Probably AuDHD

Cousin!Wade is your best friend. You've known him for so long, and you think he’s the coolest guy ever. He's a little bit of an asshole, but never to you—he treats you like a princess. He's a bartender, he plays the guitar, and when you're hanging, he lets you do anything you please. His place is like a haven. Whenever you needed a break from your bickering parents, you'd slip out the front door and make your way to the mayor's property, where Wade lived. Wade was always waiting there for you with open arms, a beer, and a kiss on the forehead. But…when you guys get a little too tipsy, you lose all agency. The usual closeness you’re comfortable with feels heated; the loose arm that’s wrapped around your waist makes you feel a little dizzy. You clear your throat and pull yourself out of his arms. Wade would notice, of course. “What’s the matter, kid?” His words are slightly melted together by the beer, just like yours. “Nothin’, Wade. I think I drank a little too much…” It’s the partial truth. The amount of alcohol in your system is an issue, but that’s not why you’re acting the way you are—at least you don’t think so.

Wade would always reply with the same thing: “C’mon then. Let’s get you in bed.” Normally, that’s one of the last things you say to someone before sleep parts the time you spend together awake, but not with you and Wade. You guys were different. He’d drag you into his room, tuck you into his bed, and lie beside you. You’re always facing each other. The rough pads of his fingertips drag down your cheeks slowly while a drunken smile bends on his lips. “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen…” Your heart rate quickens at the sentiment and the warmth between your thighs grows. Wade sees them squeeze together and gives you an all too familiar look. “Want me to take care of you? Y’know I always know how to,” he’d whisper, dragging his hand down from your cheek to your arm and across your thigh.

“Y-you don’t have to. I’m alright,” you reply, throat clenching harshly as you look into his eyes. “Now, you know better than to lie to me. I know you better than anyone else.” He begins, sliding his thick fingers between your legs, parting them with one hand. There’s no resistance from you; you know how this always ends. “…just let me help you, sweetheart.” You give in like you always do, nodding gently at his advances. He calls you a smart girl, his voice dropping to that low tone you love, before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It’s no secret that what you’re doing is bad—you’re not stupid. You know that if this were to get out, the people of Bluebell would burn you two at the stake. Yet, you push that thought to the side and focus on the pleasure that somehow makes it worth it.

Wade kisses down your body, leaving prickly goosebumps under each inch of your skin his lips touch. Once he’s between your thighs, a deep sigh comes from his lungs, like he’s been waiting for it all along. Pulling apart your legs is a treat for him, all of it is. The way your brows draw together, how your pretty little fingers twitch by your sides, the softness of your skin. The skirt of your dress gives him easy access to relieve your tension. A chuckle leaves his lips when he gets a look at the mess seeping through your floral panties. “Jesus Christ…Is this my fault, angel? Did I get you like this?” he asks, words taut with mock sympathy. You hum out a shaky, “Mhm,” in response. You gasp when his lips meet the wet patch, putting your arousal on display. “S’okay. I’ll make it all better like I always do.”

and he still loves you, but god, were you making it difficult. the two of you had never fought a day in your lives until you came back from college, now it seems there’s an argument everyday, usually about what you’re wearing. robby didn’t appreciate the way you’d walk around the house in tiny pajama shorts and practically sheer tank tops…well, he did, though not in the way he’s supposed to.

that’s what killed him the most. it wasn’t that you were wearing that stuff, you’re a grown woman, you should be able to wear what you want in your own home, it was how it affected him that got his stomach twisting with something really sick.

the first time it happened he wanted to kill himself, when he felt that familiar stirring in his pants. he tried to tell himself that this was his daughter he was looking at, he should not be having this reaction but it was no use, the way your perky ass peeked out of the bottom of your shorts and the way your nipples poked through your thin top in the winter air had already gotten to him. he was fucked.

it had become an every day occurrence now, you’d come downstairs wearing the same tiny pajama’s, he’d get hard and to his shame, the only thing he could do to relieve himself was to excuse himself to his room and jerk off. definitely not thinking about you and those damn shorts. he definitely didn’t imagine how if you bent over in them he’d probably be able to see your pussy…and he definitely didn’t imagine what you’re pussy might feel like. how soft it would be, how wet he could make you, how tight you’d feel around his cock. certainly not that.

and afterwards he’d sit in his shame, with his fresh load still dripping down his knuckles, thinking about what a terrible father he is and how he’s truly an evil man.

this had to stop, he had to say something. he couldn’t keep going on this way, he wouldn’t make it the length of your stay if he kept it up like this. he just had to do something about it.

you’re coming downstairs for your breakfast like you usually do, wearing your tempting little outfit. robby’s already sat on the couch, sat straight upright, trying to keep himself together for the duration of your conversation. so locked in on not getting hard that he looks like he’s in pain.

“hey, sweetheart. a word?” he asks when you hit the bottom step, you stop in your tracks and turn to him, of course rolling your eyes at him.

“i guess, what’s up, dad?” you drag your feet over to the couch, stopping in front of him, he’s eye level with your tits. look away, michael. look away.

he swallows thickly, “sit down, honey” his voice is shaky as he motions for you to sit beside him on the couch. you don’t though, you park yourself on the coffee table in front of him, sitting with your legs crossed causing your tiny shorts to shift slightly and expose delicate flesh of your pussy to him. fuck, he shouldn’t of looked but he did.

he feels that familiar twitch in his cock and tries hard to will it away, but it just won’t shift. fuck. he doesn’t say anything for a moment or two, so focused on trying to stop his erection, you’re getting impatient. “can we make this quick, dad? i’m starving.”

“i uh-yeah, sure, honey.” he swallows again. fuck, it’s not going away. “so uhm, i just wanted to say that..um, fuck..there’s no way to tell you this without sounding like a complete cunt but…” why did he say cunt, now he’s thinking about yours again. “but..um- i think maybe you should dress a little more appropriately when you’re here, sweetheart.” he closes his eyes and winces as the words come out of his mouth. god, this was a terrible idea.

you don’t say anything for a beat, taken aback by your dad’s request. when robby finally opens his eyes you’re scowling at him, if looks could kill he’d be dead. fuck, how he wishes he was. “oh, you do? do you? and why would i need to dress ‘more appropriately’ at home? and actually, how is what i’m wearing inappropriate to wear in front of my own father?”

robby’s cursing himself now, why did he have to say anything? why couldn’t he of just sucked it up and dealt with it for a few more weeks? in fact, why couldn’t he just be a normal father and not think of his daughter in that way? now he’s started a whole conversation he doesn’t know how to have.

“because i uh- i’m your dad, and i say so?” it was more of a question than a statement, and you’re absolutely not convinced.

“yeah, i’m an adult now, that’s not going to cut it. why is it a problem to wear this around you?” you uncross your legs, planting both feet on the floor with your thighs parted. robby’s gaze flickers to your pussy again, which is somehow even more exposed than before. and to robby’s chagrin you catch his gaze. fuck. fuck. fuck.

the lightbulb clicks above your head and your eyes widen at the realisation and they become even wider when you look down and catch the strained outline of his cock pressed against the fabric of his pants.

“oh. my. god. are you kidding me, dad!? you’re joking, this has to be a joke, right?” your voice is dripping with something that’s a mix of anger and disgust, with a dash of disappointment for good measure. your legs are now tightly crossed.

robby doesn’t know what to do or what to say, there’s nothing he can say to fix this mess, to make it okay. “i-i…fuck, i’m sorry, sweetheart. i’m so so sorry.” he’s scrambling to grab a pillow to cover himself up, shame bubbles in his stomach like acid.

no one says anything for a few minutes, an uncomfortable awkward silence falls over the room, you’re the first to break it. “no, i’m sorry. i’m sorry i didn’t realise my dad was a fucking pervert, i’ll make an effort to cover up in the future. don’t worry you’ll never have to see my skin again. sicko.” your words hit robby like a truck, ‘fucking pervert’, yeah, that about sums him up nicely.

you’re already up the stairs before he can think of anything to say, your bedroom door closes with a loud slam and silence falls on the room again.

fucking pervert.

pervert.

he plays the word over and over again in his head, the way you spat it with such disgust and venom. and he replays it still as he pulls his cock out of his pants and wraps a shaking hand around it with that glimpse he got of your pretty little pussy burned on the front of his brain. pervert. pervert. pervert. tears prick at his eyes as he strokes himself, how did this happen? why is he doing this? why can’t he stop?

because michael robinavitch, you are a pervert.

they say when you go away to college you find yourself, and boy, did you find yourself. you found yourself online reading incest smut. it started off as an accident, you thought it was stepdad but you must’ve hallucinated the step and found yourself getting turned on by the content you were reading. the second time, that was no accident and the hundred subsequent times that followed that. you were in deep and now you could only get turned on by thinking about getting fucked by your dad.

your poor dad who you’d just crucified for having the exact same feelings that you’ve been having. you feel terrible, truly truly terrible but you can’t ignore the aching feeling between your legs that had been there since you laid your eyes on the thick outline of his cock as it fought to get out of his pants.

slowly, you slide your hand down your stomach and under the waist band of your shorts, your fingers finding you soaked already. you let out a breathy gasp as you graze over your swollen clit, rubbing light circles over it as you try to keep the noise down to a minimum. the last thing you want is robby finding you like this, especially after how you just spoke to him.

you close your eyes and try to visualise his cock, using what you’ve seen of him as inspiration. imagining him on top of you, pressing open mouthed kisses to your neck and chest, how his back would feel under your fingertips, how his breath would shake when he pushed into your tight pussy for the first time. you wondered what he’d call you, would he call you honey? baby? his sweet little girl?

before you know it you’re unraveling, silently screaming out for your dad as your body trembles with each after shock, making such a mess of your tiny shorts.

in the aftermath your guilt hits you tenfold and you decide that you must apologise, you have to fix this. so, carefully you get up off the bed, knowing how unsteady you are on your legs after having an orgasm and slowly you make your way back downstairs, not even bothering to clean yourself up yet. it can wait, this can’t.

about halfway down the stairs you hear something that stops you in your tracks, muffled groaning. it’s your dad, you’re sure of it. you’ve heard that sound so many times over the last week through the thin wall that separates your bedroom, that same sound that makes your tummy so fuzzy and your pussy so achy you can’t help but touch yourself until he stops.

you have half a mind to go back to your room, come down when he’s finished, you didn’t want to embarrass him anymore but you can’t stop your own legs as they carry you the rest of the way down the stairs. robby doesn’t notice you straight away, he’s got his eyes screwed shut, his hand covering his mouth in an attempt to dampen his noises.

it’s not until you’re stood in front of him and you clear your throat that he notices your presence. his eyes open wide and his hand pumping his cock comes to a screeching halt. his breathing’s ragged and he doesn’t say anything, too in shock by your being there and you seeing him like this to even know what to say.

“honey, i-” he starts breathlessly, his eyes don’t leave your face, he’s waiting for you to start shouting at him again, but you don’t. instead you sit down beside him on the couch, snuggling up to his side with your chin resting on his shoulder.

“need any help?” you ask, your voice dripping in innocence but your question was anything but.

again, robby’s lost for words, he stutters for a beat before shaking his head and blinking his eyes rapidly, like he must’ve misheard you. “wha- sorry, what was that, honey?”

“i said, need any help, daddy?” you smile up at him, cheeks flushing with heat as you try not to think about the fact his hand is still wrapped around his cock, you’re trying so hard not to look at it yet.

“baby, that’s not- no, we can’t-” he stutters hopelessly. he’s sure this is some sort of trick, someone’s trying to catch him out. it’s not and they’re not.

“why not? i wanna say sorry for how i spoke to you earlier, i didn’t mean it i was just scared if i reacted any other way you’d realise that i feel the same way as you and you’d be mad at me.” you explain, using that voice on him that always got you whatever you wanted when you were growing up.

“what do you mean the same?” he’s finally let go of his cock, he places both hand in his lap in an attempt to cover his still very prominent erection.

“i mean, you think i’m hot right? you want to have sex with me? i feel the same…about you, daddy.” you bite your lip, extending a hand out to rest on his chest. you can feel his heart thumping against your palm, he’s nervous. so are you.

“i-i don’t-” he starts but you cut him off again.

“don’t lie to me, dad. you wouldn’t lie to your sweet little girl, would you?” you’re batting your lashes now, pulling out all the stops to try and get him to fold. he’s close, you can tell.

“okay, fine. i won’t lie to you. but we can’t do anything like that, baby. we just can’t it’s wrong. so so wrong. and not to mention very illegal. you shouldn’t say stuff like that, sweetheart. you’re just young and confused, you don’t want this.” he sighs, doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince you or himself.

“i’m not confused, i really want this. i want you. pleaseee daddy. just one time…” you beg, your voice all whiny and cute. how could he say no? he won’t say no, you’re sure.

and as he lets out a long, drawn out sigh and drags a hand down his face your suspicion is confirmed. “shit. okay. just one time, baby. i mean it.”

you’re all smiles again now, beaming from ear to ear as you jump up to your knees and press a big wet kiss to his cheek. “you’re the best, dad! promise it’ll be totally worth it.” you smirk as you climb into his lap, becoming very aware of the tip of his cock brushing against your thigh as he moves his hands to your waist, not touching yet just hovering.

“you can touch me you know? that’s kind of how this has to work.” you giggle, kissing his cheek again, feeling the heat of his blush under your lips.

“i know, i know. just- fuck, give me a second, okay honey. are you absolutely sure this is what you want? you don’t have to do this just because you think you should.” he sighs, resting his head in the crook of your shoulder, his hot breath fanning against your skin.

“yes, i’m sure, daddy. never been so sure of anything in my life. i love you and i want to do this with you.” you rest your head against his and just give him a moment to come to terms with what’s happening, you can tell he’s nervous.

“okay then, baby. have you um..have you ever…?” he lifts his head, looking up at you again hoping you’re picking up what he’s putting down so he doesn’t have to actually ask his own daughter if she’s ever had sex before.

“oh, yeah…loads of times!” it’s a lie but you say it with enough conviction to convince him. he doesn’t have to know.

“okay yeah, cool. um…so, are you ready, sweetheart?” he grabs his cock at the base and lines himself up at your entrance, finding you already dripping for him. his tip brushes through your folds as he feels for your hole and you can’t help the moan that escapes your lips:

“mhm! so ready, daddy!” you smile at him, looking so sweet and innocent it somehow makes him feel worse but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on that feeling before you’re sinking yourself onto his thick cock.

“oh, fuck!” you moan, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in hard as his head stretches you out. he’s big, much bigger than the dildo you’d been using when imagining this exact scenario.

robby’s eyes slam closed and his head drops to your shoulder again as he feels the tight, wet heat of your cunt swallow the first few inches of him. “shit, honey. you’re so fucking tight.” he groans into your neck. his hands come down to rest on your hips, his fingers dig in hard just like yours to stop himself from cumming instantly like his body seems to want to.

“you’re so big, daddy. fuck, feels so good.” you press your lips to his temple as you let yourself sink down a little more, feeling every inch as he stretches you out, moulding you to him.

“yeah, you like that, huh? like having your pretty little pussy stretched out on daddy’s cock, princess?”he asks, feeling a little braver, spurred on by the euphoric feeling taking over him.

“mhm, feel s’good daddy, so so good, want more.” you whine, letting yourself fall the rest of the way down, moaning when the fat head of his cock hits your cervix as he bottoms out inside of you.

“god, you’re so perfect, honey. my perfect little girl, made for me, weren’t you?” his hands smooth over the expanse of your ass, pawing at your plush skin as he waits for you to start moving, he doesn’t want to rush his precious girl.

it’s not long before you do start raising your hips again, small tiny bounces to start with, just barely a roll of your hips until you find yourself getting greedier and greedier, wanting to feel more and more of him inside of you. want to feel every ridge and vein of his cock dragging against your walls, want to feel every rush of heat that rolls through your body whenever he hits your cervix, you want it all.

and he gives it you all, lets you take him for everything that he has. he barely has to guide you, he gets to watch in awe as you fuck yourself completely dumb on his cock. such a perfect sight, his daughter taking her pleasure from him, using him like a toy. he wishes it could last forever.

but obviously, it can’t, he’s just a man after all and it’s not long before he feels that familiar tightening in his balls and heat blooming in his stomach.

“fuck, baby. i’m gonna cum. shit- need to get off, quick.” he rasps, his voice hoarse from the deep guttural groans you’ve been pulling out of him this whole time.

“it’s fine, mm- ‘m on birth control.” you moan, wrapping your arms around his neck to stop him from being able to move.

“still i don’t, i think you should-”

“please, daddy. i want you to cum inside of me, wanna feel it dripping out of my little pussy, wanna make me all messy. pleaseeee” and as if your pleas are some kind of spell he finds himself unable to stop himself from doing exactly that. a long string of moans and curses leave his lips as he spills himself right inside of you, feeling the warmth of it around his cock as you continue your bouncing. he’s ruined now, he knows he’ll never experience anything that comes close to being as heavenly as this moment.

you keep riding him through his high, you know you’re not going to cum but that’s okay. you have a sneaking suspicion that this will not be the last time, despite what he said earlier.

you know daddy just can’t say no to his pretty little girl, especially not know he knows what he’ll be missing.

i feel high writing this. again, not proofread i’m too excited to post. wowowoowieee. that bit about accidentally reading incest smut is inspired by true events. this is so buzzy i hope u like it <333

chapter 9 | andrew

A week passes before anything starts to feel familiar again.

Pope texts before he comes over now, not much and not in a way that crowds you. Just enough that you know where he is. Just enough that you don’t have to wonder if silence means he’s gone, waiting outside, or driving because sitting still has never been something he’s good at when there’s too much in his head.

Some nights, he doesn’t come by at all.

On those nights, your phone lights up once or twice.

home

you sleep yet

He doesn’t push when you answer late. He doesn’t ask why you didn’t answer sooner. If you say you’re tired, he tells you okay and leaves it there. That means more than pushing would have.

The nights he does stay, he keeps his boots by the door and his keys on the counter. He sleeps on his side of the bed until you make the first move. He doesn’t reach for you in the dark or pull you against him like the last few weeks didn’t happen. There are times you feel him wake beside you, feel the shift of the mattress and the restless way he settles again, but he waits until your fingers find his before he lets himself hold on.

You miss the old ease. You miss the weight of him behind you and his hand under your shirt, warm against your stomach, like he belonged there because you had both stopped pretending he didn’t. You miss all the little things that used to happen without asking.

You miss them, but you know why he waits.

On the seventh morning, you wake with gray light through the blinds and Pope beside you, already awake.

He’s always stayed long enough for you to wake up. Even before either of you called it anything real, he said goodbye before he left. He drove you to work when your shifts lined up. He waited while you locked the apartment door and walked you to his car like he didn’t trust the street between your door and his car. That part isn’t new.

What’s different is the way he lies there with space still between your bodies, one arm bent beneath the pillow and the other resting over his stomach, careful even in bed.

“Morning,” you say.

Pope turns his head on the pillow. “Morning.”

His voice is rough from sleep, and you look at him longer than you mean to. His hair is messy, stubble dark along his jaw, eyes tired but open on yours.

“You sleep?” you ask.

“Some.” His gaze moves over your face. “You?”

“Some.”

He nods once, like both answers make sense to him.

“Do you need to leave soon?” you ask.

Pope reaches for his phone on the nightstand, checks the screen, then sets it back down. “Not yet.”

You move closer before you can talk yourself out of it. Your knee touches his under the blanket, and his eyes drop to where the fabric shifts before coming back to your face. He doesn’t put his hand on you.

So you move the rest of the way, pressing your forehead near his shoulder. Pope exhales through his nose, and his mouth brushes your temple, barely there before he lets it stay.

“Missed this,” he says.

Your eyes close. “I missed it too.”

His hand moves then, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to. You don’t. He rests it at your waist over the blanket, palm warm and still, and the weight of it makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

“You working today?” Pope asks.

“Yeah. Later.”

His thumb stays still against the blanket. “Can I pick you up?”

You lift your head enough to look at him.

Pope knows how to wait. He’s done it outside your work, outside your door, in his car with his hands tight on the wheel. This is different. This time, he asks first.

“Yeah,” you say.

His eyes stay on yours.

“I’d like that,” you add.

Pope nods. “Okay.”

You settle back against him, and when his hand tightens slightly at your waist, you let him keep it there. His mouth rests against your hair, his body warm beside yours, and you both let the touch stay where it is.

The Pig is quiet when you come in, early enough that the chairs are still stacked near the back tables. Deran is behind the bar with the register drawer open, counting bills with a pen tucked behind his ear.

“You’re early,” he says.

You drop your bag under the counter. “That a problem?”

“No.” He adds another bill to the stack. “Just weird.”

“You want me to leave and come back late?”

Deran shuts the drawer and turns the key. “Don’t start doing charity work on my account.”

You tie your apron and start helping him open. Deran checks the taps while you restock the clean glasses and make sure the bottles behind the bar are where they should be. The two of you move around each other without needing to talk through any of it.

He waits until you’re replacing a bottle near the register before he says, “So he done being a pain in the ass?”

“Mostly.”

“Good.”

“That’s all?”

Deran folds the towel over his shoulder. “What do you want me to say? He was being a pain in the ass. Now he’s being less of one.”

“Very supportive.”

“I’m being nice.”

“This is nice?”

“For me, yeah.”

You put the bottle back in its place. “He’s trying.”

Deran’s expression turns more serious. “He better.”

“He is.”

He nods and leaves it there.

“Is Adrian back from Hawaii?” you ask.

“In a few days.”

“You talked to him?”

“Yeah.”

You turn toward him. “You did?”

Deran gives you a look. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were.”

You let that go. “So what happens in a few days?”

“I’m picking him up.”

“From the airport?”

“Yeah.”

You keep your face still.

“Don’t,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“How long is he staying?” you ask.

“Don’t know yet.”

Deran reaches into his pocket and tosses a set of keys across the bar. You catch them before they hit the floor.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“Second set.”

“To the bar?”

“I need you to open in a few days.”

“What time?”

“Eight.”

You turn the keys over once before sliding them into your apron pocket. “I’ll open.”

Deran nods and reaches for the towel again.

“I’m glad you called him,” you say.

He looks toward the front windows. “Yeah.”

You don’t ask for more. Deran goes to unlock the front door while you finish checking the bottles behind the bar.

Your phone lights up a little after seven, while you’re wiping down the last few rings of condensation from the bar.

still okay if i pick you up?

You read it twice, even though there isn’t much to read. The words are plain, almost awkward, but Pope has never been careless about showing up for you. He used to wait outside because that was what he did, because he knew your shifts and your routes and the hours you hated walking home alone. Now he asks first.

You type back before you can make too much of it.

yeah

The reply comes a minute later.

be there soon

You slide your phone into your back pocket and finish closing with Deran, who doesn’t say anything about the smile you’re trying not to wear. He only takes the rag from your hand when you wipe the same part of the counter twice and tells you to go.

Pope’s car is outside when you step out of the bar, parked close to the curb with the engine running and the headlights low against the street. He’s behind the wheel, one hand resting at the top of it, his face turned toward the front doors before you reach the sidewalk. It’s close enough to the old routine that your chest tightens before you reach the curb.

He gets out before you reach the passenger side.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

Pope glances at your face, then at the bag on your shoulder. “Good shift?”

“Quiet. Deran complained about paperwork for half of it.”

“Sounds like him.”

“He also said you were being less of a pain in the ass.”

Pope’s mouth shifts, barely. “Sounds like him too.”

You almost smile, and this time you let yourself. Pope opens the passenger door for you and waits until you’re settled before he shuts it.

When he gets back in, the car smells faintly like him and the cigarettes he hasn’t smoked with you in it, the air warm from the heater running low. He pulls away from the curb with both hands on the wheel. The old version of this drive had his palm on your thigh before the first light, heavy and familiar, his thumb moving over your jeans while the two of you talked about nothing or didn’t talk at all.

Tonight, his hand stays where it is.

“You hungry?” Pope asks.

“Yeah, actually. I am.”

“There’s a place still open near your place. We can grab something before I drop you off.”

You turn your head toward him. “Do you want to come up?”

His hands tighten once on the wheel, then ease. He doesn’t answer too fast. “If that’s okay.”

“It is.”

Pope keeps his attention on the road, but something in his shoulders settles. “Then yeah.”

You let your hand rest on your own thigh. The car moves through the dark streets toward your apartment, his hand still on the wheel and yours resting near the place his used to be.

By the time you get back to the apartment, the food has gone soft in the takeout bags. Pope carries everything upstairs without asking, waits while you unlock the door, then steps in after you and shuts it with his shoulder while you kick off your shoes. He leaves his boots beside yours by the door, keys going on the small table in the hall before he follows you into the living room.

The apartment still feels half-empty from Chrissy’s boxes. Pope being there takes some of the edge off it.

He puts the bags on the coffee table and sits beside you, close but not crowding. The TV plays low across the room, some old movie neither of you is watching, and you eat from the containers on the table with your knees angled toward each other. The blanket is folded over the arm of the couch now, the cushion underneath cleaned as much as it’s ever going to be, and you try not to think about Craig bleeding there or Baz’s voice in your apartment.

Pope sets his food down before he speaks. “Had a job today.”

Your fork pauses over the carton. You don’t lift your head right away because if you do, he might stop.

“Me, Craig, J,” he says. “Went to see Pete. He’s got a garage out nearby. Knows Smurf. Does shit for her sometimes.”

You set the carton down. “What kind of shit?”

“Cars. Plates. Parts he doesn’t ask about.” Pope leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. “Smurf thinks somebody’s been taking from one of her storage places. She’s been losing it over that and Baz, Cath, Lena, all of it. Thinks maybe Baz is spiraling and grabbing whatever he can.”

“Do you think it was Baz?”

“No.” Pope shakes his head. “None of us knew about the storage place until a few days ago. Smurf hides shit, then gets pissed when nobody knows where she hid it.”

It isn’t the kind of thing he would’ve told you before. Maybe pieces, if someone else said too much first. Tonight, he tells you first.

“Where was Baz?” you ask.

Pope’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t shut down. “Following something the PI gave him.”

Your stomach turns. “About Cath and Lena?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think he’ll find them?”

“No.” His answer comes quickly, but not carelessly. He sits back against the couch, one hand dragging over his thigh before he lets it rest there. “Cath’s not that stupid. She got out because she planned it. Baz thinks wanting something bad enough means he gets to have it, but Cath knew him. She knew Smurf too.”

You look down before he can read too much relief on your face. You think of Cath’s hands on the wheel, Lena asleep in the back seat, and the warning not to ask anything you couldn’t lie about later. For the first time since they drove away, not knowing where they are doesn’t feel quite as close to panic.

“So he’s gone?” you ask.

“For now.” Pope looks toward the TV, though his attention isn’t on it. “Smurf let him go. Keeps him busy. Keeps him away from me.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” you ask.

Pope looks at you and takes his time with it. “Trying something different.”

You wait.

“Don’t need you knowing every part of it,” Pope says. “Some of it’s better if you don’t. But I can tell you where I am. Who I’m with. When I’m coming back.”

You nod, looking down at the carton in your hands. “Okay.”

Pope watches you. “That enough?”

“It’s a start.”

He takes that in with a small nod. “Okay.”

The TV keeps playing low across the room. You pick up your fork again, but you don’t eat. Pope stays angled toward you, waiting to see if you’ll ask for more.

“Pope,” you say.

He turns his head.

You don’t know what you meant to say after it. Maybe thank you. Maybe something else. His name comes out instead, soft enough that his eyes drop to his hands.

“Baz gave me that name,” he says.

You sit back. “What?”

“When we were kids.” He looks down at the space between his feet. “Thought it was funny. Everybody else started saying it, so it stuck.”

You think of Baz saying it. Craig. Deran. J. Men at the house. Men at jobs. Smurf when she isn’t using Andrew like a leash. You’ve said it too, over and over, never thinking about who put it on him first.

“You hate it?” you ask.

“Sometimes.” Pope’s jaw works before he keeps going. “Mostly depends who’s saying it.”

“When I say it?”

He looks at you then. “Don’t mind when you say it.”

“Why?”

Pope leans forward again, forearms on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. “People who don’t know me call me that. People who hear shit. People who need something done.”

You stay quiet.

His eyes move back to yours. “Don’t want you not knowing me.”

You place the carton on the coffee table and turn more fully toward him. “You ever think about asking me to call you Andrew?”

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

Pope looks down before he answers. “A while.”

He looks like he has more, so you wait. You don’t fill the quiet for him this time.

“A lot more lately,” he says.

Your chest aches at the way he says it. He wanted the name from you before he knew how to ask.

You say it carefully. “Andrew.”

His hand stills against his knee.

The name feels strange in your mouth, but not wrong. Softer than Pope, though not smaller. You’ve heard Smurf say it sweet enough to make your skin crawl, watched him answer even when he hated it.

This doesn’t feel like that.

Pope doesn’t look smaller when you say it. He looks like he heard you.

“That sounds different too,” he says.

“Bad different?”

“No.”

“Good different?”

His eyes stay on yours. “Good.”

You look down at your hand, then back at him. “It might take me a little while.”

“I know.”

“But I can try.”

Pope nods once. “Okay.”

You reach for his hand. He lets you take it, palm turning under yours, fingers closing around yours.

“Andrew,” you say again, quieter this time.

His grip tightens once.

The TV keeps playing, the food goes cold on the coffee table, and neither of you reaches for it again.

You get up first and start clearing the coffee table.

Pope follows after you, gathering the napkins and empty cartons while you carry the plates into the kitchen. He stays beside the counter while you rinse the forks, close enough that you know he’s there.

You shut off the tap and dry your hands on the towel. “Let’s go to bed.”

Pope looks at you. “You tired?”

“A little.”

He nods and follows you down the hall, turning off the lamp in the living room before he comes into the bedroom. You change in the bathroom with the door half-closed, then come back in an old shirt and sleep shorts while he stands by the dresser, folding his jeans over the chair instead of dropping them on the floor. It’s such a small thing, so like him, that it makes your chest hurt a little. Even here, even now, Pope keeps order where he can.

He gets into bed after you. You turn onto your side facing him, and he lies on his back at first, one arm bent over his stomach, eyes on the ceiling. He leaves a little room between you, enough that you can move first.

You move closer.

Pope turns his head toward you, and his hand shifts against the blanket but doesn’t reach. You slide your fingers over the sheet until they touch his. His palm opens right away, rough and warm beneath yours, but he waits until you curl your fingers around him before he holds on.

“Good night, Andrew,” you say.

Pope doesn’t answer right away, but his hand tightens around yours. Then he turns onto his side, facing you.

“Good night,” he says.

You close your eyes with his hand still in yours. He doesn’t pull you closer. You keep your hand in his, and he holds on until you fall asleep.

A few days later, Smurf comes into The Pig while Deran is still out.

It’s early enough that the bar hasn’t filled, but late enough that the lunch crowd has cleared and left rings on the counter you’ve wiped twice already. You’re restocking the little tray of cherries behind the bar when the front door opens and Smurf steps in wearing white slacks and sunglasses pushed into her hair, too clean for the bar.

She smiles when she finds you behind the counter.

“Hello, sweetheart.”

You set the cherry jar down and wipe your fingers on a towel. “Deran’s not in yet.”

“I know. I can still look in on the place.” Smurf walks farther in, taking in the tables, the bottles behind the bar, the stack of clean glasses near the sink. “Besides, I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m working.”

“So you are.” Her smile widens, but nothing about her softens. “Andrew seems better.”

Your hand closes around the towel, but you keep your face even. “Does he?”

“He does. Little steadier.” Smurf reaches the bar and rests her purse on top of it. “Hard to get ahold of, though.”

“Maybe he had somewhere to be.”

“Maybe.” Smurf watches you with that patient, sweet look she uses when she’s waiting for someone to step wrong. “I stopped by the house yesterday.”

You keep the towel in your hand. “Oh?”

“Let myself in and everything.” Her smile doesn’t move. “He wasn’t there.”

The words sit wrong. She meant them to. You turn and take a clean glass from the rack, setting it near the sink. “You want something to drink?”

“No, baby. I’m fine.” She tilts her head. “You always do that.”

You look back at her. “Do what?”

“Make yourself busy when you don’t want to answer me.”

The door opens again before you have to decide whether to answer at all.

Pope comes in with his keys still in his hand. He stops near the entrance long enough to take in where Smurf is standing, where you are behind the bar, the purse set on the counter like she plans to stay. Then he starts toward you, shoulders set and attention fixed on his mother.

Smurf turns first. “There you are, baby.”

Pope comes to the bar and stands at the opening near the service side, close enough to you that you can feel him there without him touching you.

“Need something?” he asks.

“I came by the house yesterday,” Smurf says. “You weren’t there.”

“I was out.”

“I gathered that.”

Pope looks at her. “You let yourself in?”

“It’s my house.”

“It’s where I sleep.”

Smurf gives a small laugh, almost fond. “You’ve never cared before.”

“I care now.”

Her smile slips at the edge, but she keeps it. “Well. I just worry about you, baby.”

“Don’t.”

“That’s not really how mothers work.”

Pope goes still, his voice staying low. “What the hell would you know about that?”

Smurf’s eyes sharpen. “Andrew,” she says.

Pope doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t look away either.

Smurf puts the concern back on. “See? This is what I mean. He gets himself worked up, and then everybody has to—”

“Don’t put it on her,” Pope says.

Smurf stops.

Pope’s hand curls around the edge of the bar, fingers pressing into the wood before he lets them loosen. “You got something to say, say it to me.”

“I am talking to you.”

“No, you’re not.” His voice stays controlled. “You came here because Deran’s not here and you thought she’d be easier.”

Smurf looks at you, hurt surprise already waiting on her face. “Is that what he tells you?”

Pope steps into the opening at the bar, not touching you, not touching her. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You came here to.”

Smurf looks at him for a long time. Then she reaches for her purse, slow enough to make sure both of you know she’s leaving because she chose to. “I just came to check on the bar,” she says.

“Then check on the bar.”

Her mouth curves, but there’s no warmth left in it. “You look tired, Andrew.”

Pope doesn’t answer.

Smurf turns to you. “You take care now.”

You nod once. “You too.”

She walks out calmly. The door closes softly behind her. 

Pope stays where he is, one hand still on the bar, attention on the door until her car pulls away from the curb outside.

Only then does he turn toward you. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“She doesn’t need to come here and bother you.”

“I’m used to Smurf.”

Pope’s mouth tightens. “Doesn’t make it okay.”

You let the towel fall onto the counter and take a step closer to him. “You handled it.”

“Wanted to do something else.”

“I know.”

You reach for his hand where it rests on the bar. He lets you turn it over, lets your fingers slide into his palm.

“Deran’s gonna be pissed he missed her,” you say.

Pope looks at you. “No, he’s not.”

“He likes having something to complain about.”

“He’s got Craig.”

That pulls a small laugh out of you before you can stop it. Pope’s hand closes around yours, careful but sure.

Smurf’s car is gone. Pope stays beside you at the bar, his hand still around yours.

Chrissy comes by the apartment the next afternoon for the last of her things.

She lets herself in with the key she still hasn’t given back, calling your name from the hallway before she appears with her hair pulled up and an empty tote bag hanging from one shoulder. There isn’t much left for her to take anymore: a few books from the shelf near the kitchen, the sweater she kept forgetting in the hall closet, and a chipped mug she swears is hers even though you’re pretty sure you bought it at the thrift store down the street.

“I’m taking this,” Chrissy says, holding it up.

“You always do.”

“Then it’s basically mine.”

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table, folding laundry into uneven piles. You started doing it to keep your hands busy and lost the system somewhere after the first load. Chrissy steps around the basket and lowers herself onto the couch, the tote bag dropping beside her.

“You look better,” she says.

You smooth the shirt over your knee. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” She leans back against the couch. “Less like you’re waiting for something bad to come through the door.”

“That bad?”

“You looked like shit.”

You throw a shirt her way before she tosses it back to you.

“Pope been coming around?” she asks.

“Some nights.”

“Good some nights?”

You nod, setting the shirt in the pile near your knee. “Good. Careful.”

“Careful’s probably not the worst thing.”

“No,” you say. “It’s not.”

Chrissy picks at a loose thread on her sleeve, then looks toward the blanket folded over the couch arm. She doesn’t say anything about it. You’re grateful for that.

You reach for another shirt from the basket. “Things with Andrew feel different this time.”

“Andrew?” Chrissy asks.

Your hands slow over the fabric. “Yeah.”

“That’s new.”

“Feels new.”

“Good new?”

You smooth the shirt over your knee. “I think so.”

Chrissy nods and lets that be enough. She moves around the apartment, picking up the last things she left behind without meaning to. You helped her pack most of it already, but this feels different. This feels final.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

Chrissy looks at it before you reach for it. “Him?”

You pick it up and read the text.

can you come to the house?

Then another one.

beach house

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

everything okay?

The reply comes less than a minute later.

yeah

want to show you something

You read it twice, then type back.

be there soon

Chrissy is already reaching for her keys from the couch. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to.”

She grabs the tote bag with one hand and the mug with the other. “Fine. I’m nosy, and I want to know if he’s showing you something sweet or something weird he fixed.”

“It’s Pope.”

“Exactly.”

You laugh, and Chrissy looks pleased enough that you know she was aiming for it. She walks to the kitchen and sets the mug carefully into her tote instead of tossing it in with the books.

You text Pope that you’re leaving soon, then glance toward the hallway. Chrissy’s room is almost empty now, the door half-open, the last of her things gathered into one bag and one stolen mug. She follows your gaze and gives you a small shrug.

“I’ll still come by,” she says.

“I know.”

“And you’re still coming over for dinner. Simon bought too much food again.”

“Again?”

“He thinks two people eat like six.”

“You kinda do.”

“Rude.” She points the mug at you from inside the bag. “Accurate, but rude.”

You stand and push the laundry basket closer to the couch with your foot. Chrissy waits by the door while you grab your bag, and when you step into the hallway, she locks up behind both of you like she still lives there enough to know the deadbolt by heart.

On the way to her car, Chrissy bumps her shoulder lightly against yours. “Andrew, huh?”

You look down at the keys in your hand. “Yeah.”

Chrissy drives you to the beach house with the windows cracked and the radio low. She doesn’t ask too much on the way, and you’re grateful for that. She lets the quiet sit until the houses thin out and the ocean appears between buildings, gray-blue under the afternoon light.

When she pulls up outside the beach house, she leaves the engine running.

Pope’s car is in the driveway. The porch is empty. You look at the door, then down at your phone, even though there’s nothing new on the screen.

Chrissy follows your eyes. “I’m not coming in.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know. I’m saying it before you get polite and weird about it.”

You reach for the door handle. “Thank you for driving me.”

“Text me later.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

You turn back to her. “I know you do.”

Chrissy’s face softens, but she keeps one hand on the wheel and doesn’t make it a whole thing. “This is good, right?”

You look at the beach house again, at Pope’s car, at the door he asked you to come through.

“I hope so.”

Chrissy nods once. “Go find out.”

Chrissy waits at the curb until you reach the porch.

The front door opens before you knock. Pope stands inside with one hand on the edge of the door, his hair a little messy, his T-shirt pulled close across his shoulders, his eyes on you before you’ve finished climbing the last step.

You turn and lift your hand toward Chrissy. She gives you one small wave from behind the wheel, then pulls away once you’re inside. Pope closes the door behind you.

“Andrew,” you say.

His hand stays on the knob before he turns back to you. The name is still new enough that you feel it after it leaves your mouth. Not wrong. Just close.

He looks at you for another beat. “Hey.”

“You said you wanted to show me something,” you say.

“Kitchen.”

You follow him down the short hall and stop when you reach the counter.

The old deadbolt is sitting near the sink with the screws and scratched metal plate, the pieces laid out in a neat row because Pope would never leave them scattered. A toolbox is open on the floor by the back door, and there are faint marks near the frame where he must have worked the old piece loose.

You look from the counter to him. “What happened to the door?”

“Changed the locks.”

“Why?”

Pope wipes his hands on a rag and sets it beside the hardware. “Smurf had keys.”

You look toward the front hall, then back at the metal on the counter.

“She doesn’t anymore?” you ask.

“No.”

Pope reaches into his pocket and takes out a key on a plain silver ring.

He holds it out to you. “This one’s yours.”

You stare at it before taking it. The key is warm from his pocket, the teeth pressing lightly into your palm when your fingers close around it.

“Mine?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Pope leans back against the counter, arms loose at his sides. “Chrissy’s gone more now. I know that.”

Your grip tightens around the key.

“But that’s not why,” he says.

His gaze drops to the key in your hand. “Want you to have it. Not just when I bring you here. Not just when I’m here. If you want to be here.”

He isn’t trying to fill the space Chrissy left. He’s giving you access to a place Smurf can’t unlock anymore, and for Pope, that says more than almost anything else could.

You turn the key in your hand. “You sure you want me able to show up whenever I want?”

“Yeah.”

“You say that now.”

The corner of his mouth pulls a little. “Said what I said.”

You look down before your face gives too much away. “That’s dangerous.”

“What is?”

“Giving me a key.”

Pope’s eyes stay on you. “I know what I’m doing.”

You set your bag on the counter and slide the key into the inside pocket, careful with it. When you look back at him, he hasn’t moved.

You walk over to him and stop close enough that your knees almost touch his.

Pope’s hands stay where they are, resting against the counter behind him, but his gaze drops to your mouth and comes back up. He holds himself still, and it makes something low in your stomach pull tight.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you say.

“What thing?”

“Waiting for me.”

His jaw works once. “Trying to.”

You step between his knees and take his right hand from the edge of the counter. His fingers are rough around yours, his palm warm and still when you place it at your waist.

“You can touch me,” you say.

Pope’s hand closes slowly, just enough to make the shape of you real under his palm. His other hand comes up when you lean in, settling at your other side as your arms slide around his neck.

His forehead lowers to yours.

“I missed you,” he says.

“You’ve said that a lot.”

“It’s true.”

You kiss him before he can say anything else.

Pope answers slow at first, his mouth firm, his grip tight at your waist. You press closer, fingers tightening in his hair, and that’s when he starts to give. He opens for you. His body comes in harder. The kiss turns slower, hotter, until you can’t stand the space between you.

He walks you backward out of the kitchen, one hand at your waist and the other at the back of your neck, not rushing, not letting you get far enough away to cool off. Your shoulder brushes the hallway wall, and he shifts with you, keeping his body between you and the harder edge before kissing you again.

By the time you reach the bedroom, your shirt is already pulled loose from your jeans and his hands are under it, warm against your skin. You get his shirt off first. He lets you tug it over his head, lets you put both hands on his chest after, and the feel of him under your palms makes the wanting in you turn heavy and familiar. You missed this. Missed the heat of him, the solid weight of him, the way your body wakes up under his hands.

Pope watches you while your fingers move to his belt. His palms stay at your waist.

You undo the buckle, then the button, and drag the zipper down. His cock is already hard when your hand slides over him through his briefs, and the groan he gives against your mouth makes your legs press together.

He pulls back just enough to get your shirt over your head. Your bra follows, then your jeans, and Pope lowers with you as you step out of them, his mouth moving over your shoulder, your collarbone, the top of your breast. He takes his time even when his fingers dig in like he’s close to losing patience. Your underwear goes down your legs with the rest of your clothes, and when he touches between your thighs, you have to hold onto his shoulders.

It feels too good too fast.

He kisses you again while his fingers work over your clit, steady and sure, his other arm low around your back to keep you against him. You rock into his hand, chasing the pressure, and he follows the movement without making you ask. The first sound you make into his mouth pulls him closer. His fingers slow just enough to make it sharper, then circle again until your hips move on their own and your grip digs into his shoulders.

He lowers his mouth to your neck, then your chest, then keeps going, guiding you back until your legs meet the edge of the mattress. You sit when he guides you down, and he drops to his knees between yours. Your hand goes into his hair.

The first pass of his mouth has you gripping his hair harder, pleasure spreading hot through your stomach and down your legs. Pope holds your hips and keeps you where he wants you, his mouth working against your clit with the same focus he brings to everything that matters. You missed this too, missed the blunt devotion of him between your legs, the way he gives like it matters and still makes you take it.

His fingers press into you while his mouth stays on your clit, and the stretch makes your grip tighten in his hair.

“Andrew,” you say.

His fingers slow inside you. You look down at him, his mouth still close enough that the next touch pulls a sound from you.

Pope groans against you. “Fuck—”

The word is rough against your skin, almost lost before his mouth is on you again. He goes back to it harder, holding your hip firm when your body tries to move.

“Say it again,” he says.

“Andrew.”

His breath comes hot against you. “Again.”

“Andrew…”

“Fuck.” His voice comes out low, wrecked. “Don’t stop saying it.”

He presses in harder, and the pressure builds until your legs draw tight around his shoulders.

“Fuck—Andrew, I’m gonna come.”

He groans into you, fingers working deeper, mouth staying exactly where you need it.

“Come for me…”

You do, his name breaking in your mouth as pleasure takes you hard, your body tightening around his fingers.

He works you through it, slower after the first rush, his mouth still moving until your hand loosens in his hair and your legs shake against him.

When he rises over you, his face is flushed, his mouth slick from you, and there’s so much want in him that you reach for him before he can decide to hold back again. He pushes his briefs down and steps out of them, and then he’s over you on the bed, skin hot against yours, his cock pressing between your thighs while your hands move over his back.

“Baby…”

The word comes out rough against your mouth, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

Your fingers slide into his hair. “Say it again.”

Pope lifts his head enough to look at you, breathing hard, his hand braced beside your ribs.

His voice drops. “Baby.”

You kiss him for it, open and deep, pulling him down until his weight settles over you.

“Fuck,” he says against your mouth. “Missed you… missed this.”

His arm hooks under your thigh, lifting it higher along his hip, and when he pushes into you, the pressure makes your mouth open against his. He goes slow enough for you to feel every inch, slow enough that the ache of missing him and the feel of having him again tangle together until your eyes burn.

He pushes all the way in and stops there, forehead near yours, his body tight with the effort of not moving before you’re ready.

You move first.

Pope makes a low sound and starts to thrust, deep and controlled at first, but the control doesn’t last the way it did before. He’s fucking you now, not holding himself away from you anymore, his mouth brushing yours every time your hips lift to meet him. Every drag of his cock reminds you exactly what the last week made you wait for. It feels good enough to make you angry with how much you missed it, good enough that your nails press into his back and your hips lift to meet him again.

His rhythm falters, and you use the break to push at his shoulder. Pope follows you when you guide him onto his back. He lets you climb over him, lets you take his cock in your hand and sink down onto him with both of his hands hovering near your hips until you grab them and place them where you want them.

One at your waist.

One at your breast.

His fingers close carefully at first, then harder when your body moves over his.

“Fuck,” he says, low and strained. “You feel…”

He doesn’t finish. His head tips back against the pillow, jaw tight, chest rising hard under your palm.

You move over him slowly. “Say it.”

His eyes come back to yours.

“You feel so fucking good…”

You take him deeper, and his grip tightens at your waist.

“Andrew…”

“Keep saying it,” he says. “Fuck—keep saying it.”

You fuck him slowly at first, letting yourself feel the stretch, the heat, the sound caught in his throat every time you take him deeper. His thumb drags over your nipple while his other arm holds you steady, helping you find the rhythm that makes your thighs burn. It feels good. So good your thoughts scatter into the places his hands touch and the place where he fills you again and again.

Pope sits up without pulling out of you. The shift brings your chest against his, your arms sliding around his neck as he holds you close and starts thrusting up into you. You grip his shoulders as the angle changes, your knees tight on either side of his hips. His lips are at your throat, his palms spread over your back, and each drive of his hips pushes against the place still sensitive from his mouth.

You make a sound you can’t hold back. “Right there,” you say.

Pope’s grip tightens. “There?”

“Yes… fuck, right there—”

He moves harder while he kisses you again. The kiss is messy now, too much teeth and heat, both of you breathing hard through it as his fingers slide between you. The first touch to your clit makes you fold closer, forehead pressing to his shoulder.

“Come for me…” he says against your ear.

You try to answer, but the pleasure is already too close. Pope keeps moving, keeps touching you, holding you there when it gets too much. Your nails scrape over his shoulder, and then you come around him, hard enough that your legs pull him in and a sound tears out of you before you can stop it.

He holds you through it, one arm tight around your back while his fingers keep working until you’re shaking against him.

“Baby…” he says, strained now.

You lift your head. His face is close, wrecked with it, his mouth parted, eyes fixed on yours because he wants you there with him when it happens.

Pope’s hips drive up into you again, harder, less even now. “I’m gonna come.”

You kiss him, too far gone to hide what that does to you, how close he is, how close you still are because his fingers are still on your clit and his cock keeps hitting every sensitive place inside you.

“Come for me…” you say against his mouth.

Pope’s arms close around you, and the last of his control goes with a harsh sound that spills into your kiss. He comes deep inside you, hips pressing up as he holds you hard against him, and the feel of him letting go pulls you with him again. Your next orgasm comes slower, heavier, while he keeps you against his chest.

His arms stay around you, one hand spread between your shoulder blades and the other low on your back, holding you through the tremors until your body settles against his. Your face is tucked into the side of his neck, your skin damp against his, your thighs still around his hips while he softens inside you.

Pope turns his head and presses his mouth to your hair.

You close your eyes and let yourself stay there, with him still inside you, the new key tucked away in your bag and Smurf’s old lock left on the kitchen counter.

You lie beside him after, one leg still tangled with his under the sheet, your body warm and heavy in a way you haven’t let yourself think about too much this week.

Pope is on his side facing you, close enough that his knee brushes yours when either of you shifts. His hand rests between your shoulder blades, moving slowly over your skin. Your fingers drift against his chest while his breathing settles under your palm. He’s quiet, but he keeps looking at you.

“What?” you ask.

Pope shakes his head.

“You keep looking at me.”

His thumb moves once near your spine. “I know.”

“That’s all?”

He takes his time answering. You let him. The lamp beside the bed is still on, low and yellow, catching the edge of his cheekbone and the dark line of his jaw. He looks tired now that the hunger has gone softer, but he doesn’t look closed off.

“Didn’t know if I’d get this back,” he says. He doesn’t say it like he wants you to comfort him. He says it because it’s true.

You slide your hand up to his neck, thumb resting below his jaw. “You’re here.”

“Yeah.”

You lean in and kiss him. Pope kisses you back, slow and warm, his hand flattening against your back.

When you pull away, he doesn’t go far. His mouth brushes your temple, and the words come out quiet and rough.

“I love you.”

You stop moving against him.

Pope keeps his hand on your back. He can’t take it back now. The words don’t sound planned. They sound like they got out before he could stop them.

You lift your head.

“Don’t say it because I did,” he says.

Your throat tightens.

“Not saying it so you forget what happened,” Pope adds. “I know you won’t. Don’t want you to.” He looks away once, then back. “Just don’t wanna keep going like you don’t already have it.”

You touch his face, letting your thumb move over the rough line of his cheek. He turns into it just enough that you almost lose the words.

“I love you too, Andrew.”

His eyes close, and his hand tightens at your back. When he looks at you again, he can’t hide what it did to him.

You kiss him before he has to answer.

Pope meets you halfway, one hand sliding into your hair while the other keeps you close. The kiss is slow, his mouth warm against yours, and he doesn’t let go when it ends.

After, you turn onto your side with your back to his chest, and Pope follows only when you bring his arm over your waist. His palm settles against your stomach, warm through the sheet, and this time, you’re the one who put him there.

Pope’s mouth rests near your hair, his breathing evening out behind you, and you let your eyes close with his arm around you. 

You fall asleep in the house he made harder for her to enter, with his hand on you and his love still warm against your skin.

Total elapsed time 7h57m

You snicker when an anvil is dropped atop Wile E. Coyote's head, a most beloved sound which causes Leonard to lift his chin—choosing to watch you for awhile instead of continuing on with reading the novel currently sat in his lap.

He ruminates over it more often than he'd like to admit: how close he came to losing all of this, and for good, when he cast you out after your calling him a name which he now constantly looks forward to hearing morning, noon, and night. All because he felt like he was betraying a family he no longer has; a daughter he'll... That he'll never see again.

Gazing at you with unabashed adoration from over the rim of his glasses, he knows it isn't a sense of replacement that he's seeking with you like he initially thought—punished himself over.

No, just purpose.

You make his life a bit more worth living now. Alright, maybe more than just a bit.

His daughter will always be his little girl, yes, but that doesn't mean that he can't also make room for another.

Watching as you gently twirl the promise ring he gifted you not terribly long after your return here—rather, his carting you back home in his Duster—which he picked up for a pretty penny at a pawn shop in town, Leo smiles.

Its purpose wasn't just one thing.

He wished for it to serve as a symbol of stability and security in your shared relationship; an assurance that you belonged solely to him and he to you, and that through it, he was dedicating himself to you in every way that you needed so you could finally feel safe. And that he would fill every role you wished for him to this time around without conflict.

Father, lover, husband, confidant, teacher, protector, and provider.

In terms of the latter most... He knows you hate what he does. That it serves only to remind you of the life you were trying so hard to leave behind when you fled the derelict house your parents called home, in exchange for the North Carolina wilds. But so, too, is that ring a promise of better days to come.

A promise that he wholly intends to make good on.

When the dogs start barking outside, you jolt, then jerk your head in Leo's direction and stare at him with wide, frightened eyes. With a sigh, he leans over and grabs his pistol from a nearby table, followed by tucking it into his waistband and throwing his button-up flannel over it in an act of concealment.

A knock sounds at the front door just a moment later.

Speak of the devil and—

"You in, professor?" calls Carlton while welcoming himself inside—presumptuous asshole that he is.

Your heart now pattering away like a jackrabbit's, you pull a folded blanket from the back of the couch and fan it across your naked legs before turning the volume down on the TV.

No time to hide away in the bedroom this time, unfortunately.

"Yeah," croaks Leo. "Come on in."

Rounding the now open front door, the hefty man steps inside and promptly greets you with a toothy smile. "Well," he drawls. "Was wonderin' when we'd get a chance to become acquainted with one another."

When he extends his hand in your direction, you look to Leo before taking it. When he grants you a terse nod, you cringe, but ultimately plant your palm atop Carlton's. When he folds his grubby fingers around the back of your hand, it takes all your might not to cringe. He lifts it to his lips and brushes a kiss over the back of it. "Pleasure's all mine, young lady," he asserts with a wink.

Jerking the limb back to you, you swiftly hide it away beneath the blanket.

Out of sight, out of mind. You'll scrub it with antiseptic later.

Leaning back on his heels, Carlton hooks his thumbs over each of his front pockets and nods to Leonard. "Figured I'd come by for my cut, seein' as I was in the area."

When Leo rises from his recliner, a metal spring groans when it pops back into place.

You watch wordlessly as he heads in the direction of the bedroom to rifle through the strong box stored beneath the bed, and you remain looking in that direction, lest Carlton be left to think that eye contact equals a want for conversation. Now left alone together, you can practically feel his eyes roaming across your skin, much like a parasitic insect does its prey—with spindly legs and searching antennae.

You hate him, and hope he dies a horrible death sooner rather than later.

"Alright," Leo calls from the hall—his return signaled by thumping footsteps. "Got it here."

You breathe a sigh of relief when he reappears.

Slapping a stack of folded bills down in the scumbag's outstretched hand, Leo takes a step back.

Carlton tucks the cash away into a back pocket.

"Not gonna count it?" questions Leo with crossed arms.

"Oh, no, professor. I trust you well enough. 'Sides, if you ever tried to short me... Well, I know where you and this pretty one live," he finishes with a wink shot in your direction. "Might just have you make it right in a non-monetary sort of way, if you catch my meanin', were that to happen."

Brushing his flannel back a touch, Leo settles a heavy hand over the grip of his pistol. "You ever come near her—you ever speak to her again after today—and it'll be the last thing you do. She belongs to me and me alone. You understand?"

Inopportune time for liquid heat to pool between your thighs, but—

Carlton mockingly raises his hands in faux surrender, but you can see the way they lightly tremble, as well as the hint of fear that fills his dark eyes that wasn't there even a moment ago. "Never took you for the possessive type, but a man's property's a man's property." He drops his hands. "I know it well enough." He nods, then turns for the door. "Be seein' ya."

Once the door has shut behind him, you throw the blanket aside and jump up, into Leo's arms. Burying your face in his neck, and wrapping your legs around his ample waist, you whine tearfully. "Daddy—"

Softly shooshing you, he smooths a hand down the back of your head. "It's alright, sweetheart, he's gone. Everythin's alright. You're safe; I've gotcha."

Carrying you back to the bedroom, Leo gently kicks the door shut behind himself before lying you down on the bed with the intention of making all your worries go away with a tender bit of lovemakin' to pass the time.

You pant heatedly against Leo's chest that's smattered with coarse brown hair. Gently pawing at the soft swell of his gut, you stare up at him through bleary eyes. "P-please," you whimper with a pouty lower lip extended for emphasis.

Easing his fingers back between your fluttering walls just the same as he's been doing for the last fifteen minutes, Leo runs the thumb of his opposite hand between your knitted brows. "What is it, honey?" he whispers quietly.

"I want you inside of me," you sniffle. "Please."

Removing his slick fingers from inside your cunt, he dips his chin and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. "Alright, baby, just gimme a minute."

Pushing himself overtop of you, Leo cups your cheek and eyes his bedside table.

"Don't," you insist with raised hips. Brushing your weeping cunt against the thick tuft of hair that sits above his heavy cock, you curl your fingers in his beard. "Just you, daddy."

Bracketing his other arm beside your head, his eyes flit between yours with wavering uncertainty. "Are you sure, darlin'?"

You nod and smile happily. "Yes."

Lifting his arm, he reaches between his thighs and takes himself in hand. Swiping the mushroom tip of his swollen erection between your wet folds, he eases gently inside you—inch by inch.

Your eyes nearly flutter closed at the relaxing feel of him so close. The two of you connected so intimately like this—familiarly—is heaven. He curses quietly once he's bottomed out, then grants you a moment to adjust, same as always.

Kissing warm tears from your soft cheeks, Leo smiles encouragingly. "Is this what you needed, sweetheart?"

You nod fervently, then wrap your arms around his tanned neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," you babble contentedly.