kirav

⬩ Pope Cody who fumbles one day when you ask him what he needs all the supplies for. It's a fair question—he visits so often, always grabbing something random off the shelves—but it catches him off guard and the truth spills from him, stuttered and poorly worded as he scratches the back of his neck. At first, you let out a gentle laugh, and he's never felt so conflicted. Caught halfway between the embarrassment that tints his cheeks pink and the way such a beautiful sound makes his heart flutter.

"I'm off at six," you say, "there's a diner down the road that makes a great milkshake."

⬩ Pope Cody who was never a huge fan of touch or PDA until he started dating you. Soon after though, he discovers that he has an innate need to be around you, close to you, touching you. There isn't a moment that passes where he isn't seeking out a point of contact. A hand at the small of your back, or resting on your thigh while he's driving, or slipping into yours. An arm curled around your waist, tugging you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.

⬩ Pope Cody who is not the least bit ashamed of you. You've dated your fair share of guys who act incredibly affectionate in private, but switch up the moment you're around their friends. Pope couldn't be more different. His affection doesn't waver, no matter who you're around. He's proud of you—feels lucky that you even give him the time of day—and he loves to show you off every chance he's given. You're his girl and he'd never try to hide it.

⬩ Pope Cody who is absolutely whipped for you. He's at your beck and call. You tell him to jump and he asks how high. Your back or feet are sore after standing all day, he's on standby with a bottle of lotion and some newly learned massage techniques. Something is broken, he's ready to dedicate hours to repairing it, whether it be the kitchen faucet or engine troubles.

⬩ Pope Cody who spares no dime on whatever you want. New clothes, a pedicure, reservations and dinner at a restaurant you'd offhandedly mentioned last week. He loves to spoil you, and he is well within his means to do so. He sees no reason not to, even though you still try to deny him sometimes. As far as he's concerned you deserve the world and then some.

⬩ Pope Cody who goes crazy for you in low-rise jeans. The way your love handles pour over the waistband. The swell of your stomach barely contained. He finds it so fucking hot. Wearing them is a surefire way to get him all riled up, especially when he catches onto the fact that you've started wearing them more often for that express purpose. So as much as he loves them on you, they rarely last long before he's trying to get them off you.

⬩ Pope Cody who is obsessed with your tummy. It's his favourite place to rest his head when you're cuddling. He could spend hours tracing the stretchmarks spider-webbed across the skin there. It's also his favourite place grab while you're fucking. He just can't help himself after watching the soft rolls of your tummy jiggle with each thrust. He can't resist grabbing up handfuls.

⬩ Pope Cody who appreciates all the differences between you. You're soft and supple where he is rough and jagged around the edges. To him, your body is the height of femininity. It's something to be worshipped, pampered, and treated with absolute respect. He's not normally one for many words, but he never misses an opportunity to compliment you.

⬩ Pope Cody who loves to have you on top of him. It gives him the perfect vantage point of all your curves and rolls. On a couple occasions he's had to beg you to sit on his face. You looked doubtful, but he's strong and he can handle all of you. He could spend hours between your legs if you'd allow him, smothering himself in your cunt until he runs out of air.

⬩ Pope Cody who first meets you when you're working at your dad's hardware store. He was just stopping by to pick up something for a project, and there you were, stood behind the till. You weren't much help. No, you knew hardly anything about the supplies the store sold. You were just there to pick up a couple shifts, probably didn't know a phillips from a flathead. But you were kind and sweet and when you smiled at him it was like the whole world stopped around him. Maybe it wasn't love at first sight, but after that first meeting he couldn't get you off his mind.

⬩ Pope Cody who inadvertently memorizes your work schedule. It wasn't something he set out to do, but he picked up on your shifts, noted them down in the back of his mind. Usually the weekends from opening to close at six. So that's when he'd stop by, hoping to see you. And when he ran out of reasons to come back, he'd make some up—buy something he didn't really need in exchange for a few precious moments talking to you.

⬩ Pope Cody who fumbles one day when you ask him what he needs all the supplies for. It's a fair question—he visits so often, always grabbing something random off the shelves—but it catches him off guard and the truth spills from him, stuttered and poorly worded as he scratches the back of his neck. At first, you let out a gentle laugh, and he's never felt so conflicted. Caught halfway between the embarrassment that tints his cheeks pink and the way such a beautiful sound makes his heart flutter.

"I'm off at six," you say, "there's a diner down the road that makes a great milkshake."

⬩ Pope Cody who was never a huge fan of touch or PDA until he started dating you. Soon after though, he discovers that he has an innate need to be around you, close to you, touching you. There isn't a moment that passes where he isn't seeking out a point of contact. A hand at the small of your back, or resting on your thigh while he's driving, or slipping into yours. An arm curled around your waist, tugging you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.

⬩ Pope Cody who is not the least bit ashamed of you. You've dated your fair share of guys who act incredibly affectionate in private, but switch up the moment you're around their friends. Pope couldn't be more different. His affection doesn't waver, no matter who you're around. He's proud of you—feels lucky that you even give him the time of day—and he loves to show you off every chance he's given. You're his girl and he'd never try to hide it.

⬩ Pope Cody who is absolutely whipped for you. He's at your beck and call. You tell him to jump and he asks how high. Your back or feet are sore after standing all day, he's on standby with a bottle of lotion and some newly learned massage techniques. Something is broken, he's ready to dedicate hours to repairing it, whether it be the kitchen faucet or engine troubles.

⬩ Pope Cody who spares no dime on whatever you want. New clothes, a pedicure, reservations and dinner at a restaurant you'd offhandedly mentioned last week. He loves to spoil you, and he is well within his means to do so. He sees no reason not to, even though you still try to deny him sometimes. As far as he's concerned you deserve the world and then some.

⬩ Pope Cody who goes crazy for you in low-rise jeans. The way your love handles pour over the waistband. The swell of your stomach barely contained. He finds it so fucking hot. Wearing them is a surefire way to get him all riled up, especially when he catches onto the fact that you've started wearing them more often for that express purpose. So as much as he loves them on you, they rarely last long before he's trying to get them off you.

⬩ Pope Cody who is obsessed with your tummy. It's his favourite place to rest his head when you're cuddling. He could spend hours tracing the stretchmarks spider-webbed across the skin there. It's also his favourite place grab while you're fucking. He just can't help himself after watching the soft rolls of your tummy jiggle with each thrust. He can't resist grabbing up handfuls.

⬩ Pope Cody who appreciates all the differences between you. You're soft and supple where he is rough and jagged around the edges. To him, your body is the height of femininity. It's something to be worshipped, pampered, and treated with absolute respect. He's not normally one for many words, but he never misses an opportunity to compliment you.

⬩ Pope Cody who loves to have you on top of him. It gives him the perfect vantage point of all your curves and rolls. On a couple occasions he's had to beg you to sit on his face. You looked doubtful, but he's strong and he can handle all of you. He could spend hours between your legs if you'd allow him, smothering himself in your cunt until he runs out of air.

Baby Mine , part 2, part 3 by @tateypots

Broken after losing Ellie to the fireflies Joel finds himself a new purpose when he’s taken in by a man and his daughter.

banana cream pie by @kiraavi

Joel is heading home after another long haul when he pulls into the travel center for the night. He's been struggling with his attraction to the waitress that works at the diner there, and is tempted to avoid you completely. The promise of coffee and an opportunity to stretch his legs, however, lures him in on a night you just so happen to be working the graveyard shift.

Closer by @time-for-my-weekly-spanking

Trying to control her attraction to you was one of the hardest things Tess had ever done. But she'd succeeded. Until you made it clear how much you wanted to get closer to her. For Joel, falling into this scenario was just the natural closing of the circle.

Heaven or Hell by @aurorawritestoescape

Joel helps you to master self-control - OR - your stepdad makes you cockwarm him.

A kid's dreams by @petalsinblood

When a child has big dreams and a little brother who he really loves, the world of possiblities seem endless when looking into the future.

Lead Me Not Into Temptation - part 23 by @tateypots

Season of the Wolf by @mcthsman

The giant wolf that has been killing people around town shares a very striking feature with the quiet man that keeps breaking into your home— They both have the saddest, warmest brown eyes you've ever seen.

Clint Flood

Obligations of Love by @ess-evo

Clint is the man of your dreams. You're planning a wedding; every day with him is filled with love and affection, so then why do you have a knot in your stomach every time he leaves home?

Frankie Morales

Over the Andes by @bergamote-catsandbooks

Tom yells "Are we really leaving 200 million on the fucking runway?" Frankie sighs "OK, she'll make it." What if Frankie had said something else? What if he had said no and stood up to Tom? Two years after these events, Frankie, Will, Benny, Santi, and Tom have made it over the Andes with a significant amount of money. But what happened there has changed the dynamics between the group of men, these brothers in arms. All of it culminates the moment you enter Frankie's life, leading to another decision he and his brothers will have to make, one that might shatter them.

Max Phillips

The Night Shift by @inept-the-magnificent

Lucien de Leon

like a stranger, or it's the living that kills you by @tinytinymenace

Lucien goes to a party, and meets a former ingenue.

Javier Peña

Somewhere only we know by @milla-frenchy

it’s a story about two people who are very dear to each other, but too scared to turn their friendship into something else. They search for each other in other people and places until fate brings them back together at the right time

Din Djarin

Human by @petalsinblood

When Din is forced to be without his helmet, the reality hits him harder than he expects.

Loving You Had Consequences by @604to647

Din learns of your engagement.

Yours To Tame by @604to647

Worried, Din goes after you amidst a rainstorm.

Ezra

Persistence by @insomniamamma

Self Recs

Endorphins ~ personal trainer!Joel Miller x f!reader

The hot personal trainer in your neighborhood gives you a one-on-one session.

Read My Mind ~ Marcus Moreno x f!telepath!reader

On your first date with Marcus, you reveal a big secret about yourself.

Video Vixen ~ Dave York x camgirl!reader

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."

The first watery grey light of morning spills into the room through the slatted blinds, painting stripes over every surface. Your awareness surfaces slowly—as languid as the arch of your back as you shift atop crumpled, warm, and familiar sheets. The quilt has become a twisted, mangled mess weaved between two sets of entwined legs. 

There is a weight heavy at your back—the wide span of Joel’s hand splayed over the small of your back. His thumb idly swipes back and forth, gliding gently along your spine. You shuffle closer, pressing your face into the crook of his neck—that special place—the juncture of his neck and shoulder that was seemingly carved out just for you to rest your head there. A deep inhale. He smells of cedar and leather, but also something distinctly him.

His hand flexes against your supple skin, fingers moving to curl around the plushness of your hip. When you finally retreat from his clavicle and look at him, you first note the subtle curve of his lips. A small smile. Then the way sleep still tugs at his eyelids, threatening to pull him back under. Your eyes trace every feature upon his face. The weathered creases and wrinkles. Each freckle and fleck. Every scar. The lines that make up the man before you—that tell you a thousand words he’ll never speak. 

You could spend decades memorizing Joel until you can draw him perfectly from memory within your mind's eye. “You’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He looks at you like you’ve just recited a fairy tale as a hard fact. The slight furrow of his brow and the squint of his eyes—a puff of a laugh that’s almost imperceptible. You realize that no one has told him that before, and you realize that he’s having trouble believing you. You hate that those words are foreign to him. You want him to become intimately familiar with the sentence. Those two words. The words that he should know, but that no one has ever directed toward him. It’s a crime. It’s a lapse in your judgement to have not begun this mission sooner, but now that your eyes are set on the destination, nothing can make you stray off course.

“You're a funny woman.” His voice comes out raspy and addled with sleep—a touch deeper than usual.

“Oh, are your eyes going, old man?” You question in a teasing lilt. Your hands land on either side of his face, tilting it to the side and then the other as if inspecting his visage. Running your thumbs under his eyes in a tender caress, you adjust yourself and move to straddle him. He jolts at the warm heat of you pressing in and grunts.

“I’m on early patrol.”

“I won’t take long,” you murmur, sitting up and gazing down at him. “Promise.” 

It’s a promise you’ve made dozens of times—one you’ve made in earnest, but one that rarely came to fruition. The look he gives you is petulant, but the way his hands instantly find themselves on either side of your thighs tells you everything you need to know. You mark multiple places with the soft brush of your lips. The creased spot right between his brows. Each eyelid. The bridge of his nose. The apples of his cheeks. The edge of his jaw and the corner of his lips.

Your hands roam, coasting down his neck and then down to his chest, rubbing gently over his pecs and feeling the coarse dusting of hair there. His eyes flutter as he watches you, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. There’s an infinitesimal quiver to his lip when you journey lower to his stomach, and feel out the slight pudge there that spills over his waistband. You’re aware of the insecurity that lies in this area—in the extra fat he’s put on, but you love it. The soft and supple flesh in juxtaposition to this toughened survivor. It’s born from a comfortable and more peaceful life. The kind of life he hasn’t gotten to live for many years. An ode to his time with you.

Bowing down, you press a kiss to the scar just left of his belly button—the one that you know has a matching one on his back. His body has stories written all over it. Some you’ve heard while cuddled up on the couch in front of the fireplace during the coldest winters, or outside on the porch with a guitar resting on his lap in the warm summer afternoons. Others, he’s neglected to indulge your timid curiosities with. Perhaps they’re too painful to recall or entirely mundane. 

“You are beautiful…” You punctuate each word with another kiss, your hands settling on his sides. They hold firm and reverent. “My lovely darling boy.”

That stirs a reaction from him. His stomach muscles tense and when you slant your gaze upwards, his face is tinged red from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. It has your heart skipping a beat, and you watch as he lets out a trembling, stilted breath. He struggles with your words, seeming to mull them over in his head, tossing them around and seeing if they stick. The doubts creep in, a tiny frown tugging at the corners of his lips, but ultimately he doesn’t have the heart to voice his disagreement and the fallacies he’s dug up.

Joel is not beautiful in the traditional sense. He is not supple skinned and unmarked, nor innocent of the cruelties of a forced hand. There is imperfection—a ruggedness that time has whittled into him—into the jagged notch on the bridge of his nose, and the lines pleated at the corners of his eyes. His beauty is not lacking because of these things, but rather, it exists from them. You want to tell him this with the whisper of sweet, poetic verse, but he is not a man of many words. 

His love is not often spoken from the tip of his tongue, or carried in his drawl. It is sewn into actions—his amorous touch in stark contrast to his roughened hands, and the time he’ll dedicate to teaching you something new. 

You can find his love in the knack he has for fixing things. The leaky kitchen faucet, the squeaky hinge of a door, or the chipped paint on the bannister. You can see his love in the things he keeps around. The framed photos or little gifts he’s been given. He cherishes these possessions and displays them proudly. He is beautiful. He is something to be admired. And so like him, you will take the time out of your day to try and teach him something new. “You don’t gotta do all this…” he croaks. When he says it, he’s not just brushing you off, but himself, as though he’s undeserving. The idea is an incredulous one and it makes your heart ache, twisting painfully beneath your ribcage.

“You’re right.” He tenses, clearly not expecting you to agree. “But I want to.”

For the first time, Joel looks frail—a flickering, wavering candle light barely clinging to the wick. He is as delicate as he’s ever been. You’ve peeled back his layers and flayed him open, exposing the innards of his insecurities and shortcomings. It’s a privilege and a dire responsibility. You don’t wish to snuff him out. You want to breathe life back into him—to be the oxygen to his fragile flame. You know that it will take time to rearrange him and stitch him back up, but it’s worth it.

You nip at the soft flesh of his tummy, and plant another kiss there, turning your head and nuzzling against him. “You’re gorgeous. Perfect everywhere, really,” you coo, and your nose nudges against the soft trail of hair that marks a direct route down beneath his waistband. “But this might just be my favourite part of you.”

His protest is a grumble on his lips, the syllables interrupted when a shudder ripples through his body as your hand slips beneath his boxers. His cock is already half hard, a heavy weight fitting into the groove of your palm as you wrap your fingers around the wide girth. You hum and pull your hand up over the curve of it only to bring it back down. Once, twice, thrice. 

“I like this part a lot too, though,” you say with a grin.

His hips cant up and a low, strangled sound falls from his lips. When you swipe your thumb over the slit at the tip, he croons your name. He’s still holding back—restraint knitting his brows together and pulling his muscles tight. This simply won’t do. It’s entirely too obvious. Sometimes he forgets the ease with which you can read him.

“Relax for me, handsome,” you say as you withdraw your hand momentarily before tugging his boxers down. When you lay your eyes on his cock, it’s fully erect now and reddened at the tip. Achy and leaking, practically begging for your attention. You slide your body down. With your tongue, you navigate a path along the underside of his cock, tracing the vein that runs there. You stop to mouth at his blunt head and swirl your tongue around the tip.

One hand fans out over his abdomen while the other grips the side of his thigh. You wrap your lips around his cock and suck, your cheeks hollowing as you moan, tasting the salt of his precum on your tongue. You feed more of his shaft into your mouth until the crown of his cock strikes the back of your throat and you gag. Your nose meets the thatch of curls at his pelvis. He gasps as you engulf him in the wet heat of your mouth, swallowing around him. When his fingers thread through your hair, you ease back slightly.

Little grunts and soft sounds tumble from his lips. You stare up at him, trying to catch every glimpse of his facial expression. You don’t dare look away—you don’t even want to blink for fear of missing any reaction, even if only miniscule or barely there at all. You want to witness every detail, and brand it into the back of your eyelids, so that you might remember the blissed out sight of him for a millennia to come. He has gone weak beneath you. The wire that had been pulled so taut now slackening as you lavish him with attention. His gaze flitters to yours and you hold it in your own glossy, sultry gaze.

“Fuck- Christ…! I’m almost-” he fumbles with his words, rutting into you and knocking his head back. But you already know that he’s close. You can feel his cock twitching as he nestles deeper, hips bucking into your mouth. Before you can coax him over that edge though, the hand in your hair clutches at the strands and lugs you off of him. You whine, lips swollen and slick with saliva.

He hikes you up by the backs of your thighs and you protest, wriggling above him. It seems, however, that he is set on making the detour, and just as you fear, it’s for your benefit instead of his own.

“Tommy will have you strung up outside the gates if you’re late again.”

“Mm, that’s a sacrifice I’m willin’ to make, darlin’,” he hums as two fingers hook aside the damp fabric between your legs, and slide over your throbbing cunt. Your skin prickles.

When your first argument falls through you try another—one that’s just as likely to fail. “This was supposed to be about you, Joel.”

He arches a brow at that, staring up at you as you’re a breath away from sinking down onto his cock. “You tryin’ imply that I don’t take pleasure in bein’ buried in your cunt.” You wallow at his words, swaying ever so slightly above him as liquid fire pools in your stomach. “It’s the best Goddamn feelin’ in the world, sweet girl.”

You have nothing left to say to that, so he urges you down, down, down. His cock splits you open, sliding deeper and deeper until your settled atop him, his shaft fully seated inside. Your hands are braced at his sides, fitting along his ribs. His own sneak beneath your shirt to fill his palms with the swell of your breasts. You begin to undulate above him as he jerks upwards. Your resistance wanes, walls clamping down around him. Well, if it’s what he truly wants… Who are you to deny him?

“Mmph, fuck!” You gasp as he bucks up to meet you in the middle. You fold over, mashing your lips to his in a desperate, needy kiss. “I love you… so fucking much.” 

“Love you more…” he pants below you, skimming his hands around to your back, and pulling you closer until your chests are pressed together—your sweaty bodies plaster to one another. You’re so effortlessly interlaced. One with each other. It is where you belong. To him.

“Don’t start this argument with me,” you say with a quiet laugh, “I’ll win.”

Your words stroke the competitiveness in him. “Don’t be so sure of yourself.”

Heat spreads beneath your skin as your cunt grips his cock. Coiling tension builds in your abdomen, growing tighter and tighter. He is hewing you, tearing you apart and filling you up. You nip at his jaw and his hands move to your ass, dimpling the flesh. He rocks you against him, helping to lift you up and down on his girth. He shoves one hand between the two of you, searching for your clit. You sigh when his fingertips graze the sensitive bud, rubbing vigorous circles over it. The rhythm between you becomes erratic, the steadiness warping and withering away.

It’s close. That heady, fervent peak—the apex of your pleasure. Suddenly you're tumbling off that ledge and falling into him. He catches you, and holds you strong, keeping your body moored to his. His movements stutter and he burrows  himself deeper. His cock quivers inside your convulsing cunt. He moans lowly. It’s a guttural sound, dredged from his throat as he comes. Warm spurts of his spend fill you up.

You’re reeling, head fuzzy and muddled in the aftermath. His chest heaves beneath you, his panting breaths fanning over you. The two of you lay there for a little while, savouring the fleeting moment before the world calls upon him and wrests him from the familiar comfort of your shared bed. The sun has risen above the horizon line, pouring over your bodies. It’s warm and radiant light prodding you into a restless state. No longer can you deny the morning as it stretches onward, rousing Joel beneath you.

You feel sticky as he peels you from him and deposits you onto the mattress. You watch listlessly as he disappears into the bathroom. When he returns several minutes later, there is a towel hung low on his hips as he moves about the room and gets dressed. Once he’s tugged on a pair of jeans, a flannel, and his jacket, he returns to your side. His eyes drift up your nude body, still curled up in the sheets. It’s a look of pure fondness.

You turn your head just so you can pout up at him. He knows that look all too well. It’s the same one you give him nearly every morning in the minutes before he departs. A silent plea of ‘please don’t go.’ Of things that aren't spoken, nor whispered but could be gleaned regardless. An unheard, tempting promise of a morning spent enwrapped in you. And you know that he struggles to refuse the offer you present—to not give in and relish in those sacred moments in space that you have created for each other.

It’s torture just as much as it is solace to know that you need him—that you want him. You torment him with that look and he puts on a brave face every time. This time, he only looks amused and a smile touches his lips. It is contagious and you find yourself smiling as well. 

He’ll be home before you know it. You’re aware. You’ll share a conversation about his patrol over supper. A bowl of something warm and hearty. Maybe he’ll indulge in one of the blueberry muffins you’d baked the other day. And afterward you’ll request a song from him and he’ll deny you, but you’ll be as persistent as you always are. So he’ll cave and give you exactly what you want. Still, you miss him already. You covet his time and attention—his presence in this home of yours because it feels hollow without him. He bends down to lay a kiss on your temple, petting your hair and sweeping the stray strands back.

“I think you missed,” you say, pointing to your lips. He huffs and shakes his head, but plants a kiss on your lips anyway. You hum into it, pleased with yourself. 

“Happy?” he asks, hands landing on his hips as he takes a step back to survey your smug expression. 

“Do you believe me yet?” You shoot back. Do you know how beautiful you are?

He grimaces. “Sure thing, sweetpea.” You level him with a scrutinizing stare, and he avoids your eyes, scratching his chin awkwardly.

“We’ll work on it,” you say. Unfortunately, there’s no time left to argue the matter with him. So you will have to settle for now, but you’ll spend every second of the rest of your lives convincing him if that’s what you have to do. “You be safe, Joel.”