Icarus

It's hard to pinpoint when it happened. To definitively determine when love turned to disinterest turned to distaste would mean taking a long, hard look at the past two years. And if you're going to be completely honest with yourself, you don't think you have the strength to relive it all. The arguments and the avoidance. The little remarks about your weight, what you eat, what you wear. The first time Craig had slipped up and mentioned Lucy—when a deafening hush fell over the room, and all anyone could look at you with was pity. Everyone knew and you'd been made the fool.

It's a humiliation ritual you don't wish to partake in, and yet you find that you're putting yourself through one arguably more embarrassing. The relationship between you and your husband has rotted from the inside out, but you still try to throw yourself at him. Pathetic as it is. You want to prove that you aren't beyond loves reach. You had made a day of it—picked up fresh ingredients for dinner, treated yourself to a mani-pedi, and purchased a pretty new set of lingerie.

It's all for nothing. Dinner goes cold, your texts unanswered, and your appetite lost. You pick at your nails as you stare at the empty seat across from you. A seat that has gone empty for so long that you're not sure how you managed to convince yourself that this time would be any different. Desperation? Plain and simple stupidity? Some crude combination of the two, you conclude.

Suddenly, you're hyper aware of every sensation and noise. Lace that itches beneath your clothes. The way the underwire of your bra digs into your skin. A shift in the room as though all the air has been sucked out. Appliances constant undercurrent, a quiet twilling that normally remains unnoticed. The gentle susurration of waves lapping at the shore.

With a sudden jolt, you stand. Beneath you, the chair scrapes against the floor, pushed back by the force of the motion. Briefly, you feel sorry for yourself. It's not an unfamiliar feeling—the urge to shut down and wallow in your sorrows. Then self-pity curdles. Your throat feels tight, and heat swallows you whole.

You feel so angry. At Baz, at the world, and at yourself. There's so much of it. It's overwhelming. Red and hot and filling you to the brim. It licks up and pools tears along your lash line. It brings your hands down upon the table, wreaking havoc on the dinner you'd lovingly made, but let go to waste. Your plate crashes to the floor and shatters on impact. A shout tears itself from your throat.

Raggedly, you take your next breath and the next. Somewhere along the way your heaving breaths turn to sobs. You crumble back down onto the chair. For awhile you stay there, folded into yourself. Until you're drawn to the wine cabinet to pop the cork on a particularly expensive bottle Baz had been saving for the right occasion. Fuck him. You bring your mouth to the lip of the bottle and take swig before pouring yourself a glass. When you finish one you pour yourself another.

Before long, you're standing in front of the full length mirror tucked in the corner of your bedroom. You've lost your clothes somewhere along the way. All that remains is the lingerie you wasted an obscene amount of money on. You're pretty, you think. When you're not so lost in your own head. Though, right now you're a mess constructed of smudged mascara, tear stained cheeks, and an anger that's barely begun to wilt.

With your emotions running high you're not immune to the piercing judgment of an over critical eye. Your eyes first stop at your flabby arms, next they move to your pudgy stomach, and lower to your thighs that look as thick as tree trunks. Earlier, you'd thought the lacy set did a good job at drawing attention away from all your insecurities, but now it seemed to accentuate every part of you that you've learned to nitpick.

When you lift your gaze, you catch movement behind you in the reflection. At first, you think it's Baz, and your first instinct is to cover up. Winding your arms around yourself, you turn to face him, but you come face to face with someone else entirely. Pope. You screech and stumble back.

"What the fuck!" You shout. Thankfully, he pivots and looks away from you.

"Sorry—I… Baz—I wanted to talk to Baz," he mumbles. Your gaze sweeps over him. He's gone pink from his neck to his freckled cheeks to the tips of his ears. His fingers twitch in their usual manner at his sides, and he shuffles around to look at you again. The way his eyes rake up and down your body doesn't escape your notice.

The desire to shrink back into the mirror behind you grows tenfold—to have the ability to poof out of existence would be a blessing, but it's not one you're afforded. So you remain trapped beneath Pope's sharp stare, pinned to the corner of the room. Mustering up enough courage, you meet his gaze head on as if to telepathically tell him to leave, but he doesn't seem to get the message.

"He's not here."

Pope blinks, taken out of whatever place his mind had just wandered to. "Do you know where he is?"

The question of the century. Hell if you know. Well, you might have an idea or two, but you really don't want to go there this second.

"You'd know better than me," you scoff. You feel like laughing. Instead your vision blurs again. Tears come unbidden and accompanied by stinging shame. Pope looks like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes widen a fraction and his posture stiffens even more, if possible. You inhale, choking on the intake of air as you slink towards the center of the room, and sink onto the edge of the bed.

A tiny part of you is relieved that it's not Baz standing there, and you're not sure what to make of it. Pope still makes no move to leave. Even as he stands with one foot out the door. He stares at you. Always with the staring. You sniffle and drag a hand down your face.

"You've caught me at a bad time," you say with a watery laugh. That's all it takes for Pope to take another step. His other foot passes the threshold. He approaches you like you're a wounded animal. Slowly, cautiously, and careful not to startle. The mattress dips as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed next to you.

He doesn't utter a word—doesn't ask if you're okay or what happened or any of the niceties people are supposed to say when they stumble upon someone crying. He relegates himself to a mere presence at your side. A warmth that permeates into the sliver of space between you. An absence of judgment. Somehow, he knows it's exactly what you need, or he's just wholly unequipped to handle his brother's crying wife. The latter, probably, but you appreciate it anyway.

What happens next is not a conscious decision—the distance between you narrows. One body seeks another, taking shelter from a storm. Your head falls to his shoulder. You can feel him tense up at the contact. There's a moment where time comes to a standstill—where the room absorbs a stillness unbroken. Neither of you move closer, but you don't withdraw either. Pope inhales abruptly as his shoulders draw taut. Then he relaxes, one arm curls around your waist, and he pulls you into him.

You cry. And cry. You cry your heart out until your throat is raw and your head aches and there are no more tears left to be shed. Pope holds you the entire time, his strong arms coil around you as you wet the collar of his shirt and the crook of his neck. His scent swathes you. A combination of detergent, sweat, and something a little woodsy. It's oddly soothing.

One of his hand splays over your back, rubbing gently up and down. Your sobs quiet, turning to an occasional sniffle. Even so, not once does he urge you from your place curled into his chest. He makes no move to rush you or push you away, but eventually you do pull back. His head tilts, taking in what you can only imagine to be a sorry sight.

"I needed that…" you croak, your voice scratchy and worn thin, "thank you."

A hand comes up to your face, cradling one cheek with the utmost care. His thumb brushes the apple of your cheek. It feels far too intimate to be considered appropriate, but then again none of this is exactly orthodox, is it?

"Baz is an idiot," he says. His gaze holds yours, and you glimpse a drop of anger in those pools of hazel. "He's blind if he can't see what's right in front of him."

"And what is it that you see exactly?" You ask before you can think better of it. His throat bobs, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. With one sentence you've opened Pandora's box.

"I'm no good with words," he admits, jaw ticking as he debates his next ones, "want me to show you?"

You shouldn't. You really shouldn't. No, especially not with Baz's brother. You should unwind yourself from his embrace, and create all the distance you can. You should tell Pope to leave, and bare the burden that you let it get this far at all—endure never being able to never look him in the eyes again, and never being able to hold a conversation without the shadow of this very moment looming over you.

"No, we—we can't." You shake your head and begin to move away. "What kind of person would that make me?"

"It would make you human," he says and it gives you pause. Five simple words derail you from doing the right thing. He says your name, and it's like you've fallen back under a trance you'd momentarily broken. "If it were you and I—if we were—I would never take you for granted."

Fuck. You can feel your resistance crumble like a physical wall. And in the dust, debris, and wreckage of it all, you run straight back to him. You're weak. You're only human.

"Kiss me." It's over. Whatever infinitesimal amount of restraint you had left cannot be regained. You want to blame it on the alcohol buzzing in your veins, but you know you can't pass the whole blame on just that. You need this, and you want it bad.

"You're sure?" He takes a measured breath, but his willpower is shrinking too. Any hesitance is merely a courtesy towards you, and the worry that he might fuck it all up.

"Yes, I'm sure, right now, but don't let me second guess this or I'll change my mind."

Not another moment is let slip by. Pope's hands are on you. They never strayed far, lifting to frame your jaw and coax you closer until his lips are on yours. He's kissing you. You can hardly believe it. Pope is not cold and domineering like you expected him to be. You discover a shivering, shimmering warmth. Passion that bleeds through after broiling beneath the surface for too long.

He urges you closer. In answer, you burrow your hands in his curls and allow him to steal back the distance between you. You're drawn onto his lap, body pressed flushed to his. A groan rattles from him. Reluctantly, he comes up for air. He looks ready for rejection. As if the kiss will have turned you against whatever this is, but he is quicksand and you've already sunk far too deep.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful." His voice cracks like the words themselves have desperately been trying to claw their way out. It leaves you wondering how long he's been harbouring these sorts of feelings—the kind he shouldn't have for you, but can't shut out. The look that crosses your face must give away your doubts. "You are."

He doubles down, pushing you flat to the bed and wrenching your legs open by shoving the broad stretch of his shoulders between them. A shudder flutters through you as he inches towards your waiting heat. He noses at the sheer fabric that hides you, and takes a deep breath, completely shameless in his desire for you—for every part of you.

"Pope…!" you gasp. Your legs tremble, threatening to knock together in an attempt to shut him out. He doesn't let you. His arms loop your thighs, keeping you locked in place and flayed open for him. Reality disperses with one slow swipe of his tongue over the front of your panties.

His eyes darken. He corrects you. "Andrew."

"Huh…" you hum, brain slow to process his meaning.

"Don't call me that," he clarifies, "call me by my name."

He doesn't return to your weeping center. His attention diverts elsewhere. The scalloped edge of your panties has rolled down, leaving nothing to conceal the swell of your stomach. A low, burgeoning groan rumbles from him as he lays his head there, turning to pepper kisses over the stretch marks that sprawl across the fat at your hip.

Everything about you is supple and soft and divine. Yet, at the same time, he makes it out to seem as if there is not enough of you. Rough pads of his fingers skating along every curve and roll, dipping into cushiony flesh. Gripping, holding, scooping you up, and committing the lush feel of you to memory. He mouths at you. Lips chart a damp trail down to your plump mound—your wet and wanting cunt perfectly gift wrapped in lace. He hums, deluded enough to believe it's just for him.

The prettiest sight. A view that he never wants to give up and that few are deserving of looking upon. Dipping his head forward, the next thing you feel is the heat of his mouth on your covered cunt. Pope devours you through your lace. A combination of his saliva and your spit darkens the material.

Gentle, titillating flicks of his tongue broken up by muffled moans. His avoidance of your clit is deliberate. The phantom touch of him so close to where you need him, nose barely bumping the bundle of nerves, but it's not enough. Not even close. You're not sure how much more you can take. Anticipation that borders on frustration. Your hips cant upwards, coveting what he's purposefully and so unfairly refusing to give.

Finally, he caves and retreats fractionally, so he can peel your panties away. You moan in unison when his lips wrap around your clit with unfettered hunger. "Ah—! Andrew, fuck…"

You're so lost that you almost miss it. The sweetest sound—the tiniest whimper muffled against your sopping folds. He grinds his aching erection into the mattress below, strong hands grappling at the thighs that sandwich his head. Each pass of his tongue over your clit brings you higher. Nerve endings firing, electricity pulsing, coercing you over the edge.

It's a drop in a pond. Ripples that wash over you and curl your toes. He works you through your orgasm, and just when it seems like he'll never let up, he pries your thighs apart and removes himself from between them. He stands from the bed, and begins to unbutton his shirt. Shrugging it off, his shaky fingers go to his pants.

He's big—bigger than you're used to, and you don't have to say a thing. He can glean it from your expression. It puffs his chest and pulls a small smirk onto his lips.

"I want you on top of me," he says, moving back towards the bed. You make a small, warbled sound as you try to make up some excuse as to why that's a bad idea, but he's having none of it. He lays down and guides you over him. Your legs bracket his hips. His cock makes it's presence known, twitching against your inner thigh.

Your heart beats in your dripping cunt. Copious amounts of slick wetness assist the slide of his cock, shaft gliding along your seam and fitting flush to you. Your hips rock, slipping the length of his drooling cock between your folds. All heat and zero percision, only neglect scraped raw into desperation.

On one pass, the head catches at your entrance, sinking just barely inside before slipping free. He bites back a moan. After a couple more rolls of your hips, it notches there again. This time you let it happen, keening at the stretch as he sinks inside your tight heat. You have to take a moment to adjust.

Steadying yourself, you begin to move. You feel powerful. There's a sense of control to be had here, where in every other aspect of your life it has spiraled beyond you. So you cling to it, as miniscule and insignificant as it might be. And Pope revels in it, in the privilege of being privy to this side of you. He looks damn near reverent of. You're like a goddess above him—bouncing on his cock, taking what you need.

You're not sure you can remember the last time you felt this way. Like you're someone to be revered, worshipped, held tenderly, and loved. Have you ever felt this way? Has Baz ever made you feel this way? Maybe Pope is the first. Maybe he will be the last. It doesn't matter. You simply need to tuck yourself into this moment and forget about everything else. So you do just that.

The rise and fall is addicting. As mesmerizing as the jiggle of every plush and pillowy part of you. You take him so beautifully, cunt stuffed full of his chubby cock, clinging to him each time you lift up. He grabs handfuls of your soft tummy before settling his hands on your plump hips, dimpling the flesh. He begins to guide your rhythm where you start to falter.

"Yeah… I've got you," he utters breathlessly, "just like that. Mhm, up and down, sweet girl."

His thick fingers find your clit, pinching it gently before massaging firm circles over it. You're there—right there—teetering, teetering, gone. His name is a prayer on your lips followed up by an encore of the sweetest sounds he's ever heard. Arms, thick and corded with muscle, encircle you and tug you down to him as your body shakes apart.

"Fuck… nghh—" he curses, punctuating each thrust upwards with a grunt. He's chasing his own release now. Sweat beading his brow and sheening on his neck. You bow your head into the junction where his shoulder meets his neck, tongue darting out to lave at the damp skin. He groans, hips stilling as his cock pulses inside you. "So good—did so good… so fuckin' perfect. Gorgeous girl."

The litany of praises flitter past your ear. You're floating, mind foggy and vision hazy, completely fucked out. He holds you as you drift. The exhaustion of not only this, but all your emotions and outbursts from earlier has caught up to you. It pulls you under.

Guilt doesn't sprout until the morning, rising with the sun that pours into the bedroom. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up, but it all comes rushing back. You're arm flops out to feel for Pope, but the space beside you is empty. You can't even be sure the whole thing wasn't some sort of fever dream—a product of your sever loneliness and whatever mental break you had been experiencing.

Groggily, you sit up and unclasp the itchy lace bra you're still wearing. You pad over to the dresser, and throw on a t-shirt and shorts. The house isn't completely silent you realize as you amble down the hall. In the kitchen, Pope stands by the sink. He's doing the dishes. The table had been cleared, the shattered plate swept up. In fact, the whole house looks tidier.

He flicks the faucet off, and turns to face you. It well and truly hits you then. What you did. How frustratingly right this all feels. Domestic and warm. Wanting this to last, but knowing it can never be—knowing it will never be, and you've let yourself have a slice of it. You will have to live having had a taste of what you can't possibly have.

"You need to leave, Pope," you say, and you hate yourself for it. You despise the expression it pulls onto his face. The slightest quiver of his lip, and the confusion in his eyes. You don't feel like you have a choice, so you rush to shut him out. "You can't be here."