Pomiot Szatana

The music was so loud, you heard it all the way at the end of the road. You paid it little attention as you hiked your heavy duffle bag higher on your shoulder and readjusted the fluffy, cream-coloured Pomeranian you kept tucked against your chest. The sidewalk was far too hot for her little paws.

“I know you want to walk.” You huffed and stroked the pad of your pointer across her chest. “But you can’t. Not right now.”

You glanced down at the sealed, albeit a little crumpled, envelope in your hand.

“It should be right here- oh, fuck me.”

You came to a halt in front of the source of the blaring music. You felt the vibrations of the bass beneath your feet and echoing in your chest. People poured in and out through the open gate, passing cars more expensive than a year's rent for the shitty apartment you’d grown up in.

“This has to be a mistake, right? Maybe he moved…” You frowned at the envelope before dodging a group of women in the tiniest bikinis you’d ever seen to approach the letter box.

Cody.

Not a mistake… apparently. Had he lived in luxury and burnt money on shitty parties all these years? Years your mom spent struggling to put food on the table and keep a roof over your head?

She worked three jobs, even when she got sick, and he- he’d lived like this?

You wanted to squish the letter in your hand, but you pushed on.

Maybe you were at the wrong Cody house.

Your hope was waning quickly, but you forced yourself to push on.

With your mom dead and your eighteenth birthday having come and gone last week while her body was growing cold, you had nowhere else to go. Your maternal grandparents were already dead. Your mother had been an only child, and her parents too. You had no aunts or uncles, no cousins, nothing.

And it wasn’t exactly easy to build and maintain friendships while working shitty fast food jobs while trying to stay in school and on top of your mom's medical bills all on your own…

You held Peanut tighter to your chest and pushed past the metal gate fencing off the garden and pool from the driveway.

“Hi, I’m-” You started, but the guy you’d approached stumbled past you and doubled over, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bushes. You winced and screwed up your nose before quickly turning away.

“I’m looking for Craig? Craig Cody?” You asked the next cluster of people you found that didn’t look like they were one shot away from alcohol poisoning.

“Oh, he’s bad news, sweetie.” One of the women cooed at you. Her breath carried the stench of alcohol, and you had to fight to not let your disgust show on your face. “Shouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole, even if he has money. ‘tis just not worth it.”

“It’s that one over there.” Another woman chimed in, suppressing a drunken giggle, leaning heavily on her friend. “The hot, tall, hunk of a man by the pool. What? He’s a good lay, and he always has great blow. It’s so worth the STD test you need afterwards.”

Maybe it was a different guy.

A different Craig Cody who lived in the place your mother had addressed a letter to, but died before she could post it.

She hadn’t left you a letter.

It stung worse than you wanted to admit.

Your heart had long since taken up residence in your gut. Your palms were sweaty, hands shaking as you made your way through the partying, drunken mass of people and towards the tall man sitting on the edge of the pool with his legs dangling in the water. A guy rode a skateboard off the roof and into the pool. Water splashed, and you only escaped getting drenched by stumbling backwards and into a group of people that promptly cursed you out. The crowd cheered and screamed. Peanut whimpered.

You didn’t like this place.

Not one bit.

You’d never even been to a party. Between the thrift store clothes and looking after your dying mother, you had neither the time nor the social popularity to get invited. And after years of living your life between the quiet apartment and the clinical silence of the hospital, the barrage of sounds crashing down on you was overwhelming.

The woman had not exaggerated.

Craig Cody was what all those small-dicked social media fitness freaks thought they were. Even sitting down, you could tell he was huge. His shoulders were wide with thick ropes of muscles curling around every inch of him. He ran a hand through his long, dark hair before setting his arm around the shoulders of a much younger woman perched on the edge of the pool next to him.

“Craig? A-are you Craig?”

The man looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils blown. His gaze ran over your body. The attention sent a rush of uneasy shudders down your spine.

“Yeah? Wanna join us? I’m afraid I have a strict bikinis only by the pool rule.” He grinned, revealing a row of pearly white teeth.

“I- did you know an Elli? Like… twenty years ago or so?”

Craig frowned, though the movement was sluggish and slow, as though it took great effort to even be confused by the question. You watched him take a sip of his beer, condensation running along the bottle and over his fingers.

You muttered your last name under your breath, hoping that it would jog his memory, even in his clearly intoxicated state.

“Yeah… yeah, I did. She was hot. Hot enough to not push her out of bed anyway.” He laughed, a bellowing sound that made you flinch, and the woman on either side of him join in, their giggles airy and fake. Craig turned towards one of them, a dumb grin on his face, and smushed his face against hers, sticking his tongue straight down her throat.

You took a step back, startled by the turn things took, and also the obscenely graphic and frankly disgusting intensity of the kiss.

Was kissing really that loud?

Had someone told you the first time you’d meet your father would be in the middle of a party while he made out with a girl barely older than you before today… you would have probably been as disgusted as you were now…

He drew back after a sheer endless moment, grinning at the girl and purring at her to fetch him another beer. She obliged with another giggle that only got louder when he delivered a sharp slap to her ass hanging out of her bikini bottoms.

Craig peered up at you, as though he just remembered you were there. His eyes ran over your body again. He patted the space next to him. “Get rid of those clothes and come here, baby.”

Tears burned in the back of your throat.

You hadn’t exactly expected to be welcomed with open arms, hadn’t dared to hope for more than a decently nice guy who’d maybe let you crash on his couch for a few days, but this- getting hit on by your drunk, coked-up deadbeat father-

Peanut whimpered again in your arm. Her ears were glued to her head, and her mouth had fallen open in anxious panting.

“Cute rat.”

“This is from Ellie.” You thrust the letter at him, fighting the tears quickly gathering in your eyes.

Craig blinked at the letter.

“Ellie…” His grin widened again. “Ellie was always fun… always up for some blow- hey! You want some blow, sweetheart? Here, you can snort it off my thigh.” He said as if that was the most tantalising proposition one could make a woman.

“Where is Ellie? She’d snort coke with me.”

“She is dead.” You hissed and shoved the letter into his hands before turning on the spot and pushing through drunken partygoers to get away.

You had to get away.

Away from your deadbeat father. Away from the noise that made your skin crawl and your dog anxious. You bolted down the street and didn’t even notice the man you pushed past.

Pope turned, just in time to not get run over by the crying girl fleeing from the house. Not that you were the first to do so, but usually the girls didn’t carry duffle bags bursting at the seams and tiny, stressed dogs.

“Poor thing.” A woman that Pope didn’t recognise sighed. “See, I knew this would happen. Why the fuck would you direct her towards Craig?”

“I thought it would be funny.” Another shrugged, giggling into her solo cup. “Did you see her crying? Poor thing bit off more than she could chew, obviously.”

Pope’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t like how nasty the women his brothers invited to the house treated girls. Or the way his little brother treated women like they were disposable toys. And he really didn't like seeing pretty things like you crying so bitterly.

Before he could think about how it would look to you to have him stalking down the street towards where you’d sat down by a flower bed, he was moving.

You looked up when a shadow fell over you.

The man towering above you was only a little taller than you, but at least double as wide, his torso broad and packed with muscles that strained against his black tee. His curly auburn hair shone like molten metal in the rays of the setting sun. Freckles littered his face, neck and arms as if a kindergartener had gotten especially carried away splattering dots onto paper with a paintbrush.

Pope clenched and unclenched his fists a few times before sitting down on the curb next to you.

He couldn’t quite explain why he felt drawn to you.

He didn’t know you, and you certainly weren’t the type to get washed into the Cody residence for one of his brothers’ parties.

Had you ever been there… he would remember seeing you.

Not because you were particularly memorable. Your hair was dull and dry, not the shiny, perfectly tweaked and curled silky-smooth hairdos the women Baz and Craig attracted spotted. Your long-sleeve shirt was washed out and threadbare. Dark shadows clung to the skin under your eyes.

You looked unremarkable to the point Pope had a feeling nobody ever looked at you long enough to discover the beauty hiding beneath your world-weary exhaustion.

You felt… familiar in a way that Pope could not explain.

The cream-coloured, fluffy dog you’d been clutching to your chest squirmed out of your grasp and jumped off your lap to give Pope’s thigh a cautious sniff. Pope offered the cotton ball on legs his hand. A barely-there smile grazed his lips as the dog licked his finger after sniffing at him.

“Peanut.” You muttered, voice heavy with tears and plucked the dog back up. “Behave. We don’t lick strangers-” You trailed off as a furious blush spread across your cheeks when you realised you’d just talked to your dog in earshot of a broody, hot, older guy.

“‘tis okay.” Pope huffed. “I don’t mind.” That wasn't exactly true. Just the thought of how much bacteria dog saliva carried made his skin squirm. Did you vaccinate your dog?

“It’s still rude.” You murmured and wiped your eyes with your sleeve.

“One of the assholes at the party hurt you?” Pope nodded towards the house.

“You could say that.”

His chest tightened at the bitterness clinging to your voice. Peanut contented herself with nosing at the grass and dirt between them. You drew your knees up to your chest and crossed your arms atop them to rest your chin against.

“I went there to find my dad.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Big mistake. Who would have guessed the deadbeat that never once bothered to check on me or pay any child support would be an ass? It’s my fault for coming here, but I really didn’t expect he’d try to hit on me. Or to see him shove his tongue down some girl’s throat.” You grimaced.

“I’m sorry.”

Pope didn’t know what else to say.

You shrugged.

“I- I’m Andrew.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. You said your name and chuckled quietly when Pope stiffly offered you his hand - as if you were some fancy business folk shaking on a deal. You shook it anyway, shaking your head to yourself.

“That’s Peanut. Peanut, paw.”

Peanut stood at attention right away, sitting her fluffy butt down in the grass and lifting her paw into the air.

It would be rude to refuse, wouldn’t it? So despite his skin crawling at the thought of touching a dog’s dirty paw, he took the tiny, fluffy thing into his hand.

“Good girl.” You cooed and cupped Peanut’s tiny head in your hands when she turned around to you, clearly expecting a treat, though she only received a kiss on the top of her head for her troubles. She huffed and shook her coat before returning her attention to the grass.

You brushed some hair behind your ear.

“Do you know the asshole that lives there? Craig?”

Pope’s blood froze in his veins.

He turned his head, slowly, eyes flicking to the side much faster to catch another glimpse of you. His breath got stuck somewhere in his throat.

Julia.

That’s why you looked familiar. You had Julia’s jaw and the same face shape as her. Because you were her niece. You were Craig’s kid. You were his niece.

“No.”

The word had left his lips before he could even think about how to answer you.

“Real dickhead.” You muttered and kicked a pebble onto the road. “I came here to give him a letter my mom left for him. She died last week, and without her disability checks and with the medical bills and funeral cost, I can’t afford the apartment, so my shitty landlord kicked me out.”

Pope watched you bury your face against your arms.

“I spent my last money on a bus ticket here, because apparently I’m a sappy, stupid, pathetic little girl who still, after eighteen years of total silence, wants daddy to appear in her life and fix- fix everything.”

You’d started sobbing.

Pope had never been good with tears.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands or what to say. He just stared at you, watching your shoulders rise and fall with your sobs and your dog pawing at your thigh until you opened your arms enough for her to squeeze herself between your legs and your chest and lick at your face.

Pope tried not to grimace.

Didn’t you know dogs licked their own asses? And ate shit? Literal shit?

You laughed softly, the sound coming out raspy and tear-drenched between sobs. You ran your hand over Peanut’s head and nuzzled her neck with your nose.

“I may not know where to stay tonight or how to get us some food, but at least I still have you, mh?”

“I- I have a couch.”

Pope closed his eyes and cursed himself.

You would take that the wrong way. He was sure you would because his whole life everyone had seemingly decided to misunderstand him, to take everything he said in bad faith and never once allow him the chance to explain.

“My place is on the beach. It’s- it’s quiet.”

“You offering me a place to crash, Andrew?”

“I- I guess.”

“That’s awfully sweet of you. You do that for every crying girl you find on the side of the road.”

“You’re the first.” He shrugged. He got up with a quiet grunt and offered you his hand to pull you up, encouraged by your lack of confusing outrage at his offer. “Let me.” He took the duffle bag from you. The bag that apparently contained your whole life - or what was left of it, while you picked up your dog.

“You’re not like… a crazy serial killer or something, are you?”

“Not the last time I checked.” He smirked at his own dry joke.

“Good.” You grinned and cradled Peanut to your chest to follow Pope down the street where he had parked his truck. “Peanut likes you. She doesn’t like most men. She’s a good judge of character.”

“You’re deciding to trust me because your dog likes me?” Pope raised a brow.

“That and well… I don’t really have any options here.”

Pope merely grunted and pulled the passenger side door open for you.

By the time Craig’s altered brain would manage to make sense of the contents of the letter the strange girl had shoved at him before taking off, you'd both be long gone.

“Thanks for the shirt.” You hummed, sitting cross-legged on Pope’s couch in his cosy studio house by the beach when he came back from the door carrying two bags of takeout.

“And the shower.”

He merely grunted in response and tried not to look at your bare legs, or your damp hair slowly soaking through the shirt - his shirt - he had given you, ignoring your giant bag of clothes and other things now sitting on the ground by his bed, a mere few steps away from the couch.

He liked seeing you in his clothes…

You dug into the bag of fries, the hot, salty food like a balm on your wounded soul and sank deeper into the couch cushions. Pope had put on some animal documentary while you’d been in the bathroom, but your attention kept moving from the screen to the man next to you. He was so stiff, sitting upright with his palms on his thighs, his back not touching the couch even once.

You kept thinking that he had to relax at one point, but he never did.

“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow. Promise. I’ll figure something out.”

Pope turned towards you, brows furrowed.

“Why?”

“Well…” You licked your fingers clean and put the - now empty - bag of fries down on the couch table. “You don’t seem very comfortable with me being here, is all. I don’t want to impose any more than I already am.”

“You’re not.” He looked back at the TV.

He was so weird.

But in an endearing way. You felt completely at ease next to him, even though you had already noticed his little staring problem. You never felt like he was undressing you with his eyes.

“Stay.”

“Okay.”

Peanut jumped up on your lap and, after some turning on the spot, digging her tiny paws painfully into your thighs, she slumped down and emitted the biggest, most dramatic sigh. You scratched behind her ears and watched fat little wombats waddling across the TV screen as the sun sank over the ocean outside Pope’s windows.

“Wombats shit cubes.”

You blinked, your brain struggling to process Pope’s words through the veil of emotional and physical exhaustion that kept making your eyes fall shut against your will.

“What?”

“Their shit… it’s- it’s cube shaped.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Scientists think it’s so it doesn’t roll off logs because they use their shit to mark their territory and attract mates.”

“Huh… that’s nifty.”

You tried to hide your smirk. He looked awfully cute, like an excited puppy or overeager preschooler sharing the fun, interesting thing he learnt at school. You watched the way the corners of his mouth curled when you didn’t brush him off or dismiss him. You couldn’t help but wonder if he had someone in his life who listened to his animal facts.

His house was bare.

No pictures hung on the walls, no decorative pieces stood around, not even a single dying houseplant in a corner. The faint smell of strong disinfectants hung in the air, mixing with the salt from the ocean.

“Your dog is cute.” Pope said without taking his eyes off the TV.

“She is.” You cooed and ran your hand down Peanut’s side. She rolled over to present her belly in a silent demand immediately. “I got her when I was ten. Mom felt bad that I was always alone. She had to work a lot. All the time, really. She got her from some guy in the trailer park where we lived.”

“She’s been with you a long time.”

“Mhm. Don’t know what I’d have done without her when Mom got sick.”

Somewhere along the way you’d shifted towards Pope without even realising.

You put your head on his shoulder.

Pope didn’t make you move away. His fingers curled against his thighs, digging into the fabric of his jeans, eyes still pinned to the TV.

“I feel so stupid, Andrew.” You whispered. A tear rolled down your cheek before you could hope to stop it. “I was at an emergency group home for two days after Mom died, but then I turned eighteen, and I was kicked out. I only had a little money saved up and a letter Mom wrote for my father and- Jesus, I don’t even know what I was thinking. I just- I just want someone to tell me what to do now. I don’t know what to do, Andrew.”

Pope’s throat tightened, the pain and despair in your voice wrapping around his neck like a noose until his mouth was dry and his heart ached in his chest.

He should tell you.

Tell you that he was your uncle. That you didn’t have to worry or be afraid anymore. They would take care of you now. He was sure Craig had no idea you had existed, but was that an excuse that would mean anything to you after all the struggles his absence had put you and your mother through?

Pope could not blame Ellis for not telling Craig, for taking you and leaving before she even started to show. She had to be your mother, he was sure. Ellis and Craig had dated for years. It was his little brother’s only real relationship, one Smurf had categorically disapproved of. One day, Ellis just disappeared. None of them had been certain Smurf had not made her disappear, like she had with Julia and Lucy, Cath - any woman who had ever threatened her standing in her sons’ lives.

Would you still sit here with him, your head on his shoulder, so very trusting in your despair and desperate need for someone, anyone to be with you, if you knew he was Craig’s brother?

“You stay.” He rasped, nails pressing half-moon-shaped indents into his skin through his jeans. “That’s what you’ll do. You’ll stay here. As long as you need to.”

“Okay.”

You didn’t even fight it. You sounded so tired, so exhausted. The moment that Pope took control and promised you stability and safety, the tension that fear and worry had wrapped around you fell off your shoulders.

You melted into him further.

Pope turned his head to peer down at you. You looked up at him through your lashes. Relief and gratitude made your eyes twinkle in the orange and purple light of the sinking sun.

“Wait here.” He grunted out of nowhere and got up, leaving you to almost fall over and faceplant into the cushions, confused. Pope went into the kitchen to get the cupcake that still sat at the back of the fridge from when he was looking after Lena last week. He wasn’t sure if it was still edible… it didn’t smell bad. Like sugar and vanilla.

He rummaged through the drawers, but didn’t find anything besides a few knives, a pair of scissors, a box of matchsticks from the motel they had put him in after his release from prison and a lone rubber band.

He shrugged and pushed the end of one matchstick into the frosting before making his way back to you, using the lighter from his pocket to light it just as he rounded the sofa.

You laughed.

It was a bright, eager sound coming from the very depth of your chest. It seemed to light up the whole room around Pope.

“Happy Birthday.”

“Is that a match?” 

“‘tis all I had.” He shrugged again, heat crawling up his neck and spreading across his cheek. It was stupid. He knew it. Why did he even try? He always did it wrong.

“That’s so sweet of you.” You said, breaking Pope out of his stupor just to make him freeze again, in surprise this time. You reached out for the cupcake, opening and closing your hands like a toddler demanding a lollipop.

“You have to make a wish.” His voice came out quiet as he retook his place next to you. The flame crawled down the wooden shaft of the match slowly, the flame struggling to grasp onto it beneath where it blazed. He watched you close your eyes, a soft smile painted across your plush lips, watched you suck your bottom lip between your teeth while thinking.

You were so beautiful.

You blew on the match.

A tear rolled down your cheek, quickly followed by another and another. You didn’t open your eyes. You held the cupcake in your hand delicately as your shoulders curled in, shaking in silent sobs Pope could tell you’d been trying to hold in for days.

He couldn’t know your pain, but he thought he at least understood it. Julia died the day before he was released… your mother died mere days before you turned eighteen, before the system decided you were an adult and now had to - overnight - suddenly know how to deal with all this, how to handle it and figure it out. 

But how could you? 

You were no different than you had been a week ago, when you were still a minor, still a ward of the state.

He wanted to take care of people. He wanted to make sure his brothers were safe during every job they pulled, that they didn’t live in squalor. He fixed things before they broke. He dug bullets out of their flesh and stilled the bleeding from their cuts.

He fixed things.

He wanted to fix you.

But Pope didn’t know what to do.

He wanted to make you smile, instead he had made you cry.

It always went that way with him… he could never just do something right.

He was so sick of never getting it right!

You wiped your eyes with the heel of your hand, sniffling quietly, and looked up at Pope through puffy, red eyes.

“Share with me?”

He nodded. He didn’t like the overly sweet treat that left a film on his tongue and a terrible chemical taste that lingered for hours, but for you he’d eat it. Just as he had for Lena when she begged him to buy the tray.

You carefully broke the cupcake into two pieces and - as though it was self-evident - handed him the bigger one. Pope didn’t even care about the crumbs that were sprinkled over your thighs and the couch in the process, and even less that Peanut padded over to clean them up with her tongue.

“Thank you.”

“It’s not much.” He shrugged.

“It’s more than enough, Andrew.” You peered up at him through tear-clumped lashes with such trust and such genuine appreciation that it made him feel sick.

He should tell you.

I am your uncle.

Just four words. Four simple words, and what would they change? You’d gone home with a total stranger, why would you leave when you told him who he really was?

My little brother sucks sometimes, but he has a good heart.

Though… did he want to defend Craig? He should. As the eldest, he had always known it was his job to look after Craig and Deran. He had practically raised Deran on his own. He’d always known more about what went on in their lives than Smurf ever did. They came to him when they were in trouble before ever considering going to their mother.

Why didn’t he want to tell you he was family? Reassure you, once and for all and without any doubt, that you’d be safe now, that you’d never have to struggle or fight or feel alone ever again?

As much of a curse as the Cody name and blood was, it was a type of security not often found in this world.

He watched you lick the remaining frosting off your fingers before holding your hand out for Peanut for her to chase the last lingering notes of sugar and artificial vanilla flavouring. Half-dried tracks of tears still gleamed on your cheeks. The redness of your eyes, the air of exhaustion clinging to you, and the shadows under your eyes gave you a haunted appearance he felt drawn to. A part of him knew it was wrong. Wrong to look at you this way, to see you this way. Wrong as it had been to feel for Julia the way he had. Wrong of him to not be truthful with you. It was all doomed to blow up in his face regardless. How long did he realistically have until you figured out he was a Cody too? Who, what the man you’d met truly was. How long until you heard the name Pope and of his past affinity for propane torches, his violent outbursts, his spotty understanding of morality?

But something had always been wrong with him. He’d known that for as long as he’d been alive.

And right now, you didn’t know.

You didn’t look at him in disgust as Julia had when he kissed her.

And he couldn’t- he couldn’t stop himself from looking at you and seeing how soft and sweet you were, of how pretty you looked even while crying, how nice you were to him.

Self-control had never been on his side.

Pope startled you when his big hands gripped your face between them, not exactly gentle but not with the intention of hurting you either, stubby fingers digging into your cheeks as he half-hurled you towards him, half-slammed his face against you.

You were too shocked to react - not that Pope seemed to notice.

He kissed you, uncaring of the fact you were like frozen, not returning his kiss or even his touch, pressing your lips to yours hard, with pure, unfiltered hunger.

His breath came in heavy puffs against your skin, sending prickling shivers across your cheeks and down your neck, igniting heat deep inside you. Need, to feel another person, to be touched and held and cared for.

You had to be strong for so long, work your ass off just to keep your and your mother’s head above water, sacrificing so much and meeting your father, seeing what a monumental, creepy fuck up he was, realising you’d wasted what little money and energy you still had in coming here - it had taken what little strength you still possessed right out of you.

And this man, this strangely kind, if awkward, man who found you when you needed a kind older stranger to enter your life most? A kind older man, a man old enough to be your father, stepping in when the last family you still had in this world let you down so monumentally in your hour of greatest need…

How could you resist?

How could you listen to reason when he tasted like vanilla frosting and wore the most alluring, intoxicatingly masculine cologne you’d ever smelled and his hands were so big and holding you so tight, and you needed, needed to be held?

You climbed into Andrew’s lap and parted your lips for him in the same breath, tilting your head to the side to deepen the kiss. His tongue pressed into your mouth, hands slipping down to cradle your neck and the small of your back. He groaned into the kiss and chased the taste of you, the feeling of you, your tongue against his.

You slipped your hands into his hair, running your fingers through the soft, dense curls of auburn. Your body felt as though his touch had set it on fire. Heat grew and squirmed beneath your skin, like a thousand tiny insects had come to life at the same time and sought to consume you from the inside out. The hard middle seam of Pope’s too-tight jeans rubbed against your core through the thin fabric of your panties deliciously. You ground down against him, moaning at the friction it provided and the growing hardness beneath it.

You tugged the shirt over your head, haphazard and less than elegant. It didn’t matter. You just needed it to be gone.

Pope lowered you to the couch with such aching tenderness. He swiped tousled strands of hair out of your face and chased the display of easy affection with soft kisses peppered to your forehead and cheek before returning to your mouth, your lips already swollen from his almost violent attack.

“Andrew-” You murmured between two pecks. He grunted against your jaw, slid down towards your neck to mouth at your throat. His hands twitched against your waist, squeezing and releasing, like a nervous tick desperately trying to dispel some tension.

Your whole face flushed when you realised you were practically naked, trapped under the hulking frame of a much older, very much dressed, man.

He drew a diligent trail of kisses down your chest, over your collarbones and along your sternum. His hand came up to cup your chest, thick thumbs resting just underneath your tits, basically framing them with his massive hands. Pope lifted his head just enough to peer down at you, to watch the beautiful creature that had somehow ended up naked beneath him - how any of this came to be he may never quite understand.

“You’re so beautiful.” Pope rasped against your lips before sealing them with another desperate, hungry kiss.

“Beautiful, beautiful girl. Your skin is so soft…”

Pope blushed. He realised too late that that comment might make him sound like a serial killer. It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again, kind of shit.

But you just blushed and tried to fight a flustered smile.

“Thanks.” You murmured, dumbly, and tucked your hair behind your ears. “It’s- I have this peach lotion…” You winced, cringing at yourself. I have peach lotion, could you possibly sound any more like a dumb little girl?

But Pope didn’t laugh at you, didn’t even look affected at all. He just nodded as if you’d said something very important and very contextually appropriate.

You were just relieved he wasn’t put off by you, honestly. 

At the same time, Pope marvelled at the fact you weren’t put off by him. By any of him. That you were still here, with him, despite the staring and whatever he exuded that always made people fear him. 

That you actually kissed him.

He had kissed and slept with women before, sure, but those had either been hookers his brothers hired because they were convinced Pope needed to get laid to ‘loosen up’, or women coaxed and paid by Smurf to reel him back in when her control over him had been slipping.

You- you were neither.

And you were still here.

You were his niece.

The thought went through his brain like a jolt. His cock throbbed in his jeans, straining against the unyielding fabric. Damning, horrible, shameful desire pulsed through his whole body as he gripped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head. You placed your palms against his belly, running them up to his chest, feeling the tight coils of deadly muscles slumbering beneath his skin.

You unbuckled his belt while Pope was still stuck in considerations, stuck between knowing what everyone - including you - would say the right choice was and really, really not wanting to make that choice.

He wanted you.

He wanted your no doubt pretty cunt wrapped around his cock. He wanted to see you unravel. He wanted to chase any lingering remainder of tears from your eyes and make you forget all that heavy shit weighing on you. He wanted to take care of you, protect you.

Your hand grazed his cock through fabric when you popped open the button of his jeans and pulled down the zipper. The pang of need and lust tearing through him at even this simple touch pulled Pope violently from his thoughts. 

He shoved your hands away and tugged down his jeans and boxers, not even bothering to take either off completely. He pressed his lips to yours, claiming your mouth, committing your taste to memory because he knew this was the one and only time he’d get to experience it - and he was determined to savour every second of it.

Besides, a pretty girl like you deserved nothing less than to be worshipped.

Pope mouthed at your throat and chest, plastering wet, greedy, open-mouthed kisses over your skin, sucking and dragging his teeth along your goosebump-pebbled flesh.

You were already squirming beneath him. The combined sensations of his weight crushing you into the mattress, of his bare skin rubbing against yours, his warmth keeping the cool ocean breeze at bay, and his calloused palms smoothing over your body, kneading and grasping with nothing short of dying hunger were driving you mad with lust.

“Let me-” You gasped and pushed against Pope’s chest. Expecting the inevitable rejection he’d been subconsciously waiting for ever since he sat down in the grass next to you, Pope sat back. He watched you slip off the couch and between his spread legs, eyes widening, hands tensing against his thighs.

You took his cock in your hand before the lust-induced bout of courage could dwindle back into nothingness, and bent forward to wrap your lips around him. You wouldn’t have expected how wide you had to open your mouth or how quickly your jaw would protest. He felt heavy on your tongue, his impressive girth making the corners of your mouth burn as you tried to take more of him.

The sensation of his thick fingers weaving into your hair and the muffled grunt slipping from his lips almost instantly only spurred you on.

“Oh fuck-” Pope grunted, hips jerking off the couch to chase the hot, wet clutch of your mouth. You pulled away, coughing, a string of spit connecting your lips to Pope’s tip. He pushed your head back down, thrusting up against your lips. You licked the pre-cum he smeared across your lips away and took one last deep breath before opening your mouth for him again.

He did not ease you into it.

He fucked into your mouth, strong hands holding your head down, cradling your head to his lap. Your forehead almost touched his hip when he bucked into you. His cock hit the back of your throat on every thrust, making you choke, the back of your throat seizing up and stomach reeling.

You doubted he even realised he was doing it.

Your name tumbled off his lips in an endless string, only interrupted by curses and groans. His balls slammed into your chin as he moved faster, chasing his pleasure while your eyes glazed over with tears and made your sinuses swell shut. You tried to breathe every chance you got, but Pope wasn’t leaving you many. You dug your fingers into the couch cushion on either side of Pope’s legs, nails straining against the thick canvas.

The kind, older stranger who scooped you up from the street and gave you food and a place to sleep with seemingly no ill intent for you and no expectations was now fucking your throat.

Unabashed, violent, hungry.

Using you like you were nothing but a toy to bring him pleasure, and as if you did not even deserve oxygen until you had provided it.

Your cunt fluttered helplessly.

You pressed your thighs together, feeling the damp fabric of your panties clinging to your heated flesh, and squeezed your eyes shut. You shouldn’t be getting aroused. You should be getting angry, be scared, struggle and- and give Pope a piece of your mind!

But all you did was moan.

You clung to the cushions, face pressed into Pope’s lap, bare tiles digging into your knees and moaned like a whore getting paid by however convincing she managed to be.

“Fuck- fuckfuckfuck- sweetheart- so good- such a tight- ah- tight throat- feel so good- so good for me-” Pope above you muttered. He had dropped his head back against the sofa. His posture was more relaxed than it had been since you met the man. He no longer sat ramrod straight, as if someone was punishing him with electroshock anytime he went slack. He’d melted into the cushions.

His face was twisted in deep, primal pleasure. Long, auburn lashes lay flat against his cheeks. A thin sheen of sweat already covered his freckled skin.

“Fucking perfect- beautiful girl- ah-”

You sputtered. Saliva ran down your lips and chin, creating a sticky mess on your throat and Pope’s jeans. Your fingertips had gone numb. Tears cut streaks down your cheeks, ruining whatever remained of your mascara.

Panic welled up in your chest, tightening the already constricted space further while Pope still fucked into you. His hips bucked into you at a ceaseless, punishing pace. Black spots invaded the edge of your vision.

You were dying.

Every neuron in your brain and every fibre of your being was suddenly convinced, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you were dying.

You pushed against Pope’s grips, your hands coming up to claw at his thighs through his jeans.

He didn’t relent.

The sounds of panic spilling from your throat were muffled by his cock and continued muttering.

Somewhere behind you, Peanut barked. Pope looked up, found your ruined face, saw the blind panic in your eyes- and instantly let go.

You pulled away so hard you lost your balance and crashed into the edge of the coffee table. The impact would have been even harder had Pope not grabbed your upper arm as quickly as he did, but you still cried out in pain, a sound quickly devolving into sobbing.

“Shit-” Pope cursed. He hauled you into his lap and against his chest with ease, wrapping you up in his strong arms - one curled securely around your back, hand holding onto your shoulder, while the other had ducked under your knees, fingers splayed across your bare thigh.

“I’m sorry. Fuck- I’m sorry, sweetheart. Got carried away. I’m so sorry. Don’t be scared. Please don’t be scared of me. It’s okay. It’s okay now. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, pretty girl. Shhh…”

You sobbed into the crook of his neck. You didn’t know why your reaction was so extreme. You had gotten turned on by how rough he was, and then suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped in your brain, it wasn’t hot anymore - just terrifying. But that was how it was supposed to be, wasn’t it? In all the porn videos and gifs you’d ever seen, it was like that. The women never seemed to be bothered by it.

“Don’t be scared.” Pope repeated, his face pressed into the side of your head. The scent of your perfume invaded his nostrils and almost made his eyes roll to the back of his head.

You were perfect.

Everything about you was just perfect - and here he was fucking ruining it again like he always did!

Scary Pope.

Violent Pope.

Uncontrollable Pope who did unspeakable things with propane torches and killed people when told to and burnt houses when ordered to and who did a three-year stint in fucking hell because he’d never rat out his family like the cops wanted him to - not that anyone ever thanked him or even acknowledged the sacrifice he’d made for them.

“Not- not scared.” You hiccuped, desperately trying to stop the sobbing and get a hold of yourself.

“Don’t have to be.” Pope rasped as he stroked your hair, still rocking you. “Just got carried away. You felt so good, pretty girl. Couldn’t help it. Didn’t wanna hurt you. Didn’t mean to.”

“I- I’ve- I’ve just never actually done this…” You whispered, shame sending ripples of heat up your neck.

Pope blinked at you.

Your blush deepened.

“You- you know… sex.” Your voice wavered at the end, as though your throat tried to choke the words before it could reach your tongue, and you felt so stupid. Stupid, little girl can’t even say sex to the man whose cock she just had in her mouth.

You half expected him to throw you out right then and there.

You probably hadn’t even sucked his dick right. You were pretty sure you’d done something wrong, because you were pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to end with you needing to get comforted by the guy - who hadn’t even come.

At the same time as you sank deeper into self-flagellation, Pope tried desperately to ignore the way his cock ached at your confession.

You’d never had sex.

You were a virgin.

Pope was the first to put his dick in you. Your first dick was your uncle’s dick-

“I- I- I’ll be gentle.” He muttered with the cutest little stutter. It made your insides feel all fluttery and squirmy. You didn’t notice the hint of shame and anxiety swirling around his words. He was stealing your first experiences. You would hate him. You would hate him so much when this whole thing inevitably blew up in his face, but he was in too deep, far too deep, as that he could even just hope to stop himself now.

Pope pushed you down onto the couch and pulled your legs apart, urging you on to curl them around his hips before gripping his cock to align himself with your soaked, virgin hole.

“So gentle.” He muttered against your lips, almost as though to remind himself. You threaded your fingers into his hair and allowed yourself to melt into him, to savour the tender attention and excited prickles his touch sent jolting through your whole body.

Pope eased himself into you, kissing you and pressing his thumb to your swollen clit at the same time. He should really work you open on his fingers, he realised as he pushed his tip inside you, but by the time the thought was fully formed your walls were already clenching down around him and there was simply no going back from there.

You whimpered and tensed up, but Pope didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He peppered kisses to the corner of your mouth and your temple, hips moving in short, quick, uneven bursts, each thrust nudging his cock a little deeper, forcing you open around him.

“Shh, shh, shh-” Pope groaned and mouthed at your jaw. “Doing so good for me, pretty girl. So good for Uncle Pope- so good- fuck, you feel fantastic, sweetheart- oh sweet jesus-”

You barely heard him over the pounding of your blood filling your ears and the quiet sobs tearing at the back of your already sore throat.

You were trapped, floating between Pope’s rough, demanding invasion and the sweet, apologetic affections he showered you in. You clung to his broad, firm shoulders, nails biting into his flesh, tears running down your cheeks.

That pathetic, insatiable hunger for affection and care that had grown into a wild beast in your chest you could no longer keep chained up, and the lust and pain swirling through your whole body, feeding off each other and spurring the other on, reduced you to a helpless, defenceless, limp thing.

You lay beneath Pope’s heavy frame, crushed into the cushions and took his cock. Your moans and sobs filled the quiet house. Pope kissed and licked the tears off your cheeks, muttering gruff praise intermixed with apologies, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop until he was buried inside you, your virgin cunt split open around his thick girth, lying there motionless because every little shifting muscle made you hyper-aware of the weight of him inside you, the size of him filling you up, the way his throbbing, velvety skin pressed into your fluttering walls.

“There you go, pretty girl. You’re alright.” Pope cooed, but it came out strained and almost pleading. He cupped your face in his large, calloused hands, hazel eyes peering down at you, bidding you silently to be alright with such a needy ferocity, all you could do to respond was nod.

“It’ll feel good. I’ll make you feel good, sweetheart. I promise- ah, fuck- I have to move- have to move or I’ll lose my mind- you’re fucking strangling me, pretty girl- so tight for me-”

Pope braced his hand against the armrest to take some of his weight off you and put himself at a better angle to thrust into you. He watched your cunt, your cute little cunt stretched so wide to accommodate his cock, watched himself slip out of you, his cock covered in your arousal streaked with blood.

His insides flipflopped at the sight before promptly turning to mush. A violent jolt of desire tore through him.

Pope forced himself to go slow. To be gentle, as gentle as a man with as much blood on his hands as he had could ever hope to be at least.

You were his niece. His little niece. He had to stay in control, had to make this good for you. 

If he was already lying to you, the least he could do was to make your first time good for you.

Slow, short thrusts that grew longer over time, adjusting to the incremental relaxation of your muscles around him. And he did good. You melted into the cushions, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure settled on your features. Pope hovered over you, eyes flicking from your cunt getting split open around him up to your face, attempting to take it all in at the same time.

Pope held onto his fragile self-control with all the strength he possessed, but Pope was a broken, evil man and he only had so much strength to give.

You cried out. Your limbs wrapped around Pope, arms crossing behind his neck and legs clinging to his hips. His thrusts turned punishing out of nowhere, without warning. Your cunt had only just adjusted to his invasion at all, and certainly not enough for him to pound into you like this.

Every time he sank into you, the force of his movements knocked you into the padded armrest. His hips slammed against your pelvis. His pubic bone dug into your clit, the pressure delicious and yet just that little bit too much that pushed the needle from pleasurable right onto the line between pleasurable and painful.

Not too painful to sour your pleasure but certainly more than you were prepared for.

“Andrew-” You gasped his name, but you were too breathless to convey any real emotion. Pope buried his face against the crook of your neck. More of his weight settled on you again. White spots danced before your eyes. Pleasure and need and arousal swirled through your body with a demanding force and unrelenting hunger that you were utterly powerless against and…

…And you found that you didn’t hate it.

Every sensation was heightened by the sense of helplessness and mental and physical overload wearing you out.

Your orgasm hit you without warning, ripping into you like a starving bear into its prey and leaving you a sobbing, whimpering, shuddering mess. Pope’s hunger was only spurred on further by the way your cunt fluttered around him and tightened further. His rhythm grew sloppy, slamming into you harder and harder, chasing the sweet clutch of your cunt until he moaned and fell apart, your name on his lips. He bucked his hips into you in shallow, little thrusts, fucking his cum deeper into you as he spilled inside you.

He managed to keep his mind clear enough to wrap you up in his arms and turn around with you, draping you over his chest while you came down from your climax, eyelids already drooping.

You were painfully overstimulated and overwhelmed by the whole thing. The last weeks had been too long, too taxing as that you could find it in you to analyse any of the things that had happened today.

Pope stroked your hair and ran his rough fingertips softly down your spine. The tender touch, a stark contrast to the feral, hard pounding he’d given you, turned your bones further to goop, until you were a boneless, satisfied, exerted mess in his arms. His cock was still inside you.

“You felt so good, pretty girl.” Pope sighed and brushed a kiss to your temple. “So good for me… Did- did you feel good? Did I make you feel good?”

You didn’t know.

You were confused and too tired to disentangle the mess of emotions in your chest, and Pope’s puppy eyes just made it all the harder.

You didn’t want to disappoint him or make him sad.

“Yes.” You said, voice already hoarse from him mistreating your throat. If he put the two together, he didn’t show it. He smiled and pushed the hair out of your face. He kissed your forehead, the tip of your nose and then your lips.

“Sleep, pretty girl.” He whispered and pushed your head back down on his chest. “I’ve got you. All is well now. You’re with me now. Nobody is going to hurt you again.”

You wondered if nobody included Pope, and whether you thought he had already broken his promise. Had he hurt you? It had hurt, but… but also not? If that made sense?

You felt dizzy and tired, and it didn’t make sense. Nothing swirling through your head made sense right now, so you just did as Pope told you and drifted off to sleep.

Pope watched you.

He watched you the whole night, arms and legs wrapped around your naked figure, shielding you against the cold with only his own warmth.

Loud banging against his door pulled Pope from his silent, adoring contemplation of your relaxed features. He grunted and grumbled to himself. Afraid the banging would wake you if it persisted - and convinced that you were in desperate need of more sleep than a single night could give you, Pope carefully put you down on the sofa, pulling a blanket he never used over your exposed body before pulling his pants up and tugging his cock away to open the door.

Outside stood Craig and Deran, the latter looking still a little drunk and the former utterly beside himself.

Pope had never seen his brother so unravelled.

“Where is she?” He asked, voice and eyes frantic. They were still a little bloodshot. Whatever drugs he’d taken, they had just worn off enough for him to fully grasp the contents of the letter he was clutching in his fist. “Someone saw her leaving with you. Where is she? Where the fuck is my daughter, Pope?!”

Peanut chose that moment to remember she was a dog - a real, proper dog - and therefore technically responsible for guarding the house. She jumped up off Pope’s shirt you had worn and discarded on the floor to rush towards the house and bark at Craig.

Craig squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, visibly trying to discern whether the pomeranian was real or drug-induced.

“That’s hers-”

Craig pushed past Pope before he could even think about stopping him. Deran shot him an apologetic shrug. “He’s been like this since he discovered the letter in his swim trunks. Who thought he’d care about having a kid?”

“What’s all the noise about?” You grumbled and rubbed your eyes. Peanut rushed towards you in a flurry of cream-coloured fur and all but catapulted her little body into your arms. You sat up, holding the blanket to your chest instinctively and tried to clear the sleep from your eyes enough to have a proper look at the people now standing in Pope’s house.

Pope himself stayed back.

He knew this moment would come. The moment everything blew up in his face, but he was a selfish man and having you - his sweet, pretty, perfect little niece - all to himself for a night made the inevitable fallout worth it.

“Y-you?”

“Why didn’t you say? You’re my goddamn kid and you- you just left?”

Your rage from last night still burnt hot. Craig’s appearance seemed to rekindle the flame, even with the sleep still clinging to you.

“You were too busy sexually harassing me to let me get a fucking word in. How did you- How the fuck did you find me?”

“What do you mean, how did I find you? You’re at-” Craig’s eyes flicked down, finally realising why a girl would hold a blanket around herself the way you did. He swirled around, nostril flaring with barely held-back rage as he honed in on Pope.

“Tell me you didn’t know.”

Pope cocked his head.

He could. He could lie. To you and Craig. Pretend he had misheard the name you’d told him when you asked whether he knew your father. He could make up some story that painted this whole thing as a terrible accident - but it wasn’t.

It wasn’t an accident, and he didn’t want you to think you were one. That he’d come to view you as a mistake. That his promises from last night would suddenly be void.

“Tell me,” Craig ground out between clenched teeth. “You didn’t know when you fucked her that she’s my daughter!”

“You fucking sicko-”

“Woah, wait- stop-” Deran jumped between Pope and Craig, clearly overwhelmed by the situation and not quite picking up on what Craig had already realised - or perhaps he just chose denial.

You looked from Craig to Deran to Pope. “What’s going on?”

“Tell her!” Craig demanded, his voice dangerously low. “Go on, fucking tell her. Tell her what you did.”

Pope remained quiet, and rather unfazed by his brother’s open, murderous hostility.

Craig wasn’t a killer.

Neither he nor Deran ever had what it takes to do the necessary things. No, that was always Pope’s job.

“He’s your uncle.” Craig hissed. “Pope Cody. Andrew Cody. He’s my brother. He’s your fucking uncle and he knew, he knew-”

Your eyes flicked over to Pope, standing tall, though stiff, while Deran had to put his whole back into trying to stop Craig from attacking him.

“How could you, man? What is wrong with you? How could you?!”

If only Pope knew…

“You should leave now.” Your voice was void of all warmth. Harsh and unyielding. It was enough to make Craig falter. “I don't want to talk to you."

“He-”

“Get out!”

Craig’s shoulders slumped.

“Come on, man.” Deran muttered and steered Craig towards the door. Pope shut it behind them. He didn’t turn around, keeping his back to you while you plucked one of the discarded shirts off the ground to shrug on. You went to the bathroom to pee. When you returned, Pope was still standing by the door, his forehead practically pressed against the smooth wood.

“Do you have anything that’s edible for a dog?” You asked from the doorway to the bathroom. “I think Peanut will start eating your couch if she doesn’t get something soon.”

“There’s boiled chicken and rice in the fridge.”

“She can’t have spices.”

“No spices.”

You frowned. “You eat unseasoned chicken and rice?”

Pope shrugged.

“Gross, dude. We’ll for sure have to buy some spices when we go grocery shopping.”

That had Pope lifting his head, but you had already disappeared into the kitchen.

He followed you, wary, skulking after you as silently as he could. He watched you put some rice into a bowl and pluck a piece of the cooked chicken breast apart with your fingers. He whispered your name. It came out hoarse and… small, somehow.

“Hm?”

“We?” He asked. “When we go grocery shopping?”

You licked your fingers clean and set the bowl down on the ground for Peanut. “I’m not eating boiled, unseasoned chicken with rice. I don’t hate myself nearly enough for that shit.”

“I- I don’t understand.”

You crossed your arms and leaned back against the counter. “You said I could stay. Has that changed?”

Pope shook his head. “I thought you wouldn't want to... now...” He admitted after a beat of silence.

“Because you’re my uncle? Or because you knew you were my uncle when you fucked me but didn’t tell me?”

He shrugged again.

You pushed yourself off the counter and pressed close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. An edge of insecurity slipped into your eyes. A crease formed between your brows. Pope wanted to smooth it out, erase it, make it so you'd never frown again.

“You said you’d take care of me.”

“I will.” Pope rasped, arms coming up around your waist. “Of everything you need. I promise, pretty girl.”

You nodded. The tip of your tongue darted out between your teeth to wet your lips. Your eyes flicked from his eyes to his lips. “I- I think I like it when you take care of me… Uncle Andrew.”

Pope bit back a groan and dropped his forehead against yours, turning you around until your back hit the doorframe. He crowded you against it, pressing his body to yours, staring down at your eyes for several heartbeats before dipping his head to kiss you.

This time you did not hesitate before reciprocating.

A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.

What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?

But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for you—sharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.

They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.

His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."

You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.

The gun clicks.

"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."

Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.

It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.

You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.

He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.

But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, saying—begging, "Hit me."

And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.

Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.

He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.

Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.

Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.

His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.

"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."

Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.

"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."

You've even got Smurf fooled.

They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.

While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.

Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.

And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."

Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."

"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."

His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.

In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.

But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."

It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for you—all to keep you here by his side.

The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.

They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.

You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.

Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.

And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.

The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.

And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he does—he can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.

He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.

Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truth—knows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.

"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."

He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.

Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.

"You look—god, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.

"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."

You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."

He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.

He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.

"Wait."

Andrew freezes.

At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.

His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.

He's a monster. He's a fucking—

And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.

You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.

Pope understands then. Of course he does—because you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.

Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.

Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.

And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.

It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.

Because he knows you want him—the awkward, quiet Andrew.

But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.

The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.

And the realization—God. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.

He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.

Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.

He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.

It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.

"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.

You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonna—god, please please I'm gonna fucking cum—fuck—"

He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.

It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.

Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.

He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.

You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."

Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'

And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.

and yeah, it kind of makes him feel like he's a prized hog being weighed at the county fair. but he also doesn't know what else to do, tired of trying to ease into it, to hold the words like delicate eggshells in his hands, hoping they don't shatter and make a mess all over the floor.

he's surprised, when he wakes up the next morning to a message from an account he's never seen before. a profile of a young woman, younger than he's usually interested in and out of his set distance range. still in california, but up north, near santa barbara. you only have one photo of yourself, standing at the base of the eiffel tower, hair half-blown into your eyes and smiling, a bright toothy grin that seems to take up half your face. the other three photos are of a border collie with a lolling pink tongue and curious disposition, its head cocked to the side. the description is rather short too. all it says is your name and one line: i like dogs.

you: hi andrew, 43, uncircumcised. is that your full name? :)

andrew blinks down at the message, then he looks at the photo again, at the big smile, the dog. he types a response.

andrew: no

it doesn’t take very long for him to get one in return, phone buzzing in his hand.

you: no?

he types out another response.

andrew: it’s my first name, my age, and my dick.

his phone buzzes in his hand almost immediately. he looks down at his screen.

you: lucky me :)

you: can i see it?

his brow furrows.

andrew: see what?

you: your dick, silly

andrew regards the messages for a moment. then types back,

andrew: why?

you: just curious to see if it’s as pretty as the rest of you :)

slow warmth spreads up his chest, his neck, settling in his cheeks. he rubs at his face, sitting up a little straighter against the wall.

andrew: i’m not hard

his phone vibrates a few times as you message him.

you: oh that’s okay

you: can i still see it?

you: i really want to

you: pretty please, andrew

andrew stares down at the influx of messages, like maybe they will clarify into something else. something that’s not a rather insistent request from a stranger to see his soft penis. did women even like that sort of thing?

the messages stare back up at him, unchanged. unmoving. unmistakable.

andrew doesn't send nudes. to tell the truth, he doesn't think he's sent a photo of himself to anyone, ever. any part of him. what's up on his profile is all he's shared. a picture of him at the beach. one of him surfing. an old photo deran took years ago of him and craig wrestling in the living room at smurf's. a hand on his skateboard.

he looks at the photo in your profile again, the one of you, not the dog. your arms are stretched out wide, the lights of the eiffel tower twinkling behind you, like get a load of this. you look happy, content. young.

he slips a hand below his waistband, cups his balls and tries to imagine you standing in front of him instead, at the edge of his bed, maybe. that same pretty face but a softer smile, arms at your sides. a sweet voice he makes up to say a version of the same words, ‘pretty please, andrew. can i see it?’

yeah, okay.

he closes his eyes, inhaling, a small tug of pleasure in his belly, warming him from the inside. it makes his dick plump up just a tad against his thigh.

in his fantasy, you’re climbing onto the bed now, one knee pressed into the mattress and then the other. you're wearing the same dress as in the photo and he can see the curve of your breasts as you start to crawl. crawling up the bed, between his legs. this look on your face like you want nothing more than to see what he’s hiding beneath his waistband.

andrew lets go of his phone and slips his other hand into his shorts, wraps his fingers around the base of his cock. not jerking it, not yet, just holding it, just letting the warmth from his palm bleed through. it feels good, feels familiar. the same as it has since he was thirteen.

you’re close enough now that your head is between his knees. you’re lowering yourself down, tummy to mattress and crossing your ankles behind you like in one of those teeny-bop shows julia always had on tv when they were kids. no magazine though, just a coy smile as you prop your chin in your hand, draw a light finger over the inside of his left knee.

‘show me?’ you ask, voice still just as sweet as the first time and it makes his stomach swoop, his dick twitch a little in his hand.

maybe he's secretly a pervert and he just never knew it. a sick desire lain dormant until a woman half his age messaged him on a dating app and asked, apropos of nothing, to see his uncircumcised penis.

andrew tugs the waistband of his shorts down, lets it bunch up under his balls, the elastic pushing them up, showing them off to you, showing you everything really. the hand, the back of his bruised knuckles, the soft but warm length slowly filling out in his palm. eager beneath your gaze as you smile at him, roll your bottom lip between your teeth.

‘yeah,’ you murmur, cute, wet tongue peeking out, and drag your eyes along his dick, like you’re filing a memory for later.

andrew’s hips tilt up and he squeezes his dick and balls at the same time, his mouth dropping open a little. he’s filling out now, properly, thickening up as more blood rushes south, giving him shape, definition. enough so that he thinks he can risk it, the photo.

he picks up his phone again, sparing one last glance at your profile before he opens the camera app and tries to snap a photo at a flattering angle. it takes a couple tries. the first few are too blurry. the next has a shadow of his phone cast over half of it. the last one isn’t too bad, well-lit, soft morning sun streaming in through the windows and making sure you can see the whole thing. his dick, his hand, the bare skin of his stomach where his shirt's been rucked up.

he sends it off before he can second guess himself or the decision. and then he sits there, dick slowly softening against his thigh as the nerves eat away at him. one minute, two.

fuck, what if you hate it? what if it’s the ugliest cock you’ve ever seen? shit, he shouldn’t have sent it. shouldn’t have bothered at all. he should delete it. maybe if he deletes it fast enough you won’t have time to see it. he’ll have spared you the horrible experience completely. he’ll delete it and then he’ll delete his entire account right after.

he picks up his phone right as it buzzes in his hand. it buzzes and then it buzzes again, and again, and again and again.

swallowing his trepidation, andrew swipes open the dating app.

you: oh fuck

you: oh fuck you’re so pretty

you: like i knew you’d be pretty but seeing it is totally different

you: i knew you’d be a big boy. big like the rest of you, yeah?

you: god it’s probably heavy when you walk

andrew stares down at his phone, a burning warmth beginning to spread from the tips of his toes all the way up to the tips of his ears. his entire body feels electrified, like his skin is one second away from sparking from the heat.

another message comes through.

you: fuck, andrew. i’m really wet

he closes his eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. you’re wet. you’re wet just from seeing a photo of his half-hard cock. saliva pools in his mouth. he grinds his teeth together.

he picks up his phone.

andrew: for real?

you: yeah, for real

you: you wanna see?

he presses the heel of his hand into his cock, rolls his hips up into it.

andrew: yes

then remembering his manners, he says,

andrew: please

a minute goes by, during which andrew grips his phone in his right hand and rocks into his left. stares at the photo of you, at the messages calling his dick pretty. then his phone buzzes again and it’s not a photo you’ve sent at all. it’s a video file.

he presses play with his thumb so fast and so hard, it makes a tapping noise.

the video starts to play. a little shaky at first, like the camera (phone?) is unsteady in your hand and then it focuses, a low-lit grainy view pointing down between bare thighs, soft and spread open just enough to fit your hand. he can hear your breathing, a little fast, as you slide two fingers up and down your wet slit. he can’t see your pussy too well like this, but he can hear it, when you move the camera close enough, can hear the slick sounds it makes when you rub yourself, over your clit, he thinks, as you let slip a quiet, soft moan. the video abruptly ends.

andrew plays it again. then again. he clicks the volume button all the way up to try and catch that moan at the end, presses the speaker against his ear and pretends you’re moaning with your mouth pressed against his neck while he’s filling you up. fitting the head of his cock against your entrance and guiding you slowly down with a hand on your soft waist. the fantasy is so good. you sound so good.

he types out a message, left hand fisted around his cock, squeezing tight.

andrew: you have the sweetest voice

then,

andrew: i want to hear you say my name

when you don’t immediately respond, he thinks maybe he’s pushed too far. then another video file comes through.

the camera is balanced on your tummy this time, a straight forward view of your knees raised, hand snug between your thighs. you must be lying down now. andrew watches, ears and eyes focused to catch every single detail. you moan again as your hand moves and it takes a second for him to realize you must be fucking yourself with your fingers.

shit. andrew slowly drags his hand up and down his cock in time with your breathing.

‘andrew,’ the voice on the video suddenly murmurs, almost a whine, and he nearly dents his phone with how hard he squeezes it. ‘andrew, please.’

andrew, please.

oh fucking hell, andrew thinks, spitting in his palm and jerking himself a little faster. sweetest voice, all breathy and needy saying his name. he doesn’t even know you. a stranger messaging him from almost 200 miles away, soft and pretty and, for some reason, begging for his cock.

he flips open the camera app again, taking his own short video. fucking his fully hard dick into his hand, foreskin pulled back to show how wet and pink he’s become. he sends it over.

andrew: you’re driving me crazy

you message back almost immediately.

you: oh my god

you: oh my god fuck

you: need to feelyou inside me

you: youd stretch me out so god

you: pleasjcr nbe ver had a dick so big

the messages are full of typos, like you’re too distracted to pay attention, too busy fucking your pussy with your fingers, maybe close to release. andrew grunts, dick kicking up in his hand. he’s imagining you squirming in his lap, nails digging into his shoulders as you cry out, ‘so big, so big andrew, fuck oh my god.’

andrew: you gonna cum?

andrew: i want to hear you cum

andrew grabs the bottle of lotion off his nightstand while he waits for your response. he depresses some into his hand, warming it, then spreads it all over his dick. his bites his lip at the sensation. slick, wet. he can almost pretend it’s your pussy.

his phone buzzes. fuck. a new video file. andrew squeezes the base of his dick to keep himself from shooting off too early. just the anticipation of what’s waiting for him in that video has his head going fuzzy. he swallows and presses play.

you’ve set the camera up across the room. must have, on some type of surface. a dresser, maybe. it’s facing the bed. he can see you from the waist down and thinks you’re fully naked. because you’re kneeling upright and all he can see is gorgeous, soft skin.

god, he wants to touch you, he wants to know what sounds you’ll make when he runs his hands over your stomach, your thighs. he wants to shove his head between them and lap at your pretty cunt until you’re pushing him back with both hands, overstimulated and sensitive.

a quick, and deeply selfish thought runs through him: disappointment that he can’t see your tits like this, and then the thought is immediately diverted when he sees what’s in your hand.

a dildo. a rather life-like one from what he can tell from his vantage point across the room. thick, mushroom tip and a pair of silicone balls at the bottom. not as thick as him, of course, but still impressive. andrew hates it immediately. he’s gonna throw it out the first second he gets. when he meets you for real, in person. he’s gonna throw out all your toys and fill you up with his cock instead. let you use his dick whenever you want. every day, every hour if that's what you need.

you’re balancing the stupid thing on a pillow, flat base held still as you slowly sink down.

oh fuck, he thinks, fisting his cock, watching your pussy swallow it whole.

you whine as you begin to shift your hips back and forth, grinding on it like it’s real, like it’s him, your stomach muscles tensing as you move.

andrew makes sure to time his hand perfectly in tempo as you grind. this is what you would look like if he was there with you. shaky, trembling legs and desperate noises, except his hands would be all over you. he’d make sure to cover every inch of skin.

‘andrew,’ you moan, and your voice is just as a sweet as the last video. ‘fuck, you feel so good.’

yeah, fuck. he’s gonna lay you out on your bed and use your soft thighs as earmuffs. he’s gonna stretch out your cunt so slow on his dick that you're begging him to move, hips tilted up as you whine. he’s gonna watch your tits bounce and your eyes roll back and your mouth drop open and he's gonna give you absolutely everything you ask for. he’s gonna make sure no one ever compares.

‘ohh,’ you cry, slipping your free hand between your legs to rub at your clit. ‘i need it, i need it, i need it.’

‘yeah,’ andrew says, aloud, even though you can’t hear him. ‘yeah, fuck, you do.’

‘m gonna come, please, please, andrew, i’m gonna come.’

andrew groans, fucking his fist, pleasure coursing through him as he watches you spasm and shake around the dildo, whining and grinding your way through your orgasm. he shuts his eyes and lets himself imagine coming inside you as you do, filling you up and feeling it all slide back out, getting his lap all messy when he lifts you up in his arms.

he paints his own chest with his cum, thick, steady ropes of it as stars burst behind his eyelids. he lies there, half lying, half sitting up against the wall, panting for a full minute until his heart rate slows.

jesus christ, he can't remember the last time he came that hard. he takes a photo of the mess and sends it back to you.

you: wowie

you: any chance you're open to long distance?

"How did you get two?" Craig always teases J when both you and Nicky are around.

You always make the same fuckin' face of disgust. You've known J since you two were in kindergarten. You couldn't imagine him as anything more than a brother. He spent a lot of time at yours when his mother was strung out.

You hate spending time at the Codys', but J is your best friend, and you'll do anything for him. Because you worry about him.

One morning you arrive at the house, hoping to catch J early so you two can go surfing. But the place is unusually quiet, and you are greeted not by your friend or his grandmother (thankfully), but by Andrew Cody. They all call him Pope.

Pope has been watching you since you first arrived at the house. He watches how you flinch at the loud noises, how you recoil from his brother's touches. Unlike his nephew's girlfriend, you don't giggle with Smurf. You get in and get out. But he likes watching you. He likes that you sometimes go and sit in J's (his) room when things get too noisy. That you just want to be away from it all.

You're far too sweet to be around him or his family. But he'd like to corrupt you.

"He's not here," he says simply as way of greeting as he stands in the doorway.

"Well do you want the coffee I got for him?" you ask as you hold up the cups you're holding. "I don't know what typa coffee you like but I don't want it t' go t' waste."

Pope's eyes soften immediately, "Do you need money?"

In the last few years, J has started saying shit like that to you. And you don't like it. You're putting yourself through college. You're working in a shitty bar. You don't wanna be like your mother. She never went to college, married your dad right away outta high school. She relied on him for everything. And while you weren't dating and would never date J, you didn't want to rely on him.

"No. I got money. But I don't wanna waste it," you respond before sighing. "Look. If J comes back tell him there's supposed to be a good swell today and I'll be at the beach."

Pope takes the coffee from your hand, his rough fingers brushing over your soft skin, making you shiver involuntarily.

"I can come," he tells you.

You blink in confusion. Pope is a man of few words. You're aware of this from the times you have spent in his presence. Sometimes he'll sit with you and watch TV when J is busy.

"To the beach," he clarifies.

"You surf?" you respond, taking a sip of your iced latte.

He gives you a half smile. A rare sight.

"I'm also from California," he responds simply.

"Okay, well, get your stuff. I don't wanna miss it," you say with a shy smile.

You can't believe that you're willingly spending one-on-one time with one of J's uncles. But all things considered, Pope isn't the worst. Yeah, he's a bit strange. But there's something...calming about him. Maybe it was the time you fell asleep on the couch and woke up to him carrying you to bed. You slightly panicked, but he just placed you down and walked away.

"We'll take my truck," he tells you as he comes back dressed in his wetsuit. He hasn't put it on fully, so he's naked from the waist up. You inhale sharply at the sight of his bulging muscles under his sun-kissed skin. You're not expecting the sight. And you're not expecting your body to react that way. You're not expecting your cheeks to heat up or the heat growing in your stomach.

"Lemme grab my things," you say when you finally catch yourself.

You grab your board and your suit from your car. You're going to change at the beach like you always do. You've never been alone with Pope before. Not like this. He's quiet, stoic, as you make the short trip to the beach. He doesn't play music in his car. He just drives.

"Lemme get changed, and I'll meet you out there," you say to him with a smile.

He shakes his head, "I'll wait."

You bite your lip as you wiggle out of your jean shorts and the crochet shirt you're wearing over your floral bikini top. You don't notice how Pope's eyes wander over your body. He takes you in, hazel eyes examining every inch of you. The way your skin glows under the hot Californian sun. He lets out a soft breath at the way your breasts bounce as you jump to get your wetsuit up.

"Will you zip me up?" you ask him, turning around to offer him access to you.

You both know that you're capable of zipping up your wetsuit alone. But Pope won't argue and gently brushes your hair away from your back, he moves it over your shoulder and then zips you up. He moves closer than necessary so he can inhale your sweet scent.

"Want me to do you?" you ask him nodding to his wetsuit.

Pope gives you that half smile again before shrugging into his wetsuit and turning around to let you zip him up. You brush your fingers up the soft skin of his back and you watch as the muscles ripple under your touch. You shouldn't be doing this. But you zip him up nonetheless and spend the morning in the surf with him. With a man literally old enough to be your father.

Soon it becomes your routine. You and Pope meet on the beach every Friday morning and spend hours surfing and talking. Sometimes Pope will come into the bar during your shift. He nurses a whiskey and tips you far too well. If he comes into the bar, he'll wait for your shift to end to walk you to your car. He's scary. And you don't mind having your little guard dog.

Then, you find him at the entrance of the bar every night as your shift ends. Just so he can walk you to your car. It's just across the parking lot but you like it. Sometimes he'll sit in your car with you and hear you rant about your shift.

"This is gonna be our last Friday surf," you tell him as he carries both of your boards to his car.

He looks so hurt, like a kicked puppy.

"I go back to college next week," you tell him as you shake the salt water out of your hair. He watches as the water droplets slide down the valley of your breasts. "We can try Saturdays instead? Or Sundays? Unless you're busy?"

"Never too busy for you," he says quickly.

You don't expect to meet Pope Cody on your doorstep on your first day of your senior year of college. This time he's holding a coffee, although it's clearly one he made at home as it's in a mug. You can't help but smile at him.

"I thought you might want a ride to school," he says as he looks at you over his sunglasses.

"And how am I meant t' get home?" you respond as you take a sip of the coffee he made you. Just how you like it.

"You call me and I'll come get'cha," he responds.

So this is how the first semester goes. Pope Cody is your personal chauffeur, your bodyguard and your surf partner. He's become a closer friend to you than J. And J notices. Finally. It just took the better part of the year.

J has started to notice that you don't mind coming over for parties anymore. But when you're there, you're more often than not with Pope. Pope will bring you over a drink. Pope will watch you as you speak to whatever girls have been stupid enough to come over. Pope will sit by you when you're sick of standing. And Pope will go inside with you when you get chilly or bored with his brothers being obnoxious.

And J doesn't like it. When the fuck did you become best friends with the scariest of his uncles?

You and Pope are whispering together in the kitchen. He's got new wax for his board and offers to do yours too. You nod, telling him to come around later that evening.

"What are you two talkin' about?" J asks with a little huff on his face.

"Surfin'," you respond with a shrug before you walk out to the pool.

"You screwin' her or something?" J hisses at his uncle.

Pope just looks at his nephew down his nose and walks away following you out to the pool with a towel for when you come out of the water. He's not going to rise to that. And he doesn't want J to know he has been fantasising about you since that first day on the beach. He doesn't want J or you to know that he's been watching you sleep for months. You should get better locks on your apartment door. You look so pretty when you sleep.

You also talk in your sleep. One night as he sits in the corner of your room, you start to whimper. He presumes you're having a nightmare until he hears you whimper his name. Not Pope, the monkier his family gave him. No, you whimper Andrew.

Oh, Andrew, yes! Please!

He had no choice but to grab a pair of your panties. Used panties. He inhales your scent before shoving them in his pocket. He breathes them in as soon as he gets to his own bedroom and jerks off into his hand. Thinking of the way you moaned his name in your sleep.

And he needs to figure out a way to hear it from you for real.

Since J has been an asshole, you've gotten more touchy with Pope. Not when Smurf is around though. You're not that stupid. At first, he's worried that you're doing it to make J jealous. But you'll hug Pope as greeting when he arrives at your apartment. No audience, just you and him. You brush your hand up his arm when he's in the kitchen making a drink while his brothers make noise by the pool. But his favourite thing is when you sit on the same lounger as him by the pool. You're not bold enough to climb into his lap. But you'll sit by him, offer to put sun cream on him. You always ask him to do your back and shoulders.

Sometimes after you settle yourself between the V of his thighs...only sometimes when his brothers aren't around you'll lie back on him. Relaxing against the hard muscle of his stomach.

These moments get added to Pope's fantasies when he's alone with his thoughts at night. The way you shudder under his touch, how soft your skin is. He knows each of your bikinis and he has his favourites. He loves how you wear your bright floral ones when you surf with him. But you go for softer colours when you're poolside with his family. His favourite is a white one that becomes almost sheer when you're in the water. But he doesn't like when his brothers are around to ogle you in it.

"Seriously," J asks you one night as you sit in Deran's bar. "What is going on with you and Pope?"

You look down at your glass and shrug, "You're always doing bullshit. We started surfing together. That's it."

"I heard he brings you to college too. And work?" J pushes.

"What? You got people spying on me? Should I call you Smurf?" you snap.

You don't need this third-degree bullshit. Not from J, who dragged you into this family.

"I even heard he stays over at your apartment," J continues.

"Yea, a few times. He's my friend, J. I don't need you to monitor everyone. Would you be this wound up if it were Craig or Derran?" you ask him.

"It's weird! He's my fuckin' uncle. He was in prison! He's dangerous!" J continues. "And he's old."

You throw your hands up and slam your drink down in one swallow.

"I don't need this bullshit, Joshua. You didn't give your girlfriend this sorta cross examination. Even after she started fuckin' your uncle," you hiss before you storm out.

You don't expect to walk into the wall of thick muscle that is Andrew Cody outside the bar. How did he know you were here? How did he know that you needed him?

"Hey, sugar, you okay?" he asks, steadying you by gripping your waist with his huge, rough hands. You can feel the heat radiating through the flimsy little skirt you wore out.

Pope wonders if you wore this for his nephew. Or some other shithead.

"I just needa go home," you finally answer him.

"Get in the truck," he tells you, firmly.

You just nod your head, the tone he uses goes straight to your core. You press your thighs together and get into his truck. He watches as your skirt rides up and he sees the sweet little floral panties you're wearing. They remind him of the bikinis you love. But seeing this is so much more intimate. Especially because he knows that you didn't mean for him to see it.

Pope is in two minds about going into the bar and beating the shit out of whoever has upset you and going straight to you. But when he sees your face, so open and needy in the truck waiting for him, he crumbles. He goes straight to you.

He drives you home, in silence once again. You're used to it. And you relish it. You needed the quiet. When he parks up, you turn to look at Andrew Cody. Really look at him. His eyes drop after a second of meeting your big eyes.

"Come in, Andrew," you whisper.

He doesn't need to be told twice. He follows you up to your apartment. He's been in your apartment before. By invitation as well as by his own volition. But tonight things are different. Maybe it's because everyone already presumes you're sleeping together. Maybe it's because you're sad and frustrated. Or maybe it's the tension, the touching, the longing glances over the past few months. But you lunge yourself at him. You kiss him hard and messy and desperate. And he kisses you back, tentatively at first but then he gets more desperate. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, you even taste blood as you both devour each other's mouths.

You pull away, "Fuck, Andrew. We shouldn't do this."

You're already so entangled in the Cody family. If you do this. If you cross this line, you'll become one. You know that if you let Pope have you, you'll be ruined. No one else will stand a chance.

"Baby," he growls, pulling you back into a kiss. And you just give in.

You pull at his shirt, needing to see him, needing to feel him against you. His hands are already under your skirt, palming at the flesh of your ass. The two of you are as desperate as each other. You're stumbling around your apartment. Clothes being thrown everywhere...even though Pope wants to fold everything in the back of his mind. But you're pulling him into your bedroom. You fall back onto your bed with his mouth over your breasts. You have no idea when you lost your bra. When Andrew had undressed you to just your floral panties.

You squirm under him as he bites over the swell of your breasts. He's leaving marks that he'll see the next time you go surfing. And he can't lie; he's getting off on the thought alone. You gasp as you feel him rip the fabric of your panties from your body. He lifts them to his face and inhales your sweet scent. A scent he's become addicted to. He grips your thighs and drags you up so you're balancing on your shoulders. He dives into your pussy like a man starved. And he is. He hasn't been dreaming about this for months. At his first taste of you, he cries out in pure desperation. You taste like fucking heaven. He doesn't want to muddy the experience with his fingers. He wants to drink you up. And you let him as he palms at the flesh of your thighs keeping you locked close to him.

You start to squirm harder against him as your orgasm starts to build. You've been dreaming about this moment for so long. But this is so much better than you could have imagined. You cum with a strangled cry, saying his name like a mantra.

Andrew. Andrew. Andrew.

He almost cums in his pants just at the way you moan his name like that. It's even sweeter than how he imagined it.

Pope has had issues getting hard in the past but ever since he started surfing with you, he's been hard enough to pound nails almost constantly.

"Wanna see you," you whisper as he lays you back on your bed. Your voice is still shaky from your orgasm; your whole body feels like an exposed nerve. But you're not done with him. Not a chance. Not when you've finally got him.

Andrew shucks his boxers off and your eyes go wide. You have no idea how he's going to fit inside you. He's huge.

"You okay, sugar?" he breathes, stroking your cheeks.

"You're really big," you confess. Sure, you've seen the print of him against his wetsuits, but you guessed there was fabric and water in the mix. But no...he's just...huge.

Andrew ducks his head shyly, "What? Those other boys were lacking?"

You blush bright red.

"Um...there were no other boys," you finally confess.

Pope's eyes go wide. He looks like the cat who's got the cream. He's going to be your first. He's gonna be the only person who has ever had you.

He kisses you now desperately. He grips the base of his cock, guiding the blunt head of his weeping cock to your entrance. He teases your clit first with his tip. You let out the sweetest little moans for him. And he's not even inside you yet. You're already panting and squirming for him. You're intoxicating, and he's already addicted to you.

Finally, he pushes into you. He has to squeeze his eyes shut at how tight you are. Pope has never been a gentle man. But he's being gentle for you. He'll always be gentle for you. When he finally bottoms out in you, your nails dig into his shoulders. They leave little half moons between his freckles.

"You're so tight, sugar," he breathes, his lips kissing over the shell of your ear.

You just nod, not sure you can form words. You're just so full of him. And when he starts rocking his hips you swear you see heaven. You've never felt this good in your life. Your body is on fire. His hands grip your hips and then slowly begin to explore the rest of your body. He grips your breasts, rough, pulling and flicking your nipples without rhythm. He then slides his hands down your arms, gripping your wrists and dragging them over your head. You both groan as he stretches your body out for him.

His thrusts get faster, harder, rougher. Andrew tried to be gentle, but fuck he needs to carve a path through you. He needs to make you his. No one else has had you and no one else will after he's finished with you. You're his. And only his.

"'m close, Andrew," you whine out as the headboard slams against the wall.

He's pumping in and out of you like a man possessed. The sound of skin on skin fills the room. It's animalistic. It's raw. It's fucking messy. And you cum without another warning. You scream out like a banshee as your orgasm rips through you.

Your pussy grips his cock like a vice and he has to stutter to a stop. He can't move you're so fucking tight, your cunt convulsing around his cock. And fuck, it's the prettiest fucking sight. Andrew presses his forehead against yours as you pull an orgasm from him. He fills you with thick, hot ropes of cum. The release feels like heaven. You swear it spurs on a third orgasm...or it could just be aftershocks from your last one. But it feels so good.

You lay tangled in each other's arms for what feels like hours. His cum seeps out of you and down your legs, cooling against your skin.

Finally, Pope gets up and grabs a wet cloth to clean you up.

"We can't tell Smurf," you say, at the same time as he says, "Smurf can't know."

At least you're on the same page. You both know that Smurf doesn't like it when her boys are distracted. She'll allow it for a time. But not for long. Especially if she sees their loyalty wavering. You're not stupid, you know she did something to Cath.

"Stay," you breathe, running your fingers through Andrew's auburn curls. You love the grey that's appeared by his temple, the greys that pepper his stubble.

You can't help but kiss over his chin and jaw. You give him a little nip as you do. This elicits a rare chuckle from Andrew 'Pope' Cody.

Your relationship with Andrew doesn't change much...bar the sex. The sex is incredible. Mind-blowing. You spend days in bed with him. You've started to wonder if you're a sex addict. Andrew soothes you, telling you this is very normal. Especially at the start of a relationship.

"Who are you fuckin'?" Craig finally asks you when he sees the hickies scattered over your body when he spots you on the beach one morning.

You've been smart, not flaunting your body over at the Cody house now that Andrew won't stop leaving marks on your skin. You can wear one-pieces, sporty ones that cover most of your chest if J invites you over to swim. Andrew gives you a knowing smirk when he sees your more modest swimwear. Knows that he's the reason.

But now you're in your bikini on the beach, not expecting to see anyone who might ask questions.

"Can't a girl have a lil privacy?" you ask putting your hands on your waist.

"Well no, because ever since I've known you, you've been like a nun or something," he responds as he shakes the seawater out of his hair.

"Just cos I won't sleep with you?" you respond with a roll of your eyes. "Cody boys aren't my type. Sorry, sweetheart!"

You give him a smile over your shoulder as you head back to your apartment.

Cody boys, no. Cody men, on the other hand? Well!

You were smart around the Cody house. You didn't change the way you had gotten closer to Pope. You didn't change how you would share a sun lounger with him. But Pope still acted like your touch freaked him out. He didn't soften into it like he did when you were alone.

You were careful. You were smart.

When you were alone in the kitchen or his bedroom or even just passing each other in the hallway, you couldn't help but press kisses to his jaw, he couldn't help but grip the soft flesh of your ass. Sometimes when you knew the house was empty, you would drop to your knees and take his heavy cock in your mouth. You loved making him feel good, making him feel powerful. You loved tasting him as he unloaded into your mouth. He always came so quickly when you got your mouth on him.

You just couldn't get caught.

Even if Andrew's brothers knew they'd soon tell Smurf. And then she would use that shit against you.

So you think you're being smart. Until you weren't.

J has invited you to a party. But he's distracted, playing stupid games with his uncles in the pool. Smurf is watching like an emperor in the Colosseum watching gladiators fight. She presides over the parties and everyone loves it. You have to contain your eyerolls behind the designer sunglasses Pope got you. No one notices when you go inside. No one except Pope, who, as always, has been watching you like a hawk. He finishes his beer before following you inside. He can't make it obvious.

You're hunting in the fridge for a soda. His eyes zero in on the curve of your ass. He places his hand on your waist and you jump before you realise who it is.

"Andrew," you breathe softly, turning to look at him.

"No one's watching, sugar," he whispers as he leans down to kiss you.

You smirk against his lips, stepping onto the boots he always wears to kiss him deeper. His hands palm at your ass, slipping under your bikini bottoms to grip the full globe of your ass. His thumb brushes lightly over your puckered hole.

"Andrew," you scold, pushing him away gently.

You giggle as you drop down to your knees, hidden by the kitchen island, and pull his cock from his swim shorts, taking him in your hot mouth. Andrew has to stay still as you work over his dick without being caught.

One thing leads to another and you're in his bedroom trying to stay quiet as he ploughs into you. He's got you on your hands and knees, on the floor because the bed is too noisy. You learn this when you try to ride him but the mattress springs are screeching. So you let the carpet burn into your flesh as Andrew fucks you. He's already made you cum twice on his face. He clamps a hand over your mouth when you cum, muffling your desperate cries of pleasure. He has to bite down on your shoulder to stop his grunts when he fills you with his cum.

Pope knows that you should get dressed and go back out to the party. But he gathers you in his arms and brings you to his bed.

"Just for a minute," you tell him, knowing that he loves post-sex cuddles. He's never been held, not really. And you intend to fix that. You cuddle him whenever you can. You'll always have you arms wrapped around him when you're alone.

What you don't expect is to wake up to the sun filtering in. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

"Andrew! Andrew!" you hiss, trying to wake him up. "Andrew fuckin' Cody!"

Smurf is always awake so fucking early. You have no intention of her finding the two of you. You pull your clothes back on. Swearing when you can't find your bikini top. You were only wearing a beach cover-up when Pope accosted you in the kitchen. So you can't just wander around like this. That's why you decide to grab one of Pope's black t-shirts. It doesn't hide the fact that you're not wearing a bra. But if you can get out of the house before you meet...

"Smurf!" you say as you walk outside. You thought you could sneak out the back. But of course, you can't.

"You stayed the night," she notes, her eyes dropping down to the fact you're clearly not wearing a bra and then to the carpet burn on your knees.

Interesting.

"Sorry I got a bit overwhelmed by the party and I musta passed out in J's room," you lie.

"In Pope's room," she points out. "And you're wearing Pope's shirt."

"Nothing gets by you, Smurf," you say with a smile. "I was wearing a cover-up and it just didn't seem appropriate in the light of day. Look, I should go. I have work."

Smurf immediately turns to the go to the bedroom but frowns when she finds the room empty. The bed has already been stripped. Oh what a smart girl.

"Pope?" she calls. She's aware that he didn't leave last night either.

Pope has put the bedsheets and some of his clothes in the wash. Everyone knows he's a clean freak. No one will bat an eye at him washing bedding that some girl slept in. Obviously without him.

"You didn't go home last night," she says when she finds him.

He just grunts, "I took a walk on the beach. Couldn't sleep. Came back this morning."

Smurf's eyes narrow. She doesn't like it when people lie to her. Especially not her eldest boy.

Pope makes sure for the next fortnight that he stays at Smurf's or his place. He still brings you to and from class, still surfs with you. Doesn't change that part of his routine. But he doesn't sleep over. He doesn't alert Smurf to you any more than he has to of how much you mean to him.

"This is my last semester of college," you tell him one afternoon as you lay on the couch. Your head is on his bare chest and he's playing with your hair.

"After that, there's nothing tying us to Oceanside. We could go anywhere," you remind him.

"What about-"

"Don't say her name," you whisper, kissing over his chest. "Your brothers can handle their own shit. They're grown men. You can start fresh."

"Where has good surfing?" he asks, then as he runs his fingers through your hair.

You smile and stretch up to kiss him.

"I think we can figure it out."

a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated

taglist: @sweetashhh @orangecheescakeleftover @elenamoncadaibarra @joelmillrenthusiast @abbotaes

The crowd there was the worst he’d stood in front of, and he’d grown up in Smurf’s living room, so that was a measurement that meant something. Men who bet money they needed and meant to take the loss of someone’s skin. The air thick enough to chew, smoke and sweat and the bitterness of a room full of people who’d collectively decided this was the night their luck was going to turn. 

Pope wanted to lose just so they’d fuck off. 

It was run by a guy named Leo who’d met Craig at a party, late, both of them lit and certain they were about to make each other rich. Leo had the basement, the crowd, the connections that made cops uninterested, and a way of talking that made one-track-minded guys like Craig feel like they were cut in on something even as he was lifting your wallet. Pope didn’t trust him. Pope didn’t trust anybody, but he distrusted Leo with a specificity that felt like respect. 

Leo ran the place like a man who’d thought about every cent in a dollar twice. Nothing in that basement was there by accident, which was how Pope knew, eventually, that you weren’t either. 

The first night he didn’t put it together. He came up out of the third round with his ears ringing and his knuckles screaming and somebody pressed a wet rag to the back of his neck, and his body did what it always did. He came around with his elbow up and the words already out of his mouth. “Get the fuck off me.” 

You went still. You were crouched down close enough that he could see you’d done your eyes earlier in the night and they’d worn through, smudged soft at the corners, and that should have made you look tired and instead made you look like you’d been left out in the weather, gentled by it. There was a smear of someone else’s blood drying brown along your jaw—not yours, you didn’t have a mark on you, you were the only clean thing in a room built for ruining people—and you hadn’t wiped it off because your hands had been busy all night being careful with men who were far from deserving it. 

“Okay,” you said, and that was all. You stayed crouched in front of him, an arm’s length back now, holding the rag out where he could take it himself if he wanted it. 

He felt like garbage. It all arrived once, the way it did with him, fine one second and then sick with it. You couldn’t have been much more than a bucket and tape to anybody else in that room, just the girl who patched them up, and he’d snapped at you like you were one of the men in the room baying for his blood. 

He took the rag off your hands. 

And you just went back to it. You pulled his hand into both of yours like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just shown you the worst of himself in the first ten seconds of knowing you, and started cleaning the wreck of his knuckles with a little furrow between your brows. Devotional, almost. Like his hand had been lent to you and you were supposed to return it in good condition. 

It was then he realized Leo had gotten way too lucky with you. He was sure you were used as nothing but a front. You were something soft to put at the edge of all that ugliness so men had a reason to keep their money in the room a little longer. A girl who patched up fighters, sure, but mostly a thing for them to look at, to crowd, to reach for between rounds. 

Pope wouldn’t admit it to Craig, or any of his brothers, ever, that the only reason he came back the next time was to see you again. He knew his words and then his sudden muteness probably made you read him as one more man to be careful around. He’d handed you that impression himself, and now he had to live inside it. 

The second night, you didn’t tend to him. There was another girl near the bucket—older, harder, a cigarette tucked behind her ear and no softness in her hands at all—and she did his corner between rounds like she was wiping off a dusty counter. Pope sat there and let her and looked for you over her shoulder the whole time, which was how he found you across the room, working the cash, the cigar box against your chest as your lips moved over the count. 

Pope hardly believed in coincidences. He was sure he’d snapped and you’d adjusted by putting a body between yourself and the man who’d shown his teeth. It was the smart thing. It was exactly what he’d have told you to do if he were anyone other than the man it was being done to. It sat in his chest all night like a swallowed stone, the understanding that he’d gotten precisely what he deserved and hated every second of it. 

He won. He always did; that was the whole problem with him, the thing that made his Craig rich now and him useful to Smurf and left Pope standing in basements full of people who wanted to watch him hurt somebody. The crowd howled, money changed hands, and Pope barely heard whatever Leo was saying because he was watching you seal the night’s take into a zip bag and press the air out of it with the flat of your hand carefully. 

He found you after, by the stairs, when the room had thinned to the stragglers and the smell of it had gone stale. He came up slow, hands where you could see them. 

“You drew the short straw last week,” he said, the words coming out of him too rehearsed, because that’s what he’d been doing since he noticed you and while getting his guts punched. “Patching me up.”

You looked up at him. Up close, your worn-soft eyes were tired. “I just asked Kate to take your corner tonight.”

So, not a coincidence. He’d already known, yet it did something ugly to him. He already had people who he’d known his entire life scared of him—brothers who were career criminals—and he’d made peace with it, like he had to with everything he couldn’t change. But it landed differently from you, because you didn’t have the years to back the wariness up. 

“Right,” he said, because what else was there to say?

You tilted your head, just slightly, and scanned his face like you were checking it for swelling. He knew there was none, not today. He still held still. He realized he’d have held still for anything you wanted to do to his face.

Whatever you were looking for, it seemed like you hadn’t found it. Or maybe you had. Your gaze caught on his mouth, under his jaw, and you clicked your tongue. 

“You’re not —” You shook your head faintly. “It’s easier,” you said finally, “to not get in the way of guys like you. That’s all. It’s nothing personal.” 

Guys like you. Jesus. He wanted to ask you what that meant, even though he knew. He was guys like him. He’d spent thirty-some years being exactly that. But he wanted, with an intensity that made no sense, to be not that to you. 

Any other guy would have let it go. A smarter man, a less stupid one, would’ve said that was a fair enough explanation and left you to your transparent zip bags and never come back to you unless you did to him. 

“It is though,” Pope said, voice too rough. “Personal. I wasn’t—right, after the third round.” The words, his voice, everything came out clumsy, and he briefly wondered if his eyes had dropped down his face and his nose had turned upside down. “You don’t have to put Kate—or whoever there. I’m not gonna—” He wasn’t sure how he wanted to end the sentence. “I’d rather it was you.” 

He suddenly felt like a complete idiot all over again when he watched your brows furrow slightly and your lips press together as you looked at him almost sadly. Then you let out a disbelieving chuckle as you shook your head as you twisted your neck slightly to look around. 

“Is this gonna be a problem?” you said, lowering your voice, glancing off to the side. Checking, he realized, who was still on the stairs, who might be close enough to hear. 

That was its own answer to a question he hadn’t been able to ask yet. It told him there were people you didn’t want knowing this, even though there was hardly a ‘this.’

“What?” Pope asked, playing dumb just so he could hear the words from you.

“You.” You brought your eyes back to him, and he felt slightly shaken as you pinned him with a glare that seemed almost gentle. “Saying things like that.” Your voice stayed even, but there was an edge working into it now. “I do my job here. I keep my head down—that’s better for me, okay?”

He didn’t get that. Not really. But he heard the need in it. 

“Nobody’s gonna bother you,” he said roughly. It came out flat and certain, it always did when he was truly sure of himself. “Not while I’m here.” 

You just looked at him like that again. “Go home, Pope—”

“Andrew,” he said, and he didn’t even know why he did. 

He hated that name just as much as Pope. It was just another thing Smurf had handed him that never fit anywhere in his growing life. To the room he was Pope. On the cards he counted, he was Pope. He’d been Pope so long he sometimes forgot there was anything under it. But he didn’t want to be Pope to you. Pope was guys like him. Pope was the thing on the cards coked-up wishful men put their money on. He had no clean self to offer you—God knew he didn’t—but he had the name hardly anybody used often, and so he gave you that, stupidly, like it’d be worth something to you. 

His pulse climbed into his throat. He had the sick, racing feeling he got right before things went sideways, the one that had been wrong about as often as it was right and that he'd never once been able to switch off. 

“Andrew,” you said, testing it quietly in your mouth, where Pope felt everything landed differently for some reason. And then you looked at him again, and said, “Go home, Andrew.” 

Thankfully, by some grace of God, Pope realized he may not have done it all wrong when you came to patch him up after the first round the following week. You dropped down onto the concrete in front of him with the bucket and the brown bottle and a roll of tape gone soft at the edges from your thumb. 

You took his hand like nothing had been said, as though the conversation on the stairs had been filed somewhere and this was the conclusion you’d come to on your own time, and Pope felt that he should let that be, instead of pointing it out. He’d learned that much, and tamped down the feeling like his entire week had paid off. 

“You lead with right too much,” you said, looking at his hands. “When you’re tired. You drop the left and lead with the right. That’s how they got your eyebrow.” 

Pope parted his lips and blinked. “You watch me?” 

“I watch the cash.” You pressed the tape down over his knuckle. “Fights are what make them move, but yeah.” You shrugged, and it was stiff. “You drop your left.”

Pope stayed silent for a moment, then asked, dumbly, “You a fighter?” 

It was meant to land as dry, a joke, but it never quite did with him. 

You let out the smallest of chuckles. “I watch men get hit everyday.” 

Pope swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. So he watched the top of your head instead, the part in your hair, the concentration you put into doing a job that probably paid no extra if you did it well. You wrapped him efficiently, all business now, and Pope felt that you’d closed a door he hadn’t realized you’d opened. 

It should have frustrated him. Instead, it made him want to earn that inch back slow, the way you’d coax anything that didn’t trust easy. He knew that wanting. He had it about a dog once, a half-feral thing that lived in the corners of the Cody Compound for a summer, that he’d fed in silence for weeks before it let him near. He’d never told anyone about that dog. He thought about it now, crouched-down you and careful tape, and didn’t enjoy what it told him about himself. 

“You’re done,” you said, and stood briskly. 

“Hey,” he said, the word coming out before he could think it. “Thanks.” 

You looked at him a second, and whatever you found in him, it earned him the corner of a smile. You must not have been used to being thanked very often. Pope flexed his wrapped hand, feeling something close to proudness. He wasn’t sure for what, exactly, but it felt good for the moment.

For three weeks, you rationed out small jokes that he was almost sure you didn’t realize were jokes, taped him up, and left Pope driving home with whatever you’d given him that night turning over in his chest. 

His fight hadn’t started yet. He leaned up against the support post by the stairs, hood up, trying to do everything he could to make himself look very still and very boring so the crowd would forget to look at him. From there, he had a clean line of the cash table, which meant he had a clean line on you, which was the actual reason he’d stood there. 

There was a man at your table. Big, going soft in the middle, a Lakers cap on backward and loose, oozing the sleazy confidence of someone past four beers and good judgement. He’d been talking to you a while, Pope noticed. You were wearing a smile aimed past his shoulder—a small, pleasant, and all around absent thing—and Pope watched you do it with a protective switch under his thumb. 

The man reached over and tucked a bill into your bra, slowly, like it was funny. Two fingers folded the bill below your collarbone, and you went rigid, smile staying in place while everything behind it moving.

You went somewhere way back behind your own eyes the way Pope had watched you go a dozen times, and the man laughed at his own joke and left his hand there a beat too long. 

The trouble with Pope was that most of the time, he never decided. One second he was against the post and the next he had the man’s wrist in his hand and he was bending it back off you, almost politely.

“Wrong,” Pope drawled, plucking the bill out of your collar with his free hand and pressed it to the man’s palm. He closed the man’s fingers over them. “Cash goes in the box.”

“The hell’re you —” The man turned to get a real look at him, and got the whole of him. The hood and the wrapped hands and Pope’s uncanny stillness, and Pope watched the recognition arrive, and the bluster went out of him like the air on your sealed bags. “Pope—hey, man. No harm. No harm.”

“Sure.” Pope let go of the wrist and the guy immediately melted back into the crowd. The whole thing had taken maybe nine seconds and Pope’s pulse hadn’t even climbed, which it should’ve, but some animal thing under him had considered this easy. 

“Why would you do that?” you said, voice quieting. 

“He had his hands on you.” His voice came out defensive, which he hated, because it made him understand that he’d done something wrong before he could even process it. “I’m not standing here watching some creep—”

“That was Reyes,” you said, like it meant something. It didn’t, not to Pope, and your face did something between fury and despair as he realized this. “He runs paper for Leo. You just—” You pressed your lips together and looked around quickly, the same way you’d done on the stairs except this time he could see real fear attached in it. “I don’t—I don’t need people thinking a Cody’s got a thing for me,” you finished, quieter. “You don’t.” 

“What if I—”

“You don’t, okay?” It came out sharper than you’d intended, and he saw how you caught it. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.” You were already looking away, gathering the cash box against your chest, busying yourself. “I really am better when people don’t worry about me, Andrew.” 

You tucked a piece of hair back, gave him a quick, tired ghost of a smile that didn't reach anything, and stepped back into the crowd with your box like the last nine seconds could be put away with everything else you put away.

There was that horrible feeling tightening in his stomach again. He knew he’d done the right thing, but there was a frustration in him of being right about the wrong thing. The thing he’d done to help you had immediately become another thing for you to be frightened of, clean up, another man’s decision landing on your plate.

You’d probably spent your entire life cleaning up after other people’s choices and he’d just handed you one more.

He fought ugly and won ugly, which was somehow worse than losing altogether. The crowd got what it paid for and then some, and Pope walked out with a rib that clicked when he breathed and a cut over the eye he’d earned by leading with the right all night like the idiot you’d warned him not to be. 

He collected off Leo without a word. Pope wasn’t even sure why the guy even bothered to grin and laugh and talk to him while he counted the money; Pope had said around two words to him and won him more than two grand.

He didn’t bother hearing the compliments—the fake, complimenting bit to make sure he came back—and took his roll of cash and shoved it inside his pocket and left out the back. 

He went up the concrete steps, into the lot behind the building where the air was at least air instead of four hundred people breathing the same lungful. 

He leaned against the cinderblock wall in the dark, in the orange wash of one working lot light, and pressed the heel of his hand under the bad rib and breathed shallow and concentrated on not being anywhere, on going behind his own eyes the way he'd watched you do it, somewhere the night couldn't reach him.

The door opened and shut carefully, and the latter action made him not need to look to know. 

“You walked out without letting anybody look at that,” you said. 

“I’m fine.”

“No, I can tell,” you said drily, almost amused. Your footsteps came across the lot and stopped a few feet off, not crowding him—you never crowded him—and giving him the room he hadn’t asked for and needed anyway. “I basically heard your ribs.”

He huffed something close to a laugh. It pulled at the rib and he stopped. 

Your hands hovered around his body, like you were asking for permission to take a look without saying the words.

“Are you okay?” he asked, forcing the words out roughly. Because he needed to, it’d been gnawing at him for too long. “Is he hurting you?”

Your hands when still where they hovered. You took the rag instead, wet it from the bottle, and reached up to the cut over his eye as though he’d never asked the question. 

“Hold still,” you said. 

“That’s not—” He caught your wrist, palm loose around it, but he caught it. “I asked you something.” 

In the orange light, Pope could see the smudge of your makeup, dark and worn through around your eyes, and the rings on your fingers catching the light each time your hand moved. You let him hold your wrist without pulling away, your eyes dropping to his chest like you’d decided against looking at his face.

He could feel your pulse under his thumb, thrumming. He let go of your wrist with a sigh, and you stepped back into the work, dabbing at the cut, close enough he could feel the warmth coming off you. 

You said, after a moment, evenly, “Don’t try to help me.”

“Don’t try to help me.” 

“I didn’t say—”

“It’s written all over your face.” 

You pressed the rag a little harder than the cut needed and let you, kept his face still, watching yours. You narrowed your eyes at him when he didn’t react to the pressure, as though his stillness annoyed you. Pope didn’t know how you hadn’t realized he’d let you do anything. He’d let you press the rag as hard as you wanted and he’d sit there and take it. He’d stopped having a choice about it a while ago.

That, and the fact that your hands, so small compared to the enormity of him, were the furthest things from the worst he’d taken. 

“Are you trying to hurt me?” he asked, amused despite it all. 

“If I were, you’d know.” But the corner of your mouth tugged, just barely, before you caught it and put it away. You eased up on the rag. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.”

For a second, it felt easier between you two again. Then, you remembered yourself, and he watched as your lips pursed. 

“I mean it, though,” you said. “Don’t. Whatever you’re sitting there cooking up.”

“You don’t know what I’m cooking up.” 

“Andrew,” you said his name flatly, and he felt like a dog at how quickly it got his neck to tilt up to meet your eyes. You hadn’t even spoke and he was looking at you like you’d asked him a question he wanted to get correct. 

“You’re not the first one to try this,” you said softly. “It always goes the same way.” 

“Yeah?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell me, then.” 

“Either he gets in over his head and screws up.” You wiped the last streak of blood from his brow, your hand coming to rest light against his face to hold him still. He leaned into your palm, the warmth of your hand and him moving into it like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done. 

One of your rings sat cool against his cheekbone and he felt that, too, the small contrast of it, cool metal and warm palm, and he was very aware you were still talking and he was having trouble with that. 

“ —or he sticks around for long enough to figure out it’s too much trouble, gets bored, and quits. He leaves, and either way I’m standing here worse than before,” you said, conversationally, and he did believe it was a tale as old as time for you. 

“I won’t get bored,” he managed to say. “I’m good at what I do.” 

“They all say that, too.” You smiled that sad, soft smile again. 

You took your hand back off his face and he felt the loss of it like air. He was already thinking about how to get you to put it back, which was probably the most pathetic thought he’d ever had, and he’d had some bad ones.

“When do you fight next? You shouldn’t, for a while. For your ribs.” 

He let you change the topic. He noticed you did that often.

“Next week, probably,” he said. “My brother’s already running his mouth about it.”

“Tell your brother your ribs are hurt.” You crouched to gather the bottle, the rag, the soft-edged tape, packing them back into the bucket.

“Where do you go? After this,” he asked.

He watched the careful machinery turn—watched you weigh whether it was a real question or a way in—and then something in you must've been too tired to keep the door shut, because you let it swing.

“Home. My mom’s,” you said. “She’s around, just—not a lot.” You gathered the bucket against your hip. “So it’s me and my brother mostly. He’s eleven.”

The whole shape of you tilted and resettled in the space of the word. Why you watched every dollar like it held something up. You weren't just keeping your own head down. You had a kid behind you, in the blind spot, where the room couldn't reach him.

“He know you’re here?” Pope asked.

“He thinks I wait tables.” The corner of your mouth went up, rueful. “Thinks I’m terrible at it. The tips are all over the place, so.” You shrugged. 

Pope cleared his throat. “Are they?” 

“This week, yeah,” you said. 

“Do you want to?” Pope found himself asking, “Wait tables.” 

You looked at him for a long moment that he almost thought you wouldn’t answer. “It’d be nice, I guess. To have steady cashflow and all that.” 

“Leo pays you enough?”

You shifted the bucket against your hips. “He doesn’t really—” You stopped yourself, then started again. “The tips are what they are.”

Pope hummed. “That cover everything?”

You looked at him sideways, catching what he was doing. “Most weeks,” you said hesitantly.

“This week?”

You looked off past him, and he watched you decide whether to say it. “My brother’s shoes split,” you said finally, and it’d come out in a small voice. “Bottom’s gone right through it, so.” You shrugged, making a small face as you pinched your eyes shut, like you hated saying it.  

Pope took the roll out of the jacket, thumbed off a fold of it without counting and held it out.

You looked at it, then at him. “No.” 

“For the kid.”

“Andrew.” 

“Take it.” He kept his hand out. “It’s shoes.” 

“That’s not—” You stopped. Your jaw worked. He could see all of it going on behind your face, the pride and the rule and the thing you'd spent the last few minutes telling him. “That’s just what I told you not to do.” 

“You said not to help you.” He pushed his hand further toward you. “This is shoes for a kid I never met.”

He watched your eyes rise to look at the sky and you shook your head. “You’re making this really hard.” 

He tipped his chin down. “Just take it. I don’t need it.”

You took it slow, your fingers closing over his for a second before they took the bills, and you didn't say thank you—he was glad, thanking him would’ve made it a transaction—you just held on to his hand a beat longer than you needed to, and breathed out, shaky, and let it go.

“Please don’t make this a thing,” you said, voice thick. “I can’t—I can’t say no to the money. I wish I could.” You looked at the bills in your hand. “I don’t wanna take things from you.” 

He felt himself shrug, eyeing the top of your head as you looked down. “I’d let you.” 

He’d meant to keep that to himself. Or he hadn’t. He didn’t really care, though. The money itself was nothing; what he’d just handed you was a rounding error, less than what his brothers dropped in a single night without blinking. It was the kind of number that moved in the Cody household without anyone thinking to count it; money they’d find between the cushions from five years ago. 

He had more coming in than he knew what to do with and nowhere clean to put it. You had a kid to help out with and yourself to take care of, and the situation was so simple it almost made him angry. 

It became a thing without either of you calling it one. It was a thing, in Pope’s mind, obviously, but he was sure that telling you would’ve spooked you and he wasn’t ready for that. 

You’d started taping him differently. Early on you’d wrapped him all brisk and businesslike, done before he’d thought of anything to say. He had to watch his words in general, but he had to try even harder with you, for he never wanted to say the wrong thing. Somewhere in those weeks, you slowed. You took longer than the wrap needed—smoothing the tape down twice when once would’ve held just fine, turning his hand over in both of yours to check the knuckles you’d already checked—and Pope started to pretend he didn’t notice. 

He’d sit on the folding chair with his hand lent out to you and watch the top of your head and feel his pulse come down out of his throat, slow, the dog talked off the thing. One night, he let his thumb find the inside of your wrist while you worked, resting there against the thrum of you.

He started taking on more fights and ending them earlier. He told himself it was because of his ribs, the cash, any of the reasons a man might want a thing over with. All of it when the reason was that when the basement emptied after, it was just the two of you, and Pope had started living for the after the same way men lived for the fight.

You started watching the fights now—not the cash, him—and he knew because one night he had a bad one, a hook he missed that snapped his head around. He looked for your face before he looked for anything else, and found you already wincing. 

Your hand had come up halfway to your mouth. You caught yourself and dropped it. But he’d seen it and carried it home for a week, a proof of what, he didn’t know.

Pope really, really hated asking Craig anything. He knew that he’d make him pay the toll one way or another. Sometimes by talking for forty minutes about something nobody asked about, or remembering the question to bring it up at the worst possible time. So Pope sat on it for a week; he iced the rib, didn’t fight, and drove past the ring twice without going in. He knew it was fucking pathetic.

Pope found Craig by the pool, sunburnt and shirtless and rolling something on a paper plate. 

“You know the girl,” Pope started, “at the ring, the one who does the cash?” 

He found that he wanted to keep your name to himself, in case Craig hadn’t already caught onto it. 

“Which one?” Craig asked without looking up.

“The one that does the cash, man.”

“There’s like three girls.” He licked the paper and twisted the end. “You gotta be more specific. There’s the older chick, the mean—”

“Younger. Quiet.” Pope forced his voice to stay even. “Patches people up.”

Craig looked up at him then, a slow grin spreading. “Ohhhh.” 

“Don’t.”

“No. No.” Craig held his hands up, waving them slightly, delighted. “Can’t believe you’re asking me about a girl, man.” 

“Forget it.” Pope turned to go.

“Hey—hey,” Craig said, standing from the lounger. “I’m messin’ with you. C’mon. What do you wanna know about her?” 

“Why’s she there?” 

Craig shrugged. “Pretty sure she owes Leo.”

“She owes Leo?” Pope asked, letting the surprise show in his voice. “For what?”

“Pretty sure she’s collateral.” Craig lit the thing, talking around it. “Some guy that was around. Dad. Stepdad. Who knows?” He waved the smoke out of his face. “Pretty sure she’s just workin’ the square until it pays itself off.”

“How much?” Pope asked immediately.

Craig rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid, man.”

“Just say it.”

“I’m not his accountant,” Craig said. “And she’s not worth it. It won’t work, and I’m pretty sure she’s been working there longer than she hasn’t.” 

Pope ignored that. “It’s not even hers,” he said, quietly, almost to himself. “She’s down there holding it for a guy who took off. Kid at home, no money, and she’s—”

He stopped talking once he noticed the amused and incredulous expression on Craig’s face. 

Craig’s hand moved to the side, waving vaguely in confusion. “She’s got a kid?”

“It’s her brother.”

“Jesus—how much have you talked to this chick?” Craig dragged a hand down his face. “Real talk. You go pay the guy off—say you even can, say he gives you a number and it’s a real one, which it won’t be—you know what happens? He realizes Pope Cody just dropped twenty grand on a girl who pours drinks and puts bandages on people.” He spread his hands. “Best case. Best case, man. We don’t know what else the guy’s got her doing. She’s been there a long time. Girls don’t stay in places like that just counting cash.” 

Pope felt his teeth grind. “She counts cash and she patches people up,” he said, tipping his chin down slightly to pin Craig with a glare. “That’s what she does.” 

Craig looked at him for a moment and shrugged. “Alright, man.” 

“And even if she—she doesn’t just do that. It doesn’t—” 

Pope’s jaw worked, and he had to look away from Craig. He had no words for it. It didn’t matter what you did in the basement, what Leo had you doing or what Craig was implying. You were still you, and Pope knew that. 

If the situation was larger, then Pope saw it as more of a reason to get you out, not less. That was the thing Craig wouldn’t understand. 

“It doesn’t change anything. For me,” Pope said flatly. “She shouldn’t be there, that’s all.” 

Craig’s lips opened like he wanted to say something, then caught the look on Pope’s face, and said, “Yeah, man. She probably shouldn’t.”

He’d hoped that Craig would never have to meet you, at least not in the way he did. 

It happened on a night Craig hadn’t wanted him there at all. Craig had come for the first few of Pope’s fight, and realized he actually didn’t have to see his older brother take down a man twice to know the money was good. He could simply hand over the bet and go do anything else with his night. So most weeks, he dropped his cash with people and disappeared upstairs and reappeared only to collect. 

This week, he hung around the edge of the ring, three beers in, restless, and that was how he was standing right there when Pope took a cut over the cheekbone bad enough you came down to the corner with your supplies before the round was properly called.

Craig noticed it. The dumb piece of shit. One second Pope had your hands on his face, turned away from the crowd so nobody would notice your closeness, and the next he could feel the exact attention of his brother sharpening as he moved down to catch the interaction.

You were too deep in the work to notice Craig, lips pressed flat, that furrow between your brows, going fast because the round was coming. “This one’s gonna scar if you keep splitting it open,” you murmured, tipping his head toward the light. “You’re doing it on purpose at this point. You’re gonna ruin this face.” 

“What do you think about this face?” Pope said before he could think the words through. 

You rolled your eyes, lifting a hand off his face just to smack his shoulder lightly before it went right back to the cut.

“You talk too much when you’re losing blood,” you lied, but the corner of your mouth had gone soft. “Hold still.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“You’re fishing.” You pressed the butterfly closed over his cheekbone, your thumb lingering there a half-second past the job, warm against his face, and you dropped your voice even though there was nobody close enough to hear. “Ask me again when you’re not bleeding on me and I’ll think about it.” 

He felt his mouth want to move closer to yours then, and he tamped down the urge. But he must’ve let something through because when his eyes flicked up over your shoulder, there was Craig, beer halfway to his mouth, forgotten. 

You followed his eyes, found Craig, and Craig found you. Your hand came off his face and your spine went straight. “You know him?” you asked, quietly, gathering your bottle and tape as you stepped back to a safe distance. 

Pope caught your wrist. “My brother. He’s nobody. He’s dumb.”

Your eyes went over the crowd that was distracted. “You tell him anything?”

“There somethin’ to say?” he asked, raising a brow that made him wince. 

You gave him a flat look, unimpressed by the deflection. “Don’t try to be cute.”

Pope generally blamed his anger on a rage that had been planted in him from a tender age. Smurf had put it there the way you put a seed in dirt—patient, deliberate, knowing exactly what it’d grow into—and then spent thirty years acting surprised at the sheer size of it. He never thought about it. Thinking about it wouldn’t beat it away. It was just there—low and perpetual—like a pilot light he’d learned to turn down because the alternative was what happened in the ring when he forgot to. 

He forgot to that night. It had nothing to do with the guy across from him. The guy was a nobody—some gym rat Leo had matched him with, all shoulders and bad footwork—and Pope would, on any other day, put him down clean in two rounds because there was no reason to make it ugly. But Pope had spent a week with a number he didn’t own and a plan he couldn’t run with yours and Craig’s voice saying ‘don’t.’ The whole impossibility of you had stacked up in his sternum with nowhere to go, and when the guy clipped him, caught him good across the mouth first, something in Pope just opened the valve. 

He didn’t remember most of it after, and that was how he knew it was bad. The parts that came back later were wrong-angled and too bright (the kid’s head snapping, the wet sound, the way the crowd’s noise changed, going from hungry to something quieter, pulled back). Crowds like this roared throughout all of it unless they were watching a man go somewhere they wanted to stay back from. 

Somebody got between them. There were hands on his chest and a referee he had no idea even existed shouting something and the guy on the concrete not getting up the way he was supposed to. Pope was standing over it with his chest heaving and knuckles split open through the wrap and no memory of the ninety seconds at all.

The crowd parted for him when he started walking and that should’ve told him something, the way grown men stepped out of his way. He'd looked for you on the way through.

He'd looked for you the way he always did, automatically, and he'd found you at the edge of the cash table with the box held up against your chest, and you'd been looking right back at him.

Pope was distantly and too closely—both at the same time, two things too large for him—able to register you hadn’t looked at him the way you usually did.

You'd looked at him the way the crowd had. You’d gone still and careful, your eyes wide and fixed on him like he was the thing in the room, the dangerous thing, and you'd held that box to your chest like it could go between you and him. Just for a second. Just one. Then you'd caught yourself and your face had closed over it, gone professional. 

He went upstairs, and into the gap behind the stairs where there was a cot and a mop sink. It smelled like bleach. He put his head against the cinderblock and slid down it to the floor and tried to get his breathing under whatever was happening in his chest. 

Pope let himself sit on the floor with his hands ruined, the pilot light still guttering too high, and he let the worst story about himself tell itself all the way through. You’d finally seen the actual thing. You’d patched him up and made jokes and told him things about yourself, and then you had to watch him nearly kill somebody over nothing, and now you knew. Now you looked at him the way everybody did, just the way his mother had intended. 

He heard the door open, and he had to shake his head even though he wasn’t sure you could see it. 

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out wrecked. “You don’t have to help me or anything. Go help the guy.”

“Andrew—”

“I mean it.” His hands hung between his knees, split and shaking, and he kept his eyes on them. “Go check on him. I don’t—I don’t need it.”

He heard the door shut behind you, and then your footsteps came across the little room. “He’s up,” you said. “He’s fine. He’s got people. Concussed, probably, but he’ll be fine.” You paused, then added, “I came back here for you.” 

That made his chest pull tighter. “Shouldn’t have.” 

You set the bucket down by his feet, and then you were crouching in front of him, and he could see the toes of those wrong gray shoes in the edge of his vision and still couldn't make himself look higher. “Can I have your hands?” 

“No.”

“They’re split to the bone. Andrew, give ‘em here.” 

He didn’t. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he sat there, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Are you scared of me?”

You stayed silent for a second, and he felt his chest seize. Then, he felt your hand—cold to the touch—against his face, turning it gently so he’d look at you. He kept his eyes trained to the ground. 

“Look at me,” you said quietly. When he refused again, your thumb slid against his cheekbone. “I’m not.”

When he said nothing, you continued, “You scared me a little out there. But look at you, you’re hiding behind the stairs. C’mon. Scariest man alive.” 

He huffed and let his eyes come up anyway, finally, and you were just looking at him. “You mean that?” 

Your bottom lip pushed the top, and you looked at him as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I mean it.” 

The plainness of the words got him. You said that as though it cost you nothing to mean it when it was the most expensive thing anyone had handed him in years. You had no idea the things he’d done so many times they stopped feeling like anything at all. You’d seen one bad night. And he wanted to tell you that maybe you should have been scared.

He kept his mouth shut. He looked at you looking at him and decided, quietly and completely, that he was going to spend whatever time he had making sure you never had a reason to find out you were wrong.

You were close. You’d been close the entire time, crouched between his knees with your hand cold on his face, and he’d been waiting for you to flinch that he hadn’t realized how close you were.

He felt it now. Like always, he didn’t decide. The same broken wiring in him was pointing somewhere new, because one second he was looking at your mouth and the next his hand had come up, ruined knuckles and all, and curved around the back of your neck. 

He stopped a breath short to give you an inch, some last careful piece left in him left it up to you, hung there close enough that he could feel your breath go uneven, waiting to see if you’d close it. 

You did, soft, slower than he’d expected. He’d always been waiting for quickness and hardness, things that got over with, and instead your mouth settled against his and stayed. Your hand came up light along his jaw, and the split in his lip stung but he didn’t move away from it. He was sure he couldn’t have this without paying for it. 

His hand was still at the back of your neck, knuckles wrecked, and he held you there carefully, just keeping you close. His thumb moved once behind your ear. You made a small sound against his mouth and he felt it more than heard it, felt it go down through his chest.

Your fingers curling at the collar of his shirt, your breath warm and uneven against his cheek between kisses.

His rib ached when he leaned into you. He leaned in anyway. He could feel the warmth of you all down his front, your weight tipped against his knees, your other hand finding his ruined one where it sat between you and holding it. 

It felt like such a stark difference to how you usually held his hand, to clean it, Pope distantly thought.

You broke off to breathe, but neither of you went far. Your forehead hovered over his, and your breath stayed uneven against his mouth. He let his hands hesitantly drift down to your waist, letting his palms run over the shape of you. 

You let them, your waist, the dip of it, the warmth coming up through your shirt, and you watched him do it with your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“Do you like this?” Pope asked, hesitance creeping into his voice despite how hard he tried to push it out. He hated how it came out, like he had no trust in himself. But he had to know—had to hear it—because he’d just spent too long thinking you’d seen the worst of him, and now you were warm in his hands and he couldn’t quite square the two.

Your mouth curved, soft, and you tipped your forehead down against his. 

“Yeah, Andrew,” you said, like it was obvious. “I like it.” 

Your thumb moved along his cheekbone, and he let his lashes flutter slightly at the feel of your skin against so many parts of him all at once. 

“Been liking you a while,” you added, lower, a little dry, a little shy. “If you wanna know.”

Pope’s hand tightened at your waist. “How long?” 

“Not saying,” you said, smiling when you kissed him again, and he felt it against his mouth, and that was better than the answer would've been anyway.

He kissed you slow at first and then not slow, his hand sliding up your spine to press you closer, the other still spread wide and certain at your hip. 

You shifted down into him and he broke off with a rough breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his grip going tight to hold you still.

“Hang on,” he managed to say, low against your collarbone. All the wanting you stacked up behind his ribs with nowhere left to go, and you were so warm and so real on his lap, and he was trying not to be what he always was, too much, too fast. 

“We don’t have to—” you started.

“I know,” he said, voice rough. He lifted his head to look at you. “I wanna. I just—” He pushed his lips around, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want you doing anything back here. In this building.” His thumb moved at your hip. “You’re better than this place.” 

Your hands pressed against his chest, and he registered the smallness of them against his broad frame, and you pulled yourself back slightly and let out a staggered breath. For a second, you looked at him. Stunned, almost, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere familiar, like nobody’d ever told you that before. He watched it cross your face quickly.

One of your hands left his chest and slid up, slid back, fingers pushing slow into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your nails digging light against his scalp. Your fingers worked through his hair and curled at the base of it, and the newness of the touch—the pure uselessness of it, a touch that wasn’t for anything—went through him like a current. 

It got a low and rough sound out of him and his eyes slid shut. His face went hot at the helplessness of it, a man his size coming apart under fingers in his hair, but he couldn't stop it and he didn't pull away. He pressed back into your hand instead, into the slow drag of your nails, chasing it.

“So are you,” you said quietly after a moment.

He fluttered his eyes open halfway. 

“Better than this place,” you clarified.

Pope’s mouth twitched, wanting to tell you he wasn’t. He wanted to tell you every single bad thing he’d ever done. He wanted to lay all of it down between you so you'd see he didn't belong anywhere clean, least of all up against you, you who had never chosen to work in this shithole, you who’d probably never hurt a goddamn fly. 

The words stayed sealed, because he had a feeling you’d hand them all back if he tried. 

“Come on,” he said instead. He shifted under you, wanting to ease into the position while having to force himself to move. “Get your stuff and clock out. I’ll drive you.”

You blinked. “Where?” 

He let out a short-lived laugh. “Wherever you want to go.”

You looked at him like he’d just done a trick. “I have to be home,” you said slowly. “My brother waits up.” 

“Alright.” Pope eased you off his lap, and got a hand against the cinderblock. “So I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t have to—” You were saying from the ground.

“C’mon.” 

He held a hand out to you, then you took it and let him pull you up.

Pope was uncomfortable about everything. His entire life, he’d been uncomfortable, whether it was in his own skin, in his house, in rooms full of people. So it came as no surprise when he had no fucking clue what to do with you. He hadn’t thought this far; he’d wanted to get you the hell out, not get you. And now you were here—or as here as you could’ve been—and he didn’t have the next part. Nobody had ever handed him a good thing and let him keep it. He kept waiting for the catch, turning his pockets out for the cost of it, and the cost wasn’t coming. And that was uncomfortable, waiting for a hit that never landed. 

So he did the only thing he thought he could’ve done, which was keep it quiet and keep it close. 

The cab of his truck. The back room after the basement emptied. Your mouth on his, his hands learning you slow, because he wanted to—Pope wanted to learn you the way other men wanted to win. It was the only ambition he’d ever had that belonged all to him. He wanted the map of you. He wanted to remember the exact spot in your ear that made your breath catch, that he’d found once on accident and gone back to like a man returning to the one warm room in a house that was freezing. The way you said his name, the real one—Andrew—that fit in nobody else’s mouth but yours. 

Pope had to be clear with himself about the fact that it was nothing like a life, even in his own head, because hoping for more than the thing in front of him was how you got hurt. 

When the basement ran late and your house was a long quiet drive, sometimes you’d let him take you back to his place instead, and you’d sleep there. You would actually sleep, hard and deep, in a way you’d once told him you couldn’t at your own home. 

He watched you sleep. He knew it was a strange thing to do but he did it anyway; propped on an elbow in the gray lights off the blinds, because it was the only time your face went all soft. Awake, even with him, you kept some of it back, the watching, the careful, the part of you that—like him—was always waiting for the next bad thing. 

Asleep, you let it all go. You looked younger, and Pope thought this was how you would’ve looked all the time had the world dealt you a different house. 

He must’ve shifted, or his breathing must’ve changed, because your eyes cracked open. You found him in the dark, found him watching you, and your mouth curved, slow and sleep-heavy.

“Creep,” you mumbled into the pillow. 

“Yeah,” Pope said in a whisper. 

You shifted toward him, unhurried, still half in sleep, and your hand came up to his jaw as your fingers traced the line of it. 

“You don’t sleep,” you murmured. You’d noticed it weeks ago.

“No.”

“C’mere, then,” you said, rough, tugging lightly at his jaw, and he came. 

He kissed you slow.

He always started slow—it was the only speed he trusted himself at—and you let him have it slow for a minute, warm and half-asleep against his mouth. Then you weren’t half-asleep anymore, he felt the change in you as your hand slid back into his hair and curled and pulled. The sound that the pull had dragged out of him was embarrassing.

“Quiet,” you breathed against his mouth, throwing his own word back at him—I can be quiet, he’d said once—and he huffed a rough laugh into the crook of your neck and got a hand spread wide and certain against the small of your back to pull you flush against him. 

Your leg hooked over his and your breath went uneven against his ear, and Pope allowed himself to stop thinking.

He dragged his mouth down your throat, slow, to the soft place that made your breath catch, the spot he'd mapped weeks ago and gone back to since like the one warm room in a freezing house. Got there. He felt you go boneless and then not boneless, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips shifting against his, and he made a low sound into your skin and pressed you down into the mattress with the careful weight of him.

“Andrew,” you said, rough against his collarbone. 

“Yes?” He lifted his head to look at you, and found you already looking at him. 

Your hair was loose around your face and your lips were swollen and your eyes were dark. Pope felt a sort of satisfaction he’d never felt before knowing he’d done that, that you’d come to his bed neat and composed and he’d taken you apart this much already.

Your hand still in his hair tugged him down to your ear. “Take my shirt off.” 

He went still for a second, eyes closing at the words, then he regained himself and pulled back enough to look at you. 

You lifted your arms. He got it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then he just stopped, brain short-circuiting as his body immediately reacted, shifting underneath you. His hand came up and hovered over your bare waist, not quite touching, just close. Deciding where to start.

His hand settled finally, warm and certain against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breasts. He let out a shaky breath. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured. 

You let out a soft breath, and he let his thumb move, again, slow, up and he rubbed over the swell of your breasts through the bra, watching your face with his whole attention.

He pushed himself up onto one elbow to get a better look at you and you let him, lying there with your hair spread out and your eyes on his face. He took his time, and he could tell it made you want to squirm, and his free hand settled on your hip, holding you still. 

“Come here,” you said softly, reaching for him. 

“In a minute.” His thumb traced the underwire of your bra, following the curve of it. His eyes followed his own hand and his jaw was tight the way it got when he was concentrating. 

“Andrew.” 

“Give me a minute.” His mouth came down on your sternum and pressed there, warm, just breathing for a second, his hand still moving over your ribs, your waist, the dip of it. His lips moved to the curve of your breast, the soft skin at the edge of the fabric, and you felt his breath go unsteady against you.

“Can I—” he started.

“Yes.”

He reached around you, unclipped it with one hand—slightly clumsy, which was so unlike him—and drew it off you slowly, and then he just stopped again, forgetting how to move when he looked at you.

His mouth found you properly then, warm and slow, and you let your head tip back and your hand tighten in his hair and he made a low sound against you.

He worked his way back up to your throat, your jaw, found your mouth again, and kissed you slow until your hands were pulling at him and your hips were shifting and you’d stopped being patient entirely. 

You pressed at his chest. He went, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, and you sat up over him in the gray light and watched his face as you settled your weight down against him, and his hands went to your thighs and gripped and his eyes went briefly shut.

You leaned down and kissed him once, soft. Then his jaw, his throat, the way he'd done to you, finding the places that changed his breathing.

His hands moved up your back, down again, restless, unable to settle. You felt him swallow when your mouth reached his collarbone.

You moved lower. His stomach tightened under your mouth and his hand came up to your hair, resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything when he was trying to hold himself back. You looked up at him from where you were and found him already looking down at you, jaw tight, throat working.

“Are you—”

“Mhm.” 

You got his briefs off and he lifted his hips to help you without being asked, which made you press your lips together against a smile. You settled between his thighs and took him inside your hand first, and he let out a shaky, breathless sound as your fingers tightened around his length, small fingers tugging slightly. 

You shifted down, and pressed your lips to the inside of his thigh first, just to feel him react, Pope understood. His whole leg went rigid under your lips. You stayed there a moment, and his fingers curled in your hair out of impatience he wasn’t proud of at all.

“C’mon, hey—”

You did it again, the other side, taking your time, and heard him exhale hard through his nose.

Then, you started from the bottom, tongue gliding over him, base to tip, and Pope’s jaw dropped open and stopped pretending he wanted any sort of control in this situation. 

His hands fisted in your hair. Not pushing—he wasn’t going to do that—but holding on, because he really, really needed something to hold onto and you were it, you were all of it, had been all of it for months, and now you had your mouth on him and your small hand wrapped around the base of him while looking through your lashes at him like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—you absolutely did—and he wanted to do nothing about it except lie there and take it.

You took him into your mouth properly and his hips came off the mattress before he caught them, hand pressing down against his own stomach, jaw locked.

“Christ—” It came out mangled, just sound.

You set a pace that was sure to kill him, so deliberate with everything and focused attention on him entirely, and he had the distant thought that he’d never been on the receiving end of attention like this. His thighs tensed around you and his free hand found the sheets.

You pulled off just enough to say ‘don’t’ when his forearm moved toward his face, and he dropped it back, exposed, staring at the ceiling, throat working. Your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t, and he felt his vision go slightly sideways, hand in your hair tightening involuntarily, fingers curling against your scalp. 

“Let me—” He stopped when he noticed how wrecked he sounded, barely his own voice. His grip tugged you up. “Can you—Can I—”

He stumbled over the words, but you still moved up. 

You settled over him, knees either sides of his hips, and he got his hands on your waist immediately. His chest was heaving and he was sure he looked completely undone.

“Can I—” he tried again. His thumb moved against your hip, pleadingly. “I need to—” He tried again. “Will you—”

You looked down at him. “Are you asking me something?” 

“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Trying to.” 

“So ask.” 

He took in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. “Can I be inside you?” 

You held his eyes a second. “Yeah,” you said. “Yeah.”

The sound he let out at that was quiet and involuntary and you felt it in your sternum. His eyes closed for just a second, like he needed that, you saying it had done something to him before anything had even happened yet.

You reached between you and his breath caught audibly, hands tightening on your hips, feeling it happen, needing to feel it happen somewhere in his palms.

You sank down onto him slow and his head went back and his throat worked and his hands on your hips pulled you down the last inch with a low, helpless sound that he clearly hadn't planned on making.

He’d never felt this way before, so all-encompassed. You were so warm and close in way the months of wanting had never prepared him for, your hands braced on his chest, your weight settled on his lap, and he could feel your pulse where you were joined and his own pulse and everywhere else.

He stayed there a second, both hands spread wide on your hips, breathing. 

“You okay?” you asked, quiet.

“One second.”

You gave him the second. He sat up after that, and his arm banded around your waist and pulled you flush against him and that made you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders, his neck.

He was so much bigger than you like this, your knees hardly finding the mattress either side of him, and he held you there, mouth finding your throat.

“Do you like this?” he asked into your skin.

“Yes—yeah,” you said, slightly breathless. 

He bit down lightly at your pulse point, just enough, and your nails raked down his back in response, and the sound that got out of him was dark and satisfied, his hips rolling up into you slow and deliberate.

His hips set a pace after that, one hand spread flat against your lower back holding you exactly where he wanted you, the other gripping your hip, guiding you down to meet each roll of his hips. You could feel everything. He made sure of it, and he knew by the way your walls clamped down on him.

“Andrew—”

“Feels so good,” he said through a groan, mouth set on your throat. “You feel so good.” 

Your nails found his back again and he groaned into your neck and his hips stuttered, losing the rhythm for just a second before he found it again, deeper this time, and you made a sound against his shoulder that you felt him collect, felt him file away, his arm tightening around you in response.

“That good?” he murmured.

“It’s—” you started, breath catching. 

“Yeah?” His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, adjusting the angle, pressing you down onto him, and whatever you'd been trying to say dissolved entirely into something that wasn't words at all. “There?” 

“Jesus, Andrew—” you said, a punch in your words as he pushed you down onto him. “Where’d you learn this?”

He pulled back to look at your face, and the look on his was almost amused, almost, underneath all the want. “Just wanna make you feel good,” he said, “with me.” 

Your hands coming up to his face without deciding to, cupping his jaw, and he turned into it immediately, that same helpless lean he always did when you put your hands on his face, like he couldn't help it, like you'd found the one soft spot in him nobody else had ever found.

You kissed him then, different from the others — slower, more deliberate, saying something you didn't have words for yet, and he kissed you back the same way, his pace going slow and deep and unhurried, like the night had gotten longer suddenly, like neither of you were going anywhere.

His forehead dropped to yours when you broke off, both of you breathing uneven, his hand moving up your spine, vertebra by vertebra, just feeling you.

“You with me?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

His hand pressed you further into him, like there was any space. “Promise me.” 

It came out rougher than he meant, needier than he'd have liked, and he felt it land between you in the dark and couldn't take it back and didn't try.

You looked up at him. Whatever you found in his face made yours go soft. “Promise,” you said.

He exhaled against your mouth and his hips rolled forward and you made a small sound and your hands slid up into his hair, pulling, and whatever had gone tender between you tipped back into heat, his pace picking up, deeper now, one hand gripping the headboard above you and the other finding your hip, holding you where he wanted you.

Pope had come to the basement earlier, before his fight. He had no good reason for it—the fight was in an hour, the place was half-empty, the crowd still trickling in—but he’d gotten restless at the apartment and figured he’d find you early, steal a few minutes before the room filled up. 

He came down the concrete stairs and heard Leo’s voice before he saw anything, and the sound of it stopped Pope three steps from the bottom. Pope had never once in his life heard the guy yell, lose control, and the voice coming up was low and almost patient, like you’d talk to a child or a dog. 

“ —count it again,” Leo was saying. “‘Cause I counted it, and I’m coming up short. That’s a problem, you know that, right?”

“I counted it three times,” you said, your voice flat and so, so careful it gnawed at him. “It’s all here. I swear, it’s all—”

“Don’t swear to me, sweetheart. Count.” 

Pope came down the last steps quiet. You were at the cash table with the box open in front of you and your hands unsteady on the bills. Leo was standing close to you, like that was the point—looming, using the size of himself—as he crowded you back against the table. He was making you do the math all out in a flat, dead voice, your shoulders up around your ears, and Pope watched you flinch when Leo shifted his weight even though the guy hadn’t done anything.

“You’re light,” Leo said, soft. “You’re light and you’re trying to swear. You know what happens to my count when one of my girls gets light.” He let his words hang, tilting his head. “It comes out of the square. Adds to it. You’re going backwards, sweetheart, after all this time. Going the wrong direction.”

Leo reached and took your jaw in his hand—almost gently, tipping your face up out of the count—and your body went still, and that was the second you saw Pope behind Leo’s shoulder. 

“Don’t touch her,” Pope said, without thinking about it. 

Leo turned, unhurried, his hand still loose at your jaw before he let it drop, on his own time. He was making a point of it, Pope realized. “It’s off.” He spread the hand, easy, showing him. “See? We’re just talking. Business.” 

Then, he turned to look at you, chin tipping down. “You really messing around with this guy? I thought it was just people making shit up.” 

“People talk—” you started to say.

“You were just waitin’ around for some rich guy to come along?” He looked at you, shaking his head. “That it?” Then, he turned to Pope. “She could’ve gotten out a lot earlier—you know that right?” He shook his head, like he was disappointed. “Could’ve taken the back room, cut the number down to nothing in a couple months. Easy. Plenty of guys asking. But no, she just wanted to do it the long way.” He tipped his chin at Pope, lazy. “—And then go and give it away to you. For free.”

Pope’s pulse should’ve been climbing. It had gone flat and slow and cold. “Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” He asked, almost fond. “You gonna—”

The gun was out before he decided to pull it. His hand went to the small of his back and came around and then the thing was there, level, steady, muzzle a few inches off Leo’s forehead. 

The guy stopped smiling. He didn’t flinch—Pope gave him that—but he went very slow, very careful, his hands drifting up off his sides. His palms were loose and open.

“Okay,” Leo said, quiet now. “Okay. Easy.”

“Are you kidding me?” Pope muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t have a damn gun on you?” 

“I don’t need a gun in my own place,” he said through gritted teeth. His eyes flicked to the stairs, then back to the muzzle. “You wanna put that down before you get stupid over nothing?”

He’d half-hoped that Leo would’ve been carrying, show any sign that he felt afraid. “Her number. Say it.”

“That’s not—” He huffed, almost a laugh, disbelieving. “That’s not how—there’s a process to this, there’s people I gotta answer to.”

Pope’s lips flattened, eyes flicking to the ceiling, annoyed. “You know I’ll do it, man. I don’t care enough not to.” 

Leo’s smile dropped then. “Half the room’s had their hands on her, you know that? She’s not somebody’s girlfriend, man. The second she doesn’t need either of us, she’s not looking back at you any more than she’s looking back at me.” 

Pope let out a short chuckle. “Now you’re getting whatever I’ve got in my pocket or I’m shooting. Your call.” 

“You’re making a mistake,” the guy said, his last call, Pope realized. “You can’t pull a gun on me and —”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem.” Pope’s hand stayed still. “Right now, you take the money, she’s square, she walks.” His head tipped, slight. “Say yes, man. You’re a smart guy. Say yes.” Pope nudged the gun slightly further into his head. He leaned his head closer to the guy’s ear, voice dropping into a register that would’ve been too low for you to hear. “I’ve put people down for less than this. You know that.”

Leo took a beat. “Fine.” The word came out flat, bitten-off. “Fine. The money. She’s square. Get it out slow, I don’t want your fucking hand movin’ fast near me.”

Pope reached into his jacket with his off hand—the gun never leaving Leo's face—and pulled the roll, the whole fight roll, thick and rubber-banded, and tossed it onto the table by the box. It landed heavy. Leo didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on Pope, and his hands stayed up, and the deal sat there in the dead air between them, made.

Leo looked at it, and a long moment passed. He let out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. “That’s it?” 

“You should’ve said yes the first time. You knew I was good for it,” Pope said. “Say it,” he added. “She’s good. Tell her so she hears it.” 

“You’re square,” he said to you, the words ugly. “You don’t owe me shit. Don’t come back.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Either of you.” 

Pope held the gun where it was a beat longer than he had to—long enough to make it clear the leaving was his idea, not Leo's permission—and then he lowered it, slow, and stepped back, and reached out without looking and found your wrist.

“Let’s go,” Pope said roughly to you. 

You didn’t move at first. He had to tug your forearm once, and then you came, stumbling off the spot you’d been rooted to, and he put himself between you and Leo and walked you up the concrete stairs and out the side door into the lot, into the air that was finally air, with the gun cooling against his back and your pulse hammering under his fingers where he still had your wrist.

Pope let out a shaky breath as he tipped his neck back to look at the sky. He’d assumed that one day, he would’ve figured it out, how to help you—it would have been cleaner, probably, and wouldn’t have happened right in front of you—and he hadn’t thought it’d be fucking today. 

He still had your wrist. He made himself let it go, and turned to look at you. You were looking at nothing, at the chain-link past the lot, your arms coming to wrap around yourself, holding your elbows.

“Get in the car,” he said to you. 

You stayed still.

Pope shook his head once, pressing his lips together. He nodded at the truck. “C’mon. Just get in the truck.”

You stayed rooted there in the orange light, arms folded over yourself, shaking your head faintly—not at him, not a no exactly, just somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't reach you. He felt the impatience climb in him, the adrenaline still draining, the gun still warm against his back and the tomorrow-problem already stacking up behind his ribs, and it came out rougher than he meant.

“Just—get in the damn car.” He dragged his palm down his face and exhaled. 

You went around to the passenger side and shut the door. He got in beside you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. He pulled out the lot and drove the way he always did with you, to his apartment. You sat against the window with your knees pulled up and your arms still around yourself, and he kept glancing over, waiting for it, the thing he could feel build up.

“You mad at me?” he asked, the words coming out choked, almost like he was forcing them out. 

You took in a breath and looked out the window. “Are you gonna be fine?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m safe.” 

You nodded, even though he could tell you didn’t believe it. He wanted to tell you that he was probably the most safe guy in Oceanside, part of a family that would make sure nothing happened to anyone in it, even if they all may hate each other deep down. 

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you said a moment later. “I wanted to do it myself.” 

Pope knew what you meant, but he wanted you to talk more, just so he could justify it. “Yeah?”

“I was gonna work it down to nothing,” you continued. “And one day it’d just be done, and I’d—walk out. And it’d be cause I did it. Me. The one thing that was gonna be mine.” 

“You weren’t getting out.” When you snapped your head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, he forced to keep himself looking at the road. “I’m sorry, but you were never getting out. Don’t be dumb. I know you wanted to.” 

“Don’t call me dumb.”

“Then don’t be.” He shook his head. “You’re paying off a debt that’s not even yours when you could be—what? Working anywhere that gives you an actual paycheck. He wasn’t gonna let you have that. There’s no fucking contract making sure he lets you out.” 

You looked back at the window, jaw tight. “I didn’t want you buying me,” you said quietly. “That’s exactly the thing I didn’t want. Now I’m—I don’t want to owe you, Andrew. I like you.”

“You don’t owe me,” he said, voice rough, trying to ignore what the words did to his chest.

“That’s not how—”

“It’s how it works with me,” he said flatly. “I didn’t buy you. Don’t say shit like that. I bought you out.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “There’s nothing you owe me.”

“I wanted it to be clean,” you said, and Pope almost wanted to shut you up. “Us. I wanted to get out and just be—someone you liked. Not somebody you had to save or something like that.”

“Well, that’s too bad, then,” he rasped. “You can come with me. You can go wherever you want. You’re out, you can choose.” He killed the engine as the car reached his apartment. “You are someone I like already. I never liked who you had to be, but I like you—this, whatever it is. Alright?”

A part of Pope knew he shouldn’t have taken the job. Robberies were always a mess, but Baz had a fondness for them. And Baz had a kid and a whole life balanced on not going inside, and Pope had a girl who he wasn’t even sure was his girl, and no good reason in the world to be holding the bag when it went wrong.

So now there was a phone bolted to a cinderblock wall and a line of men behind him and a number he’d memorized. Thank God he’d memorized. 

It rang twice. 

“Hello?” 

The sound of your voice did something itchy to his sternum. He’d last heard it three weeks ago, before the job, when you’d been half-asleep against his shoulder in the truck outside your place. You’d told him to call you when he got home. 

“Andrew?” you asked immediately, like just an exhalation of his breath, you could recognize. “You’re in jail?” 

He forced out a dry chuckle, because the opposite would’ve gotten him kicked. “Folsom County.” 

“Jesus—why?”

“Robbery. It was a—a family thing—” He kept it short. The line was recorded; half of what he wanted to say, he couldn’t, and the other half, he wouldn’t. Especially not to you, not like this, with a guard at his back and a clock ticking somewhere. 

“Can I visit you?” you asked immediately. The hope in your words tightened something in his chest so hard he had to close his eyes to loosen it even a fraction. “How long are you in there for?” 

“No—don’t. Hey, listen,” he said, voice shaking and he hated it. “You—you gotta be safe, okay? If anything happens, I need you to look for—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t take care of you from here,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need to make sure you’ll be okay.”

“How long are you in for?” you asked, weary, like you’d read somewhere between the lines and realized that you were going to hate the answer.

“Six years,” he said, letting out another sigh. Then, because he couldn’t help himself when he heard you go silent on the other end, he said, “I’m sorry.” He pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if that did anything. 

“Fuck—fuck, Andrew. Six years—?” you said, voice so sharp he could feel it cut through him. He heard you breath, trying to collect yourself. “Okay. Okay—I can come there, to you. Visit you and stuff, alright?”

“You’re not living the next six years meeting me behind a glass, alright?” 

“I don’t care about that.” 

“I do.” It came out rougher than he’d intended. He pressed his forehead to the cold block, eyes shut as his free hand came up to tug at his hair. The line of men and the guards and the whole gray space fell away from him for a second, and it was just your voice in his ear and him trying, failing, to do one right thing for you. “You just got out—I’m not putting you back in. You got out, and you—you can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t want it without you,” you said, voice breaking clean down the middle, and it about took him out at the knees, standing there in his county blues with a telephone crushed to his ear. 

“You’re not thinking right,” he said, trying to get the words out slowly, like saying it that way would make you believe them. “You’re not waiting for me for six years. You know how long that is?” 

Pope was at a loss in this; he’d never had to push someone away before. Every person he’d needed gone, before he even knew he did, he’d made himself ugly enough to push it out. He didn’t have the ugly to use on you; he’d used up every bad thing in front of you already and you’d stayed anyway, and now he had nothing left to drive you away with except the truth, which was that Pope loved you too much to let you do this to yourself.

He couldn’t say that either because maybe then you’d really never leave.

You only breathed on the other end, and he could hear the hitch of your voice when you started to try saying something, then stopped. 

“I won’t like it,” he said, quieter now, “if you wait for me.”

It was a lie and you both heard it. He didn’t try to sell it harder and let it sit there, all wrong, and moved on before you could call him out from it, because he had something he needed you to have more than he needed to win the argument.

“Listen,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “You got something to write with? Or open something on your phone to get it.” 

“Andrew—”

“Please.” 

Something in his voice must’ve reached you, because he heard you shift. 

“Okay,” you said, voice thick. “Okay.”

He recited the number, slow and twice, so you’d have it right. “That’s Baz. Alright? Barry Blackwell—write that down, too. My brother.” His teeth gritted. “You don’t ever have to call it, but you keep it. And if anything ever—” His jaw worked, and he pinched his eyes shut at the horrible thoughts. “If money gets tight or if people come sniffing around even though they shouldn’t. If you get caught up in anything—somebody gives you trouble, or anything, the car dies, whatever it is. You call him. You say you’re mine, say Pope said to call. He’ll help.” 

“I don’t want your brother to—”

He didn’t want his brother to, either. Baz had a bad track record with people Pope considered his, people Pope loved. He pressed his molars together at the thought of Baz with you, of all people. Despite how much love he held for his brother, he didn’t like the thought. Six years was a long, long time. 

Six years was long enough to forget a voice, long enough for the thing you’d been holding in your hands to shift without noticing, long enough for a warm and present man to become more real than a memory behind a glass. Baz wouldn’t. But he can’t imagine Baz ever meeting you and not seeing what Pope loved about you, what everyone could love about you. 

“It’s the only way I can do anything for you,” he said quickly, making sure you’d understand. “It’ll make me happy.”

He heard you choke slightly on the other end. “Can you call me, then? If I can’t visit you.” 

He wanted to say yes. It would've cost him nothing in the moment and it would've ruined you slow, six years of you living from phone call to phone call, your whole life arranged around fifteen minutes of a recorded line, waiting on a man in a cage. And he knew he’d rightfully deserved to be caged. He’d seen what waiting did to you. He’d pulled a gun to get you out from under exactly that.

“No,” he said. “You stay out. You got out. Stay out of all of it, including me.”

And a part of him believed he was doing you a favor, despite it all. He’d never quite gotten you all the way like he’d wanted—merged your life into his and his yours—and maybe that was for the better. As long as you were wrapped up with him, you would’ve been wrapped up with his family, the jobs, the heists, the next county lockup waiting for him somewhere down the line. 

Your little brother deserved a sister who could come home clean, someone who didn’t have a Cody-shaped problem following her through the door. He’d been told he was the worst of them; he was built up for a purpose and it wasn’t the kind of thing you brought home. Pope cared about you enough to know that; it was hard not to realize it, standing in prison. 

He heard you say a jumble of words in one breath, and he couldn’t quite catch any over the ringing in his own ears. The guard said he had sixty seconds left.

“I’d do it again, I swear,” he said, fast, before your voice cut off. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—it was short.”

Your breath stopped for a second, then you asked, forcing an even voice, “How will I know you’re okay?” 

“I’ll be fine. I got people watching my back, I swear.” 

“Please, just—”

“Bye,” he said, forcing his voice gentle. “Take care of yourself, okay? And the kid.” 

The sound you made—wet and broken, landing like a wound he’d probably carry for six years—was the last of you he let himself take. He set the receiver down slow, like slow made it kinder, before you could say his name again. Because he never would've managed it if you'd said his name again.

The line went dead under his palm.

Before him, you never saw the sea.

Your parents never took you anywhere. Vacations were for other families, the ones whose fathers didn't drink through their paychecks and whose mothers didn't disappear into their bedrooms for days.

Your friends would plan trips—bus tickets, shared hostel rooms—and you'd watch them go from your bedroom window, forehead still throbbing from the night before. They'd come back with sunburns and blurry photos and stories you weren't part of.

"Sorry, we just don't want you to be... uncomfortable. You know, with money and stuff. We didn't think your parents would let you."

Uncomfortable.

Right.

They meant they didn't want you to make them uncomfortable. With your bruises. Your empty wallet. Your nervous habit of saying sorry for existing.

Guess who took you there?

Him.

You mentioned it to him once, months later, in the truck with the windows down and the radio playing static between stations. A joke that wasn't really a joke. You do that sometimes—say things with a laugh tacked on at the end so no one feels obligated to care.

"You know, I've never seen the sea."

"Let's go then."

Just like that. He pulled over at the next gas station, checked the oil, bought you a pack of those gummy worms you like, and pointed the truck east.

It was a long way. Seven hours. The seats were cracked vinyl and the air conditioning was broken, so you drove with the windows down and the hot wind whipping your hair into knots. You fell asleep somewhere around hour four, your cheek pressed against the seatbelt, the vibration of the road humming through your bones.

You drifted in and out, and in that half conscious haze, you felt it—the warmth of his hand on your thigh. Just... there. Heavy. Calloused thumb tracing slow circles against the inside of your knee, barely moving, like he was trying not to wake you. You kept your eyes closed and didn't move. Your heart was pounding. You didn't know if it was fear or something else. You still don't.

When you finally stood on the sand and watched the waves roll in, you started shaking. You had spent your whole life in a cage, and this man had simply... unlocked the door. He stood behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

"You see?" he murmured into your ear. "There's a whole world out there. And I'm gonna show you all of it. Just you and me."

Just you and him.

That was the best day of your life.

He's the best thing that has ever happened in your life.

You always wanted to try alcohol and cigarettes. Normal teenage curiosities, the kind other kids explored at parties and bonfires, the kind your father beat out of you when you stole one of his beers. You were fifteen. He cracked your head open on the kitchen counter and told you he'd do worse if you ever touched his stuff again. Your mother held a dish towel to the wound and whispered, "Why do you always make him mad?"

But he let you try it. The first time, he sat you down on the back of his truck bed, legs dangling, the night sky smeared with stars. He handed you a bottle—something cheap, bitter—and watched you wince at the taste.

"It's okay if it's with me," he said, taking the bottle back, his fingers brushing yours. "But you shouldn't do it with other people. They will take advantage of you. Bad things happen."

Then he took a slow drag of his cigarette, leaned in, and kissed you. Smoke curled between your tongues. The taste was bitter and acrid and absolutely nothing like you'd imagined your first kiss to be.

You loved it. You loved it because it was him. Because he was giving you something your father tried to beat out of you.

He pulled back and looked at you with dark eyes. "You shouldn't do this with anyone else. Only me. Promise me."

"I promise."

You promised. You'd promise him anything.

He never lets you drink with anyone else. He's always there—leaning against the wall at the party you didn't really want to go, watching from the truck when your "friends" invite you out, texting you to check in, to remind you he's waiting, to ask if you're okay, if you need him, if anyone's bothering you.

Your friends don't like him.

They say he's broke. They say he's creepy, the way he just there, the way he never talks to them. They say he's too old for you—what does a grown man want with a girl like you? They say he didn't finish his education, that he's going nowhere, that he's dragging you down with him.

"Oh my god, why is he always there? It's suffocating."

Because he loves you.

That's why he's always around. That's why he waits outside your job at the diner to walk you home. That's why he knows your schedule better than you do. That's why he once followed a guy three blocks because he catcalled you and you never saw that guy again. You didn't ask what happened. You didn't want to know. You just felt safe.

People don't want to be around people they don't like, right? Your father never wanted to be around you. Your mother took extra shifts just to avoid the house. Your friends stopped inviting you places long before he came along.

"What do you mean he doesn't want you to drink with us? That's controlling."

Shut up.

You don't know shit.

You don't know anything.

Your so called friends are just a bunch of spoiled cunts who've never felt the weight of a grown man's fist. They've never hidden in a closet and prayed for the footsteps to pass. They've never learned to read the temperature of a room by the way a door slams. They don't understand what it means to be really alone, and they don't understand what it means to be saved.

He doesn't want you drinking with them because they don't know how to take care of you. They'd let you get sick. They'd let you wander off. They'd let someone slip something in your cup and then say "oh my god that's so crazy" the next morning while you piece yourself back together alone.

He would never let that happen.

So yeah. Controlling. Sure. If "controlling" means "would die before letting a single bad thing touch you ever again," then fine. Call the police.

They don't understand.

But he does.

He was the one who got rid of your dad's body after all.

You didn't mean it.

You really didn't mean it.

It wasn't even a conscious decision. It was an instinct. A flinch. A lifetime of fear exploding outward in one desperate motion. Your father was beating you again. With his belt. The iron buckle caught the light every time he raised his arm, and it came down on your back like a brand. It made your back bleed. You could feel the wetness soaking through your shirt, sticky and hot.

He had you by the hair. Ripping it out in chunks. Your scalp screamed. You couldn't see straight. You couldn't breathe. You never understood why he hated you this much. You still don't. Maybe there is no reason. Maybe some people are just born into the world already burning, and the flames have to go somewhere.

And you were so tired.

You'd had a headache all day. A migraine, probably, from stress and hunger and the fact that you hadn't slept more than three hours in two days. And he kept ripping your hair out, and the pain was everywhere, and your vision was going white—

So you pushed him.

Not hard. Just a shove. Just a desperate, flailing attempt to make it stop.

But he was drunk. He was always drunk. And he was standing at the top of the stairs. And his balance was gone.

And he fell.

He didn't even scream. Just a grunt of surprise, then the sound of his body hitting the steps one by one by one. Then silence.

He died.

Just like that.

The blood spread so fast. It painted the floorboards black in the dim hallway light. His neck was bent wrong, his eyes open and empty.

You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in and your hands wouldn't stop shaking and the blood was still spreading, creeping everywhere like a living thing.

So you called him.

You didn't even think. Your fingers dialed his number before your brain caught up. He answered on the first ring. He always does.

He didn't ask questions. He didn't panic. He just said "I'm on my way." and hung up.

He came in through the back door. He saw the body. He saw you, trembling, still holding the phone. And he didn't flinch. He didn't gasp. He just walked over, stepped carefully around the blood, and pulled you into his chest.

"Hey. Look at me. Look at me."

You couldn't. You were staring at the body. At what you'd done.

"No," he said, and his hands cupped your face, forced your eyes to his. "Don't look at him. Look at me. Only me. Okay?"

Okay.

"Good girl. Now listen. You're going to go upstairs and take a bath. Lock the door. Don't come down until I tell you. Can you do that?"

You nodded. You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered.

"Good. Go."

But your legs were giving out and your vision was blurring and he had to carry you.

He ran the bath himself. Checked the temperature with his elbow—gentle, so gentle—and helped you out of your ruined shirt. You were too numb to be embarrassed. He didn't look at you with pity or disgust. He looked at the gashes on your back, the old scars layered beneath the new ones, and his jaw tightened so hard you could hear his teeth grinding. But his hands were feather light when he cleaned the wounds, when he helped you into the warm water and told you to stay there until he came back.

"I'll take care of everything," he said, and kissed your forehead. "Everything's alright."

Then he went downstairs.

You heard things. Sounds. Thumps. The back door opening and closing. The truck engine starting, then fading into the night. And then nothing. Hours of nothing while you sat in the cooling water and shivered and prayed—to God, to the universe, to anything that might be listening.

Please don't let them find out.

Please don't let them take me away.

Please don't let him get caught.

Please.

Please.

Please.

When you came back downstairs, the body was gone. The floor was clean. The bleach smell was so strong it burned your nose, but there was no blood. Not a single drop. Your father had vanished from the world like he'd never existed.

Your mother asked you where your dad was and you said you don't know. She looked at you for a long moment—too long—and you felt your stomach drop, but then she just nodded and went back to her phone. She didn't ask again. Not the next day, and not the day after. Maybe she knew. Maybe she was just grateful. You never found out.

You couldn't sleep for days. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the fall. The sound. The way his neck bent. So you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, praying to gods you didn't believe in.

And then one day, he came back. Like nothing had happened.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you into the heat of his chest, pressed his lips to your hair.

"Look," he whispered.

You looked.

Huh?

"I got you the shoes you wanted."

That made you break down—heaving sobs that tore out of your throat like they'd been waiting years to escape. He held you. He didn't shush you. He just let you soak his clean shirt with tears and snot, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed flat against your spine, careful to avoid the bandages.

"I've got you," he whispered against your hair. "No one's ever going to hurt you again. No one."

You believe him. Because he's the only person who's ever protected you.

Your friends still don't understand. They send you texts about "red flags" and "power imbalances." They don't know that he's the only reason you're still alive. That if he hadn't picked up the phone that night, you might have just lain down beside your father's body and let the cold take you too.

But he did pick up. He always picks up.

He's the only one who loves you like this. The kind of love that wraps around your throat like a warm scarf and you can't tell if it's keeping you safe or cutting off your air. But the truth is, you don't even care.

It's been two years now. Your father's case is still open, technically, but no one is looking very hard. The house got sold. Your mother moved away. You moved in with him, into that tiny studio with the broken ceiling fan and the mattress on the floor. It's not much. But it's yours.

You have a ring on your finger now. It's not a diamond—he couldn't afford that—but it's silver, tarnished, old. He found it at a pawn shop, he said. Something about the way he said it made you think maybe he didn't. Maybe it belonged to someone. Maybe he took it. You don't ask.

"I'll get you a real one someday," he promised, sliding it onto your finger with those grease stained hands. "When I've saved up. When things are settled."

You told him it was already real. You told him you didn't need anything else.

His smile almost reached his eyes that day.

He works during the day. You stay home. He says you don't need to work—he'll take care of everything. He's never been controlling about it, exactly. He just says it's safer this way. That the world is full of people like your father, people who will see your softness and try to crush it. He's protecting you.

You're not sure when "I love you" started to sound like "don't leave the apartment." You're not sure when "I'm the only one who understands you" started to feel less like comfort and more like a cage.

But maybe cages aren't so bad. Maybe safety is worth the bars.

Sometimes, when he's asleep, you think about leaving. You think about taking what little money you have and catching a bus to somewhere far away, somewhere you've never been, somewhere no one knows your name or what you did. You think about starting over. Being normal. Free.

But then he shifts in his sleep and reaches for you, even unconscious, his arm curling around your waist like you're something precious.

And you stay. You always stay.

Because you love him.

You love him so much it terrifies you.

Because if he ever left—if he ever decided you weren't worth the trouble—you would have nothing. Less than nothing. You would have the memory of what it felt like to be held, and the knowledge that you could never go back to the cold. He is your everything. And the most terrifying part, the thought that keeps you awake at night when he's not there, isn't that he might hurt you.

It's that you would let him.

If he wanted to. If he decided one day that you owed him more than gratitude. If his hands, which have only ever been gentle, turned into something else. You would let him. Because he's earned it. Because you owe him everything. Because after what you did, who else would ever want you? Who else could ever look at you and see anything but a murderer?

Only him.

Only ever him.

Your friends don't understand.

But it's okay.

You stopped talking to them months ago. With his help. He said it was better this way. He said they were toxic. He said they made you feel bad about yourself. He was right. He's always right.

Now it's just you and him.

The way it was always meant to be.

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 :) 𖹭