope had sat vanished along with him. Foster kids moved on to different homes, different schools, different lives. People always came and went.

Still, you slipped the small bird drawing into your backpack’s back pocket and held it there. It was the first gift another kid had ever given you.

The new foster home was painted a dull yellow—layers of peeling paint revealing decades of California sun-baked wear. A plastic windmill in the front yard turned in the breeze, its blades chipped and cracked.

Mrs. Bonner parked by the curb. “This is just temporary,” she reminded you, her voice practiced.

You climbed out with your backpack and rabbit in hand. The front door opened before you reached the porch. A woman with gentle, tired eyes and streaks of gray in her dark hair smiled. “I’m Mrs. Ramirez. Come on in.”

The modest two-story house buzzed with life. A television blared from somewhere down the hall—cartoon voices squealing and laughing at high pitch. Upstairs a baby’s cry echoed off the walls, and someone laughed loudly from the kitchen.

Mrs. Ramirez stood in the hallway, her soft gray curls brushing her shoulders, warm eyes shining as she counted on slender fingers. “We’ve got two boys already, one little girl, and…” She glanced down the corridor, voice softening. “Make that three boys. We had another come just a few hours ago.”

She led you past framed finger-paintings and scuffed baseboards to the room at the very end of the hall. You could hear movement inside as she knocked gently and swung the door open.

On the lower bunk, bathed in the slanted glow of a single lamp, sat a familiar figure bent over a sketchbook. Pencil tip dancing across the page. Your heart lurched. “…Andrew?”

His head snapped up so fast the sketchbook nearly tipped from his knees. Surprise cracked his calm features for the first time. “Hey.”

Mrs. Ramirez beamed. “You two know each other?”

“We met,” I said.

“In the office,” he added.

“Oh, well that’s lucky,” she said. “Your room isn’t quite ready yet,” she told you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Why don’t you hang out here for a bit while I finish up?” Mrs. Ramirez looked toward Pope who gave a nod, before she left the room.

You stood awkwardly by the threshold until you forced a grin. “Told you we’d run into each other again.”

He lifted one eyebrow, the tight line of his mouth softening just enough. “…Guess you did.”

You shrugged off your backpack and let it thud onto the floor. “Mind if I sit?”

“Go ahead—it squeaks.”

You laughed as you gently sat next to him, not wanting to mess up his drawing. The springs shrieked like rusty hinges. You froze, looking up at him. “You were right.”

He didn’t look up from his drawing. “I usually am.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed again, and for a moment he allowed a tiny half-smile to flicker at the corner of his mouth.

That evening, spaghetti steamed in bowls on the long kitchen table. You slid onto the bench beside Pope, the older boy across the table wrinkling his nose at him. “You don’t talk much,” he said.

Pope stayed silent, eyes fixed on his noodles.

“Is something wrong with you?” the boy pressed.

Pope still didn’t answer. The other boy rolled his eyes and muttered, “Whatever.”

You frowned and spoke up before you could stop yourself. “Leave him alone.”

The table fell achingly quiet. Mr. Ramirez cleared his throat and steered the conversation elsewhere, but later, as you all stacked plates at the sink, Pope leaned close and murmured, “…Thanks.”

You shrugged, rinsing a bowl. “He was just being mean.”

“I’m used to it,” he said so plainly that your heart pinched.

Days settled into a steady rhythm - cereal at dawn, the bus to school, homework under a harsh desk lamp, dinner at six, lights out by nine. For the first time in months you stayed in one place longer than a week.

Pope was nothing like any teenager I’d known. He skipped video games and never turned on the TV. Instead he wandered into the backyard with a battered bird feeder or perched on the fence rail to sketch wild sparrows, doves, even the hawks that drifted overhead. Sometimes you joined him on the grass; usually you just watched him draw.

At school it felt like everyone knew which kids were fostered—maybe it was the hand-me-down clothes, or the rumor mill that never slept. One recess an eighth grader cornered you by the monkey bars.

“My mom says foster kids are bad,” he sneered, hands on hips. You stomach wrenched. Before you could speak, a shadow fell across you. Pope stood silent, arms folded. He didn’t shout or shove; he just planted himself between you and the other boy. The boy swallowed hard, took a step back, then sprinted away.

You looked up at Pope and burst out laughing. “You scared him!”

He glanced down, expression gentle. “Guess I have a scary face.”

“Yeah, you do.”

That night a thunderstorm rolled in over Oceanside, fat raindrops drumming the roof, lightning flashing behind the curtains. Storms always reminded you of those nights at home when shouting tore through the rooms below and you clutched your rabbit toy under the covers, pretending you couldn’t hear it all.

You sat up when a crack of thunder rattled the window. Sleep wouldn’t come. You slid down the ladder of your bunk bed, no plan as to how getting out of bed would help you sleep.

But there Pope was, in the hallway, back against the wall, a thin blanket hugging his shoulders. He looked up. “You okay?”

You nodded, then shook my head. “…Storm.”

He turned toward the window. “…Yeah. They scare you?”

You nodded again as another thunderclap shook the floorboards.

Without a word, he lifted one side of the blanket and patted the floor beside him. “You can sit with me.”

You hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. My sister hated storms too.”

Your throat went dry. “You have a sister?”

“Yeah.” His voice was distant. “They sent her to another home.”

You slid in beside him. Each thunder roll still made you both flinch, but sitting together felt like armor. Eventually you drifted off, closed in by the soft warmth of that blanket and his quiet presence.

In the pale dawn light Mrs. Ramirez discovered you, still curled on the floor. She sighed, brushed stray hairs from your forehead, and covered you with another blanket before you even stirred.

A few days later, after school, you watched from the living room as Mrs. Ramirez pulled Pope aside. He stood stiff as a board, shoulders square, barely blinking, then nodded as if agreeing to something he didn’t want to admit. Your stomach dropped.

That afternoon, Pope packed his few possessions into a black trash bag. You stood in the bedroom doorway, voice tight. “…You’re leaving.”

He zipped the bag closed. “Yeah.”

“For another foster home?”

He paused, staring at the floor. “…No.”

“Then where?”

He laced his fingers together. “My mom.”

Your heart stuttered. “You get to go home?”

He didn’t look up. “Something like that.” There was no joy in his words—only quiet resignation.

A glossy black sedan rolled into the driveway and came to a stop. Mrs. Ramirez quietly wiped her eyes. “She’s here.”

Pope slung the trash bag over one shoulder and headed for the door without looking back. Then he paused, turned, and walked slowly toward you. From inside his sketchbook he pulled a single folded sheet of paper. “I made this.”

Your fingers unfolded it carefully. On creamy white paper a red-tailed hawk soared, every feather etched with precision. In the corner, in neat block letters, he’d written: Home isn’t always a place. Sometimes it’s a person.

You looked up, voice trembling. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

He shrugged almost shyly. “You don’t need to.”

You swallowed hard. “Will I ever see you again?”

He stared through the front window at the waiting car. Fear flickered across his face—not fear of leaving me, but fear of what lay ahead. “I don’t know.”

The car horn honked again. He slid the sketchbook under his arm. “Bye.”

“Bye…Andrew.”

He paused at the sound of his real name, offered the smallest, bravest smile you’d ever seen, and stepped through the door.

You stayed at the window long after the sedan rolled away, the hawk drawing trembling in my hands. Maybe you cried because you’d finally found someone who made you feel at home. Or maybe because you knew the boy who’d spent two quiet weeks making sure you never felt alone was going somewhere that might never feel like home again.

Twenty Years Later

The county office no longer smells of bleach. Instead, the air carries the sting of fresh paint and the metallic whiff of printer toner.

You sit behind a cheap desk, its laminate scratched by years of ringed mugs and clicking keyboards, filing foster-placement paperwork. Sunlight filters through the blinds, casting narrow, horizontal stripes of heat across your arms. Somewhere beyond the thin office door, fluorescent bulbs hum overhead. You help children adjust to new homes, piecing together fractured lives so no child ever feels invisible—however imperfectly you manage it.

“Where’s my niece? Is she okay?” a man’s voice demands, raw with panic.

Your coworker, calm even in the tense situation, replies from the waiting room. “I can’t tell you.”

“Is she…is she scared? Where did you put her? I need to…I need to know where she is. I need to make sure she understands what’s happening, that I still love her and that I want her.”

You freeze over the scattered case files. His pleading cracks something inside you. Setting the pen down, you rise and walk briskly down the narrow corridor toward the waiting room.

“That information—” your coworker begins, voice firm.

“And I will get her back soon, okay?” he snaps, cutting her off.

“Because… because I didn’t know. When I was in the foster care system, I didn’t know what was happening. Nobody told me. Nobody told me what was happening, and I’m going to tell her!”

You pause in the doorway. The man turns, and under the harsh overhead light you see the him—taller now, broader shoulders, a constellation of freckles across his arms—but those sad, hazel eyes are unchanged. Twenty years haven’t lifted their sorrow.

“Sir?” you say gently. His gaze flits to you, startled. Recognition hovers in the air like dust motes in the sunbeams.

“Sir,” you continue, “why don’t you come back to my office? We can talk privately.”

He exhales once, haggard, and nods. You guide him past filing cabinets humming with fans, into your small office. The door shuts with a soft click.

“Please, have a seat,” you offer, gesturing to the vinyl chair opposite your own. As you turn back to your desk, you catch his stiffening shoulders. 

His eyes are riveted to a simple frame hanging on the wall, the edges of the paper softened by time, but the drawing still vivid—a red-tailed hawk and his own handwriting in the corner.

His breath hitches. “…No.”

You allow yourself a small smile. “You gave that to me.”

He looks at you as though the memory jars him out of a dream. His voice is barely audible. “You kept it.”

“I kept it.”

He leans forward, fingertips grazing the frame’s glass. “I thought…” He swallows. “I thought you’d have thrown it away.”

“I carried it with me to every foster home,” you confess.

His eyes flick between his drawing and your face. “You…” His voice cracks. “You’re…”

A soft laugh eases from you. “The girl whose bird looked like a potato? Yeah.”

For a long moment, his face is still. Then a laugh—quiet, surprised, genuine—bubbles up. It changes him. “My God,” he murmurs. “It did.”

“You told me it was a pigeon.”

“It was.”

“It absolutely was not.”

“It really was.” He lifts the corners of his mouth in a slow, disbelieving grin. Then his lips part in soft wonder - your name. Spoken by him, older now, deeper, but unmistakably his.

It brings a catch to your throat. “You remembered?” you whisper.

His gaze hunts yours. “You work here?”

“I do.”

He nods once, slowly. “You… help kids.”

“I try.”

For the first time since he entered, something in his posture loosens a fraction, as if knowing you’re here steadies him. But a sharp knock at the door snaps him rigid again.

“Mr. Cody? Jason Winchester, director of DCFS. May I speak with you for a moment?”

Pope glances at you, the old, hollow uncertainty returning to his eyes. You offer a small, reassuring nod. Winchester is the one who can answer his questions.

As you watch him follow the director down the hallway, all you see is the quiet boy who once draped his shoulder across yours during a thunderstorm so you wouldn’t feel alone.

Back at your desk, the intake packets wait, the phone blinks with voicemails, three emails are marked urgent. But your gaze drifts again and again to the hawk on your wall.

Nearly an hour later, he returns. He moves slower now. His shoulders are still tense but not as pinned-up. He settles into the vinyl chair.

“He couldn’t tell me much,” he says, voice hollow.

You offer an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry.”

“I know why,” he murmurs, rubbing the nape of his neck. “He was… he was nice.”

You laugh softly. “I’ll pass that along. Social workers don’t hear that very often.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle. “They’re trying… I guess.”

“We are.”

He hesitates. “I just… I wanted to know she’s safe.” His words wobble.

“I know.”

“And they can’t tell me.”

“No.” Your voice is gentle as the hush between them. Neither of you pushes to fill it; you’re both rediscovering who the other has become.

A question escapes before you realize it. “You still draw?”

He blinks, surprised. “…Yeah.” His glance drifts to the bird sketch on the wall. “…You really kept that.”

“You sound like you still can’t believe it.”

“I can’t.”

You smile. “You know what happened to my potato bird?”

He frowns. “…No.”

“I practiced.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You did?”

“I became pretty decent.”

He offers a half-smile. “You still draw?”

“Only when the paperwork makes me want to throw my computer out the window.”

He laughs then—a deep, honest sound that seems to shake something loose inside him.

You laugh too. “You know… when you walked in…”

“I looked familiar?” he ventures.

“I knew your eyes.”

He turns away. “People usually remember… other things.” His words are quiet, laden with old shame.

You choose kindness. “I remembered the boy who convinced me my bird was a pigeon.”

“It was.”

“You haven’t changed.”

“I have,” he blurts, and for an instant, he seems as startled by his own words as you are.

“Andrew…” you begin, regret tinting your voice.

“It’s okay,” he says, but his smile is brittle.

“No,” you soften. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He meets your eyes. “I’ve done… bad things.” Each syllable feels forced through rough ground.

You don’t press. “I know life isn’t always kind.”

His glance drops. “I know you do.” Your computer chimes—end of shift. You reach over and shut it off.

He stands quickly. “I should let you go.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You’ve worked all day.”

“So have you.”

“I don’t…,” he hesitates. “…I don’t want to keep you.”

You slip your purse from under the desk. “What if I wanted to stay a little longer?”

His brow furrows in genuine puzzlement. “Why?”

The question is honest, as though he can’t imagine someone choosing to spend time with him. You shrug, smiling. “Because I haven’t seen my oldest friend in twenty years.”

He stares, breath stalled. “…Friend?”

“You were.”

“I only knew you for two weeks.”

“Yeah, but you protected me.”

His face softens.

“You made foster care—” Your voice falters for a moment, the weight of both your histories between you. “—suck a little less.”

Emotion plays across his face so swiftly you almost miss it. He looks down. “I remember thinking…” He trails off.

“What?”

“…I hoped you’d get a good family.”

Your chest aches. “I hoped the same thing for you.

Silence settles, warm and unforced. Finally, you ask the question that’s been on your lips since he arrived. “Have you eaten?”

He blinks. “What?”

“Have you eaten?”

He looks stunned. “I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you’ve eaten?”

He shrugs, embarrassed. “I was looking for Lena.”

Of course. You can’t imagine he’s been thinking about meals. “There’s a diner across the street.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You aren’t. I’d like to catch up.”

He stands perfectly still. “I don’t…” His voice falters. “…People don’t usually ask me to catch up.”

The ache in his words catches you off guard. You step closer. “They should.”

He searches your face, as if expecting a trick. Instead he finds your steady invitation. Nothing more, nothing less. “…Coffee?” he murmurs so softly you almost miss it.

“What about coffee?”

“I…” He clears his throat. “…Dinner’s a lot. But…” He tilts his head toward the street. “…Coffee’s okay.”

You grin. “Coffee’s perfect.”

For the first time, relief softens his features. Not joy. Not yet. Just cautious hope that maybe this conversation doesn’t have to end.

Together you lock the office door behind you and step into the crisp afternoon air. The breeze tugs at your sleeves and the hum of traffic drifts in. You cross the street in companionable silence, two solitary figures side by side, walking toward a small corner diner bathed in neon glow.

Twenty years have passed since two lonely kids met in a government waiting room. Now two lonely adults stroll forward again, drawn by the promise of a simple cup of coffee—and something like home.

The diner’s fluorescent glow still buzzes overhead, casting pale rectangles across the scuffed linoleum floor. The walls are painted the color of old mustard, streaked by years of greasy handprints. The dining room smells like frying oil and the bittersweet aroma of coffee—rich and acrid, somehow both burnt and comforting.

A waitress appears beside you, her silver hair pulled into a loose bun. “Table for two?”

You glance at Pope. His dark eyes flick to the door, back to the waitress, then to the window where neon light ripples like water.

“Yes, please,” you say.

She nods, then leads you to a booth in the back against the wall. Pope waits until you settle in before maneuvering himself onto the opposite bench. Without a word, the waitress sets two heavy ceramic mugs of coffee on the table, steam curling from their rims. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, wrapping both hands around the mug. Pope gives a small nod, fingertips brushing the handle before he lifts his own cup to his lips.

Silence spreads between you, soft and unthreatening. The hum of the refrigerator in the corner and the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen fill the space. Then you both laugh at once, the sound surprising you more than any awkwardness could.

“What?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

He lowers his mug and studies you. “I was waiting.”

“For what?” you prompt, leaning forward.

“You always talked first.”

You blink. “I did?”

“When we were kids.”

You trace a ripple in the tabletop with your fingertip. “I don’t remember that.”

He shrugs, eyes downcast. The overhead light casts shadows across his scarred knuckles—faint white lines that vanish under the cuff of his shirt. A pale scar arcs along his forearm, disappearing into fabric. “I do.” He unclenches his hands and wraps them around his mug again, as if seeking refuge in its warmth. “You’d ask three questions before I answered one.”

You let out a breath. “I still do.”

“…Yeah.”

His gaze flits to the front door, then to the kitchen door, then back to you. He’s always cataloging—watching exits, calculating distances.

At that moment the waitress returns, her shoes tapping softly on linoleum. “You folks ready for anything else?”

You look at Pope. His eyes lock on yours, waiting. Your chest tightens. “Pie?” you suggest, voice low.

“I’m okay,” he answers before you can second-guess.

“You sure?” Pie has a way of coaxing people out of their shells.

He shrugs, but the motion is terse. “Not hungry.”

Your social-worker instincts flare—not because he looks thin, but because his answer is too swift. “You forgot to eat today.”

He shifts in his seat. “It happens.”

“How often?” you press.

A shrug again. “I don’t know,” he admits after a pause.

You believe him—he really doesn’t know. “All right.” 

You catch the waitress’s eye and order two slices of warm apple pie. When it arrives, the pastries sit on white plates, steam still rising from the sugar-dusted crust. You pick at a corner, but Pope’s eyes linger on the fork beside his slice. He fidgets until you smile at him, and then he lifts the fork, piercing the soft filling. After a few bites, you notice his shoulders drop, the tension smoothing out of his back. He isn’t watching the door anymore.

“So…” Pope clears his throat. His cheeks color faintly. “You became a social worker.”

You stir the cinnamon-laced apples with your fork. “I did.”

He swallows. “Why?”

You look up at him across the table. His jaw is strong but his eyes are quietly vulnerable. “I blame you.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Me?”

“You were the first foster kid I ever met who made me feel safe.” You remember the bright hallway at the group home, the slamming doors, and how his calm presence made two terrifying weeks feel bearable. “Maybe I could do that for somebody else.”

He traces a thin line along the pie plate’s edge. “I didn’t do much.”

“You sat with me all night.”

“It was just a hallway.”

“You traded me your fries for my green beans when I refused to eat them.”

He smiles—not mockery, but the smallest sign of pleasure. “You hated them.”

“I still do.” You grin back at him.

“You stood up to bullies for me.”

“You did that for me too, remember?” A genuine laugh breaks free. “And you stole my pencils.”

“I borrowed them.”

“You never gave them back.”

“I absolutely gave them back.”

“You kept the blue one.”

“I…” You pretend to ponder solemnly. “…I might’ve kept the blue one.”

“I knew it.” He looks so pleased that your laughter bubbles up again. For a fleeting moment, he’s fifteen—awkward, protective.

“So what about you?” you ask, voice softening.

“What about me?”

“What do you do?” The question hangs in the warm light between you.

He hesitates. “I…work with my family.”

“What kind of work?”

He shifts, doubt flickering in his gaze. “Construction.”

You don’t believe him, but you don’t press him further. You only nod. “Do you like it?”

His expression softens. He leans back, threading his fingers together. “I like fixing things.”

A smile tugs at your lips. “You always did.”

His forehead creases in thought. “I did?”

“You repaired Mrs. Ramirez’s bird feeder.”

He chuckles, surprised. “I forgot about that.”

“You spent three hours on it.”

“It was crooked.”

“It wasn’t,” you say, gently.

“It leaned.”

“It was charming.”

He inhales slowly, then exhales. “It bothered me.”

“I know.”

From there, the conversation flows more easily—not because you speak more, but because you remember together. He brings back the afternoon you convinced him to help build a blanket fort in the Ramirez’s living room, draping quilts over chairs, propping up broom handles. 

You remember how he declared every fort needed a password, how you locked yourself out an hour later and begged to come back in. He demanded you recite, “The pigeon flies at midnight.” You collapse in giggles at the absurdity of it, and he beams at you like only a child can.

By the time the plates are empty, the diner has emptied further. A toddler at the next booth breaks his mother’s grip on a stuffed dinosaur, sending it tumbling to the floor. Pope leans over, picks it up without a word, and hands it back. The boy’s eyes light up, he snatches it, and Pope nods before turning back to his coffee—uncomfortable with praise, but not too proud to help.

You watch him, his broad shoulders now relaxed and free of alertness. You realize that beneath the tough exterior is still the boy who notices everything—who always notices when someone else needs help.

The coffee cups steamed between you, wisps of vapor curling in the lamplight. The diner’s yellow glow slipped across the black-and-white checkerboard floor and up the scuffed vinyl booths where you were still seated.

Thirty minutes had been the plan. By now, nearly three hours had passed. Outside, streetlamps blinked on, but neither of you seemed eager to move.

At last the waitress—a young woman with a white apron neatly tied—approached. She placed the check folder before you and offered a sympathetic smile. “I hate to kick you out,” she murmured, “but my manager says we’ve got to lock up soon.”

You shrugged, laughter in your voice. “I guess we lost track of time.”

“A little,” she teased, brushing her hair behind her ear.

Andrew reached for the check. You did the same.

His hand stalled in midair.

“I invited you,” you reminded him softly.

He looked down at the table, shoulders tensing. “I should pay.”

“You bought me a pile of cafeteria pudding cups when we were kids,” you said, eyes bright.

He frowned. “I did? I don’t remember that.”

“I do.” Swiftly, you slid a few bills into the folder before he could protest.

Outside, a cool breeze carried the scent of rain from the darkened sky. You lingered on the curb. Headlights painted the sidewalk across from you.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll get it next time.”

“Next time,” you echoed, the promise soft between you. Your lips curved in a smile. “I’d like that.”

He nodded. “...Me too.”

Silence padded the moment, neither of you moving toward your cars. The empty street seemed to hold its breath.

“So...” he said finally, hands shoved into his coat pockets.

“So,” you echoed.

“I don’t know how people usually—do this.”

You tilted your head. “Do what?”

“Make friends.”

The honesty caught you off guard. “There’s no rule book.”

He chewed his lower lip. “Okay.”

Another pause. You watched the wet pavement gleam under neon reflections. “You could call me.”

“I don’t have your number.”

You fished out a crumpled work card from your purse. On the back, you scribbled your cell. “There.”

He took it gingerly, fingers tracing your name and number as though they were fragile. Then he slipped it into his inner pocket.

Warmth bloomed inside you. He meant to keep it safe. “You don’t have to wait long,” you murmured.

He looked puzzled. “For what?”

“To call.” You laughed, the sound soft in the vacant street. “Unless you don’t want to.”

His eyes met yours. “I do.”

“So call.”

He cleared his throat. “Okay.”

Silence wrapped around you again, stretching thin. Then his phone buzzed.

The spell broke. Andrew’s shoulders jerked. He stared at the screen, the soft glow in his eyes vanishing. His jaw clenched. He silenced one call. Then a second light blinked. He answered on the third ring.

“What?” His voice was flat. You heard frantic words on the other end. His cradle of replies was sharp. “I’m coming...No...I’ll handle it...I said I’m coming.” And then the line went dead.

The warmth of the night seemed to thin. “I have to go,” he said.

You nodded, throat tight. “Family?”

He met your gaze, stormy and distant. “Yeah.” The single word trembled with unspoken worry.

“I hope everything’s okay,” you said, voice low.

He looked at you for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”

The confession was so bare you almost reached for his hand. Instead, you offered a gentle smile. “I’ll see you around?”

He glanced at the card in his pocket. “...I’d like that.”

Moments later, he was gone.

The next morning, your phone lay between you and your coffee cup. You checked it too many times to count. Blank screen. You laughed at yourself—you’d known him one evening. He didn’t owe you a call.

By five o’clock, you’d nearly convinced yourself he wouldn’t. Then your phone buzzed. Unknown Number.

Your heart fluttered. “Hello?”

Silence. Then soft breathing. “It’s me.”

Your lips curved without thought. “Hi, Andrew.”

Another pause. “So...”

“So.” You waited, fingertips brushing your desks smooth wood.

He exhaled. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You covered a laugh. “You called without a plan?”

“Yeah.”

“I kind of love that.”

“You do?”

“It’s honest.”

He was quiet a moment. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why aren’t you scared of me?”

The question stole the smile from your face. You leaned back, choosing your words. “What makes you think I should be?”

“Most people are.”

You breathed out. “I don’t know. When I look at you...I still see my protector.”

Silence. Then his voice came back, rougher. “People don’t usually remember the good parts.”

“Then they aren’t looking hard enough.”

After that call, the next felt easier. Not every day—sometimes only once a week. Sometimes he called to tell you about a red-tailed hawk on his windowsill. Sometimes you called him after a brutal workday, craving that familiar voice.

Little by little, a routine formed. One evening coffee became two, then three. Eventually, every Thursday.

You learned he liked old bookstores but never bought anything unless someone else insisted. He learned you couldn’t pass a used bookstore without ducking inside, no matter how brief the stop.

One Saturday, you strolled through a sun-dappled park. Andrew went unaccountably quiet beneath a massive oak.

“What is it?” you asked.

He pointed up. A red-tailed hawk circled lazily against the blue sky. You stood watching in silence.

“They’re still my favorite,” he whispered.

You smiled, brushing hair from your face. “I know.”

Together you watched the hawk drift beyond the cliffs, two souls—once lonely children—finding in each other the memory of someone who had seen them whole.

By October, Thursdays have quietly become yours and Pope’s. Neither of you schedule it, instead, the day rolls around, and you just find yourselves side by side again. On some Thursdays, you linger over coffee, other times, you push through the late afternoon chill with a walk along the beach. And every so often, you grab sandwiches from the deli after work and climb to your favorite bluff, where you can watch the sun bleed into the horizon.

Over the weeks, you’ve come to know small truths about him without ever asking. He always steers you to walk on the inner side of the sidewalk, leaving you sheltered from the road. He notices every exit in any building the instant he steps inside, as if memorizing escape routes is part of his DNA. In cafés, he chooses corner booths—back pressed to the wall, eyes scanning the entrance. And every single time the check arrives, you reach for it—and every single time, his hand closes over yours first, slipping his cash onto the table.

One Thursday, you both tug at the check until you’re practically wrestling over six dollars’ worth of coffee. You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh, deliberately over-dramatic. “You know…”

He looks up from the slim leather wallet he always carries.

“…I make my own money.”

“I know.” His voice is calm, but his eyes stay on yours.

“I can buy coffee.”

“I know.”

“You don’t always have to take care of me.”

The words hover, weighty. Pope stares at the grain of the wooden table for a long moment. “…Nobody took care of me,” he finally says.

Your chest tightens. The air between you becomes charged. “So…” you whisper.

“I don’t know how to stop.”

You slide a hand across the table, finger-tip light, just enough to brush his knuckles. Not to stop him, but to tell him you’re here. No words needed.

He lifts his gaze and holds it. For a heartbeat, you wonder if he’ll pull away. Instead, his fingers uncurl around yours—and then, with the arrival of the waitress and the rustle of her pad, he reaches for the check anyway.

Later that afternoon, clouds gather so fast the sky looks torn. By the time you escape your office, dark thunderheads have swallowed the horizon. Rain lashes the windows of the bus, rattling your ribs with every rumble. You barely make it home before the first crack of lightning, a jagged spear across the gray sky, crashes so close you clamp a hand over your heart. Even now, storms awaken the frightened little girl inside you—one who rocks herself beneath a faded quilt.

You brew a pot of chamomile tea, fingers trembling around the ceramic mug. Another round of thunder answers a flash of lightning, shaking the windowpanes. Just as a second wave of fear hits, your phone buzzes.

“Hey, Pope.”

“…The storm. You okay?”

You press your cheek to the cool glass, watching rain spatter into rivulets on the sill. “I’ll be okay.”

“You lying?”

You shrug to yourself. “…Maybe a little.”

Silence stretches and you curl tighter in your cardigan. Then, so quietly it seems impossible, he says, “I’m outside.”

Your heart spikes. “What?”

“I’m outside your apartment.”

You fling the door open. There, under the weak halo of the streetlight, sits Pope’s black truck. He’d driven across the city just to make sure you were safe.

By the time he gets to your door, he’s damp—water streaked through his dark hair, droplets clinging to his eyelashes—and in his hand he holds a small, crumpled brown bag. You step onto the landing and he lifts an eyebrow. “I brought dinner.”

You look inside the bag to find warm Chinese takeout, familiar cartons spilling noodles and sesame chicken. You always order it. “You always order sesame chicken.”

You step inside and he ducks his head through the doorway. “You know you didn’t have to drive all the way over here.”

“I know.” His voice is so low you have to lean closer to hear. “Then why did you?”

He tilts his head, puzzled. “You don’t like storms.” He says it simply, as if that explains it all.

Tears prick your eyes. “Come in.”

Your apartment is small but bright, thronged with books and plants. The couch sits angled toward a low media console, an old nature documentary humming on the TV. You settle onto the cushions, him beside you. 

Outside, thunder rolls again. You jump before you can hide it. Pope’s eyes flick over to yours. Without a word he stands and slips into the hallway.

You frown. “Andrew?” No answer.

After a moment, he returns, a thick folded quilt in his arms. Cream-colored with faint stripes.

“What’s that for?”

He drapes it over your shoulders, the wool nestling you in warmth. “…Better?”

You stare at him. “How did you know where I kept it?”

He shrugs, as though his memory holds every detail of your home. “You said the hall closet when you gave me the tour.”

You had. Weeks ago. He’d remembered. Again.

The lights flicker, the documentary flicks to static—and then everything goes dark. You laugh, a hollow little sound. “Candles, I’ve got candles.”

Pope is already on his feet. “Kitchen drawer?”

You point. “Second one.”

Moments later, soft amber glow blooms across the room as he lights a cluster of tapers. Shadows dance behind the spines of your bookshelves. The heat from the flames makes the air smell sweet—like honey and melting wax. He returns to the couch and sits closer than before, shoulders skimming yours, as if the distance matters. Neither of you says so.

You trace circles on the rim of your mug. “When we were kids…did you ever get scared of storms?”

Pope doesn’t answer at first. When he does, his voice is almost inaudible. “…Yeah.”

You wait, holding your breath.

“I didn’t like storms either,” he confesses. His mouth twists as he exhales. “I just…didn’t want you to be alone.”

Something shifts in your chest. Without thinking, you slide your hand into his. His palm is warm and solid—calloused from years of work—but it relaxes, fingers splaying to fit yours. Outside, thunder rolls once more, gentler now.

You stay like that, hand in hand, until the lights flick on again and the TV resumes its gentle roar. You hardly notice the rerun of birds and mountains playing on screen. You’re still settled on the couch, curled around each other’s warmth.

You lift your head and meet his eyes. “I used to think I’d stop being scared—eventually.”

Pope watches your joined hands. “You don’t have to.”

You smile, bittersweet. “You’ve said that already.”

“I mean it.”

You press your thumb to the back of his hand. His gaze flicks to the gentle motion, then back to you. There’s something tender and braced in his expression.

“What?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head, a breath tipping between frustration and vulnerability. “…No one’s held my hand in a long time.”

Your heart aches. “You can let go if you want.”

But his fingers tighten around yours. “I don’t want to.” He leans just enough so you catch the silence that follows—his next words barely above a whisper. “Why do you still want me around?”

Your chest tightens with something fierce and tender. You lift a hand to his cheek. “If you really want to know why I like having you around…” Your thumb brushes across his skin. “It’s because you were my first friend.”

He leans into your touch, slow and almost shy. “I missed you,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

“I missed you too.”

For a moment, the world beyond the apartment fades—thunder, candles, ocean winds. Then he opens his eyes, searching your face as though making sure you’re real. His next words tumble out nervously. “If I—if I kissed you…would that be okay?”

A smile blooms across your lips. “Yeah, that’d be okay.”

He leans in, cautious and respectful, as you lean forward and meet him halfway. His kiss is soft at first, a question. Then hunger wakes in him—tongue brushing yours in slow exploration. One hand slides down your spine, long fingers splaying across your ribs to steady you. A fresh clap of thunder shakes the walls, and you press into him, mindful and sure.

Morning light seeps in pale through the curtains. The storm has passed, leaving only droplets rolling down the window panes. You stir and realize you’re wrapped in smooth cotton sheets, Pope’s arm draped protectively across your waist. He shifts, a low groan rumbling from his chest as his eyelids flutter open. When he sees you, his gaze sharpens, a slow smile curving on his lips.

“Good morning,” he rasps, voice rough with sleep.

You roll toward him. He lifts your hand and presses a tender kiss to your palm. There’s no hesitation now, no awkwardness—only soft need. His palm slides down your thigh, fingertips tracing delicate patterns of anticipation. You arch back, and he captures your mouth, breath warm against yours.

Clothes slip away quickly as his hands explore you—knuckles brushing across sensitive flesh—and you cradle his head, guiding him. When your fingers find the thick length of him, you wrap a gentle grip around him. He shudders, eyes closing as he breathes your name into the morning light. Hips lift, seeking the friction of your touch.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “I need to be inside you. Please.”

You don’t make him wait. You swing your leg over his hips, straddling him, the sheets tangling around your legs. You reach down, gripping the base of his cock, and notch the broad head against your entrance.

You sink down slowly, letting your body adjust to his size. The stretch is a burning pleasure that borders on too much, but feels exactly right. You watch his face as you take him in, inch by inch - his jaw clenched, his eyes boring directly into yours, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. When you’ve taken him all the way to the hilt, you pause, savoring the feeling of being completely full.

“You feel so good,” you gasp, rolling your hips. The friction sends sparks shooting up your spine. The intensity in his eyes steals your breath. He sits up, wrapping his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He licks a stripe up your throat, biting down gently on the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“Ride me,” he commands, his voice muffled against your skin. “Take what you need.”

You start to move, a slow, torturous rhythm. You lift your hips until just the tip of his cock remains inside you, then slam back down, taking him hard and deep. Every thrust drags the head of his dick against your g-spot, a perfect pressure that builds a tight coil in your belly.

Andrew meets your movements, thrusting up into you with increasing force. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, tilting your head back so he can devour your mouth. The kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue and desperate breath. You can feel the tension in his thighs, the way his muscles coil as he holds back, letting you set the pace.

“I’m close,” you whine, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Andrew, please…”

He slips one hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with precision. Soon, your body seizes up as the orgasm tears through you. You cry out his name as you clamp down around him. 

Pope groans, gripping your hips even harder, holding you in place as he drives up into you one last time. You feel him pulse inside you, marking you as his. The sensation prolongs your own pleasure, sending aftershocks rippling through your limbs.

You collapse against his chest, both of you gasping for air, slick with sweat and sex. Pope’s heart hammers against your ear, a frantic drum that slowly begins to slow. He wraps his arms around you, holding you tight as his softening cock slips out of you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand stroking your hair in long, soothing motions.

“Stay,” you whisper, the words barely audible but heavy with meaning as you burrow deeper into his embrace, listening to the rain start to fall heavier outside.

You plan to meet Pope the following Thursday as usual, but that day, you’re late. Work had run over. Paperwork. A crisis placement. A child crying so hard she couldn’t speak.

By the time you reach the café, Pope is already there, sitting in the corner, watching the door like always. Except this time, there’s something else in his expression when he sees you. Something tighter.

You sit down and he doesn’t immediately ask about your day. That’s the first sign something is wrong.

“Hey.”

Silence stretches. Then he reaches into his leather jacket and places a folded newspaper clipping on the table. “I think you should see something,” he says.

Your fingers don’t move toward the paper right away. Slowly, you unfold the clipping to see an article about a missing woman, a murder, and a sentencing. You read names you don’t recognize—but his is there, anchoring everything. At the bottom, a grainy image.

Pope. Not the version you know. Not the man who opens doors for you and watches nature documentaries. This version doesn’t look softened by time or familiarity. He looks like someone the world had already decided to fear. Your throat tightens. You set the paper down carefully.

When you look up, he’s watching you closely. Waiting. Braced for something. For disgust. For fear. For the moment you’ll finally step away.

You can see it in the way he holds himself. He’s rehearsed this ending before. Probably many times.

“I thought she was going to hurt my family…I sorry. I should’ve told you sooner,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want you to know that side of me, but I thought you deserved to know. I’ll understand if you want to go.”

You lean forward just a little. “Thanks for telling me, but I’m not going anywhere. You want to know why?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares at you in disbelief. So you continue.

“Because I see a man who shows up at my apartment during a thunderstorm when I’m scared.” Silence. “I see a man who feeds ducks at the park.” Another pause. “I see a man who fixes my broken dishwasher when my shitty landlord can’t get around to it.”

His hands curled slightly on the table. “How can you overlook what I did?” 

“Andrew,” you say quietly, “I’m not overlooking it. But I work with kids who’ve been through things no one should go through.” A pause. “I don’t believe people are only what they’ve done on their worst days.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it had been held for years. “You still shouldn’t be around me,” he says quietly. “Not with your job.” It’s a warning. “I don’t know how to be someone you don’t regret,” he admits. “I can’t take back what I’ve done.”

“No, you can’t” you say gently. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t change.”

He lets out a faint, humorless exhale. Like he doesn’t fully believe that was possible. But he doesn’t argue. 

One Year Later

The late afternoon sun spills through the front windows of the little beach house, turning everything gold. You had moved in with Pope three months ago and the house has become yours together. Your coffee mug always sits beside the kettle in the kitchen. Pope’s shoes are always lined up at the back door. The fridge is covered with drawings that have been given to you by foster kids over the years.

The months after Pope’s confession hadn’t been easy. He’d expected you to walk away. Instead, you’d listened. You hadn’t excused what he’d done, you’d simply listened to the man you loved admit the worst thing he’d ever done. You’d learned that love wasn’t pretending the past hadn’t happened. It was choosing honesty over illusion.  

After his mother passed, Pope began working steadily - and honestly - doing construction and odd repair jobs around Oceanside. You continued working with foster children. Had even been able to arrange for Pope to have monthly visits with Lena.

One Friday afternoon, your phone buzzes just as you finish writing case notes. You smile before answering. “Hi.”

“You almost done?” Andrew asks.

“I’ll be out in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. Drive safe.”

“I always do.”

“I know. I’ll see you soon.”

There’s  something different in his voice. Something nervous.

The house looks unusually quiet when you pull into the driveway. Pope’s truck is there and the porch light is on even though the sun hasn’t set yet. You unlock the front door and the smell hits you first.

“You cooked?”

“I…” comes his voice from the kitchen. “...I tried.”

You smile as you round the corner. Pope stands in the middle of the kitchen wearing the blue, frilly apron your elderly neighbor had given you for your birthday. You bite your lip to keep from laughing.

“...Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“You look adorable.”

His ears turn pink immediately. 

Dinner is delicious, every bite tasting like the effort he put in. Like someone learning how to build a life instead of simply surviving one. Halfway through dinner, you notice Pope has barely touched his food.

“You okay? You seem nervous.”

He looks down at his plate. “...I am.”

That gets your attention. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Okay…”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Can we take a walk?”

The beach is nearly empty as the sun begins to sink toward the horizon. The tide rolls lazily across the sand. A pair of pelicans skim low over the water. Pope walks beside you in silence, hands solved into his pockets.

You slip your arm around his elbow and lean onto his shoulder. He stopped walking. “You’ve spent my whole life,” he said carefully, “remembering the best parts of me.”

You frown. “Because they’re the real you.”

He swallowed. “I didn’t believe that for a long time.” He pulls his hand from his pocket, and intertwines his fingers with yours. “But you stayed. You stayed when I told you the truth.” He smiles, small and almost disbelieving. “For the first time in my life, I feel like I finally have a home.”

The word hangs between you. Home. The thing both of you spent your lives searching for. You lift your eyebrows when he reaches back into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box.

“Andrew…”

“I didn’t…” He laughs nervously. “I didn’t know if I should buy one.”

He opens the box. Insides sits a simple ring. Nothing extravagant. A delicate gold band with a small oval sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds. He knows you wouldn’t want an overly showy ring.

“The jeweler said sapphires are strong.” His voice shakes slightly. “I thought…” He looks down at the ring before meeting your eyes again. “I thought it was a good fit for you.”

Tears blurred your vision instantly.

“I know our lives haven’t been easy. I know I can’t change what happened before. But every morning I wake up and I want to be the man you believe I can be.” His eyes glistened. “You taught me that home isn’t a place. So…” He took a slow, steady breath. “...I was hoping…”

He didn’t get any further, the emotion closing his throat.

You squeeze his hand. “It’s okay.” You nod, tears flowing freely now. “When we were kids, you gave me a drawing before you left with your mom. Do you remember what it said?”

Pope gave a brief nod, but didn’t speak.

“It said,” you continue, “‘Home isn't always a place. Sometimes it's a person.’ I was too young to understand what it meant, but I do now.”

With that, Andrew lowers himself to one knee in the sand. “I love you. I’ve loved you since I found you again in that office. I don’t know what the future looks like, but I know I want every ordinary Tuesday. Every grocery trip. Every thunderstorm. Every Thursday coffee. I want all of it.”

He looks at you with the same quiet sincerity the fifteen year old boy had once shown a lonely little girl in a county waiting room. “Will you marry me?”

You were nodding before he even finishes asking. “Yes. Of course! I think I’ve always loved you, Andrew.”

Relief floods his face so completely and his shoulders sag as though he’s been carrying the weight of this question for months. He slides the ring carefully onto your finger. It fit perfectly. You stare at it for a moment before looking back at him.

“You guessed my ring size?”

A faint blush creeps across his cheeks. “You fall asleep pretty hard after reading at night.”

You laugh and wipe at your eyes. “Sneaky.”

The salty spray clings to your skin in a sticky layer as you walk back from the shoreline. Beside you, Pope walks with a loose, easy stride, his fingers laced tightly through yours. Every few steps, he glances down, his gaze catching the streetlight’s amber glow as it reflects off the sapphire resting on your left hand. The weight of the stone is unfamiliar, a cool heavy anchor that sends a fresh ripple of electricity up your arm every time it brushes against your skin.

You squeeze his hand, and he turns his head. His dark hair, damp from the sea air, has begun to curl at the nape of his neck and against his temples. His hazel eyes are locked onto you, the green and brown flecks swirling in the low light, darkening with a hunger that has been building since the moment he slipped the ring onto your finger.

“Still can’t believe you said yes,” he murmurs, his voice rough, as you walk up to your house. 

You reach up, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “I still can’t believe you asked.”

He steps closer, eliminating the remaining inches of space between your bodies. The scent of him - salt, sunscreen, and that musky soap he uses - invades your senses, making your head swim. He drops your hand only to wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. You can feel the steady, heavy thud of his heart beating against your ribs. 

“Get inside,” he whispers against your lips, the command low and thick with intent. “Now.”

The key fumbles in the lock, the metal cold and slippery in your palm, but finally, the latch clicks. You stumble over the threshold, the door slamming shut behind you, cutting off the ocean breeze. The silence of the house is instantaneous and heavy. Before you can even kick off your sandals, Andrew is on you, backing you against the wall of the entryway. His mouth crashes onto yours, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping past your lips to claim you.

You moan into his mouth, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to erase every inch of distance. His hands roam down your sides, gripping your hips, pulling you forward to grind against the hard ridge of his cock pressing insistently against his shorts. The friction is electric, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your clit, making your knees weak.

“Andrew,” you gasp, breaking the kiss to breathe. He doesn’t let you go far, his lips trail down your jaw, nipping and sucking at your neck to mark you.

You reach behind your back, finding the zipper of your dress. The sound of it lowering seems deafening in the quiet room. With a shrug of your shoulders, the fabric pools at your feet, leaving you standing in the dim light of the hallway.

Pope freezes, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes raking over your body with a slow, deliberate intensity that makes your skin prickle with heat. You’re wearing new lingerie - a bralette and matching cheeky panties in a deep, sapphire blue, the color coincidentally an exact match to the stone on your finger.

His gaze drops to your chest, where the blue lace cups your breasts, pushing them up and together, the sheer fabric revealing the hardened peaks of your nipples beneath. Then lower, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, and finally settling on the fabric between your thighs.”

“Jesus,” he breathes, the word escaping him like a punch to the gut. he looks from the lingerie back up to your eyes before dropping to his knees in front of you. The sight of him - your fiance - looking up at you makes your breath hitch. He reaches out, his large hands spanning your waist, his thumbs stroking the soft skin just above the waistband of your panties. 

He leans forward and presses his face against the damp lace covering you. He inhales deeply, a ragged sound tearing from his throat, his tongue darts out, hot and wet, licking a broad stripe up your center, soaking the lace.

Your head falls back against the wall, a sharp cry tearing from your lips. “God, Andrew.”

He hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear, dragging them down your legs with agonizing slowness. He helps you step out of them, leaving the blue scrap of lace forgotten on the floor. Then, his hands are back on your thighs, urging them apart. You comply, widening your stance, exposing your dripping core to his gaze.

“So fucking wet for me,” he groans. He finally leans in, burning his face between your thighs. His tongue finds your clit immediately, circling the bundle of nerves with precision. He sucks hard and your knees buckle. 

You thread your fingers through his dark curls, holding on as he eats you out with hungry fervor. The wet sounds of his mouth on you echo through the entryway, mixing with your broken moans and the heavy sound of your own breathing.

“Pope, please,” you beg, unsure if you want him to stop or go on forever. “I need you inside me.”

He pulls away, his chin glistening, his lips swollen and red. He looks up at you as he stands, shedding his shirt and kicking off his pants in frantic, clumsy movements. His cock springs free, already leaking. 

He grabs you by the waist, lifting you effortlessly. You wrap your legs around his hips, your arms around his neck, as he carries you toward the bedroom. He doesn’t make it to the bed, instead, pinning you against the doorframe. The wood digs into your back, but you don’t care. You need him too much to care about discomfort.

With a groan, he drives into you, burying himself in one thrust. You cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders as he stretches you open. He stills for a moment, buried deep inside you, his forehead resting against yours. “You’re mine,” he whispers. “You’re really mine.”

“Forever,” you breathe back.

He starts to move then, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. He sets a punishing rhythm, fucking you against the doorframe with a desperation that borders on violence. Every thrust drives the air from your lungs, his pelvic bone grinding against your clit. The ring on your hand catches the light as you clutch his shoulder, flashing blue fire in the darkness.

Your orgasm crashes over you unexpectedly and he fucks you through it, prolonging your pleasure until his own release overtakes him. With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you and stills. He groans long and low, his face buried in your neck, his teeth grazing your skin.

For a long time you stay there, pinned against the doorframe, your bodies tangled together. The only sounds are your ragged breathing and the hum of the ocean outside. Slowly, the world comes back into focus.

Andrew lifts his head, pressing a soft, tender kiss to your lips. It’s a stark contrast to moments ago. He carefully lowers your legs to the floor, keeping an arm around your waist to steady you. He takes your left hand, lifting it to his lips. He kisses the knuckle, then the sapphire, his eyes never leaving yours. 

You lean into him, exhausted and content, feeling the sticky heat between your thighs and the cool weight of the ring. “I love you, Andrew.”

“Good,” he says, scooping you up to carry you the rest of the way to the bed. “Because I plan on keeping you in that lingerie - and out of it - for the rest of my life.”

Still, he couldn't figure out why you were always at their house. Smurf wasn't good company, obviously, though she tolerated you just barely. Mostly because you kept to yourself. She knew you wouldn't blab to anyone about the Cody's jobs or that you never intended on going against her.

You were just there.

And no one complained, because you were like a fresh breath of air. You smiled and within two minutes you'd have J smiling too. You stayed around a lot, but never for too many days. If you went over, you were there for a long time, but the moment you disappeared, you were gone.

There seemed to be no specific reason for it. You seemed to be just overly concerned that you were being too much and bothering people. He knew you were a lonely girl, but he was also aware that your fear of being too much overpowered your grave sense of loneliness that you were never able to hide.

It was a bad habit of yours, always apologizing, even for existing seemingly. Craig had shot you numerous perplexed looks, never having heard this many sorry come from one person ever. But Pope knew he liked it, enjoying the fact that someone saw him as important enough to feel bad for him, that he was worthy enough to receive the sweetest girl's ever apologies.

Pope on the other hand, hated it. He hated the word sorry, and he especially hated it coming from you.

Whenever you apologized, whether it was accidentally brushing his arm while you were in the kitchen, or speaking, what you thought was, for too long, Pope would shut you down. And he'd always do it in a cold tone, knowing that was the most effective way to stop you completely from ever uttering that word around him again.

He knew his voice would startle you, not expecting Pope who was always kind to you, to speak to you that way.

His plan worked, and you started biting your lip hard the moment the word slipped out. You'd look up panicked, and that would usually be enough for him. He'd shot you a dry look, bored even. And you'd shake your head and mumble, 'I take that back.' and he'd drop the look immediately, resorting to his normal soft look that he always wore around you.

The word didn't completely disappear from your vocabulary, but now you uttered it almost never when he was around, and it made Pope feel less worried about being in your presence.

Everyone adored you and sometimes he hated it. It worried him that everyone felt the same adoration he did for you, that somehow you'd never pay attention to him. Given his brothers were much better at being affectionate, it made him feel like he was behind. Like it was a competition to be your favorite brother, and he was last, not even having started the run, because he didn't know how to. That the moment Craig brought you into the house and introduced you, a starter pistol went off, and everyone started running.

It didn't stop him from seeking you out all the time. Whenever the question 'Where's Pope? popped up, the answer was the same. With you. Always with you.

Mostly, because you followed him around. When he'd reject your offers to sit with you on the couch at parties, you'd get up and follow him.

There the two of you would stand somewhere and observe the party together, both with the same repulsed expression. For him, it was the dirt and the carelessness, for you it was the loudness of it all.

When you caught Pope in front of a dark TV, staring at himself in the reflection, you'd tap his shoulder softly. Just two taps, never wanting to overwhelm him. "My car's making weird sounds," you'd say softly, and he'd get up and help you.

Sometimes you'd tell him something was broken in your home, and he'd drive to your place without a word. You'd always try to drag out his stay, offering him cookies (because you were absolutely terrible at cooking) or offering sodas.

Sometimes, he'd catch you looking around the room nervously, looking for new problems he could fix. So he'd grumble out a "Sink sounded weird earlier," and you'd smile so wide, it was like the sun came out from behind the clouds.

Things like this made him doubt everything.

Maybe you didn't dislike him as much as he thought, maybe he did have the potential to be your favorite brother.

But then he'd watch you light up when Deran would tell you he finally figured out how to make your favorite mocktail. (Obviously, you never had to pay a cent. If not for Deran shaking his head as you handed him money, then it was Pope who paid for everything you ate and drank.)

Even Craig offered to teach you how to surf. The shy expression you always wore around Pope would disappear and your smile would be so radiant Pope wouldn't be able to look away, never having gotten the privilege to see such an open expression from you.

Things like these made Pope doubt everything, consider that maybe the shy expression was just your uncomfortable one, that when you needed help at home, it was simply because you needed help and nothing else.

He knew Deran and Craig were absolutely terrible at fixing things, and he feared that, just like everyone else, you too viewed him as a tool, something to use and throw away. That he was just waiting for the throw-away part, and that it was coming sooner or later.

But he couldn't help but have all his worries vanish into thin air, whenever you decided to grace him with your big thankful eyes and an even wider, dazzling smile.

The first time he felt like too much for you, so much he wanted to run away, was when you joined him in the garage.

You softly knocked against the doorway. "Andrew?" you always said his name so sweetly, it made him want to record it and listen to it like a lullaby until he fell asleep, which didn't happen much these days.

He looked up at you. "You're awake." He furrowed his eyebrows in concern. It was pitch dark outside, and he figured you were asleep in the living room.

You shook your head. "Couldn't sleep." you smiled softly, your eyes telling him to please drop it. He did, turning his head back to what he was working on.

You stepped closer, and he could smell the perfume that he loved so much. Before he knew it, you were towering over him, lightly brushing up against his shoulder. "What are you working on?" you titled your head, staring down at whatever it was you were looking at.

"Part of the car. Stopped working last night," he replied in a low voice, not raising his head, even though he really really wanted to see your pretty face.

You glanced around, spotted what you needed and sat down. You pulled the chair closer to him, setting your elbows on the table in the process. "Mind if I watch you?"

Pope glanced at you, and his eyes darted all over your face, trying to gauge what exactly the point here was. You seemed sincere, so he hummed.

You laid your cheek in your palm and watched him. Your big eyes stared at his hands with so much interest, they started to tremble a bit.

The silence between you was filled with the sound of an owl and the ticking of a broken clock somewhere in the garage.

Five minutes must've passed by now and Pope had never understood until now how silence could be nice even with someone else in it. It wasn't like he couldn't feel your presence. No. He knew you were here, but he enjoyed it. More than enjoy, he craved it. He wanted to stay in this little room forever, hearing nothing but your soft breaths and the sound of you tapping your foot restlessly on the floor.

He didn't hate the silence like when he did with Smurf, who sat with him in silence at breakfast and watched him eat.

No, he loved the feeling of your soft eyes watching him work, knowing he was good at what he did, and that you were admiring him.

"You're not tired?" you asked after a while, careful not to be too loud, not wanting to disturb his work.

"No." When Pope looked up, he met your eyes immediately, like you'd been watching his face rather than his eyes, and your lips lifted into a flustered smile.

Embarrassed, like you'd been caught. He wasn't sure what it was, but he almost felt the need to gloat about it. Sweetest girl he knew was caught staring at him.

Stupid.

He looked away again, almost in shame, because how dare he think that you were admiring him. You were sleepy and he was awake. That's it. Had Craig been out here, you probably would've joined him too. He was nothing special.

"S'nice watching you," You brushed a hand over your face, rubbing your eyes tired.

Pope looked up, because surely he'd misheard, but you shot him a sweet smile, soft hair falling over your shoulders as you rubbed your eyes, hard, again.

People couldn't even stand to utter his name, and you were telling him that he was nice to watch. Like his presence was worth acknowledging. Like it was something good, like his presence wasn't to be feared, like he didn't hear the rumors in town about how people feared the thought of him.

Horrible, awful Pope who hit and hurt people, who made a mess of people and things, of everything.

A kind girl like you liked to watch him in the middle of the night doing things that his brothers called weird, made them shake their heads as they looked away in disappointment and shame, wishing they'd had a normal brother, one more like them.

He must've stayed quiet for too long, because you froze. "Sorry, did—did I say something wrong?" nervously, you toyed with your heart necklace.

"No—No you didn't." Pope shook his head quickly, eyes darting back down to his car part. His fingers twitched nervously. "You should try to sleep." And he could sense he'd said the wrong thing, because your eyes widened for a second, and worry overtook your face.

"Oh—right, yeah you're right." Stumbling over your words nervously, you stood up, and Pope regretted it.

He hadn't meant this. He was just trying to tell you that he appreciated your kindness, but surely he wasn't that interesting. "I meant— it's not healthy to stay awake," he managed out, eyes darting back up to your face and back down. "It's not good for you." he managed out nervously.

You looked down at him, and you stood there for a bit, before sitting back down slowly, understanding he didn't want you to go. "Yeah— I know." You toyed with a bolt on the table, rolling it in between fingers before you looked back at Pope who was still watching you. "Craig keeps yelling in his room about his video game, and Smurfs still awake by the Pool." You dropped the bolt. "It's distracting."

"You can sleep in my room," Pope said, and given your reaction, it wasn't exactly something you expected him to say. But it made sense to him. "You can't hear Craig in there."

You stared at him, your eyes wide, making them bigger than they already were. "You want me to sleep in your room?"

Pope wasn't sure what was so confusing. It wasn't like his room was bad. Sure, it was a bit empty, but he took care of it, it was clean. He pushed the car part away, getting up from his chair. "I'll get you new bed sheets," and then he just walked out of the garage. You stood in the empty garage, mouth open, before you scrambled to follow him.

To your luck, Smurf was fast asleep, bottles of alcohol next to her, and you hurried to follow Pope. Inside, he led you to his room, grabbing clean bed sheets out of one of the closets in the hallway, before walking into his room.

You stood in the doorway watching Pope fix the bed for you. Were you dreaming? Was Pope actually fixing his bed for you?

You looked down and pinched your skin. "Ouch." you muttered to yourself. Not a dream, officially and definitely not a dream.

Pope turned his head to you. "You need pajamas?" he asked, but you shook your head.

You never took, unless you were outright suffering and Pope's eyes slowly darted down to the goosebumps across your skin, which were visible even with just two night lights on.

You were wearing a simple white lace tank top and California nights weren't exactly known for their heat. Even Smurf outside, was sleeping with at least two blankets. He turned, opened a drawer and grabbed a hoodie. When he handed it to you, you didn't take it.

"Is that yours?"

Pope nodded, almost worried. "I—You can have one of Deran's if you want."

"Nope, I—I'd like yours." you managed, grabbing the hoodie and letting it swallow you whole. It was warm, and it smelled nice, so very nice. You couldn't help the way your head just lowered a tiny bit, letting yourself smell how nice Pope's scent was.

Pope had already looked away the sight too much, and was now awkwardly staring down at the bed, fingers twitching nervously at his sides. "Okay, have— have a good night."

In all of your years of living, you'd never been this bold before. You weren't even sure what overcame you. Your hand reached out, and you grabbed Pope's bicep lightly before he walked past you.

You felt him freeze up, eyes locked onto your hand around his bicep, and you had to resist the urge to squeeze, to test how really hard and warm his bicep was. "Will—" you bit your lip, already regretting starting the sentence. "Don't you wanna sleep?"

"I have to work." His eyes flickered back down to your soft hands around his bicep.

You had pink polish on with brown polka dots. It was sweet. He'd seen you paint them once, you'd even helped Lena with hers. Lena had been so happy, and hadn't stopped talking about you the entire afternoon after you'd gone home. He had been glad to know that someone else felt about you the way he did.

You dropped your hand, disappointment flickering across your face. Pope's eyes darted around your face, noting how close you were but also how you were still trying to find your words. He waited.

"I'd like you to stay," you phrased it so sweetly, the way you always did, but for the first time you told him what you wanted. There was no if it's okay with you, you don't have to, no it's okay.

No, you straight up wanted something from him and God would he be stupid if he said no to you.

His eyes darted back to the bed and his eyes stayed there for a while, thinking. "I have to turn off the lights in the garage."

"I'll wait here!" You looked like you were about to start bouncing up and down from excitement.

Pope watched you for a second before turning and walking down the hallway, wondering what on earth led him to commit to this.

Meanwhile, you were in disbelief, palm to your mouth, as you muttered. "Oh my god. Oh my god." Oh my god, you were going to die. You glanced at the bed, deciding to get in now, before you were stuck in the awkward moment of having to argue with him about what side to take.

You pushed back Popes clean blue covers, slowly settling down in bed, and god was it was warm and soft. And it smelled nice.

You pulled the hoodie sleeves down over your wrists, nervously squeezing your eyes shut. You couldn't believe he'd agreed to this.

Pope walked back slowly, boots thudding on the floor until he stood in the doorway looking at the top of your head. Not to seem like a creep, he didn't linger, quickly stepping in. He could feel your pretty eyes watching him as he grabbed a set of fresh boxers, shirt and a towel.

"Gonna take a shower, won't take long," he said, barely looking at you. The sight was too much for him to handle.

"Okay," you said softly, eyes following him until he was in his bathroom.

You passed the time by opening every drawer of his, checking out what he had in there. Barely anything. You sighed, Pope wasn't much of a talker, so you'd hoped you'd find out more about him in his room.

He wasn't joking when he said he wouldn't take long, because just as you were checking out his bottom drawer, he showed up. You shut the drawer with the loudest bang! possible before scrambling back into a horizontal position, embarrassed.

Pope's eyes darted down to the drawer before lifting to your embarrassed expression. He was more endeared by anything. Any other person and he would've gotten suspicious, but you were toying with his sheets nervously, avoiding his eyes, and he knew you'd just been curious.

He'd caught you walking around the house, staring at every picture more than once. He was more than aware of your curious nature.

He brushed a hand through his curls as he walked to his side of the bed, and you lifted the sheets for him.

You somehow managed to still surprise him with your small sweet gestures. He'd lived his whole life in Oceanside, and with his reputation, people had stopped granting him kindness, even as simple as receiving a thank you.

He felt so endlessly grateful that one person on this earth was able to be kind to him, that maybe he wasn't as evil as he thought, that there was a chance for him. That if someone like you looked at someone like him and thought he was worth it, worth spending your time and sweetness on, he might actually have a chance in life.

He slipped under the sheets, and you dropped them, making the warmth hit him all at once. He liked to sleep on his side looking at the wall, but it felt almost insane to miss out on seeing your pretty face all night, so he stayed on his back, view narrowing to the ceiling.

You, on the other hand, turned to your side, palm under your cheek. "Your bed's soft." You whispered, and he turned his head to you, eyes darting away shyly when he noticed your intense stare. He figured his bed was nice enough, almost relieved it was up to your standards. He'd been worried in the shower that you'd make some excuse, and he'd come out, looking like a wet puppy, to an empty bed.

"What?" he asked after he felt you stare for a little more.

"Your curls are nice," you whispered. "Always wanted to tell you that, but was too scared."

"Of me?" It just slipped out of Pope's mouth. He didn't want to know the answer to that question.

"What? No." Confusion was written all over your face, your lips curling into a frown. "I'm just— it's a weird thing to say. That's all."

Pope stared at you. Not scared of him. You weren't scared of him. ’S'not weird." He held your stare for a while until his nervousness overtook his entire body, leading him to glance away again, eyes focusing back on the white canvas above him.

"Thanks for dinner tonight."

Smurf hadn't been up for it for some reason and Deran or Craig didn't care, so Pope had made food just for you. You hadn't even told asked, and maybe that's why he made it, because he knew you never would.

He turned his head, happy you were giving him an excuse to look at you. "D'you like it?"

"Loved it." you smiled softly. "You could be a professional cook."

Pope's mouth almost lifted into a smile at that, but then you scooted closer, and he froze up. His arm, which had been resting on the side of the bed, almost touching your stomach now. You were so close, he could see how pretty your eyes were up close.

They had always been his favorite part about you. When Craig had first introduced you, Pope knew his brother had warned you about him, told you he was crazy and weird. His brothers did that with everyone they brought to the house, and their friends would always eye him weirdly, and he'd never be given the chance to show them that he was capable of kindness. That he could be as normal as they wanted him to be.

But you, you, had smiled, lifted your hand in a wave and looked at him in a way that no one had looked at him in years. Soft, kind, and open-minded.

He stared at you, and you stared back, and then you slowly lifted your hand.

"Can I—?" you whispered softly, and he was startled by the fact that you asked, so he nodded.

People never asked before they touched him. The only touches he received were involuntary ones from Smurf, or punches from his brothers and strangers. Never ones from sweet girls that asked before they settled their hand softly at his temple, toying with one of his curls.

The bottom half of your hand touched his cheekbones, and you brushed over his hair, thumb catching in a curl. He watched you, eyes big, before finally turning to his side, deciding that he'd make it easier for you.

He saw the smile you suppressed, absolutely delighted that he was so open to you touching him.

He took a second to absorb and analyze the expression. His hazel eyes darting all over your face, looking for any lie, that this was just a game to you. That maybe you'll look at him in the morning with pity in your eyes. But your eyes were glowing, and even with his insecurities choking him when he was with you, he could tell that no lie was in your eyes.

"They're wet," he provided you with the most unnecessary information, already wanting to smack himself for pointing out such an obvious thing.

You just hummed, too distracted to be touching his hair to focus on his awkwardness. You looped a curl around a finger, thumb brushing right above his eyebrow.

Your eyebrows were furrowed like you were studying his hair, but he knew you weren't as relaxed as you seemed. Your breath was going quicker, he could feel it against his face. He could smell your perfume, something floral and vanilla and felt the need to press his face into your hair and just stay there.

Your eyes traveled back to his face, and you observed him, before your hands went back down to his bicep. "You can relax," you whispered. "I won't do anything you don't want me to."

Pope stared at you, hazel eyes wide, never once leaving your face. "You have to sleep too."

"I will." Your hand already back in his curls. He let the feeling of your warm hands overtake every other feeling. Every sense of fear, insecurity and worry.

As much as he knew you wanted him to, he couldn't sleep. Whether it was because of his nightmares or because of you being here, he wasn't sure. His eyes continued to track your face, and it didn't take you long before you let your hand drift from his hair to his cheek, brushing your thumb lightly over his cheekbone one first and last time, before dropping it back in between you.

Your eyelashes fluttered lightly like a good night to him before you closed your eyes. Pope let himself watch you, let himself feel the phantom feeling of your hands. Your perfume continued to linger, and he wished his room would absorb it forever, that every time he walked in, he'd smell your perfume. He knew his bed would smell like you for at least the next couple of days now, and he hoped so desperately that the next time you came over to the house, you'd sleep in his bed.

The office was warm, lit by only the lamps at the corner of the room. It was a nice setup, with a desk against the far wall and a pair of couches in the center of the room. You were sprawled out on one of the couches, head resting against one of the arms so you could stay upright and still face Titus. He sat at the desk, a gorgeous dark mahogany, in a broad leather chair. You enjoyed being in the same room as him, even if you weren’t actively interacting. It was a nice compromise when he had to work into the late hours of the night instead of curling up in bed next to you. 

You knew Titus was stressed. It was in the tense way he huddled over his desk, flicking through the pages of a ledger with one hand, gripping a cigar in the other. His lips moved slightly occasionally, muttering to himself as his eyes roved over the lines on the paper. You were watching him over the top of your book, the one you and Ursula had decided to read together- your own little book club. It was interesting enough, but Titus captured your attention better than any novel. He brought a glass of bourbon to his lips, sipping on the auburn liquid before taking another puff of his cigar. Your nose crinkled a bit. You weren’t a huge fan of the combination, but the smoke didn’t smell horrible. To Titus, it was an art- trying to match the perfect flavors of cigars and bourbon. It was a puzzle he had spent hours experimenting on. It gave him joy. And by the looks of him, he really needed it, so even if the smoke was a little heavy in the room, you didn’t mention it. Titus rubbed at his eyes, shaking his head slightly. Ursula managed most of the estate, but all the accounts that she didn’t feel like dealing with landed squarely on Titus’ shoulders. He had vented about it a few nights ago while you got ready for bed. You were rubbing lotion onto your skin as he rambled from the bed about investments and transfers of board members. You couldn’t really follow it, but you nodded sympathetically. It seemed that the situation had only gotten worse. 

Titus let out an exasperated sigh and leaned back in the chair, setting down the cigar and rubbing both hands over his face. You let your book fall into your lap, making it clear that your attention was on him. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and interlinked his fingers over his midsection. His lips pursed together and his eyes met yours.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “I know it’s late. But these numbers don’t make any fucking sense.”

“Maybe you need to give your eyes a break,” You offer “Come back to it in the morning.” Titus shook his head and took another sip of his drink.

“Can’t.” He said simply “They’re due in the morning.” Your eyes flicked to the clock on the mantle of the unlit fireplace. It was midnight. 

“Could still get a nap in,” You shrugged. “Or at least a walk.” Titus hummed half-heartedly. He stared at the papers on his desk, eyes slightly glazed over. He looked so tired. Dark circles accented his eyes and his shirt was rumpled. One of his hands rubbed at the back of his neck and he shifted in his seat. Clearly sitting in the office chair for hours on end was making him uncomfortable. 

An idea slithered into your mind. You placed your book on the end table and pushed yourself off the couch. Titus watched you as you crossed the room and positioned yourself behind the chair. Thankfully, the top of it was low enough where you could reach his shoulders. Before he could protest, you pressed your thumbs into the meat of his shoulder muscles. You rubbed circles, massaging the tension away. Titus let out a breath, sighing in contentment and allowing his head to rest back on your chest. You pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, inhaling the combination of the scent of his shampoo and the underlying smell of sweat after a long day. A scent so uniquely him that it caused your heart to stutter. It was a drug. Something you wanted to smell for the rest of time until the heat death of the universe. You worked the muscles of his shoulders and upper back, digging in your palms and splaying your fingers. After a few minutes, you got a bit more bold, reaching over and running your hands down his chest, slipping your fingers beneath the collar of his shirt. His skin was warm and he flinched slightly at the change in sensation. 

Titus gently removed your fingers and swiveled the chair around, your hands still in his. He pressed a kiss to them and looked up at you. “I appreciate the attention,” he said “but I really do have to finish this.” You pouted at him and pulled his head into your chest, scratching at his scalp. His eyes closed and he rested his weight against you. 

“You’re tense.” You observed. He let out a chuckle at that. 

“Kinda comes with the job.” You tutted at his words. You guided his gaze up to yours, his chin resting on the swell of your breasts. You kissed his forehead. Then his nose. Then tilted his face and kissed his lips. Titus humored you, moving his mouth against yours and allowing your tongue to break the seam of his lips. His hands settled lightly on your hips. Light enough that they slid upwards when you lowered yourself to your knees. Titus furrowed his brow, clearly not happy with the loss of your kiss. He watched you as you settled between his legs, opening his knees slightly to make space. You sat back on your legs, rubbing your face against the inside of his thigh. Titus blinked at you and you saw a flicker of want illuminate his eyes. You saw his cock twitch in his pants. You smirked at the effect you had on him.

Your hands ran up his thick thighs before settling by his groin. Your fingers tugged the edge of his belt through the buckle. The motion was unhurried as you successfully unclasped the leather. He looked down at you and took another drag of his cigar. He exhaled and the smoke cascaded down his front, clouding your vision. 

“What are you doing?” Titus mumbled, but didn’t make any attempt to move away from you.

“Just relax,” You told him, stripping the belt from his hips and placing it on the floor. The muscle in his jaw ticked and his eyes flicked to the clock nervously. “Hey,” you called his attention back softly, unbuttoning his pants. “Let me make you feel good.” That got him. He nodded and shifted his hips and shoved his pants down. When his cock was exposed to the air, it was angry and already leaking. You wanted to make some snarky comment, about how he really needed you, but your mind was so focused on getting his cock in your mouth that the words never formed. You practically lunged at him, licking a stripe along the bottom of his length. Titus gave a choked moan and placed his hand on the back of your head. Not commanding, but grounding. More so for his own sake than for yours. Your lips wrapped around the tip, sucking gently before taking him fully in your mouth. Well. Not fully. Titus was so big and your mouth could only take so much. You let spit run out of your mouth to lubricate the two inches that were still exposed. You wrapped your hand around his base and began moving it along with the rhythm your head set. Titus was breathing heavy, soft praises falling from his lips. You looked up at him as you hollowed your cheeks and his jaw slackened with pleasure. As you continued to bob up and down on him, you pressed your legs together, hoping to get any sort of friction. You moved your hand from his cock down to his balls, collecting the spit that had dripped onto them with your fingers. You rolled them in your hand, earning a higher-pitched whine from the man beneath you. The sound sent a hot shock of arousal down your spine. You loved when he was vocal. Not just with his words, but the little moans and gasps spurred you on. You picked up your pace, flattening your tongue and urging your throat to open just a bit wider to accommodate more of him. Titus’ grip on your hair got tighter, like it always did when he got close. You locked in on your ministrations, ignoring the ache in your wrist and jaw to ensure he got to his completion.

A loud and incessant buzzing sound tore you from your devoted concentration, groaning in frustration and sending vibrations right through Titus’ cock and up his spine. Titus swore under his breath and put his cigar in the ash tray. He grabbed his phone and swore again, harsher, when he saw who it was. 

“I have to take this,” he said. You removed your mouth from him, but continued to stroke him with your hand.

“Okay. Take it.” You shrugged. Titus moved to tuck himself back into his pants, but you slapped his hand away. He said your name. A warning, eyes wide and serious. 

“Take it.” You repeated, matching the severity of his tone and gaze. Conflict passed through Titus’ eyes. You looked so pretty on your knees for him, lazily stroking his twitching cock. He didn’t want to tear his gaze from you, but his head accountant was calling him. He licked his lips and nodded, accepting the call. The moment he raised the phone to his ear, your mouth was back on him. He tried his best to stifle the moan that rose in his throat as he answered, but he wasn’t sure if he was successful.

“H-Hello?” Titus swallowed thickly. You held his gaze, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. You resumed your actions, bobbing your head and rolling your wrist around him. “Yea, I have them here. Yea. No, they don’t look good. Shit.” You took him further, head hitting the back of your throat. You purposefully gagged around him, and the feeling of your throat tightening made him grip the leather chair harder and let out a strangled noise. “Y-yea I’m fine. I just…don’t worry about it. Huh? Oh, sure. Okay, sounds good.” You cupped his balls and he screwed his eyes shut tight. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He ended the call and threw his phone onto the desk. Titus moved quickly, hand flying around your throat and gently tugging you off him. He pressed the sides of your neck, restricting your airflow without actually attempting to hurt you. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Titus sneered “Sucking me off while I’m on a call? Dirty, dirty girl. What if he heard you?” You licked your lips, an act of defiance that told him you didn’t care. He huffed with amusement, one side of his mouth twisting into a cruel grin. “That fucking desperate for my cock, huh? Yea?” He let go of your throat, but you didn’t have time to fully get your bearings before his hands were on your hips, spinning you around and pressing you against the desk, hand between your shoulder blades. Titus pushed up the skirt you were wearing, scoffing when he realized you weren’t wearing any underwear. “Such a slut for me. Take it if you want it so much.” Titus pushed his cock into you without warning. You squeaked at the sudden intrusion. “So fucking wet just from slobberin’ on my cock, huh? You’re nasty.”  Your cheeks burned at the words, but it was true. Your arousal had been dripping out of your cunt ever since you tasted his salty skin. 

Titus picked up his cigar again, inhaling deeply as he gave his first few thrusts before letting the smoke spill out through his nose. His thumbs pressed into your hips as he pulled you over his cock. The pace he set was ruthless, hard and fast. His cock dragged along your walls, catching just slightly in a way that built pressure in your chest and your abdomen. Your eyes rolled back and the moans coming from your throat echoed around the office. You vaguely remembered where you were, that this room was far from sound proof and the service workers still milled about the house. You brought one of your shaking hands to your mouth, pressing down to try and conceal your noises. Titus leaned forward and grabbed your wrist, yanking it away from your mouth and pinning it behind your back.

“Nuh-uh don’t get shy now.” He laughed. He stopped moving and you let out a needy whine. “Isn’t this what you wanted? To let everyone know how badly you want this dick?” You nodded and squirmed, trying to push yourself back onto him. But Titus moved away, slipping out of you entirely. A few tears slipped from your eyes and you mumbled an incoherent plea. Titus shook his head and clicked his tongue. He leaned in closer, cheek flush against yours. “Say it. Say Please, Titus. Please fuck my pussy.” Frustration built in your throat and you lifted your head, cry tearing from the depths of your chest.

“Please!!” You screamed, well and truly screamed into the air of the office. It didn’t even sound like you, loud and deep and purely primal. Titus let out a dark chuckle behind you, a rumbling sound that vibrated down to your still empty core. 

“Atta girl.” He cooed, aligning himself again and filling you up. You gasped with pleasure, mumbling thank you as he snapped his hips into you. Your mind was hazy, small whimpers slipping from your mouth with every thrust. But Titus stopped moving again and you sighed. You looked over your shoulder and saw his face contorted with frustration. His gaze was fixated on where his dick disappeared inside of you. He took a moment to adjust his position before thrusting again, but he still seemed displeased. He grumbled in annoyance, muttering something about it not sounding right. He pulled out completely and your mouth opened, ready to plead for him. You had been so good. But he didn’t give you the chance. Titus turned you around to face him and lifted you onto the desk, clearing a space so that your head wouldn’t hit anything. He lifted one of your legs and pressed your knee up to your chest. When Titus re-entered you, your head fell back in pleasure. After a few pounds of his head against your walls, he found that spongy spot inside you, sending stars across your vision. The moan you let out was straight-up pornographic. Titus beamed down at you.

“Yea, there it is.” He breathed “Knew I wasn’t gettin’ it. Gotta make my girl feel good.” His large hand splayed against the back of your thigh, keeping your leg up and hitting the same angle over and over again. You were transported, floating aimlessly as your mind tried to comprehend the pleasurable shocks that ignited your bloodstream. You were past the point of caring what you sounded like, and you said anything that came to mind. Begged Titus not to stop. His fingers rubbed tight circles around your clit, a non-stop attack on your nerves that was building fast. You squeezed him as hard as you could, trying to feel every inch and ridge of his cock inside of you. 

“Please, Titus.” You didn’t know what you were begging for, but your eyes fluttered open to look at him. He was panting with exertion, sweat dripping down the side of his face, pupils blown with lust and adoration. Pupils that were locked on you, unblinking, memorizing. 

“What do you need, baby?” He said breathily. “Tell me. I’ll give you anything, sweetheart, just tell me what you need from me.”

“Please…Please cum inside of me!” You sobbed. Your voice was so broken, so desperate. Titus’ face morphed into something darker at your words. 

“Yea?” He breathed “Want me to claim this pretty pussy? Have me drippin’ out of you. Let everyone know you belong to me?” You nodded vigorously, completely fucked out. His fingers on your clit sped up. “I can do that, shit, but you gotta cum on my cock first, ‘kay beautiful?” It wasn’t a difficult task. The molten ball of your release was becoming unstable. White hot arousal seared under your skin and you rapidly climbed to the peak of your orgasm. You needed something to help you relieve the intense sensation. You let out a needy whine and gripped Titus’ biceps, nails digging into the skin as hard as you could. Your vision went blurry and your head began to dip back, but Titus’s hand shot to your jaw, pressing into your cheeks and bringing your gaze back to him. “Eyes on me, baby.” You forced your eyes to stay open and locked on him as you hurdle over the edge, face tightening at the strength of your orgasm. You spasmed around him, pressing harder into the muscle of his arms. Titus held your gaze as his hip stuttered and he eventually spilled inside of you, continuing to fuck his cum into you for a few thrusts. He collapsed on top of you, gently lowering your leg and pressing exhausted kisses into your neck and whispered soothing praises into your ear. He held you until you came down, the room slowly coming back into focus. You swallowed, mouth dry, and rubbed circles on his back while the other tangled in his curls. After Titus was sure you were still with him, he pulled out and stood back to admire his work. The sudden absence of his body heat made you shiver. Titus tilted his head and pressed his lips together.

“Made a bit of a mess,” He mused, dropping to his knees. He pressed your legs apart and looked up at you. “Should probably clean you up.”

“Thought you were tired, can’t we just go to bed?” You pouted. Titus licked a stripe up your core and you jolted against him, abused clit protesting the overstimulation. 

“I think you can give me one more,” He argued. You tried to squirm away, but his hands settled heavily on your lower belly. He gently lapped at your weeping hole, swallowing the mixture of your juices like it was the best thing he ever tasted. And if you asked him, he’d probably say that it was. After a few moments, his tongue returned to your clit. He sucked softly. His usual urgency seemed to be quelled and he focused on making sure he didn’t make you uncomfortable. The short reprieve was enough, and your hand tangled in his hair as arousal licked at the base of your spine. You gave a little tug on his curls, assuring him that you were ready, and he put more force behind the flicks of his tongue. It wasn’t long before your second orgasm tumbled through you, less loud but no less intense. Your hands pressed against your eyes, trying to compose yourself. But Titus didn’t stop, eyes closed and mouth still moving against your sopping folds. You shifted your hips to try and get him away, but he chased after you, too lost in your taste to notice. Between his lips and his scruff rubbing against the tender skin between your thighs, it was too much. You tapped his forearm, your ‘please stop’ signal. And he pulled away immediately, eyes wide and searching. Almost a little guilty.

“S’too much Titus.” You said hoarsely. He stood and wiped his mouth on the collar of his shirt and pulled on his pants.

“Sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to. You okay?” He slipped an arm behind you and held you steady against him.

“Mm-hmm.” Your voice was soft and your eyes were glazed over with exertion, skin clammy. Titus kissed your temple and pulled you off the desk.

“C’mon,” he grunted, lifting you up bridal style. “Let’s get you in the shower and in some clean clothes. You’re gonna drink some water and then we can cuddle. Sound good?” 

“Yea,” you nodded softly. Your head lifted from his chest for a moment. You nodded to the ledger, which had been tossed to the floor during the commotion. “Wait, what about-” 

You had never met Smurf Cody. Part of you believed it was on purpose, but you also just never crossed paths with her. Deran hired you as a bartender for The Drop and you had worked there since its opening, but he was your boss. It’s not like you hung out with him outside of work. The only time you interacted with his family was when his brothers came in scoping out free booze. But never Smurf. Which is why, when the bar went quiet, you knew something was up.

It was the 1-year anniversary of the bar opening and Deran had planned a little party to celebrate. You had created a special drink menu just for the occasion, and it was a hit. The bar was loud, louder than most Friday nights, conversations flowing and laughs shaking through the warm room. The TVs flashed with various sporting events and the jukebox spilled music into the crowd. The string lights that usually illuminated the dim bar were brighter than usual to compensate for the bigger crowd. You lined up a row of snifter glasses on the bar. The group of girls awaiting their drinks were giggly, all dressed up and shouting inside jokes at each other. It made you smile, seeing the group. You remembered when you and your friends used to go out to the bars. Fond memories slipped through your brain, reliving the days before you eventually went down your separate paths while you mixed up your spin on a Negroni. You split the cocktail evenly among the glasses and pushed them to the group, who accepted the drinks with wide eyes, bright smiles, and very tipsy gratitudes. Somewhere in the distance, you heard billiard balls breaking. You noticed a few of the patrons had left their seats and you quickly grabbed a towel to scrub down the water remnants from the bar top. Behind you, your coworker shoveled ice into a shaker. You had been on your feet for at least five hours, and your shift was barely half-way over. It was an all-day celebratory event and Deran called it an ‘all-hands-on-deck’ day. Did your knees ache? Absolutely. Were you slightly reconsidering your life choices? Always. But you had found your rhythm amongst the chaos and the night was going well. You were focused. So focused that it took you a bit to realize that there was a small lull in the usual bar noise. You felt a cool rush of air from the door being opened. You glanced up and your hands stopped moving across the bar’s surface. She stood there with her chin held up, chest slightly puffed out. Not in a proud way, but in a powerful way. You knew immediately it was her. Smurf. The bar was filled with scents, some stronger than others, but hers cut right through the almost nauseating cloud. She reeked of money. Literally. The slightly dirty odor of printed paper and a bitter undercut of metal. The scent of a true alpha who had raised an entire litter of alpha sons. She wore white capris and a studded leather jacket, silver purse tucked against her side. She looked around the room. It was quiet, only for a moment, but long enough that she sensed it. Her lips turned upward in something vaguely resembling a smile.

Deran poked his head out from the kitchen door and hustled around the other side of the bar. Smurf met him halfway. She stood directly in front of you and you forced down the urge to cower. To submit to her in the way that only an omega could. As a bartender, suppressants were necessary. You served bored alphas all day, and eventually your attention would get to their heads- a pretty little omega like you doting on them, smiling at them, indulging in the stories that would bore their wives. It might get messy if they could smell you, too. You took suppressants, but somehow, in that moment, it felt like they weren’t doing shit. Maybe it was because your natural heat cycle was coming up. Even on suppressants, you always got a little more sensitive around the time. You turned away from the bar, pretending to type something into the POS system. You pressed your eyes together and took deep, calming breaths. You tried to focus on the scents of the room, a swirling mass of indiscernible smells from people of all designations. You were able to calm down slightly, but something kept creeping through, nestling itself into your brain. It settled right up against your temple. You thought it was from Smurf. You didn’t see the man behind her at first. And you definitely couldn’t tell that the unnamable scent was coming from him. 

“Hey, baby,” Smurf cooed to Deran, bangles jingling as her hands came up to rest on his cheeks. “It’s nice in here.” She nodded approvingly as her eyes took in the scene. “You really did a good job.”

“Thanks.” Deran pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I, uh, I didn’t think you would show up.” “And miss out on my boy’s accomplishment?” Smurf tutted at him. Her hands lowered and she placed her bag on the bar. You were still facing away from her, but you felt her eyes boring into your back. You turned your head and caught her gaze, gave a small smile, and approached the other side of the bar. Smurf gave you an easy grin, looking you up and down. You felt the sudden urge to cover your chest. You usually wore a white tanktop and shorts to work. The tips were better that way. You were used to alphas staring at you, trying to get a peak, but with Smurf it felt much more violating. Like she was trying to read your soul. When she was done, she shifted slightly. “Martini, please. Dry.” Her voice was softer, but not kinder. You forced yourself to slip back into customer service mode.

“Absolutely,” You said, trying to keep your voice steady. Movement from behind her caught your eye. Oh.

Pope stood there, a bulky mass, hands in clenched fists by his side. He wore a tight black shirt and jeans. The fabric showcased the broadness of his shoulders and the swell of his arms and you found your eyes carefully tracing over his silhouette. You saw his jaw twitch and he tilted his head slightly to crack his neck. You felt your heart stutter for a second. You had met Pope a few times. Mainly when you were prepping for the night and one of the appliances crapped out on you. You’d call Deran, who would send Pope by a few minutes later. He never really talked to you, just gave you a gruff hey and alright, i’m headed out, call if you need anything else. When he was working in the kitchen and you were in another room, you were always on alert. He changed the energy in the air. You tried to convince yourself it was just another instance of your omega instincts, but you’d be lying to yourself if you said you’d never noticed him. Especially when he was underneath the frier, black waistband of his boxers just barely visible over his jeans. Most people in Oceanside claimed Craig was the hottest Cody brother, and you could see the appeal (big alpha, smelled nice- like salted chocolate) but to you…yea, your tastes were a bit different. Pope didn’t have the stereotypical scent that made omegas swoon. He smelled sharp and metallic, like charcoal gunpowder and something bitter underneath. Whenever he entered a room, you thought a firework had gone off. It wasn’t awful smelling per se, but you knew he wouldn’t really be turning any heads if he walked down a street. That combined with his slightly off-putting personality and shark eyes so dark they made you squirm, he was textbook scary alpha. You should’ve been cowering from him. Terrified about what he might do to you. And yet, you found yourself fond of him. Or at least fond of the bits of him that you knew, which were admittedly small.

“Do you…want anything?” You looked at Pope. His nostrils were slightly flared and his eyes were unblinking. He was looking at you. Some sort of dominance flickered behind them, but you couldn’t put a name to it. A few moments passed and he didn’t say anything, just kept staring. A predator locked onto prey. It made you squirm a bit. 

“Water.” Smurf answered for him. “He’s driving.” You swallowed hard and nodded, blinking away any hesitation and quickly got back to work. When you were done finishing the drinks, Smurf had joined Craig and Deran in a small booth by the kitchen. Pope was nowhere to be seen.

═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═

Andrew hadn’t gone through a rut since he went to prison. Hell, he could barely get it up on a good day. The mental anguish of being locked in solitary for the better part of three years wasn’t exactly conducive to arousal. Even growing up, ruts were rare for him. He got his first one, then a few more in his early twenties. He watched Craig get them every three months like clockwork, like he was supposed to. Andrew was upset about it at first. It was another thing that made him different. Another thing that made him abnormal. But as time went on and he realized that he didn’t really want to go through them, he began making his peace with the fact that he was just not inclined to his instincts, and that was okay. 

It was a mistake going to the bar. He hated loud noises and hated people even more. But he was living underneath Smurf’s regime again and she had wanted to go. So he tagged along. When he first stepped into the bar, he almost vomited. The awful concoction of so many smells made his head spin. He dug his fingers into his palm to give him some other stimulus. And then he heard your voice, asking him a question in the way that always sent a shiver down his spine and made his dormant cock twitch to life. Ever since Deran had given him the make-shift maintenance job, Andrew had found a renewed interest in life. His brothers thought it was because he enjoyed the work. And he did, it was something to do with his hands. But the real reason for his contentment was you. You with those kind eyes and soft smile that you always greeted him with. You, who talked to him like he was a person and not like you were scared of him, even though he could smell the uneasiness some days. You broke through your discomfort to talk to him. It made his throat go dry and his cheeks burn. He had never wanted to be gentle with someone like he wanted to be gentle with you. So he didn’t talk to you, just exchanged pleasantries that he thought normal people did and tried to ignore the way your scent choked his brain in the best way. He always fixed the problems fine enough that it worked, but he purposefully wasn’t as thorough as he could be. Andrew wanted a reason to come back to the bar and work in front of you. He’d caught you staring at his hands one day when he got water from the fountain gun behind the bar. Noticed that your scent flared slightly. You smelled autumnal, like crisp apples and the slight sweet scent of decaying leaves. It made his brain fuzzy and something swell in him he hadn’t felt in decades. Not since Cath. Andrew wanted to protect you, to love you, to fuck you so hard you cried for him, and to soothe you after. He wanted you to smile at him every morning when you woke up, to run your fingers through his hair and kiss his forehead, and to loudly claim him as yours. He wanted to be your alpha. 

The thoughts had been swirling for the days after the visit to the bar. Andrew had to leave after he saw you. He’d seen you in your work ‘uniform’ before, but he caught a couple of other alphas staring at your ass and it took everything in him not to rip out their throats. He had to leave before he did something. And he couldn’t stop thinking of you. A deep burning ache settled in his stomach and he woke up to sweat-soaked sheets every morning. Images of you sprawled out beneath him and bouncing on top of him tormented his mind. He was constantly hard, spent cock chubbing up again even after the fifth orgasm of the day. All because of you. He knew what the feeling was, but he tried to fight it off. Craig had brought them another job and going into rut would no doubt delay the plans. He’d just have to power through it and not give into the claws of primal discomfort slowly sinking into his cerebellum.

Andrew sat at the kitchen table, fingers gripping the spoon so hard his knuckles were white. He filled up his third bowl of cereal and added more milk before shovelling it into his mouth. He was a bottomless pit of desire. The sensations of hunger and arousal battled for dominance, neither really winning, just coexisting at equal intensities. He bounced his leg restlessly, empty frustration prickling his chest cavity. He took a deep breath and clenched his jaw. His nose twitched in annoyance when his spoonful of cereal slipped back into the bowl. He vaguely heard a door open and jumped when he felt Craig’s hand on his shoulder.

“Holy shit, man,” Craig scoffed, crossing into the kitchen and leaning on the counter. “You’re burning up and you reek. What’s your issue?” Andrew exhaled sharply through his nose and glared at his brother while he angrily chewed his cereal. He filled up the bowl again. Craig’s head dipped back in understanding. “Huh. Didn’t know you still got those.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Andrew snapped. 

“What’s gotten you all hot and bothered?” Craig continued, ignoring the dangerously sharp daggers his brother’s eyes were shooting him. “Find a hot omega?” Andrew fisted the fabric of his sweatpants. A wave of heat rolled through his body and he stifled a grunt of discomfort. “Don’t fight it, dude. Just makes it worse.” 

“Got a job to do.” Andrew shook his head, taking a bite.

“Not like this you’re not. That’s a rule, remember?”

“We need the money.”

“We also need you. Rut on a job is a recipe for disaster.” Craig itched his beard and pushed himself off the counter. “Take this one off. We only need three people anyway.” Andrew pressed his eyes shut as his muscles tensed. “Want me to drive you to the apartment?” After a few moments, he nodded.

The apartment was a refuge. It was where Craig always went for his ruts, fully stocked with anything and everything he might need. It reeked of his brother in there, but Andrew was desperate and wasn’t really in a position to complain. He spent the next week practically bouncing off the walls, covering every surface in his sweat and his cum, thinking of you. 

═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═

The invite to the party was somewhat unexpected. Sure, you had worked with Deran for a year and you’d spent time outside of work together, but you had never been invited to an infamous Cody party. You supposed that, now that you had met Smurf, there were no more surprises for you to be subjected to at the house. You knew that the Codys were involved with some shady shit. Everyone in Oceanside did. But as long as you got your paycheck on time and didn’t get kidnapped, you couldn’t really care less. And so far both criteria had been met to your satisfaction. As much as you appreciated the invite, you weren’t really planning on attending. Your heat was literally days away, and your suppressants were having a hard time keeping it at bay. Every time you stood up a little too fast, your head would feel fuzzy. You could only take cold showers and your vibrator was on its charger every morning. All you wanted to do was take your placebo pill and lock yourself in your room. But your roommate, who was Craig’s current obsession, was going to the party and her friends had bailed at the last moment. You might have been a primal animal, but you were not letting her go by herself to a Cody party. You popped an extra suppressant and started digging through your closet for an outfit.

You sat on the edge of the pool, swishing your feet through the water and letting the cool water aid in regulating your body temperature. This was a bad idea. You had drank the beer your roommate haphazardly shoved in your hands and were just waiting, really, for her to release you from the party. There were too many people. Too many noises and too many smells. Being an omega on the verge of heat surrounded by the most notorious alpha family in Oceanside was certainly…a choice. You didn’t see anyone you knew. Your roommate had retreated inside with Craig almost an hour ago. You tossed your head back and closed your eyes, letting the bass from the speakers wash over you with the night air. A small creaking sound behind you. And a scent that cut through the rest of them. A familiar one you knew and dreamed about. Your eyes snapped open immediately and your head turned to the gate by the pool. Sure enough, Pope strutted through the backyard, looking with disdain at the crowd. Until his gaze rested on you. He paused, eyes running up and down your body. His nostrils flared slightly and you knew the exact moment he caught your scent, because his fist clenched even tighter and his jaw quivered. You licked your lips as you watched him, black shirt and dark pants clinging to his bulky frame. He had a small cut on his bottom lip and a darkness in his eyes. Warmth blossomed throughout you. Not a flicker of arousal, but an ugly, all consuming heat that swelled in your ear canals and made your blood burn in your fingers. You felt your pulse throb in several places: against your ribs, in the scent glad below your ear, and in between your legs. Shit. The mere sight of Pope, coated in a thin sheen of sweat with a busted lip, had broken through your suppressants and sparked your heat. That had never happened before. Ever. 

Pope tore himself from his spot, hurrying to the glass sliding doors to the kitchen. You followed him before you could think better. Your body moved on instinct, somehow dodging the moving elbows of people dancing, following the scent of the Alpha you needed most. You slipped into the house and the sounds of the party were muffled as soon as the door clicked shut. Pope was standing in front of the sink, rubbing his hands raw under the water.

“Andrew,” You called to him, sweet voice carrying through the tense atmosphere. You sounded different. A little drunk. Not on alcohol, but on him. 

 “You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was stern. You frowned, taking a step closer. 

“Deran invited me” He shook his head. 

“No. I mean you shouldn’t be in here, alone, with me.” But you could hear the waver in his voice. You stood behind him, urging him to turn and face you with a firm hand on his bicep. Your nails dug in slightly. Slowly, painfully, Andrew turned to face you. You could see his eyes flicking between yours, a concoction of conflicting emotions warring in the hazel rings. He knew what you were up to. You placed your hands on his abdomen. He let out a small noise and his breaths shuddered as they left his lungs.

“You smell good,” you hummed, rubbing your face against his chest. Up close, and in your heightened state, it took on a new dimension. The gunpowder was still there, but it was richer and less acrid. And underneath, there was the warm smell of freshly brewed black coffee. Andrew scoffed in disbelief. No one had ever told him that before. His scent had developed after his first solo job as a teenager, a robbery of a diner in the early hours of the morning. Guns and coffee. That’s what people had told him, usually with their noses wrinkled with distaste. He didn’t hate it, it could be a lot worse, but it added another layer of unease to his persona. A big bulky man with a scowling face and an unwelcoming scent. Stay away. But you had ignored that and were instead nuzzling into his armpits like you wanted to devour him. And the look in your eyes told him you did. Andrew struggled to keep his composure. You pulled back and looked at him with needy eyes. You saw the muscle under his eye twitch and he swallowed hard. His arms came up to your shoulders and gripped you roughly. He said your name, deep and rumbly. It was supposed to be a warning, but it just made your thighs press together and a small whine escaped your lips. You needed him. 

“Please,” you begged, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Please help me.” 

“Okay.” Andrew said softly after a few moments, and led you to his room.

═ ═ ═ ╰☆╮ ═ ═ ═

“This is not what I meant.” You growled, practically clawing at the door. Andrew had steered you down the hallway and your skin had been on fire with anticipation. His large hands grabbed you firmly around the waist. You thought you were finally about to get what you needed. Until he roughly shoved you into the bathroom and barricaded you inside. You had struggled against him, but he manhandled you too easily. So you sat on the floor of the bathroom, face pressed against the side of the door. 

“You need a safe space to stay until your friend can take you home and you can get through your heat.” He countered “I am helping you.” His voice was slightly muffled by the door, but you could hear the tightness in his words. You knew he was showing an incredible amount of self restraint. You pouted. You wanted him inside the bathroom and inside you. You allowed your scent to flare from the glands in your neck. You heard him take a sharp inhale. Oh good. So he could smell you. 

Another wave of cramping rolled through your abdomen and you let out a little pained noise. The bathroom was so cold, with tile floors and minimal heating. You looked around to see if you could find anything for a temporary nest. Your eyes landed on the hamper next to the shower. It was empty except for a towel and a shirt. The shirt smelled stale, but there were underlying notes of a dominating scent. An alpha’s scent. And that’s all you craved. You tugged off your tank top and bra and pulled it over your head, letting the fabric brush against your bare skin. The towel, however, was covered in Andrew’s scent. You hummed and pulled it out of the hamper. It was still damp, likely used just before the party, and it was making your mind fuzzy. It was close enough to the real thing to keep you from hurtling through the door and dragging the man across the floor. You bunched up the towel and curled around it, shoving your nose into the smell. You took a deep inhale and a fresh batch of arousal gushed from your core. Your pussy was throbbing and you needed some relief. 

You shimmied off your pants and underwear, quickly running two fingers along your folds. You were soaked and the action alone sent lewd noises echoing off the walls. But it wasn’t working. The frustration only grew more intense. Your body knew what it needed, and it wouldn’t let you feel pleasure until it got it. 

“S’not working!” You sobbed. “It hurts. Please, Andy, I need you!” Immediately, the door was ripped open. You stopped your fingers with a gasp and looked up to the entrance. Andrew stood there, face burning red, chest heaving. His fists were clenched and he looked down at you with such dark lust in his gaze that you recoiled a little. The nickname seemed to work. Andrew slammed the door behind him, crossing the floor in large strides and sinking to his knees in front of you. You didn’t have time to process it before his mouth was on yours, hot and wet and needy, nipping at your lips until you opened up for him to stick his tongue in your mouth. You melted immediately, pawing at his shoulders until he pulled you into him. He sat back against the wall of the bathroom, you in his lap, and his hands on your ass.

“Yea?” He gasped after breaking the kiss. His lips were swollen and red and his pupils were blown. He was thick and hard underneath you. “Your fingers not good enough? Need an alpha in your pussy?”

“Please,” You keened, rolling your hips. Andrew was big. You had assumed such. You had caught the print of him several times when he walked into the bar. You liked to think, jokingly, that maybe the sight of you always gave him a semi. You had no idea how correct you were until that moment. “Need you, Andrew. Need your cock in me. Need your scent on me.” Andrew growled at your words, kissing down your neck and rubbing his nose into your skin.

“You smell s’fucking good,” He panted, running his tongue along your exposed clavicle. But he paused, stiffened, when his fingers found the hem of your shirt. He knew you were using his towel to get yourself off, a fact that made his cock swell and his head feel dizzy with importance. But the shirt…that didn’t belong to him. It was fucking Craig’s. Craig’s scent was tainting yours. With an angry hiss, Andrew’s hands gripped at the neckline, tearing the fabric away from your body with one rip. You gasped as the cool air flooded your hot skin. You blinked down at Andrew, whose eyes were locked on your breasts and the way they rose and fell with each breath. An unsure hand came up to cup them, thumb brushing over your hardened nipple. The show of his strength sparked something within you. You moaned and grabbed his cheeks between your hands and crashed your mouth to his. He let out a little surprised noise, but quickly found his footing. Your fingers went for his belt and tugged it away. You pulled back from the kiss and stared at Andrew, gaze a little harder and more demanding than it was a few moments ago. 

“I want you to fuck me.” You ordered, tugging down his zipper. “Like you mean it.” You crawled off his lap and laid back on the floor, opening your legs and giving him an unobstructed view of your cunt. You were soaked, arousal coating the insides of your thighs. Completely ready for him. He was on you in an instant, pulling his shirt over his head and shoving his jeans down to his ankles. You tangled your fingers in his hair and he wasted no time pushing his swollen cock deep into you, bottoming out with a single thrust. Your jaw dropped in a silent scream at the sensation. Your eyes fluttered closed, but Andrew’s fingers dug into your cheeks.

“Uh-uh.” He grumbled, forcing you to look at him. “Eyes on me.” He wasn’t gentle. And you didn’t want him to be. He humped into you like a man starved, hip bone digging into your pelvis with each heavy thrust. You felt so incredibly full. You were thankful for the amount of slick your heat produced because you were sincerely unsure if you would be able to take him otherwise. The sensation of your pussy stretching around him, and the brush of him against the sensitive spot inside you, made you even more feral. You clawed at his chest, digging your nails as hard as you could into his bare flushed skin. It was the only way to expunge the deep-seated urgency inside you. You worried for a moment that you were hurting him, but he just moaned when you dragged your fingers down him. “Yea, f-fuck, use your nails,” he panted, tongue pressed between his teeth. “Mark me up real good. Let everyone know I’m yours. That this pussy is mine. My omega.” You whined at his words and pulled his head into your neck. You moved your scratching down his back, painting the canvas of skin with more marks. His scent swirled around you, mixing with yours until the room smelled of the physical and mental combination of you. Neither of you lasted very long. You came together, with conjoined sobs of pleasure. Andrew sunk himself deeper within you, pushing his cum further into your pussy so it wouldn’t leak out. He hadn’t knotted you. Now wasn’t the time for that. He wanted that to be special. You didn’t really care, though, because simply having him on top of you was enough to quell the first wave of heat. The two of you stayed still for a moment, breathing in the same air while your pulses stabilized. Andrew pulled back and looked at you fondly, wiping a tear from your cheek. You presented your neck to him, silently asking for his mating bite, but he gently turned you away. The rejection made more tears prickle your eyes. 

“That’s a big decision,” he explained, soothingly running a hand up and down your side. “I want you to ask because you like me, not because you’re in heat.”

“I do like you.” You pouted and Andrew kissed your nose. 

“Then we can talk about it in a week. I’m not going anywhere.” The clearing of a throat from outside the door tore the pair of you from the moment. 

Sammy couldn’t have been more out of his element.

Even when he was younger, long before marriage and the oath he’d taken to obey the law at all times, he never was much of a partier. There was a handful of basement couches he’d lounge on while surrounded by a cloud of smoke but nothing like this.

A few of Nate’s patrol buddies had gone on and on about this new bar they’d been frequenting and he should have known by the emphasis they put on certain words like ‘mind blowing’ that it wasn’t going to be any regular dive situation.

He’d only been half invited which already made him hesitant to come along, even before the string of messages from Tammi being left on his phone as soon as the sun began to set. It was more like a pity thing that happened as an afterthought when they noticed him over Nate’s shoulders, throwing out there that he could tag along.

He was quick to say he was fine and he was tired anyways but Nate, ever the good friend, insisted he was welcomed and just had to come along.

So now Sammy was sitting in the back corner of a sketchy strip club that was very much not a bar. Sure there were still drinks spilled in the suspiciously sticky carpet and loud music playing with crackling interference but the addition of the half dozen naked women on poles made it pretty clear.

Luckily the other guys seemingly forgot he was there after the first hour and he’d gotten away with pretty much sitting completely still and fiddling with the ring around his finger, his gaze pointed at his shoes in a way that he hoped wasn’t insulting to any of the dancers.

It felt wrong to even be there and he halfway wondered what Mariella would be thinking about the fact Nate was a large amount of bills deep in showing his appreciation to the scantily clad bodies around him.

He had no issue sneaking away to approach the bar and ask for a water, leaning against the wood of the counter and glancing back at the group he had came with that was too preoccupied with another dancer offering lap dances to notice he had wandered off.

His stomach was a little tight and he figured he was being dramatic, he should let loose like the dozens of other married men in the building, but it clearly wasn’t working in his favor. The fact he had driven with Nate and his car was currently twenty minutes away parked at the station didn’t make him feel any better, not exactly sure the ones in his pocket would be enough for a cab home.

He was on his third water when you finally approached him, slow and casual like you didn’t even know he was there by the time you rested your elbows on the counter and half bent over.

Then your face turned to the side, eyes locked on him with a clear amount of interest that made his throat dry up. He gave you the best polite smile he could before awkwardly looking away, mostly due to the fact he could see almost every inch of your skin outside of the two tiny pieces of fabric covering your nipples and bottom half.

“Not interested?” Your voice was sweeter than he had expected, his own biases leading him to think you might have a cigarette induced rasp or a permanent seductive purr. You sounded as if the two of you were in line at a coffee shop and not surrounded by drugs and bodily fluids. “In a dance I mean.”

You’d continued after his eyebrows furrowed in confusion but he didn’t really need the clarification, just shocked you were wasting your time talking to him instead of somebody more willing to pay you.

He glanced back over at the group and sighed when he saw Nate already watching him and giving him an exaggerated thumbs up, piecing together that his partner had more than likely sent you over.

“I’m married.” He said and tapped his hand against the bar top, the metal band clinking against the wood.

Your eyes didn’t leave his face for even a second, clearly having no interest in the object symbolizing his commitment to another woman. You had no way of knowing that his marriage was basically a hostile roommate agreement and it made Sammy feel a little deceitful to boast his marital status when it was so awful lately.

But he didn’t think you really care about the specifics considering he was still in a strip club on a random Wednesday night.

“I think you’d have a hard time finding somebody who wasn’t married here.” You replied with an amused grin and he was shocked you’d admit something like that, so clearly announce the wrongdoings of the paying people around you.

He supposed there was no reason to sugarcoat it, he wasn’t going to believe any different anyways. The bartender wordlessly slid a bottle of water in your direction and you smiled in thanks, shifting on your feet like the tight heels you had on were bothering you the longer you stood in place.

Sammy didn’t realize his gaze had dropped down to the curve of your ankle until you cleared your throat, looking slightly pleased when his eyes shot back up a bit more flustered.

You stared at each other for a few long seconds, as silent as it could be in the loud club. He allowed himself to recognize how pretty you were underneath the heavy glitter eyeshadow and exaggerated lip before he mentally scolded the thought.

“You’re a cop.” You said next and it wasn’t a question but he still gave you a quick nod in response to verify.

“That easy to tell?” He shifted against the bar and now it was your turn to let your gaze drift down his frame, although you lacked any of the shame he had held while doing it.

He wondered what you saw when you looked at him, hopefully not the mildly insecure unhappy husband he’d become in recent years. He knew his button up shirt fit a little snug around the stomach area lately and his jeans were more wrinkled than he would have allowed in his late twenties when he had the energy to care about appearances.

It had been a long time since Sammy felt the need to look good for anybody but the feeling was blooming the longer you scanned him.

“Your partner said you’d been stressed.” You take a drink of your water bottle after you said it and he eyes the curve of your throat as you slightly tilt it back.

“He’s an idiot.” Sammy replies with a dismissive shake of his head but he knows Nate was telling the truth and he’s sure you know it too.

You don’t say anything for a long time and he has the teenage like worry that he had ruined the conversation, too awkward or stilted for even a paid stripper to want to continue to talk to him.

Then you’re moving closer to him, abandoning the half empty water bottle on the bar top in favor of letting your palm lay flat on his chest. His breath catches in his throat but he tries to not look as pathetic as he feels, not even able to remember the last time Tammi touched him this simply.

He definitely can’t remember her ever blinking up at him the way you are currently, eyes somehow still full of interest and curiosity despite the lack of material he’s given you to work with.

“You don’t want a dance?” Your voice is lower now like it’s an offer just for him, like you haven’t been more likely than not praying on pathetic married men all night long.

There’s an obvious hesitation, during which he allows himself to shift his gaze from your pretty face to the way your chest is almost pressing against his. You see both, the look he gives you and the way he doesn’t turn you down right away.

“No I… I’m good. Thank you.” His words are tighter now and barely escape his throat but he finds himself meaning it.

To your credit, you step back and don’t make another move. You don’t even look upset at his denial even though you’re probably not used to, atleast he assumes so considering you look like that.

You grab your water bottle and he can tell you’re about to leave so he sighs and digs into the front pocket of his jeans, pulling out the singles Nate had thrust in his direction when they first got there to insist he had fun.

“What did he pay you?” He’s asking and surprising himself by following the few steps backwards you take so you can’t get too far.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion for a second before he’s glancing at the group of guys, mouth parting in realization.

“Oh I’m on my break.” You say simply and you wave a dismissive hand at the stack of bills he’d pulled out, fully turning to leave just as he freezes up.

Sammy spends the rest of the month thinking about you.

He had hoped he wasn’t the type of guy to be ridiculous enough to believe the stripper liked him more than anyone else just because she batted her eyelashes or did a special spin move on a pole, but he thinks he just might be.

The fact you hadn’t been under any obligation to speak to him, no price tag over his head, and you had even denied the tip he’d tried to add on to the nonexistent total, is warring with any rational he has in his mind.

It’s a little ridiculous, the way he listens closely to Nate and his patrol buddies locker talk in hopes they’ll possibly be discussing another night out.

Another two months pass before the chance ever presents itself.

Sammy’s passing by Nate’s desk when he hears another detective suggest the club for his partners birthday party and he’s embarrassingly quick to RSVP for it once it’s official, earning a suspicious look from Nate at his eagerness.

The looks don’t stop either because when they finally get there, back in the vaguely familiar corner with the uncomfortable red seating, Sammy has his head on a swivel on a constant look out for you.

“You waiting for somebody?” It takes him a few seconds to even process Nate is talking to him and his head snaps to the side, a little flushed from being caught.

He’s sure he looks incredibly obvious with the way his eyebrows furrow and his finger points against his chest in near theatrics.

“Me?” His voice sounds unnaturally high and clearly his partner thinks so too because his lips curl up in a half smile. “Who would I be waiting for?”

“Maybe that pretty stripper you were talking to last time.” Nate shrugs easily like it’s not a big deal, like they aren’t both married, and maybe it just doesn’t matter to him. Sammy starts to think he’s the only guy in the entire building with any actual loyalty towards his wife and then remembers he came to specifically seek you out and he erases the thought.

He makes a point to ignore what Nate had said and tries to be less obvious in the way he’s looking for you but it doesn’t matter anyways because you never show up.

You’re not on the stages, not walking around offering special dances and he even lingers near the private rooms on his way to the bathroom to see if you come or go at any point.

It’s pathetic and he’s starting to feel so embarrassed that his neck is hot so he decides against going back to the group, hopefully too drunk and stupid to even realize he doesn’t come back. He figures they won’t notice anyways as humiliating as that is but Sammy knows enough to tell when he’s the odd man out.

He doesn’t have much time to wallow in his own self pity because he finally spots you as soon as he pushes through the back entrance door, entering out into a small alley with a security guard right outside the building and a designated smoke area.

That’s where you are, leaned against the eroded brick wall with a cigarette pressed between your lips. Your heels look smaller than last time but that’s about the only noticeable difference, back in another outfit that barely counts as clothes with makeup so heavy he can barely tell what your features actually look like.

He gets a few solid seconds of staring before you’re glancing over and you look mildly annoyed at the disturbance at first before your eyes flash with recognition.

He hates that he feels a spark of something he probably shouldn’t at the fact you remember him after such a brief interaction all those weeks ago. Although he figures you don’t get rejected often so maybe he stuck out in your mind.

“Officer.” You greet him warmly, dropping the cigarette on the slightly wet asphalt and driving the toe of your heel into it.

“Sammy.” He corrects softly, finding himself giving you an amused look as he moves closer. He stops a few feet away and also leans against the wall, looking out into the alley and avoiding your gaze all together even though he can feel it on the side of his face.

“Not having fun?” You question and he’s half tempted to check your reaction to the way he immediately shakes his head but he keeps staring at the buzzing streetlights and overflowing garage bins.

You make a soft humming sound at his denial and he hopes you aren’t offended, doubts it considering you’re opting to stand out in the sketchy alley instead of being at work. He has the cop instinct to ask you why you do what you do, find out what led you here and make sure it was something you were doing willingly.

He knows how stupid that would be and he’s sure he’s not the first guy to want to save the stripper, cop or not, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“But you came back.” Again, apparently like most things you say, it’s a statement and not a question.

Now he finally looks back at you which he immediately knows is a mistake considering you’re a lot prettier up close, not that the view from far away is even remotely unpleasant. He just has the same realization he had last time, that you look a lot different underneath all that makeup.

Your eyes looked a lot younger than they did under the glowing stage lights and a lot more tired, much more human in a way that made his throat tighten a little.

“Do you like it?” His voice dropped lower until it was just above a whisper, trying to stop the hovering security guard from overhearing his pathetic attempts at small talk.

You smile in a way that makes him feel stupid, like you’ve heard the same line from a hundred different guys and he knows that’s true. He has half the desire to convince you he’s not like them before you even try to answer, tell you that he’s not being sleazy but genuinely trying to know how you feel.

Maybe you can somehow see that in him or maybe you give everyone the same line, but you respond softly.

“It pays the bills.” Your shoulders shrug and he’s briefly drawn to the glitter adorning your collarbones, accented by the strapless poor excuse of a shirt you’re wearing.

“That’s what people who hate their job say.” He replies back with surprising ease and now your smile grows into something more genuine, his own lips curling up to match it.

“You sound familiar with that.” You say in response quickly and he scoffs in amusement. “Do you hate your job?”

“It pays the bills.” He delivers and now you fully laugh, not the high pitched giggles he’d heard some of the other dancers giving his objectively unfunny coworkers, but a real laugh that spilled out before you could stop it.

It trails off into a slow nod of agreement but he can see the way you’re biting your lower lip to keep yourself from smiling too wide and he feels a surge of confidence he definitely didn’t have the other night.

His eyes trail up and down your frame since you’d taken to looking straight ahead for a moment, lingering on the smooth skin of your thighs and the curve of your hips that’s followed by your low hanging skirt.

You half clear your throat and he knows you’re trying to get his attention but he can’t bring himself to look away from you, feeling that almost unfamiliar stirring in his gut that he had almost forgotten the sensation of. He’s sure he looks pathetic when you finally lock eyes again but you’ve lost the alluring smile, lips parted like he’s managed to shock you from the sheer desperation radiating off of him.

He knows that’s probably not true, you’re more likely than not an expert in the embarrassment that comes with being a man.

But he likes the way you’re watching him now, like he’s somehow managed to spark your curiosity despite how overly boring his entire life is.

Coming to a filthy strip club and sitting in the corner like a loser is by far the most exciting thing Sammy has ever done on his own violation. He gets a thrill from his job and he’s seen things most people can’t imagine but none of that is because of him, because he was any bit interesting or rememberable.

So he can’t even feel too guilty about the pull he feels towards you when you look at him like there’s something you’re trying to figure out, making him believe for half a second he has something below the surface level that is worth discovering.

“I think I’d like to dance for you.” You say finally and your voice is softer than it had been earlier, almost sounding like a request if he didn’t know any better. “It’s extra fun when you’re not into it.”

“I’d be into it.” He corrects you immediately, not wanting to give you the wrong idea. Maybe part of him doesn’t like you thinking he’s some sexless man even though the guilt crawls back up at that thought so he pretends he’s saying this to spare your feelings. “Probably too into it, that’s why I don’t want one.”

You eye him for a second, half skeptical and half amused, before your body is turning to face his. Then your hands back on him like it had been all those weeks ago when you touched his chest, this time wrapping halfway around his bicep and squeezing.

“Just one dance.” You’re whispering now and he wonders if it’s because the security guard still lingering behind you or if you’re trying to make him feel special.

He’s ashamed that it’s working.

“Come on.” He lets it leave as a sigh, trying to avoid looking at you but finding it nearly impossible. You were already ridiculously pretty but it’s even worse now that you’ve got this devoted look in your eyes like you’re about ready to beg him for that dance. “There’s a dozen guys in there who would pay you triple what I can afford.”

He isn’t sure how true that is but he imagines you have to be pretty popular with the crowd inside, he can’t think of a single other dancer that has caught his attention the way you had. There was just something about you and he wasn’t stupid enough to think he’s the only one who could feel that.

“I’m not asking you to pay me.” You say back and his shoulders tense, no doubt noticeably because you move your hand off his arm to rub the stiff muscle.

“That’s ridiculous.” He half mumbles because he’s not really sure if it is all that crazy, he’s not exactly up to date on the terms and conditions of a strip club. “Wouldn’t you get in trouble?”

Your eyes brighten and he realizes a little too late that his question made it seem like he was actually considering your request.

“Not unless you tell on me.” You’re back to whispering now and your voice is deadly like that, all soft and private. “Are you going to tell on me officer?”

He watches you for a few long seconds, searching for something on your face that he’s not sure he’d even know how to identify if he managed to find it.

“Why?” His tone is overly curious and desperate for an answer that can help him understand this. He almost wishes you’d just straight up tell him you feel bad for him so he can stop pretending this is something else.

“Dancing used to be fun for me.” You say it with a soft shrug and he’s a bit surprised at how honest that feels. “It would be nice to do something because I want to. And I like the way you squirm.”

He lets out a disbelieving laugh at your added on statement, looking away from you for a second in contemplation and feeling a weird zing of warmth when he faces you again and sees you’re back to smiling.

“I don’t squirm.” He’s pretty sure he’s quite literally squirming as he says it, confirmed by how amused you look.

You’re both quiet for a bit after that and he lets out a deep breath, feeling overly ridiculous for the fact he’s considering your offer. Both because he’s married and it should be an automatic no but, on the completely other end of the spectrum, he can’t figure out what kind of guy turns down a free professional lap dance.

He’s not really sure what kind of guy he’s less comfortable being.

“Maybe next time?” His eyes squint a little when he says it, coming off completely unbelievable which clearly you agree with because you give him a tight smile and nod your head.

Sammy has a hard time going back inside let alone leaving the building entirely, the offer lingering in his head until he gets back home and then for days afterwards.

He’s not sure why he can’t stop thinking about it, why he can barely look Tammi in the eyes.

It’s ridiculous to know that a brief conversation with a stripper in a sketchy alley was one of the only times he’s felt listened to in the last ten years. He can’t remember the last time he’d bantered with his wife or complained about his job in a way that didn’t just frustrate her, she certainly didn’t express her wants and desires to him anymore unless it was something she wanted him to pay for.

He couldn’t get what you said out of his head about wanting to do something because you wanted it.

He knew you probably didn’t mean him specifically, he wasn’t sure why that could possibly be the case so it made more sense to completely write it off. But you were willing to make him apart of that equation and that alone felt complimentary.

So Sammy went back to the club.

This time he wasn’t dragged along reluctantly by a group of asshole cops, it was nobody’s birthday or special celebration and he couldn’t hide within a small crowd to avoid being singled out.

Going by himself felt like a whole different experience and he halfway considered turning around as soon as he entered but he pushed further into the dark building, rubbing his sweaty hands against the sides of his jeans and trying to look less awkward when he finally made it to the bar.

It felt like a safe enough neutral ground for him to be able to scan the surrounding areas and try to find you. He felt a little stupid when a few minutes passed and you were nowhere to be seen, wondering for a second if you were even working today.

And then there you were.

He registered as soon as you walked out onto the main stage, center of the club and a little larger than the smaller ones adjacent to it, that he had never actually seen you dance before.

You were beautiful enough that he was sure people paid just to be around you but watching you move around on the pole was a whole new level of things. He wouldn’t be surprised if a handful of men and women went broke just to possibly catch your attention for a second or two.

You moved like you were just dancing for yourself, barely looking out to the small crowd watching you. It was like your own private universe and Sammy was sucked into it, leaning forward on his stool against the bar and wishing he had sat closer to the stage so he could have a better view of you.

He thought on what you had said, about not having fun anymore. It was noticeable to him but he figured he was probably the only one paying attention to your expressions and the bored look on your face, the other men leaning forward to try and pass you dirty single bills only focused on the way your top barely covered your nipples and your nearly sheer panties.

Sammy was suddenly extremely happy he wasn’t any closer, especially when you spread your legs teasingly for the men in front of you.

He didn’t feel any sort of jealously watching you give attention to the other patrons but there was a foreign sense of pride. You were good at what you did and clearly that was the general publics opinion too.

He almost felt bad for the girl that had to go on after you, met with a lot less enthusiasm than you had managed to draw out during your short performance. You were still on stage as she came out and got set up, collecting the dollars placed in front of you with a tense jaw and an obvious tightness to your spine.

If he hadn’t already felt stupid for being there alone, then it really settled in when he left the bar in favor of lingering near the stage dressing room exit doors. He wasn’t even sure if you’d leave from there, getting a watchful eye from the closest security guard who was clearly ready to stop him if he got too close to the restricted area.

The feeling was gone as soon as you stepped out and saw him, recognition and surprise clear on your face as you approached him easily like he was an old friend.

“Sammy. You came back.” You sounded soft again like you were genuinely pleased to see him.

“Yeah I…” He trailed off and awkwardly adjusted his collar, feeling a little hot suddenly as he shifted on his feet. His eyes went to your face after drifting around for a few seconds and he was relieved to see you looked patient but far too knowing. “I thought about it.”

You didn’t need to hear him finish before your hand was wrapping around his wrist, making him tense for a second before you were tugging him along with you as you walked. His fingers curled up into a fist repeatedly as the nerves hit him hard, trying his best to not let his gaze drift down to your panties as you led him.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting from you when it came to this dance offer but it definitely wasn’t a private area in the back of the club. You weren’t in your own room but there were wooden partitions on the back of the booth chairs that blocked you from any viewing eyes.

He stood there stiffly as you had a brief hushed talk with one of the security guards outside the sectioned off area, the large man’s eyes drifting over your shoulder to Sammy before giving you a curt nod and stepping aside so he was also outside the walls.

“Sorry.” You mumbled it out as you let go of his wrist that felt like it was burning from your touch. He was standing there still, a little thrown off by how quickly things had escalated. “Figured we’d talk in here instead.”

He nodded his head but he wasn’t sure he really understood still, glancing around and clearing his throat.

“You’re nervous.”

Again with the blunt statements, leaving him feeling a little stupid at the near pity in your voice so he furrowed his eyebrows. You stepped closer until you had to tilt your head back to look at his face and he stared down at you, curious and so clearly hesitant still but he had showed up so it was too late.

He knew he’d never get you out of his head if he didn’t follow through with this.

“That’s okay.” You were whispering now and he was surprised at how intimate it could feel in this area with you despite the fact the club was still lively around you, just outside the half walls that did very little to block out the sounds and overlapping voices. “Can I help you relax?”

He didn’t trust himself to speak yet so he nodded again, watching you hesitate before your hands were going to the top buttons on his shirt. You undid three of them and stopped there but it was enough to suck the breath out of his chest.

“You can’t touch me, obviously no pictures and videos.” You were still speaking quietly as your hands moved to rub over both his biceps, both helping in relaxing him and also making his head spin dangerously. “Don’t stick any dirty bills in my underwear… although that one doesn’t really apply to you since this is on the house.”

You smiled up at him then and the combination of your touch and the look on your face almost killed him. He couldn’t stand how pretty you were, wishing he could at least request for you to wipe the eyeshadow off of your eyes so he could make out the shape of them better.

It was a weird detail to obsess over, especially since it still looked good on you as is, but he craved to see you in more of a natural state.

Selfish. Something he didn’t allow himself to be ever.

“I want to pay you.” He spoke finally and his voice came out as quiet as yours had gotten, sighing when you shook your head immediately. “Doesn’t feel right.”

“What? Feels more like cheating?” Your eyebrows furrowed and he felt a little thrown by how accusatory your tone suddenly was. He almost countered your claim with the reminder that you had begged him for this but that felt stupid because you weren’t wrong and he had made the choice to come back.

And it was even more true that the lack of exchange that was payment for a service made this feel too real.

“Maybe this was a bad idea.” He said back and now it was your turn to sigh, hands rubbing over his shoulders as you shifted closer.

“No I’m sorry.” You sounded genuinely apologetic and he tried not to stiffen too much when you were suddenly kissing against his jaw. It was the first time anyone other than Tammi was touching him in a dozen years and maybe the first actual sign of affection he’d gotten since four summers ago. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He knew right away he’d struggle with not touching you, both because he felt awkward just standing there and because he wanted to desperately.

“I want this too you know.” You whisper next and that hits him harder than any amount of touching you could do, pausing in the soft kisses so you can stare up at him again. “What can I do to help you relax?”

Sammy feels like he can’t voice what he wants, not in general and especially not under these circumstances. But his brain is clearly a traitor because his eyes drop down to your lips before he can stop himself, noting that they’re a little extra shiny from kissing his skin and he’s sure your lipstick is left on his jaw.

“Oh.” You sound breathier than he figured he’d ever hear you get and he halfway wonders what about this is affecting you so much.

Maybe you’re just a very good actress.

“You want me to kiss you?” You’re still whispering but it feels incredibly loud and he’d take a large step backwards if it wasn’t for your hands still clinging to him.

“I don’t know.” He sighs and his hands twitch at his sides again. “I shouldn’t.”

“I didn’t ask if you should, I asked if you want it.”

He watches you for a long few seconds, eyes locked on yours that are too desperate for it to make sense to him. You look about ready to convince him but there’s no need to considering he nods just when he feels like you’re going to pull away.

You don’t hesitate, like you’re worried he’s going to change his mind if he’s given another second to think, pressing your mouth against his.

He’s quick to move against you because he hasn’t felt heat like this in a long time and now he’s drowning in it, taking a step forward so you’re fully flushed against eachother as you kiss deeply. There’s no slow build up or soft movement until you get used to each other, pace quick and needy from the beginning with your tongue already licking across his bottom lip.

Theres no question about allowing you access and you make a soft pleased noise when he so easily lets you lick into his mouth, his hands clenching into tight fist while they hover over your warm skin.

Luckily you move your own palm down to grasp his and press it against your body, a silent show of permission that he takes advantage of right away.

He knows you’ll probably take away the privilege once the dance actually starts so he lets himself be greedy, rubbing his rough hands up and down the bare skin of your back and smiling into the kiss when he feels the way you shiver at the touch.

You clearly like it, like him for whatever reason.

You’re kissing for so long that he feels a little dizzy from how breathless he is, tongues tangling more than anything else like you’re drunk on the taste of each other. You’re grabbing anywhere you can, from his arms to the back of his neck and even moving down to press against the softness of his stomach.

He’s not sure how much time passes before you stop and it takes a few tries, pulling off and giving him soft pecks that turn into another full blown makeout session before long and that process repeats a handful of times before you’re lightly pushing him backwards to sit down.

You move his hands down to his sides and he takes the silent direction, knowing he’s technically not supposed to touch you anymore even though he’s feeling pretty confident by now that you wouldn’t exactly mind.

Still, he wants the full illusion of getting a real dance from you so he white knuckles the plush seating beside him and keeps himself focused.

Watching you dance on stage versus having you right in front of him is an out of body experience.

You’re back to being sensual and untouchable in a way that makes him almost needy just from looking at you, back to longing for your attention and feeling like he must be the luckiest guy in the world to have you looking at him.

It’s jarring how fast you can go from desperately kissing him and gripping onto his frame to dancing in front of him, just out of reach like he doesn’t deserve to touch you.

And he really agrees.

You’re torture in human form, especially when you move so you’re almost on his lap but not quite enough for him to feel you. You’re hovering over him, knees on either side of his thighs, and letting your hands run through his hair and down his neck.

It’s brutal and he wishes he could live here like this, willing to suffer at your hands for as long as you still want him to.

“You’re cute.” You say softly and he’d almost forgotten what your voice sounds like, too focused on your cleavage nearly pressed against his face and the feeling of your hands all over him. “You want to touch me so bad.”

“I won’t.” He assures you, needs you to know he’ll listen to whatever rules you set in place for him.

You hum like you’re satisfied by his answer, nose rubbing against his, and if he had a tail it would most certainly be wagging.

The dance last for a few songs but it lingers in Sammy’s head for much longer.

He leaves the club that night a little dazed, feeling slightly wobbly on his feet despite the fact he hadn’t had a single drop of alcohol.

There’s a high that comes from seeing the relaxation on your face when you danced for him, laughing whenever he let out a strangled breath and smiling as you moved to the beat he would surely look ridiculous to if he tried.

Obviously he was still human and apparently still very much a man because he couldn’t get your body out of his head either, the taste of your tongue and the way you touched him in areas of his body he had neglected just like most aspects of his life.

Sammy felt like a terrible husband when he got back home that night, taking an extra long shower to get your lipstick off his skin and throwing his clothes in the washer to rid the them of the body glitter and smell of your perfume. He felt even worse when he climbed into bed with Tammi and spent hours tossing and turning because of thoughts of you.

But he felt noticed for the first time in a long time and it was starting to outweigh any guilt.

He started to go every week.

It made him feel almost nauseous with anxiety the first few times he showed up, you’d never actually invited him back although you had kissed him a few more times before you had to go backstage again.

He wasn’t sure if you wanted to see him again, maybe you’d tell security to ban him or tell him directly to his face that he had gotten the wrong idea and you had just been bored. But you smothered that thought pretty quick, rushing up to him whenever he’d walk through the door and pulling him into dark hallways to kiss him on the days you could spare the time.

Sometimes you were busy with performances and he’d settle in the back with a clear front view of the stage, watching you move and trying to ignore the tightness in his chest when somebody yelled something gross that made you noticeably faltered.

Other nights he got you to himself for a long moment, almost close to an hour a handful of times.

He’d tried to talk to you occasionally and you’d open up just enough to peek his interest without actually letting him know anything about yourself. You’d smile softly at him when he tried to check in on how you were doing like you found him cute for even thinking you’d answer.

You’d dance for him, either for the entire duration of your time in the private booths or just a quick song before you’d settle down next to him and kiss him softly.

He realized pretty quickly how much you liked to kiss.

He noticed that right alongside your interest in his stomach, the size of his legs and how thick his fingers felt when you played with them. Sammy had been smaller in his life and he definitely had put on some weight now that he was spending a lot of his day behind a desk, a sore spot for Tammi who would not so subtly recommend diet meals and calorie plans.

You didn’t seem to mind at all, the complete opposite actually. He was sure you’d pull his shirt off the second he walked in the door if it was allowed, your hands constantly wandering beneath the fabric and unbuttoning it all the way down to his ribs so you could atleast see a part of his chest.

Sammy realized after three months of visiting you almost religiously that he wasn’t as delusional as he thought and you actually liked him.

You’d even broke what he figured was the biggest personal rule in the club, whispering your real name against his mouth one night when he had called you by the given stage one.

It had taken a few seconds to process but the slight nervousness in your eyes made it obvious what you were saying to him.

So of course he couldn’t keep himself away, it would be impossible to even try.

He couldn’t pretend that it didn’t give him a small thrill to sneak around and see you, to tell Nate he was too busy to watch the game or make sure Tammi processed him complaining about having to work overtime.

You were the single most interesting thing that had happened to him probably in his entire life.

Sammy actually was running late tonight and it had already been nine days since he’d last seen you, the longest stretch you’d gone in a long time. He still felt ridiculous to be hurrying to a strip club after a long shift, having to pick up extra hours to help lessen Nate’s workload so he could go home to his baby.

Tammi was growing used to him being busier lately so she’d only thrown a major fit which he was grateful for, having no time to talk her down on the phone considering he was probably going to miss you entirely if he didn’t hurry up.

He was speed walking away from his car towards the entrance when a voice made him falter.

“Sammy?”

Thankfully he knew your voice so well by now, especially the way you said his name, because he almost thought he wouldn’t recognize you if you hadn’t spoke. Maybe he would have passed right by and continued to search for you inside.

You had absolutely no makeup on other than the black smudges stuck on your waterline and some left over glitter adorning the visible skin, a lot less than usual considering you were wearing a large shirt that covered most of your frame down to your thighs.

Sammy had never seen you like this, natural with your hair flowing down your back and a few inches shorter due to the flat shoes you were wearing.

He noticed immediately how much younger you looked when you were bare faced, ashamed to realize he had never actually asked how old you were. He had figured you were over twenty one because you worked in a club but you had such youthful features that he had to wonder if that was even the case.

“Hey.” He tried to keep his voice normal and soft, not wanting to freak you out.

There was a security guard hovering near the entrance of the club but he was out of earshot and you were practically alone in the parking lot. He hoped you felt safe with him by now but he didn’t want to assume, staying as still as possible.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” He sighed out and shook his head, gesturing to where his car was parked like he was going to explain it all to you before stopping, words catching in his throat as he looked at you closely again.

“This is weird right?” Your voice was soft too and thankfully you seemed just as comfortable as normal, posture relaxed as you shifted the bag of things you were carrying in your arms. He figured it was outfits and shoes, maybe even some of your tips although he hoped you stored them somewhere safer.

“No it’s…” He trailed off and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Okay yeah maybe a little bit.”

You smiled lightly at his honesty and squinted your eyes in a half wince like you were contemplating doing something stupid. Eventually you sighed and took a step closer to him.

“Walk me to my car?”

He didn’t hesitate to nod and step closer to you as you fell into sync walking, arms brushing each others as you went deeper into the large parking lot.

He couldn’t stop staring at the side of your face, transfixed by this version of you that he probably wasn’t ever supposed to see. You played a part, constantly performing even though he technically wasn’t paying you for the service like everybody else was. It was still your job and the outfits and makeup you wore were your disguise.

You’d told him your name, kissed him on the mouth while giggling like he was your lover, and now he was getting to see you as you yawned softly and not so subtly played with his fingers as you walked.

“You worked late.” You comment when you finally reach your car and he’s glad you’re not jumping to end the night before he even got a chance to talk to you.

He spends a few seconds in silence, scanning over your car. He’s both checking the state of it and also trying to learn whatever he can from you by looking at the small details he can see, what bumper stickers you have on the back and what type of air fresheners you like to use.

“Nate just had a baby.” He answers and he’s surprised by how easy it rolls off, like he’s talking to his wife about his day and not a clearly much younger stripper. “So I was helping him out.”

“So selfless.” You hum and finally, finally, you touch him. Your hands rub over his ribs softly in soothing circles, your back pressing against your car as he shifts so he’s fully in front of you. “You’re a good man.”

“I’m terrible.” He says immediately and you smile at the statement, shifting and pressing a light kiss against his mouth that he returns eagerly.

He’s missed every part of you but especially this and he knows he’s in deep now, actually yearning for you throughout his days and even more so at night. He’d spent a big part of the last few months picturing what it would be like to see you outside of the club, maybe smiling underneath the sun or cooking dinner with him in a kitchen far more lively than his own.

He feels content with this, still technically at your place of work but far enough removed that he has that special feeling again.

You kiss him for so long his lips go numb and then you’re wishing him a goodnight, and shocking him even more by wrapping your arms around him for a tight hug.

Sammy makes sure he comes back the next day as early as he can, not wanting to make the same mistake and only get a few minutes with you before you leave.

He wants to spend as much time with you as he can, willing to pay an absurd amount if it means you stay with him instead of getting on the stage. It’s a weekend, something he usually avoids, and he’s a little thrown off by how busy it is.

A few patrons give him long looks and he’s halfway convinced he recognizes some of them from his time out on the streets, trying to avoid eye contact the best he can and remind himself that he’s still supposed to be a cop even when he’s off the clock.

Being taken into a private area by a much younger stripper isn’t illegal but it’s definitely breaking half a dozen moral codes, most of all infidelity.

He’s almost worse than the men who come here and pay for full out sex, more twisted than a husband who has a meaningless hookup in a cheap motel. Because he may keep his hands to himself more often than not, but you’re living under his skin now and that’s the biggest betrayal of all.

Right away, he can tell you’re more amped up than usual.

Maybe you feel closer to him after he saw you in such a private state yesterday or maybe you’re happy he’s there so early for once but you practically drag him to the private booth, kissing him before you even get inside which earns you both a sharp look from the security guard.

Your energy is infectious as you eagerly sit him down on the seats, the type of energy he hasn’t felt in years and another reminder of how much younger than him you are.

There’s barely any small talk at all before you’re fully climbing into his lap which is something you rarely do even after all of these visits, always hovering over the fabric of his jeans in a straddle or facing away from him and teasing him with the curve of your ass brushing just enough to drive him crazy.

He makes a strangled sound at the contact that makes you smile right before you kiss him, slow and sensual like you have all the time in the world.

“What’s up?” He asks against your mouth, keeping his hands at his sides no matter how strong the urge to steady you is.

“Nothing just missed you.” You say back and kiss him again, a few more times that get longer and longer each time.

He selfishly wants to hear you elaborate considering it’s only been less than 24 hours since you’d last seen him, but you don’t give him the chance before your tongues licking into his mouth and you’re leaning against his chest.

He wonders how he got so lucky to have you missing him, so excited to see him after a missed day that you can’t even follow your own rules about touching eachother.

You’ve been kissing for a long time before he first feels your hips moving, such small movements that he barely registers it at first before it hits him all at once. You’re rubbing yourself against him and he doesn’t even know if you’ve realized that you’re doing it, soft noises leaving your mouth from the way your tongues wrap around each others.

He knows by now that you like kissing, especially when it’s this filthy and passionate, but you seem genuinely overwhelmed by need.

Sammy isn’t sure how he’s supposed to be reacting during this, his hands fiddling with the loose strings on the seat below him because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

His hips do lift off the seating for a brief moment to try and follow after yours, an instinctive move he didn’t even realize he was doing until it was too late. You pull off from the kiss finally like you’re only now recognizing the way you’re torturing him.

“Fuck sorry.” He mutters out but you’re smiling down at him and rocking your hips again like you’re testing his reaction. He groans and lets himself shift one more time, feeling the tent in his jeans rub against the panties that barely cover your core.

“Look at you.” Your voice is like silk and he almost gasps at the sound of it, even worse with your hands suddenly in his hair. “So desperate for it.”

He can’t deny it, knows there’s no use.

A groan leaves him as he shifts again under you and now you finally react, a soft noise falling from your mouth that makes his entire body heat up.

You’ve stopped teasing him suddenly, no more wandering hands or slightly moving against his lap. Instead you’re fully sat down against his hard on and rocking your hips back and forth over it, a cute almost pained expression on your face that he can barely stand to look at.

“You like that.” He doesn’t even realizing he’s talking until he’s said it, a statement and not a question. Your eyes go to his instantly like you’re surprised by the boldness of the claim. “Feel how hard you get me?”

You make a breathy shocked noise before you’re nodding eagerly and really rocking against him, hands moving to his shoulders to support yourself. He can’t stop himself from touching you even if he tried, his hands gently grabbing your hips just to help you move faster.

Now your noises are high pitched and desperate as you rub yourself on him, biting your lip to try and keep quiet as you hump against him.

“Fuck baby there we go.” He’s grunting out and he’s shocked at how unlike himself he sounds, dominant and rough in a way he hasn’t felt in decades. “Make yourself feel good. Just like that, keep using me.”

You’re whining in his ear as your forehead rest against his shoulder and he rubs up your bare back, feeling the shudder that runs through you at the sensation of his rough hands finally really touching you.

It’s got you so pent up and it’s another new side of you he’s getting to discover, whiny and desperate and not at all in control like you were most of time you spent together. You’re burying your face in his neck to try and muffle the sweet sounds leaving you but he can’t stand it, a hand tangling in your hair to tug lightly and get you to let him hear.

You’re not talking, seemingly unable, but you do try to kiss him as you move. It’s sloppy and you can barely keep up with it but he’s fixated on making you feel good so he tries his best to help you.

If Sammy was already obsessed with you, then he was completely screwed now. You’re begging for him to keep going in a high pitched voice and digging your nails into the meat of his arms, calling out his name in soft whimpers when you’re finally releasing for him.

He can’t believe you’re real, can’t believe he’s sitting with you on his lap like this.

You kiss him softly as you’re coming down, arms wrapped around his neck and body completely relaxed against him. He feels a pang of guilt, wishing you were somewhere less noisy and public where he could properly clean you up and make sure you were okay, but you don’t seem at all upset when you pull back to smile at him.

It’s a new development that doesn’t slow down at all, touching each other in a new way almost every time he comes.

You get down on your knees for him, let him feel between your legs and kiss down your body like he has any ownership over it, his fingers in your mouth as you ride against his thigh.

He’d already liked you, would have even content with sitting in the grimy building just to have a meaningless conversation if it meant he got to spend even a second around you.

But now you’d added this new dynamic and he feels like he’s become something completely corrupted, constantly thinking about your body against his and anticipating the next time you’re going to touch him.

Sometimes he stays until the club closes, waiting outside in the alley for you so he can walk you to your car and kiss you up against it.

You talked to him then, maybe feeling safer when you’re not having to play a part. You stand there in your regular clothes and complain about your family in a soft voice, boast about becoming a regular at your favorite coffee shop and tell him about the new neighbors that were a little too long for your liking.

He knows that’s much more dangerous than any amount of touching you can do.

There’s no more sadness when Tammi doesn’t ask him about his day at work because he knows you will the next time he sees you, knows you’ll care and ask follow up questions like you’re genuinely interested in what he does daily.

Sammy craves more, wants to see you under the sunlight more than anything he’s ever wanted before. He wants to wake up next to you and run you a bath after he makes you feel good, come home to you in the kitchen dancing in that free way you do when you feel happy.

He doesn’t dare bring any of that up to you, content with the good thing he has someone acquired.

Something shifts after the sixth month of seeing you almost every week, sometimes multiple times if he can spare it.

You weren’t dancing that night, just sitting beside him and kissing his jaw softly as you asked him questions about his family and how he grew up. He was wondering how much trouble you’d be in if your manager knew how much time you’d been spending with him like this.

He’s started to force you to take some of his money, especially since you’d had to pick up extra private sessions with other guys to make up the difference.

It makes his stomach turn with a possessiveness he shouldn’t have and he knows you agreed because it’s the only time you’d been slightly irritated with him, scolding him in between kisses and reminding him that he didn’t own you.

Telling him over and over that you were doing your job with others still.

The exclusion of him from that statement made him feel a bit better so he shut up and noted to not bring it up again.

Weeks passed before you were sat with him like that, interrupted by his phone vibrating in the pocket of his jeans.

Sammy rarely got calls when he was with you because he’d turn his phone off or stress to Tammi that she had to stop calling him while he was ‘working overtime’. He ignored it like he always did but then it was on its fourth attempt and he started to worry it was important, kissing you lightly and telling you to wait before pulling it out and answering it.

Tammi was hysterically crying, rambling through sobs about how Richter was throwing up all over the house and not acting like himself.

He’d apologized to you a million times, trying not to look at the dejected look on your face as he helped you stand up and left early for the first time in months.

He didn’t really think about it past that, feeling terrible but figuring you would understand.

Then he was back the next week and searching for you, spending an hour in the club without being able to find you. He asked one of the bouncers who was more familiar with him, knowing how regularly he was here to see you.

They told him you’d been fully booked with private dances that night and he felt his stomach turn, knowing you got to select the time slots yourself. You’d left no space for him in your schedule despite knowing what days he’d come by now.

Sammy knew he should just go home and ask you about it the next time he saw you but he couldn’t stand the thought of it being left unresolved.

So he waited.

He spent two hours in the parking lot before you finally stepped out, looking much more tired than usual and speed walking to your car like you had a feeling he was going to be waiting out there for you.

You didn’t look at all surprised when he got out of his car and approached you but you sighed and rolled your eyes, making him falter a little in his pace.

“Not tonight Sammy. Come back next week.” You said dismissively and he scoffed at the detached tone.

“What?” His voice was louder than he meant for it to be but it got you to stop, turning to face him with a glare. “That’s it? Like I’m just some random customer?”

Your eyebrows furrowed and you were taking a few quick steps in his direction, jamming your finger against his chest and jabbing him a few times. He clenched his jaw but didn’t react, swallowing the anger building in his chest.

“That’s exactly what you are Sammy.” You spat and he felt his heart drop, shaking his head in denial before you even got to finish. “I’m a stripper for fucks sake. What the fuck did you think this was?”

Your eyes were full of hurt and he wasn’t an idiot, understanding exactly what this was about.

“You know I’m married. You’ve known that from the second you met me.” His voice is calmer than he expected it to come out, trying to disarm you as he reaches out to lightly touch your forearms and keep you from storming off or touching him roughly again. “I see you more than I do her these days.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You laugh cruelly like he’s saying something completely ridiculous and his face deflates with a sigh.

“You won’t even give me your fucking phone number.” He rubs your arms as he speaks, just trying to get you to understand his point of view. “You want me to leave my wife for you when you don’t want to let me in?”

You harden immediately and he regrets the words, although partially true he also knows you’d shown him parts of yourself that you normally kept hidden away. You had done a lot of letting him in and it clearly hurts you that he acts like it meant little in the grand scheme.

He can only call apologies out to you as you step out of his touch and storm off to your car, roughly slamming the door and squealing out of the parking lot before he can even catch his breath.

Sammy doesn’t see you for two months and every day is worse than the last.

He keeps thinking he’ll get over it eventually, that you were a small chapter of his apparent middle life crisis, but he craves you so bad and he can’t get you out of his head no matter what he does.

He feels dull and lifeless, looking forward to nothing anymore and arguing with Tammi even worse than usual.

The day he breaks is the same day he has to arrest one of the kids he’d taken under his wing, one of the only things he was still able to care about. He sits in his car crying after the arrest for two hours, head pounding and eyes swollen.

His drive starts off in the direction of his house but he remembers the big stupid fight he and Tammi had this morning so he completely changes his plan and heads straight to the club.

He feels stupid as he parks, even worse when he’s getting out of his car automatically at the sight of you. He could cry again just from seeing you in person after so long but he tries his best not to, his head already hurting so bad he’s half convinced this isn’t reality.

You see him and automatically sigh, glancing around like you’re considering getting the security guards attention.

“You shouldn’t be here Sammy.” You say and your tone is just as hard as it was the last time you saw each other.

But then you turn your head to glare at him and your entire body stiffens, immediately seeing how swollen and red his face is and the clear torment on his expression. He knows he’s crying again before your face falls even more, practically collapsing against you when you come closer and wrap your arms around his neck.

You hold him as he sobs and where he’d probably feel pathetic with showing this vulnerability to Tammi, he feels cared for by you.

You don’t make any move to let him go until he pulls back first, keeping his arms loose around your lower back incase you want to step away from him. But you keep him close, fingers playing with the hair on the back of his neck while you stare up at him with concern.

“Come on.” You say softly, freeing a hand to rub his cheeks softly and clear them of any wetness. “Get in my car.”

Sammy’s quiet as he follows your gentle order, slumping down in the passenger seat and being too out of it emotionally to even inspect the interior like he would have so eagerly a few months ago.

You drive silently, glancing over at him occasionally to keep checking in. He stares blankly out the window, feeling too guilty to even take the sight of you in the way he wants to so desperately.

Any sense of deserving you he might have built up to feeling in your time together was gone now and he was back to feeling overwhelmingly terrible for inconveniencing you.

You stopped outside an apartment building and he was aware enough to know it must be yours, especially given the nervous look on your face as you unlocked the front door and held it open for him to enter.

Your apartment was exactly how he had pictured it, and he’d spent plenty of time trying to imagine what you went home to every night. It smelled nice, similar to the perfumes you wore, and had warm lighting in every corner that was nothing like the clubs electric vibe.

He didn’t get a lot of time to look around because you were back in his space, holding his face and kissing him softly.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered against your mouth, keeping his hands at his side. “I’m so sorry.”

“Stop it.” You scold gently, pulling back and rubbing your thumbs against his skin. You scan over his face like you’re really taking in every centimeter of it and he sighs softly, your nose bumping against his. “You can touch me.”

He does but only with your permission, smoothing both of his hands over the small of your back so you’re pulled closer to him. He ducks his head down between your shoulder and neck, breathing deeply to try and make up for all the time he spent away from you even though he knows it could never be enough.

“Talk to me Sammy.” You say gently while he’s seeking comfort in your scent.

You both end up on the couch as he tells you about his day and why he ended up in this state, your own eyes getting teary when he stresses how hard he tried to help the kid and how defeated he felt when the cycle of violence repeated itself anyways.

Your legs are over his, sitting sideways so you can fully face him and kiss the side of his mouth occasionally when he hesitates to speak certain details out loud.

You clearly care so much still and he feels a crippling amount of relief at that, especially when the conversation shifts to your argument.

“It was wrong of me to be so upset.” You say softly and you look mildly embarrassed, making him immediately start to interject to reassure you even though he’s stopped by you shushing him. “I know you’re married I just… hadn’t really had to process it before that.”

He stares at you as you speak, so beautiful and relaxed in your own space as you curl up next to him. It’s something he had hoped for since he first started seeing you, getting to know you in this way.

“And you were right about me not really letting you in but I was just scared.” You confess and he softens even more, kissing you gently in between your statements. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me without all the glitter and allure.”

“This is all I wanted.” He says immediately and those tears in your eyes return as soon as the words hit the air, tilting your head like you’re trying to stop yourself from crying. “Just you.”

You’re really kissing him now and all the feeling he was missing from his life comes surging back, replacing that numbness that had settled over him the last few months. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss back in the way he knows you like so much, tongues tangling and air irrelevant.

He feels like he’s floating, the luckiest man alive to have you here with him like this.

➽──────────────────❥

you couldn't help but let out a sigh of frustration at your current situation.

when you first started dating that idiot you met at some stupid party right by downtown la, you never expected that he'd land you in a police station within just a few weeks of knowing him — even when you'd already ended things.

it'd been an entire hour since you'd been sitting there, eyes becoming droopy at the sheer boredom of sitting around and waiting for you to come see if you'd be willing to talk.

you weren't an idiot. you knew that talking to the police was possibly the worst thing you could do. admittedly, you had been an idiot to not realize the guy you'd dated for three weeks a month ago was, in fact, affiliated with a gang, but at least you were smart enough to know not to be a snitch. even though you didn't give a flaming shit what happened to your ex, it simply wasn't worth retaliation.

but then detective bryant walked in.

as embarrassed as you were to admit attraction to what you and your friends would've deemed a pig, sammy bryant was just different from the rest.

he'd done a double take as soon as he walked into the waiting area, finding you sitting there with boredom in your expression. his eyes raked up and down you form, straightening up his posture as he walked in your direction. visibly swallowing, he readjusted his tie, offering you an awkward smile as he continued to walk towards you.

his slight awkward, yet determined demeanor charmed you within seconds. his politeness towards you also helped his case.

sammy was sweet in his attempts at encouraging you to testify for a case they were working on. he had explained that his team was hoping to solve a murder case they were sure had been done at the hands of the gang your ex belonged to. he stumbled over his words once or twice, chuckling in embarrassment as you looked at him with obvious interest in your eyes. he seemed a little older than you, but there was no ring on that finger, so you figured he was fair game.

he huffed, scoffing any time his questions landed back to your former relationship with your ex. he wasnt shy in expressing disbelief at you dating what he called a 'useless delinquent,' claiming that a pretty girl such as yourself deserved better. this earned him a look from his partner, who was mostly a silent participant, but all you could do was giggle and twirl your hair.

so, yeah. maybe you'd let yourself fall for a guy you'd just met. a cop, no less. and maybe you'd even put your life at risk by testifying against a fucking gang member. but you'd gotten sammy's number by the end of it and a promise that he'd keep you safe, so perhaps it was a win after all.

➽──────────────────❥

you hadn't heard anything back from the police department since you left their office three days ago. you also hadn't found any good enough reason to contact sammy in those three days.

he'd said you should call if you found yourself in any danger, very insistent in that piece of advice. you heard him arguing with someone you assumed to be his supervisor, making a case that you needed to be put in some sort of witness protection in case something were to come up. it was touching how adamant he seemed about it. you could tell he was a good guy at heart.

that was when he gave you his card, gulping at the flirtatious smile on your lips when you gladly accepted it and giving you strict direction to have no reservations in calling him if you were ever in any danger.

it unfortunately didn't go past three days before you found yourself calling him as your body shook with fear.

you didn't live in a particularly dangerous part of town, but it also wasn't the type of place you'd be comfortable going on a nighttime walk in. still, you were never expecting anything news worthy to go down in your neighborhood.

when the gunshots began, you thought it must've just been a car backfiring, maybe some dumb teenagers lighting some poppers out on the street. it took your lamp quite literally exploding to your left for you to drop down to the ground in fear, crawling your way behind your kitchen counter and pulling out your phone, sammy's number already saved in your contacts and ready for dial.

"s-sammy?"

"yeah. who's this?" he didn't quite register the fear in your voice at first, his voice slightly muffled as if he were chewing on something.

speaking at that moment was a difficult task. you were hyperventilating, shaking to the point where gripping the phone felt almost impossible. you couldn't think of five objects you saw, four you heard, whatever the fuck the rest was. all you could think about was the shots fired and the possibility of someone stepping through the door to finish the job.

not realizing you'd been panting into the phone for a full minute, sammy's voice interrupted your thoughts.

it was a call for your name. a question, checking if it was you on the other side of the line.

"y-yes. sammy? i need- they're here. i'm scared, sammy." you cried.

his tone shifted immediately. you could hear commotion from his end. the picking up of things, some steps, a car door slamming shut, some unintelligible yelling.

he was on his way.

"stay right there, okay, sweetheart? i'm coming to get you. stay on the line with me, okay?"

his words were rapid, anxious, but they still offered you the comfort you needed at that moment. knowing he was willing to drop everything to come to you was enough to get your breathing back to a manageable capacity.

you tried to respond, failing at getting anything other than a whimper out of you.

"you don't gotta speak, baby. just know i'm here. keep your head down. hide if you can. i'm breaking all sorts of traffic laws to get there as soon as i can."

that make an attempt of a chuckle leave your body. he was charming even in crisis.

and he was true to his word. within five minutes you could hear the loud voices of him and his partner as they crossed the threshold of your household. their loud steps and the clanking of their uniforms unnerved you despite knowing they were there to protect you. even as they called for you, you remained hidden behind the counter, body unwilling to move.

sammy called your name a few times before finally heading into your kitchen and rounding the counter, eyes widening when he found you with your legs crammed into your arms in a fetal position. you were still shaking, tears dampening your cheeks.

"oh, baby." he murmured as he knelt to your height. "it's okay. we're gonna get you some help, yeah?"

you nodded, a small smile forming on your lips when he lowered his gaze to yours. he helped you up, holding onto you so your shaky legs wouldn't give out.

walking over to his partner, he received the 'all clear' signal, assuring there was no longer a threat in your home despite the intense damages from the shootout. more people had showed up within a few minutes. a few more cops and some suits, along with a few spectators from your neighborhood. but throughout it all, sammy stayed with you, sat with you at the sidewalk with an arm wrapped around your shoulder.

at spotting a certain lady, the same he'd been arguing with about your witness protection status, he got up, marching her way. you objected at first, still terrified and liking his comforting presence way too much, but he reassured you with a few shh's and a pat to your hair.

they were a few steps away, so you couldn't actually hear the conversation. but it looked intense. charlie was screaming, face distorted in anger as he wagged his finger at her, arms moving around, expressing his frustration.

his partner took a seat next to you then, watching sammy's argument along with you for a bit before breaking the silence.

"he's good, sammy, y'know? he's a good cop. he's gonna take care of you." he reassured.

"yeah?"

he nodded, easy, casual, "he's been worrying about you ever since you left the station. tried to get them to give you clearance for witness protection. almost got written up over it."

that surprised you.

you'd only known the man for a few days. had only spent a total of two hours with him in the interrogation room. yet he had been fighting for your protection this whole time. it made your skin shiver.

it wasn't even ten minutes that sammy spent arguing with that lady before throwing his arms up in defeat, stomping away from her the way he had towards her. he shook his head, rubbing at his face in frustration before making his way towards you and his partner still sitting on the sidewalk.

"she says she won't clear her. no fucking funds or whatever the fuck." he huffed to ben, you believed.

"no? so what are you gonna do?"

sammy turned to you, determined.

"get up, sweetheart. i'm taking you home with me."

➽──────────────────❥

"sorry about the mess, i just moved in." sammy apologizes as he picks up odd items around his apartment, throwing them out of the way as he shows you around. "it's kind of like my bachelor pad, y'know? i, uh, i don't have an extra bed, but the couch fold out." his tone was forcefully enthusiastic.

you weren't exactly excited about sleeping on a couch, but hearing some sort of confirmation that he was single lifted up your spirits. that, and the fact that you'd be staying in detective bryant's apartment rather than in some dingy motel. it was unsure how long you'd be here, but you hoped long enough to get some of those sick fantasies about the detective out of your mind.

"i like it. it's tidier than most guy's." it wasn't necessarily the truth, but you were just happy to be there (with all things considered, at least).

you were still slightly in shock, but sammy had done a great job in comforting you on the ride here. his hand hadn't left your own the entire time, calloused thumb caressing the back of your palm as your hand rested on your thigh. he was touchier than you'd expect a cop to be, but you weren't complaining. you hoped his touchiness hinted towards something more.

"really? well, at least i'm not a total mess." he chuckled. "anyway, would you like something to eat, drink? all i have is, uhhh, water and beer." he grimaced at his options. "and some leftover pizza. sorry." he scratched at the back of his head awkwardly. "it's been a while since i've had to worry about picking up groceries."

you tilted your head in question, putting down your overnight bag on the couch — he'd promised he would take you home tomorrow to pick up some more of your things, enough to stay for an undecided amount of time.

"yeah. just got a divorce. well, uhm, still in the process of it, but y'know." he continued.

you offered him a sympathetic pout, hand landing on his arm to rub it comfortingly. "oh, i'm sorry, sammy. i'm sure having to house me isn't really gonna help things. i could always just get a hotel or-"

"no! no, don't worry about that. it's all said and done anyway." he mumbled that last part, clapping his hands in front of him to signify a change in subject. "you can take a shower if you want. i'll have the couch set up for you when you're done."

"thank you, detective. really."

"sammy. you can just call me sammy."

"thank you, sammy."

you were pretty sure he blushed at that, but it was a little too dark in his apartment for you to tell. still, you left him there, heading towards the direction in which he'd pointed out the shower to be when you first arrived.

getting naked in his apartment proved more exciting in theory than in actuality. sure, you got to use his toiletries, meaning you ended up smelling like him, and maybe you nuzzled into his towel a little more than a normal person would, but it was pretty uneventful past that. still, maybe he had some imaginative thoughts about having a younger girl naked in his apartment (at least you very much hoped so).

once you were done, you decided to be a little mean. maybe you forgot your pajamas in the living room on accident. maybe it was on purpose. fortunately, this was not something you'd have to testify on.

"sammy!" you called out from inside the shower, smiling to yourself in satisfaction at him having a glass shower rather than a curtained one. this fact would serve its intended purpose.

"y-yeah?" he yelled out from outside, voice sounding louder by the end of the syllable once he made his way to the other side of the bathroom door.

"i left my pj's outside. do you think you could bring them in for me?" you yelled out. "oh, and a towel?" okay, maybe too obvious.

you could practically hear him hesitate, picture him open and close his mouth like a fish, not knowing how to answer. it took him a few silent seconds before actually verbalizing any sort of response.

"yeah, sure. i'll- i'll be right there!" he yelled back, steps trailing away from the door before trailing back after a few moments.

a knock was heard about a minute later, a hesitant one, as if you were the one who owned this apartment and not him.

"can i come in?" he called out. "i can close my eyes if you want me to. or, uhm, i could-"

"you can come in, sammy."

the image as he came in was nothing but comical.

with a hand held up to his eyes in a similar fashion to shield oneself from the sun, sammy took large, yet hesitant steps into the room. he reached out to the counter, practically throwing the clothes and towel on its surface.

"there. i- can you reach them?" he couldn't tell, as his eyes were facing towards the door, never once in your direction.

"can't really reach the towel. can you come closer?" it was hard not to giggle childishly as you said it. you were certain you could reach the towel if you tried hard enough.

he sighed, taking a few more steps before taking a quick look in your direction to make sure he was close enough. he groaned audibly before shutting his eyes shut.

"i'm so sorry. i swear i didn't see anything, i-"

you actually giggled this time.

"it's fine, sammy. i'm just pulling your leg. you can just drop the towel on the floor. i'll be fine from here."

he chuckled along with you, shaking his head to himself.

"you're going to make your stay really hard for me, aren't you?"

"goodbye, sammy. thank you for the towel." you dragged the 'goodbye', hoping the flirtation in your tone was obvious.

he closed the door with a huff, leaving you there, naked, wet, and embarrassingly enough, a little turned on. he was a fucking gentleman, you couldn't help if you found him attractive on that regard (other than all other physical attributes that drew you to him in the first place).

➽──────────────────❥

"oh, sammy, you didn't have to do all this."

walking out of the restroom, hair damp and now pajama-clad, you came across sammy sitting on the couch, heated up slice of pizza in his hand and a few snacks set up on the coffee table in front of him. the bed was already set up, with a few throw pillows and a fuzzy blanket ready for you. there was also a lamp that hadn't been there before, its warm light adding just enough vibrance to the room to not be overwhelming. the tv was on, playing some documentary in the background, adding a comforting ambience to the room. on top of it all, he had tidied up quite a bit, organizing your stuff on a table nearby while you were showering.

he shook his head, mouthful, "nonsense. want you to feel comfortable." he patted the spot next to him on the folded-out mattress, head gesturing at a plated slice of pizza in front of him. "you've been through a lot today. i want you to feel safe here."

you sat next to him, a soft smile on your face. "you're a nice man, sammy. anyone ever tell you that before?"

he scoffed. "tell that to my wife." his eyes rolled ironically, reaching over for a beer and handing you one of your own without a single word.

you took it, chuckling to yourself before setting the beer aside. you wanted completely lucid for the plans you had for tonight.

"you guys still together?"

it was a nosy question, but you needed confirmation before doing anything. you weren't a homewrecker, specially not considering you spotted a few pictures of his baby around the house — none of his supposed ex, though.

he shrugged, scoffing to himself. "nah. i've moved on. just a bunch of paperwork left now, i guess." he shook his head afterwards, hand making a dismissing gesture. "god, sorry. you didn't come here to listen to me complain about my ex-wife. you have way more things to worry about."

scooting a little closer, you closed some more distance between you, finding his eyes.

"don't worry about it, sammy. i'm staying here at least for the next few days, we might as well get to know each other, right?"

he nodded contemplatively. he gestured towards your beer, calling attention to it. "you don't drink?"

"no, yeah, i do. just wanted to stay sober for tonight. i was thinking we could just hang out for a while. unless you need to get up early?"

sammy shook his head, leaning further into the couch to signify his willingness to stay up with you for a while. "i'll stay up. you still shaken up?"

"not anymore. just like the company."

you smiled at him, with him offering you a shy smile in return.

it was easy to see that he was conflicted about your behavior. you weren't being exactly subtle about your interest. perhaps not straight up direct, but the hints of interest were there. him having conflicted feelings about returning your interest made sense to you.

so nothing happened that night — as hard as it was to not make a move on him. you decided to leave your attempts there, to simply spend the next few hours talking to him, grateful that such a nice man was willing to take you in.

sure, it was hard to drive your eyes away from the yummy muscle littering his arms, or from the constellation of freckles found all over his face, but you didn't want to scare him away or have him think you were some sort of sexual deviant (though, for him, you would gladly take that title).

when you went to sleep, he tucked you in, either incredibly oblivious as to the effect his domesticity had on you, or simply returning your affections in the most subtle way he could think of. you braved a kiss to his cheek as a form of goodnight, smiling when he visibly froze at the act, returning a pat on your shoulder instead.

the following day, you woke up to the coziness sammy had set up for you in the living room. you were still bundled up in the comfortable blanket, receiving some warm light from the lamp he'd left on nearby. on the table in front of you was a note from sammy, reading off the time in which he'd get back from work, with his credit card to the side and instructions for you to order some takeout.

you spent the entire day in his apartment, nosy as ever as you looked over anything of interest you could find. most of the day, however, was spent watching boring reruns on tv and waiting for sammy to get back. you took a chance to cook some quick meal and clean up as much as you could, wanting to repay him in any way that you could. there was now an overload of food, with the meal and the takeout combined, but you knew sammy would appreciate it.

when he came back, you welcomed him with an embarrassing amount of giddiness. you felt like a puppy awaiting for the return of its owner, wagging your tail when the man walked through the door.

every other day went more or less like this. you were off work for the time being, being instructed to stay indoors at all times unless sammy happened to be home. it was only until they caught the guys who had shot up your house. this was apparently an off-budget form of witness protection. no budget for actual protection, sammy had communicated to you with a disappointed tone of voice.

except you were anything but disappointed.

sure, your current living situation wasn't exactly conventional, but sammy made things as comfortable for you as possible. he had taken it upon himself to buy you any of your usual toiletries, your favorite foods, had even emptied a chunk of his closet for you to use. the place was too big for sammy, he'd said. claimed it was probably made for a couple rather than for a single guy. you tried your best not to read into that comment, but your delusions could not be deterred.

the two of you had become quite friendly with one another. your flirting never faltered, occasionally inspiring some flirting of his own. for the most part, you treated each other as roommates, friends, maybe something unlabeled.

he'd opened up to you about his divorce. not sad, not regretful, just nostalgic. his memories of his marriage were fuzzy, telling you it was a strange relationship, one mostly out of convenience, that it was the next logical step in his life at the time. you comforted him when you could, joked about it when it seemed sensible. the two of you grew close, not as much as you would've liked, but you knew you'd get there.

➽──────────────────❥

today was different from most days.

sammy was later than usual, now multiple hours late from work. he hadn't let you know of any overtime he was planning to take on, so you knew that this was most likely unplanned — and probably inconvenient for the poor man.

when he came home, you could hear him from your spot at the couch. you could hear the stomping of his feet, the way in which he threw off his shoes, how he slammed his keys on the kitchen table, the slam of the door, the curses under his breath. it was all leading to the conclusion of a very frustrating day for sammy. it made you feel guilty for even staying at his house. you knew he enjoyed your company, but perhaps you were also an inconvenience to him. the last thing you wanted was to make his day worse, to get in the way of him having some peace and quiet after a shitty day.

still on the couch, you decided to feign slumber. it was better for you to get out of his way, to give him one less thing to worry about.

you could hear the dragging of his feet as he stepped into the living room area of his house, suddenly making much less noise as he walked in your direction. you laid there, assuming he'd just walk past you and into his bedroom for a shower in his connecting restroom.

but then he stopped, far closer than expected. the sound of his footsteps halted near you. you held your breath, hoping not to give yourself away. that's when you felt body heat closing in, a hand softly patting your hair and the slight pressure of his lips on your cheek, so light it was almost impossible to perceive.

"missed you today. was hoping you'd be awake" he mumbled under his breath before walking out of the room.

within moments, you could hear the shower running, the sudden lack of his presence in the room.

you sat up, now feeling inadequate. had you known he needed some sort of comfort, you would've sat there waiting for him, offered him anything he needed.

getting up, you walked over to his room as quietly as you could. it was unlikely that he'd head back out after the long day he'd had, so you decided you'd meet him halfway.

you sat on his bed, a little awkward, a little uncomfortable. maybe this was too forward, waiting on his bed while he showered, donning only some oversized shirt and panties underneath.

he was a nice guy. if he really wasn't interested he'd let you down easy, right?

there wasn't much time to think it over. his shower ran shorter than usual, the sound of the water hitting the tiles dying off far quicker than previous times. he must've been exhausted. probably one of those days on watch rather than patrolling. your heart stilled, nerves increasing and skin rising in goosebumps.

he didn't notice you at first, but, god, did you notice him.

wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, he used a smaller towel to dry his hair, effectively covering his eyesight enough to not take notice of you as he walked towards his bed.

he was a vision, with a backdrop full of steam being created by his shower. his curly hair peeked from the towel he used to dry at his hair, looking darker in hue due to its dampness. what took the cake, though, was his body.

the hard muscle you'd fantasized about for weeks was out in the open. the freckled skin, slightly tanned at the forearms, paling at the middle. the same skin you got a peek of any time he'd lift his arms for a well-needed stretch. you wanted your hands all over it, to swallow him hole, drag him to bed and keep him there.

your mind landed in the gutter upon the first sight.

a shrieked "shit!" was not the reaction you'd want from a man finding you waiting for him in bed, but you understood that announcing your presence would've been preferable to him.

"sorry."

"no, don't apologize. just, uh, wasn't expecting you there. thought you were sleeping."

he walked over to you, sitting next to you on the bed, skin still slightly damp.

you were resting your weight on your knees, hands laying on your thighs and body facing his.

"rough day?"

he chuckled humorlessly, "yeah. you could say that."

you leaned closer, head close enough to his shoulder you could've comfortably rested it there if you'd so wished.

"wanna talk about it?"

he turned to you then, eyebrow lifting in question.

"y'know. that's the first time i come home to someone asking me that."

a pout made its way onto your lips. you didn't know much about tammy, but damn her.

"well, i'm asking."

you took this chance to crawl onto the fame of the bed, leaning against it before patting the space next to you, asking him to sit next to you.

"i'm naked under this." he said, dumbly. no shit.

you rolled your eyes. "so am i."

you were still on laying your weight on your knees, meaning that one wrong move and sammy would get a perfect view of the sad excuse for panties you had underneath. similarly, if he played his cards wrong, his towel could move in just the right direction to give you a peek at his goods.

those were odds you liked.

and sammy seemed to like them just as much, shrugging at your challenging comment and sitting next to you at the head of the bed.

"you've been making this very hard for me, kid." there was amusement in his eyes.

"how hard?" you leaned closer, teasing.

"is everything out of your mouth an innuendo?" he chuckled, bumping his shoulder with yours.

"don't know what you're talking about, officer. i think you just got a dirty mind."

"it's dirty, alright."

you shared a laugh, the sound faltering after a few moments, leaving you with a comforting silence.

"so. day. bad?"

"yeah. day bad." he huffed, hand running down his face, rubbing at the tissue there.

"is there anything i can do to make it better?"

you meant it. whether his response was flirtatious or in earnest. you hoped for the former, but were prepared for the latter.

"the answer i wanna give you'd be incredibly inappropriate." he practically groaned.

reaching between you, you grabbed his hand, pressing it to your thigh. not in a suggestive manner, no. just to have his skin on yours somehow.

"i think we're past inappropriate. don't you think, sammy?"

your words were whispered now. you weren't sure when, but the distance between you had diminished over the few minutes you'd spent talking. it was still a proper distance, but one sudden move could've easily changed that.

from your place, you could see every detail about sammy. the warm light of his room offered you the perfect view to every mark on his face, every freckle, every wrinkle. you could see how his lip quirked upward at your proximity, how the furrow of his brow expressed the slight hesitation still there. his hair was practically dry now, somehow creating the prettiest curls despite any lack of attention given to them after his shower.

a fleeting thought of washing his hair came to mind. lathering the shampoo on his curls, taking care of sammy after a long day, covering the expanse of his skin with soapy suds and washing it all off for him. leading him to bed, fresh and new and running your hands through his hair until he fell asleep.

your fantasy died off when sammy finally made a move of his own. his hand loosened around yours, fingers extending and tracing the soft skin of your thigh, wordless and intimate. his eyes were focused upon that spot on your skin, leaving it after a few seconds and finally finding your eyes, a carnal look overcoming them.

"yeah. i think so too."

the gap was closed then, with sammy's lips basically launching against yours, pure urgency in his movements. his sturdy hands landed on your hips like magnets, gripping at them harshly as he pulled you on top of him into a straddling position.

your legs wrapped around his own, your weight distributed between your knees and his thighs. the feeling of him under you made you dizzy with desire, made you kiss him a little harder, made your tongue dig a little deeper into his mouth. it was a mess of heavy breaths, saliva being exchanged liberally between the two of you. your hands pulled at his curls, earning a groan mixed with pain and pleasure, head thrown back and giving you the perfect chance to kiss down its length, licking at the remnants of shower water and sucking at the freckled skin.

the towel proved to be a thick barrier between you, but you remedied that by digging your hand between your bodies, hastily unwrapping its front and freeing him from underneath. his hands had found the bare skin under your shirt by then, reaching up to your breasts and cupping them in his hands, squeezing and running his thumbs over your peaked nipples. trailing back up to his lips, you sighed into them at the feeling of his hands on your skin, crying out when he pulled at your nipples, chuckling into your mouth at your squeal.

"sammy, fuck." you mumbled into his lips.

"can i get this off?" he almost whispered, hands already on the hem of your shirt, fingers itching to throw it off.

silently, you nodded, leaning back to give his hands some space to lift it off.

his greedy hands went up to your breasts again. there was no degree of shyness in showing off his depravity towards you. his hands felt at every inch of your body, going north to south and caressing every curve he could get his hands on, groaning at every moan you released at his touches. you felt itchy with desire, needing his every touch, his every drag of his fingers on your skin.

"i lied." he mumbled, making you look up at him.

"hmm?"

"that day, when you asked me to get you a towel. i turned around and saw you. naked. in my shower." he was panting every word, mumbled between kisses on your breasts. "you've been driving me crazy since that first day."

"that's good." you sighed. "cause i've been wanting to jump you since that first day at the police station."

he groaned, face digging into the crook of your neck and licking at the skin there. he sighed into your flesh, lips dragging all the way to your earlobe and nibbling at it, heavy breath so close it took over your senses.

"god, baby, you don't know what you're saying." he sounded tortured. "you're gonna make me lose my mind." he continued, hands reaching down to your middle and toying at your panties. his fingers dug beneath them, snapping at the band softly a few times before gripping at it and ripping it off, the ripping sound making you gasp.

"you're a fucking dream." he kept going, lips resting against yours, but not filling the gap, just breathing against you. "you have any idea how long i've wanted a pretty girl waiting at home for me like this? hmm? cooking for me, cleaning my place, waiting up for me with nothing on but these tiny little panties." he rubbed at your nude hips, rounding his hands to grip your ass. "just pushing me until i snapped."

your chest rose up and down, your breath heavy with desire. that was exactly what you'd wanted. you were in denial, but you'd been playing a silly little housewife fantasy ever since he'd taken you in. you'd been waiting for the day he finally came home and did with you as he pleased, until he finally stopped holding back and gave you what you both clearly wanted.

but he was being cruel now.

his hands felt so good on you, and the heaviness of his breath seeping into your lips made you sick with lust. his words had your eyes rolling back, your fingers bruising at his arms with their harsh grip. you needed him inside you, needed him to slip through the sopping wetness between your legs and let you have your way with him — or even better, use you to his heart's desire.

"sammy, please-"

"yeah, yeah, i know. i'm right here, sweetheart."

he was about to lift you up, line himself up and finally give you what you'd been begging for. but there was something else you wanted. something you'd been dreaming off since you first saw him, confident gait as if he were carrying something heavy. and now you had evidence of it.

you scoot away from him, hand reaching between you to hold him in your hand. the precum dripping from his tip made the perfect lube, moisturizing him enough for your hand to smoothly jerk him a few times before lowering your mouth on him, tongue out first to lick at the head.

"oh, baby-"

you took him in, mouth hollowed out and tongue sticking out, licking and sucking at his underside. you bobbed your head a few times to test his girth in your mouth, unable to take the whole thing in due to how thick he was, but still getting enough to hit the back of your throat. gagging around him, you moaned when his hand gripped at your hair, holding you there as his hips swirled up into your mouth a few times.

"just like that, sweetheart, shit. fucking gorgeous mouth." he moaned when you gagged, head thrown back.

saliva pooled at his base, creating a mess that trailed from your mouth to his balls. your hand went south, playing with his balls while your mouth remained occupied. your moans vibrated against him, making his toned stomach tense above you. when you looked up, you found him with his mouth agape, occasionally trapping his lower lip with his teeth to hold back sounds of pleasure.

it wasn't long until he pulled you off by your hair, making you gasp once your mouth was freed up. still, the newfound oxygen didn't make you whine at the loss of his cock in your mouth.

"i wasn't finished." you pouted at him.

he pouted back mockingly, thumb cleaning up the sliver of cum still on your lower lip before pecking at your lips. "don't wanna cum like that, baby. i have so many other plans for you.

pulling you up, he brought you to wrap your legs around him once more, hands naturally landing on your ass and pressing you up against him, breasts now in direct contact with his chest, nipples rubbing against him.

"gorgeous girl." he mumbled. "can i fuck you now, huh?"

you nodded, eyes on his lips, tilting your face so they'd connect, only to be stopped before making contact.

"shhh. patience."

asshole. he loved how into him you were. and you couldn't say you minded it. you had no problem being a desperate mess for him if that's what he wanted.

once again, he lifted you up just enough to sneak his dick between you, finding you dripping even more than before. he groaned at the feeling, letting his tip dip into you. the slight stretch made your back arch, your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders. the feeling maximized as he lowered you further, veins popping out of his arms at the strength with which he held you.

"fucking shit." he gasped, lowering his head to your shoulder, teeth baring and scraping lightly at you, clearly trying to hold back from biting you. "don't fucking move, baby. shit. need a second."

but those words meant nothing to you when you were already on cloud nine. you gasped at the feeling of him breaching you, back painfully arched and tits pressed into his chest, slightly dragging yourself up and down for some stimulation on your nipples. when you tried to mindlessly bounce on him, his hand tightened even more, groaning in a mixture of pleasure and frustration.

"just one minute, baby." he huffed. "gonna fucking come if you move."

you tightened at that — you hadn't meant to. his voice was just so gruff and his skin felt so good against yours (plus his dick, hard and curved so deliciously inside you didn't help), you couldn't control how your pussy reacted to him.

"sammy, please." you whined. you leaned closer, licking a strip of his neck and sighing into his ear, teeth nibbling at his lobe before pleading again, mean and needy. "feel so fucking good, baby. need you to fuck me. please?"

once again, he groaned, nodding defeatedly.

"okay, baby. just- fuck, just go slow, okay? gonna fucking come if you- oh, fucking shit."

you didn't listen to him, digging your fingers into his shoulders and beginning to move to your liking. the slapping of skin was immediate, the back of your thighs hitting against his legs while the poor man below you groaned and moaned into the skin of your neck. he licked and bit at you, drooling all over you while his hands scrambled to grab at your waist, legs, hips, tits, anywhere they could find.

you couldn't voice how good you felt. all that would leave your lips were the two syllables that made up his name, along with the occasional expletive. when his hips began hammering into yours from below, even those two syllables became an uphill battle.

sammy used all his strength to lift you while you fucked yourself into him, softly tackling you onto your back without removing his dick from your warmth. now above you, he wrapped your legs around him, pressing his full weight against you and trapping you beneath him. he lost his mind then, mindless as he fucked into you, groaning filth into your ear, feeding off your every whine of his name.

"so fucking good for me. perfect fucking pussy."

"how're you this tight, baby? huh?"

"that's it, take it for me, baby. such a good girl."

"you needed this dick so bad, huh? so tight i can barely breathe."

he had you babbling incoherencies in return. his words made your mind melt, your resolve leave you completely. you were so gone, your orgasm snuck into you with no warning. by the time you felt that burning hot sensation in your stomach, you were already in it. you tightened around him, biting his shoulder to muffle the scream you let out. but this didn't deter him. no, it only brought even more filth out of his lips, it only made his hips go harder, fucking you through the entirety of your orgasm.

his hips faltered after a while, a low groan leaving him when he began to release into you. one last time, he pushed deeply into you, filling you with his cum, a broken chuckle leaving him when it kept going and going, slipping out of you. when he pulled out (earning a cry from you and hush from him), his fingers took his cock's place, pushing in any spunk that leaked out.

not that he'd admit it, but a sick part of him hoped it'd take. that it'd fill you up for months, up until the moment you gave him a shared piece of you that'd have you in his home for the rest of your lives. you hoped this too, quiet and ashamed, but the two of you were well aware of your birth control pills sitting outside on the coffee table. it was just a fantasy, but the thought still made your cunt flutter around his fingers.

"shit, kid." he chuckled when he finally laid down beside you. "don't take this the wrong way, but i hope they never find the funds for that witness protection."

you slapped his chest lightly, giggling when he huffed and pulled you in closer, letting you nuzzle under his arm. "what, wanna keep me hostage now?"

The air is thick.

The sound of the waves hitting the land is all you can hear from your beach house. It’s your only indication that this is real.

This is happening.

Pope stands in front of you, hands flexing ever so slightly at his sides. Like he’s debating just tackling you against the nearest wall or not. But you know he won’t. He’ll go at your speed tonight. That’s the only reason you’d let him inside in the first place.

Pope was a lot of things. A lover wasn’t one of them. Well.. Not yet anyways. You knew you could teach him.

Just like the first kiss and first date..

Your first time had been yesterday. In the locker room at the boxing hall. You’d been running late last night, and had missed a good chunk of his fight. He was grumpy while you patched up the gash on his right eyebrow. Quieter than usual. It let you know that he’d noticed your absence.

And he wasn’t happy.

You had apologized with words, but he’d only grumbled. So you apologized again with a kiss. It had quickly turned passionate though. You weren’t innocent. You had been dreaming of getting your nails deep into Pope’s broad shoulders since the first time you watched him fight.

But the way he had grabbed you..

He wasn’t wasting time.

He had switched spots with you, moving you to the examination table. He had roughly yanked at your belt and you realized rather quickly that.. He needed this.

It was more than sex for him in this moment. It was power. It was his way of showing you that you couldn’t ever leave him if he fucked you good enough. Like all he had of value to offer you was his cock.

You wonder who taught him that..

The orgasm had been intense though. But the aftermath… That was nothing. The two of you had to quickly redress before other members started getting suspicious on what the hell was taking the medic so long.

You had made it clear to him in the parking lot afterwards, even on shaky legs, that that didn’t count as a ‘first time’.

It had been too quick and his head had stayed on your shoulder the entire time. It’s as if he refused to look you in the eyes as he gave you those powerful deep thrusts. He barely moaned, biting back any sound as if it’d ruin the noises you’d been making.

He just stared on in confusion. Like he didn’t understand. Like he had thought he’d done everything right.

You had stormed off to your car without another word. He’d get it eventually.

And get it he did.

Because he was now standing in your living room, long fingers that you’ve eyed on more than one occasion twitching with anticipation.

You slowly step closer. He makes no move, afraid to mess up again. You gently cup his face with both hands, leaning up to kiss him slow and tender, taking your time with his lips. His hands timidly grab at your wrists as he kisses back. You soon pull back for air, looking up at him with gentle eyes.

“You’re so beautiful, Andrew…” You whisper as you let your hands trail into his curls. He freezes at the word. ‘beautiful’. Not strong, not dangerous, not intimidating.

Beautiful..

His expression is unreadable as he forces his eyes to stay on you. It’s like he doesn’t know what to say. But your fingers in his hair betray his stiff demeanor. A soft sound escapes his throat, almost like a shaky sigh. His hands slide from your wrists and to your arms, rubbing his rough palms against your soft skin..

You pant shakily and lean in closer, your lips brushing against his. “Take off your clothes. And your underwear…” You whisper against his lips, eyes staying on his to assure him that you had him now. And he was safe here. In your home.

With you.

His eyes darken at your command. He stands there for a moment, as if your words aren’t real. But when it fully clicks, he backs away quickly in order to hastily remove his shirt before then working on his belt with trembling fingers. You watch on with a soft smile, shaking your head slightly at how his movements are always so quick and slightly aggressive. He shoves his pants to the floor, standing in just his boxers now. You smile softly at the pattern. Dark navy with sharks.

A ‘just because’ gift you’d surprised him with about two or so weeks ago.

“The underwear too, Andrew..” You whisper tenderly, nodding at him so he knows it’s okay and that you two have all night. You just wanted him to know what it’s like to be in the moment. He watches you before slowly dropping his boxers too. He's semi-hard against his thigh already. You bite your lip.

He looks so… Vulnerable.

Slowly, you step closer to the now naked man that’s standing in your living room. You gently rub his chest as you look up at him. He watches you with a shiver you know he’s tried his hardest to stiffen.

You can’t help but feel his toned chest. He’s always run hot, and right now, his skin feels like an oven. “Touch yourself…” You whisper without much thought. Your tone isn’t demanding. But instructive.

“Y/N..” He breathes out, a blush seeping along his face and neck. You smile softly. God, he’s gorgeous. You slip a hand down his chest and toned abdomen, slowly sliding it towards his arm. You wrap your hand around his wrist and move it towards his hanging cock.

He swallows hard, his hand moving with yours and softly wrapping around his length. “I wanna see you..” You whisper. He had kept that privilege away from you last night. He’d hid his face, bit back his moans. You wanna see him.

All of him.

He watches you as he strokes himself slowly, jaw tight as his thumb brushes along the bead of moisture growing at his tip to use as lube.

His eyes flutter but he forces them to stay open. His face twitches with pleasure, but he tries to quickly push it under the surface. As if he wanted to remain stone-faced.

And yet as your hand reaches up to touch his cheek, you see it in his eyes.

Adoration.

No. No, it’s way more intense than that.

Devotion.

No. That’s still not it. It’s way more emotional than that.

Love.

It’s pure love.

He's completely exposed in front of you, and your hand seems to be the assurance he needs to begin panting ever so quietly. Shakily.

“You’re so perfect..” You whisper as you watch him. Your heart was pounding in your chest and just watching him is enough to get you going. You could feel it. You press your thighs together. This isn’t about you. Not right now..

His breath catches sharply in his throat, his hand faltering on his cock but his hips stutter a bit, pumping his member once in his fisted grasp. It’s clear he’s stopped to try and regain some semblance of a clear and coherent thought. But you’d rather that head of his stay blank…

“Keep going..” You encourage quietly as he pants a bit more outwardly now. It’s as if being watched by you was ever so slowly stripping him bare.

He moves his hand again, deep red spreads across his cheeks and his chest, his eyelids flutter shut as your praise sinks into his skin. All you can think as you watch him is…

God, he deserves to be worshipped.

He moans quietly. Like he can’t help himself, and you shiver softly. ‘He’s already… Perfectly ruined’ you think to yourself..

You slowly move closer, hand still on his cheek as you lean in to kiss him, but your lips end up just hovering over his. You’re addicted to the feeling of his breath mangling with yours.

He whines quietly, a broken, desperate sound that goes straight against who he is. Who he’s been taught to be. Especially in the bedroom. Your hand moves around to tangle your fingers into his curls, holding his head still so he’s forced to feel your lips brush along him but he can’t move in to capture your lips.

“Such a pretty sound..” You whisper against his lips as he opens his eyes again to look at you. His hand moves around his cock, becoming messy and unrhythmic, chasing pleasure while his eyes stay focused on your mouth.

You softly shake your head. “Slow…” You whisper as a reminder. You want him in the moment. Not in his head.

Last night, he fucked you like he didn’t want you to leave. Deep down, you knew every thrust was just desperation. A twisted way of saying: ‘see? I can be good’.

You being late had set him off, had made him spiral mentally. Thinking you no longer saw interest in him.

But that’s not true at all. You wanted to see him. The real him.

He grunts quietly but swallows hard as he does what you say. Who knew the Pope Cody liked to take orders?

Actually, you’d read somewhere that a lot of individuals who are on the spectrum really like BDSM. It’s clear instructions, a precise routine. With that in the back of your mind, it all seemed to.. Make sense.

He's absolutely desperate for contact by the fifth pump of his fist, leaning forward, trying to bridge the gap between your mouths despite the grip you have on his hair.

“Not yet..” You whisper against his lips as he quietly chokes on a breath, his forehead pressing hard against yours, eyes shutting now.

"Please.." He breathes, voice wrecked. "So fucking hard.." His hand doesn't stop moving, grip getting a bit tighter but he keeps the same pace. He's leaking all over his hand which is making a noise that’s music to your ears.

He’s completely undone, trembling because you're withholding a kiss he's starving for.

“Is it throbbing?” You whisper against his lips, keeping your tone soft.

He groans. It’s a deep, guttural sound of pure torture. He nods frantically, not taking his eyes off you now. “Yes..” He breathes out, voice desperate.

"Fucking… Pulsing...” He manages to gasp out. “It’s fucking throbbing for you." He shivers quietly. His body is a live wire right now. He stands in front of you, made up of strained muscle and an ache to finally kiss you.

“Getting too rough again..” You note as you stroke his hair. “Touch yourself… The way you want me to touch you..” You whisper against his lips. He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut once more.

His hand changes rhythm this time as he gets lost in his need. Slower, firmer, more sensual.

You watch as he slides his hand all the way to the base. He squeezes just right before he strokes up with a twist at the top that makes his entire body jerk.

He's showing you exactly how he likes it. How he fantasizes about your hands on him.

“You’re leaking all over the place, Andrew…” You tease quietly against his lips.

"God.” He moans out, his voice shaky. He looks down between your bodies, seeing the mess he's making. Pre-cum is slicking his hand, dripping down his length.

You see the look on his face. He finds it humiliating and overwhelming all at once. You kiss the corner of his lips as a silent assurance. His hips jerk involuntarily, his hand moving desperately.

"I can't stop it.” He groans, cheeks flushed a dark red now. "I just..." He’s cut off by another moan quietly against your lips as breaths tangle together.

You slip your lips towards his ear, tugging gently at the hair that’s on the nape of his neck. The quiet moan from you so close to his ear sends a jolt through him so intense his entire body tenses.

His hand tightens around himself, moving faster now, rougher. Your breath and moans against his ear… It's all driving him insane.

“Are you gonna cum?” You whisper against his ear. He nods, franticly.

"Words, beautiful boy. Use your words…” You whisper as you pull back a bit. His knees buckle slightly.

“Yes…” He hisses, his body trembling more. "I'm so close. So fucking close to... Fuck.." His hand moves furiously, his hips bucking upward into his fist now.

“Where do you wanna cum?” You whisper, feeling the space between your thighs throb when you watch the faces he makes..

"Your mouth..” He pants immediately, desperately. "Please... Need… Fucking mouth. Wanna cum down your throat..." He begs as he looks at you. His eyes are watery. He’s beginning to tear up from this overwhelming feeling..

With a soft stroke of your thumb across his upper cheek bone, you slowly begin licking along his body. It starts off ever so sensually, working yourself from his neck to lower down. You slowly kneel in front of him, tongue licking along his thigh and then his pelvic area as your hand moves to rest on his chest, over his heart. Your free hand gently grips his cock now. It’s as hard as a rock.

He gasps, his head rolling back. His hand immediately stalls on his length, moving away to give you full access. His cock pulses right in front of your face with intense need. You grab it by the base, starting slow with kisses all along his length, but soon, you begin to actually swirl your tongue along the tip, wrapping your lips fully around it.

It doesn’t take all that much though. In fact, the first touch of your mouth wrapping around his length is like a shot of relief. And when you actually start to work along his member? He’s a crying mess, his hips rocking only a bit, in need of relief.

You barely have to take him all the way, not that you could, before he's unraveling. Pope comes undone with a sudden and broken cry.

You swallow the cum while you look up at him. You frown softly as you see his eyes.

He’s shattered.

His chest heaves violently, sweat sticking to his skin just like his sins. “Hey. Andrew..” You whisper as you get up. You gently move him to the couch and then sit on his lap so you can hold him. He rests his head on your chest, mind obviously still reeling.

“I never.. Knew it could feel that good..” He whisper, and the confession breaks your heart as you stroke his curls.

“That was so good. You did so good..” You praise gently as you rest your chin on the top of his head now.

He says nothing for a while, obviously utterly wrecked, stripped of every defense, and whispering a broken, "Holy fuck." as you move to lay him back on the couch so you can lay fully on him.

“Wait. No. Now you..-“ Pope tries when you grab the throw blanket over the couch to cover you both with it. You cut him off.

“I wanted to see you. That’s all I wanted tonight..” You assure quietly.

“No. No, I can-“ You gently kiss him. He slips into the affection, not caring at all the he can taste himself on your tongue.

“You did. So good..” You whisper yet again to assure him that he didn’t need to fuck you roughly to make you happy and make you stay.

He watches you in awe, his hands slowly moving to your back to lazily rub. “I love you…” He whispers finally and you’re stunned for a moment.

You can’t say exactly why. You figured he had. You and Pope had officially been dating for five months now. And there was just certain things he trusted you to do that no one else had the privilege of getting. Like.. Patching him up, or… Hanging around with Lena. But this.. To actually hear it? That was a whole new level for you two.

“Andrew…” You whisper as you finally look up at him only to have him kiss you deeply.

It's slow and thorough, unlike any kiss you’ve ever given or received.

When you pull back slightly, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing more even now. “I love you.” You say back gently.