Shop Smart Shop S Mart

"Pope!" Deran sounded surprised as he finally spotted his older brother. It wasn't too often that Pope showed up around here, especially on busy Friday nights.

"Hey," Pope was still distracted by the filth on the counter and his hands. "You really have to get this cleaned." He grumbled, and Deran just shrugged. 

Pope was usually unhappy with the state of his bar when he came in. He was accustomed to it by now.

"Did she call you?" Deran asked, having finally grabbed a small towel to mop off the mess that Pope was pointing at with a frown.

"Did who call me?" now pointing at a different stain, and when Deran said your name, Pope's head shot up, his attention finally on his brother. "She's here?"

Deran's eyebrows furrowed. "Has been. For hours, actually."

Pope's head turned, how did he miss you? He'd practically looked at everyone when he walked in. Deran pointed at a corner, and without missing a beat, Pope was off in that direction. 

You were sitting in a booth opposite of Craig, pushing a tiny glass back and forth back and forth across the table, leaving a water stain. Craig had been talking for a while, Pope could already tell from this far. You only acquired that spaced out look, after Craig had spoken to you for more than five minutes. He'd seen it your face several times, as well as on his own. 

Pope stepped up to your table, announcing himself simply by standing there, mute. Craig lifted his head from where he'd been staring at you intensely while talking. "What are you doing here?" was the first thing he directed at his brother. 

But Pope wasn't even looking at him, eyes locked onto you, worried.

You weren't meeting his eyes. At all. It's like you didn't even hear him. Pope continued to ignore his brother and bent down to your eye line. "Hey."

You turned your head slowly from where you'd been staring at the table. "Andrew!" you sounded surprised, but not unhappy as you finally locked eyes with him.

Craig hit the table with a groan, startling you. "Thanks dude, really." He shot his brother a look that held thousands of insults for ruining his 'game', but Pope didn't even glance at him as he slid in next to you and grabbed your glass, looking into it.

"Beer?" he asked with a frown, setting it back. 

You shrugged and lifted your legs, bending them until your kneecaps hit the table. There was sweat at your temple, shining, and your eyes weren't really focusing on him. 

"Hey," he said, trying to get your attention back on him. You barely raised your head, vaguely looking into his direction. "Look at me." He felt you startle by the sound of his voice, your eyes lifting to him. "Did Craig do something?" 

"No." The way you weren't looking at him, again, exposed your lie.

"I'm taking you home." Pope wanted to storm up to his brother and drag him to a corner, until he finally told him why you were this upset, and why you had seemingly not stopped reaching for more beer since the second you've stepped foot into this bar.

You stared at him for a second, really staring in a way you had never had before. Pope allowed you to, subtly dropping his gaze to check if you had any marks on you, if you were actually okay. 

His mind was always believing in the worst case scenarios since they were typically true in his life. In his instance his biggest nightmares always came true, so he learned to anticipate the worst, to give himself time to react rather that to process.

"'S'okay." You turned your head away. "Crag will take me home."

Pope's lips formed a frown, and the rejection settled hard in his heart. This was the first time ever you'd chosen his brother over him. Anytime, Any place, you always chose him. Car ride? You're going with Pope. Couch empty? You were still choosing to sit next to Pope. 

His hand twitched against his sides and curled it into a fist, trying to get control of his body back. "Craig won't be out of here for at least a few hours, and you're tired."

"I'm not tired," you mumbled, now drawing a heart in the condensation over and over again.

"Yes, you are," And you wanted to object even though he was right. "Get up."

You stared at him and you seemed taken aback by his insistence. You glanced back down at your glass, considering, and Pope waited, because he'd wait all night. Even if you decided to go with Craig, he'd still wait. You were drunk, too drunk. He'd never seen you like this. You'd never been like this. 

Pope was itching to get his hands on Craig, forcing him to spill out the words that had clearly led you to gulp down so many drinks.

You finally stood up, shaky and when Pope reached out his hands, he felt you flinch, and he felt sick. His hands shot back to his sides, straightening by his sides as he stared at you. Craig said something about him.

There was no other explanation for your rapid switch in behavior. You'd never flinched away from his touch. Never. 

You supported yourself on the edge of the table, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When you appeared to be okay, you finally glanced at him. He was looking at you patiently and extended his hand, pointing towards the exit. And you stepped ahead of him without another word. 

Pope looked back over his shoulder back to where his youngest brother stood, but Craig was already distracted by another girl, and Pope's sole justification for not stomping over there and punching him in the face was you. 

He hurriedly opened the door for you and you muttered a brief thank you, still incapable of ignoring etiquette.

Pope led you to his car, which was conveniently parked nearby. He wasn't sure how you'd have walked over there with your unsteady legs. 

He opened the passenger door for you, and you climbed in, just barely, still incredibly inebriated. You then sat there with your hands politely in your lap like you usually did. Even your drunken state, you were polite. 

Pope was almost irritated by it. You never let your guard down. He wanted you to be comfortable, to just be yourself, let yourself loose, move your hands the way you wanted them to. To just do something…. stupid.

"Buckle up," he mumbled, still holding the car door wide open. 

You grabbed the seat belt and attempted to buckle yourself, but you didn't have the strength. Your arms were too weak, so Pope stepped closer, gently removed them from your hand and strapped you in. All while he felt you back away from him as much as you could, your back pressed firmly against the seat, head up right up against the headrest. 

He pulled back quickly, not giving you one more look, not wanting to see your facial expression anymore. It hurt him too much. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, why you didn't want to look at him or touch him, and he didn't want to know.

The car ride was quiet. It wasn't until five minutes, at least, had passed that Pope couldn't bear the silence anymore. "What did Craig say to you?"

You turned your head slowly towards him. "A lot." At least you'd changed your answer to something truthful this time.

Pope curled his lips into a straight line, almost angry. But he didn't bother saying anything else, he knew he wasn't getting anything out of you now. 

When you arrived, you swiftly unbuckled yourself and sought to exist the car, but he locked the door immediately. "Don't get out. You're drunk. I'll help you," he said quietly, waiting for you to take your hand off the handle. 

You withdrew your hand to your lap slowly, still not looking at him. He unlocked the doors, hurrying to your side, before you'd try to get out on your own again. When he opened the door, you locked eyes with him for the first time tonight. You stared at him for a while, as he extended his palm waiting for you to take his hand.

"You're nice to me," you whispered. 

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn't sure if he was nice to you, but he knew he treated you differently than he did other people. He was glad to know that you considered it to be nice. But the sentence appeared rather random and anxiety flooded his veins.

"Everyone should be nice to you," he replied quietly, as you gently grabbed his hand, your hands slowly capturing his big one. He helped you out until your feet were on the floor, at which point your other hand came out and held onto his waist. Your finger wrapped tightly around his shirt, nails digging into his waist, and you forced your eyes shut. "Sorry. Dizzy," you whispered.

"You're fine." 

It took you a while, but you finally weakened your grip before dropping it altogether, followed by the other. Pope clenched his fist and then opened it again, missing your warmth. He gently grabbed for your waist, moving you away from the door, before swiftly abandoning the contact as he shut the car door. 

You were still standing there watching him with your big eyes, when he turned around, pocketing his car keys. 

"Do you have your keys?" he asked, trying to stop you from staring at him this intensely. It was scaring him, almost like you were staring right into his soul.

"No," you mumbled, shaking your head with genuine sadness. "I lost them." 

Pope glanced down at your bag. "They're in your front pocket." 

You looked down, eyebrows furrowing. "How do you know?" 

Pope didn't respond, allowing you to search through the bag yourself, until you finally heard the clinking of your keys and lightened up. "Oh! Not lost."

"Not lost," Pope repeated, as he slowly stepped towards you, palm on your back, and led you towards your apartment door. You followed without another word. 

Pope wasn't sure if this was your typical drunk self; you'd never been drunk around him, so he didn't know if your lack of words and smile were normal.

It took you a bit to get the keys into your lock, but Pope was patient, spending the wait, just watching you. 

You looked pretty; You were more dressed up than normal. Your hair was in two braids on either side, and you were wearing a white dress. You looked beautiful. 

He wished he'd arrived earlier, hung out with you, spent time with you and mustered up the courage to tell you how pretty you looked. He knew Craig had gotten the privilege of that first, Deran may have as well. He would've given anything to see your shy smile.

When you managed the door open, you glanced back. "Thank you for driving me."

It sounded like a goodbye, so Pope shoved his foot into the door. "You're drunk," he said, and a guilty expression immediately formed on your face. 

"I know," you whispered, ashamed.

"You shouldn't be alone." 

You opened the door further without another word. It appeared like you opened the door to avoid arguing with him rather than to actually welcome him into your apartment as you usually did. 

Pope hesitated, it felt almost like he was trespassing, despite the fact that your apartment had always seemed more like a home than his own ever had.

He stepped in, locking the door behind him before looking at you. "You should change." He walked past you towards your kitchen. "I'll get you water."

You walked past him without a word, wobbly and slow, heading towards your bedroom, leaving the door open. Pope remained in the kitchen, hands twitching nervously. He could still feel your warmth lingering on his fingers and he felt jittery and uncomfortable in his own flesh. He had never felt this way about you before; you soothed him like no one else. His head only quieted down when you were around. The buzzing in his brain ceased as soon as your vanilla scent struck his nose.

But tonight, something was wrong. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't you simply being drunk. Something was seriously wrong.

He filled your favorite cup, a small blue one with seashells all over it, with water and carefully headed towards your bedroom. "Are you dressed?" he called out, halting just before he could see inside.

You hummed, and he came in to see you seated on the side of your bed. This time in a tank top and some shorts, your dress from earlier on the floor. He stared down at it, before setting the water on your nightstand. He bent down and retrieved the dress, before placing it in your laundry basket, which was already beginning to pile up. He frowned; perhaps he should do your laundry, but out of the corner of his eye he saw you rub your eyes tiredly, smudging whatever makeup you'd been wearing.

You rubbed again and again, until Pope finally turned to you, bending down lightly, and gently encircled his fingers around your wrist. "Don't do that," he muttered, and you looked down at him. Eyes shining brightly despite the dim nightlight on your nightstand. It was silent as you stared at him, not uttering a single word.

"Why are you here?" you finally whispered after a while.

Pope stared back, lips still curled into a frown. He just wanted to take care of you. "You're drunk." 

"I know that," you retorted, almost angrily, but still in a quiet voice. "Why are you here?" Your eyes were filled with desperation, like there was a right answer to the question. 

Pope didn't know it. He didn't know what the right answer was, and he felt panic creep up on him.

"I—I'm making sure you're okay." He decided on the safest answer. It sounded like the most reasonable to him. It sounded better than I don't like being away from you. I don't want you with with Craig. I'm scared you'll leave me for him. I'm scared he'll tell you about the things I've done. I'm scared you'll leave.

You stared down at him for a long time, before your eyes fell back into your lap, staring there for a while, fingers twitching nervously. "Craig said stuff." 

Popes ears perked up. Finally. "What did he say?" He had to bite down hard on his tongue to not let the angry tone escape him, but you noticed it anyway.

You waited, almost doing it on purpose, like you knew this was what he needed, and you wanted to take it and keep it from him. This was your version of cruelty. This is the worst thing you'd ever do to him, and he hated to tell you that this was nothing. That he considered this to be grace, because at least he was in your home. At least you were letting him touch your knees gently. At least he was allowed to look at you. That whatever you considered to be his punishment was mercy to him.

"He told me about—" you pinched your eyes tight as if recalling something awful, like it hurt you. And Pope couldn't wait to get his hands on Craig. "Just—" you couldn't get the words out and your lips were pressed so tight together that Pope was terrified you were going to start crying.

"Come on," he said, making you finally look up, and he was right, your eyes were wet. "We have to get your make up off," he muttered, and you seemed grateful for the escape, nodding, as you stood up and headed to the bathroom.

You immediately reached for one of your drawers, grabbing the wipes, but Pope gently took them from your hand. "You're shaking."

You lowered your hands to your side, turning to face him, and he motioned towards the counter. You turned your back on it, and Pope placed the wipes on the counter, before placing his hands on your waist, helping you up. You could hardly stand let alone get on your bathroom counter, so you were grateful for his warm hands assisting you. The moment you were seated, he let go as if burned.

Opening the box, he hesitantly grabbed the first wipe. But you were already scooting farther on the counter, opening your legs, and he carefully stepped between them before slowly reaching for your face. One hand rested on your while while the other began cleaning your face. You stared at him and with your bathroom light, his hazel eyes were nearly green, and he looked so pretty, your chest ached.

"I don't know why we're friends," you whispered, and Pope froze, his brain just catching on to the word friends. His hands dropped from your face as he stared at you.

"What's that supposed to mean?" was all he managed, almost breathless with hurt. His voice cracked. He didn't even bother to hide how much that question hurt.

"I just—" you realized, even in your drunken state, that you might've phrased this in the most horrible way possible. "Craig told me so much. "

You leaned forward slightly, causing his hand to travel to your hips and push you back on the counter so you wouldn't fall off. He held it there, desperate to know that you didn't despise him, and you wouldn't push him away.

You didn't. Instead, you reached down, gently grasping it and turning it over in your hand, as if you needed to hold onto him as well.

You stared down at his palm. "He said a lot," you repeated. "And I just—I don't know why you're here." 

It sounded like a rejection of him, of who he was, and Pope felt cold and warm all over his body. Nauseous too. 

Here it was. Of course, he couldn't have you. Of course, you'd be taken away from him. He didn't expect it to be Craig to take away the most precious thing in his life. He'd thought it would be Smurf, crawling her way into your life, gripping you with her demon like nails, hurting you like she hurt everyone he's ever cared about before damaging you in a way that made you never want to look at him again. He figured in a way it was her fault anyway. She made him like this. He could've been a guy you liked.

Pope stared down at your soft hand that was brushing his with gentle fingertips. 

"We're so different," you whispered, and Pope squeezed his eyes shut. Right, like he didn't think about that every day. It hurt him to have you say it out loud.

Pope brushed a thumb over the back of your hand and then closed his hand around yours, almost desperate to hold on. Please don't leave me. Please. Please. Please. He wanted to beg so badly, the panic curling in his chest, making him sick with desperation for you to keep holding on.

"I don't want to get hurt," you whispered, and Pope looked up finally, to see you biting your lip hard. You were close to bleeding.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered back, practically pleading. He really wouldn't. He needed you to know that.

"You can't know that," you said quietly, now watching his big hand engulf yours. "Craig said so many things. You like— you like so much stuff that I'm not." you whispered, hurt making your voice crack.

"You're not what?" he asked, confusion replacing the sadness in his face. "Not what?" he asked again, face tilting until he caught your eyes.

You allowed his eyes to meet yours and you waited. Once again, torturing him with the wait, and this time he did think of it as cruel.

"Craig talked about the girls he liked, told me about every girl he's ever hooked up with," you replied slowly. "And he told me about your parties, the strip clubs, the bars. He wouldn't stop talking, it was like I—I was there." Frustration crept into your voice. 

You went quiet again, looking down at your lap. "Talked about you too," and it was as if a bomb went off.

Pope couldn't be sure what his youngest brother had said, but based on your reaction, he knew Craig had opted to go with the crudest version imaginable, perhaps even in the hopes that would deter you from liking Pope and instead go for him.

There'd been lots of times in the past, before he met you, where he did what his brothers wanted him to. He followed them around, prayed that they'd stop calling him strange and weird, and hoped that if he acted the way they wanted him to, they would stop paying so much attention to him and his behavior. That perhaps he might convince himself too, that he enjoyed these things. That drinking beer, getting high and picking up a girl at the bar, was what he wanted. Reminding himself that this was what he should want. That he certainly didn't dream about a girl choosing him, liking him, and sticking around. 

None of his brothers did that and neither should he. He needed to be like them, so he wouldn't feel like he was going out of his mind half of the time.

Pope stayed silent, and you huffed a weak laugh, now removing your hand from his, making it lay in your lap empty and cold. "I just— I guess I'm too drunk, but i just figured—" you shook your head. "I don't know."

You stared over his shoulder at the wall. "I know I don't exactly fit in. I mean—" you gave him a weak smile. "I don't even know why Craig approached me in the first place." Pope knew why, but he didn't want to tell you, hoping you'd never really ask. "I just— i thought maybe— you'd—" and then you stopped talking. 

Like me. 

That's what you wanted to say. You hoped one day he'd like you. But you'd said too much, and you weren't ready to expose yourself this much, just yet.

Pope stared at you. "I'd what?" he asked, but you were already shaking your head, regretting having started the sentence.

When you didn't say anything else, he lifted his hand again and started wiping your make up off. He brushed gently across your eyes, whispering for you to close them. He was gentle, too gentle, making the cleaning take longer than it should have.

"I like that you're not like—" he wanted to say me but he wasn't sure if that would be just too much. "Us."

You opened your eyes slowly, face finally bare, and you looked prettier than ever, making Pope just want to stand here forever and look at you. "Craig is friends with you because you're not like us." he said, throwing the wipe he was using away and setting the box away. He went back to standing between your legs, staring at you. "You're—nice. That's why he likes you."

You huffed a laugh. "I'm pretty sure that's not all," you said quietly, and Pope made a small grimace, lips frowning, eyebrows raising. 

"Never is with Craig," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he felt his shoulder fall with relief. He can still make you laugh. That's good.

When your giggles subsided, you glanced back down at your hands, seemingly the most interesting thing today. To be quite honest Pope did think your nail polish was interesting. It was pink today with brown dots.

"What about you?"

Pope furrowed his eyebrows. "What about me?"

You stayed quiet and it's like the question was forced out of you, like you didn't mean to ask it, but your drunken state forced you to. "Do you like me?" 

Pope froze. The moment he allowed you to know how much he truly cared about you was the moment you'd be in danger. Whether that was because of him or Smurf.

Despite all of it Pope couldn't help but give in. You were looking at him with such big and trusting eyes, like deep in your heart you knew he'd say yes. So he did. 

"'Course i do," he responded, watching your face light up, like you'd still had doubts. Like you hadn't known the answer before. 

He hated that. He thought he'd shown you enough how much he adored you. 

"Good," you whispered, and before he knew it your arms were around his neck, and you were pulling him in hard, in a way you'd never done before. 

You'd never hugged him before and his hand hovered above your waist in fear. He stared at himself in the mirror behind you, but as he felt you pulling him even more, he finally wrapped his arms around your waist. He placed his cheek against your shoulder, refusing to look in the mirror anymore and see how soft you had made him. Your arms were soft. You were soft. And warm. And you smelled really nice and Pope turned his head to the other side to drown himself in your scent. The vanilla in your hair was the only thing he could smell as his nose pressed against your shoulder and his lips touched your collarbone. 

Pope worried you'd let go, because he really needed this. So badly it almost hurt. But you didn't.

You just stayed there, and Pope tightened his hold around your waist. Eventually, you gradually shifted closer, until one palm was just barely in his hair, and he hummed the moment your fingers got entangled with one of his curls. Even in your intoxicated state, he could feel your senses come alive, the senses that knew everything about him. You entwined all of your fingers in his curls and scratched once to see how he'd react. When he pressed closer, you repeated the movement again and again, until Pope practically melted like butter in your arms.

Pope wasn't sure how long he stood there holding you and letting you hold him, but eventually he loosened his hold and only then did you let go, your hands removing themselves from his hair. Your hands went to his face and you gently brushed a thumb across his cheekbone. 

Whatever beer did to you, he didn't dislike it, and he felt awful for thinking it. He knew there was a reason you didn't enjoy drinking. But you touched his face so lovingly he fought the urge to cry. 

He wasn't sure when, or if ever, he'd received such a tender touch from someone. He wanted to be in your arms forever; it made him feel like nothing could reach him there. Not his mother, not his nightmares, not his jobs, nothing. Everything was so far away when he was close to you. There was only ever you and he always wanted there to only be you.

When you pulled back, you looked tired, really tired. You rubbed your eyes again, letting a yawn escape you before looking up at him and asking quietly. "Will you stay?" 

Pope didn't hesitate. He just wanted to be close to you. 

"I'll take the couch," he mumbled, reaching for your waist and helping you off the counter. 

When you were on the floor again, you looked up, frowning. "No," you said. "Can't you sleep in my bed?"

Pope's teeth ached from how hard he gritted them against each other. He guessed drinking also made you want to make decisions. He was certain he didn't dislike that either, just the contrary. 

He looked down at himself. "I don't have clean clothes," and he most certainly wasn't getting into your bed with these dirty ones, the ones that have lived and experienced the filth that was Deran's bar.

" 'S'okay." you mumbled. "You sleep in your boxers, don't you?" 

You reached for his hand, pulling him back to your bedroom. He followed without another word, watching you slip under the covers and, almost immediately, turn to your side, exhausted, but well aware of how a drunk person should sleep.

Pope watched you, and for a second, just for a second, he thought you might've turned around for him, knowing well the privacy he'd been stripped of by his mother all his life. That you were turning, to let him know that he didn't have to ask you for privacy, that you'd always be here to give it to him. But then he shook his head, getting rid of the thought. He couldn't handle this much kindness in one night.

He slowly lifted the bedcovers and, without a word, you scooted further, not turning around until he was under the covers and only then did you turn around. 

You didn't turn around on purpose. 

"Hi," you mumbled, eyes barely open.

"Hey," he mumbled back, feeling you entangle your legs with his.

"You're not cold, are you?" you mumbled, glancing down at his collarbone peeking out from under the bed sheets. 

He shook his head. "No." You're here to keep me warm. I can't feel any cold when I'm with you.

You nodded, satisfied with his answer. "Hold me?"

Another request you would've never dared to ask had you been sober.

And Pope was terrified of doing it. Even in your drunken state, you saw the hesitation. "'It's okay," you mumbled, but Pope let out a startled "No," making you flinch.

"I just—" he hesitated, looking at you. "Yes. I can hold you," he said in such a detached tone it almost made you smile.

You slid closer, til your head met his bare chest, and you let out a relieved sigh. "You're warm," you whispered, and Pope wanted to tell you how he was never warm, always cold, how everyone complained about it. How he had never felt genuine warmth until you.

His arm slowly went down to your back, pulling you closer, palm resting on your hip. 

Your hand lifted to his chest, resting it there. "Okay?" you whispered, and he slowly nodded.

He could feel your eyes watching him, but he didn't dare meet your gaze, afraid you'd see something in his eyes, like too much love, too much emotion that was allowed for a moment like this, and move. 

Maybe this was nothing for you, maybe he was making a bigger deal of this than it actually was. He hoped he wasn't.

Pope stared at the ceiling before he spoke, fingers tightening around your hip like announcing that he was going to speak, and you tiredly opened your eyes, waiting.

"I—" he started, before starting over. "Don't listen to Craig's stories," he said quietly, still staring at the white canvas above him, while your fingers curled at his chest, fingernails now grazing his chest. He could feel you getting nervous and he rushed his next words, hoping to get rid of that emotion. "Those things they—they did happen, but not the way he told you."

He stared upward, before carefully letting his eyes drift back down to you. You were watching him with such patient eyes, it almost hurt. He wasn't sure he'd ever had someone wait for him so patiently to get his words out. Never had anyone wait for him to explain himself and his behavior. Everyone just ran with whatever they wanted to believe he'd said, not even bothering for him to start explaining.

"I didn't—" he thought about it. He wasn't sure he should actually tell you, but your fingers softly traced his collarbone, and he thought, why not? He'd already given you everything he had. His soul and his heart.

"I didn't want to do those things," he finally admitted. "I did them because I thought I had to." 

It was his way of telling you he liked you a lot, and that whatever you heard and made you insecure was nothing to worry about. That he only ever wanted to be with you, and that you didn't fit in with the Codys, but you fit in with him and he fit in with you.

You looked back down at his chest, staring right where his heart was. "I wished you didn't have to," you mumbled quietly. "Do things you didn't want to," you explained quietly, and Pope's heart ached. 

He couldn't believe that the stranger Craig had introduced oh so long ago, was seemingly the only person in the world who had put in the effort to hear him out and understand him. He stared up at the ceiling, trying hard not to just let tears spill.

"It's fine," he managed out in a rough voice, but you shook your head, against his chest.

"'S'really not." you whispered. You stayed quiet for a while and Pope thought he'd lost you to sleep. "I hope you know you never have to do anything you don't want to with me." 

Pope looked down at you, watching you tap your fingers nervously on his chest, and he gathered the courage to squeeze your hip lightly, watching you smile to yourself.

The man shot an entire magazine into a crazed cult leader and brought the president’s daughter back home, safe and sound, in the same breath. And he’s starting to lose his patience. 

“I don’t know what I like,” you admit, shrugging your shoulders against the mattress. Above you, Leon scoffs and rolls his eyes, playful and coy as always, but tonight it’s tainted with frustration, and that only raises your anxiety levels. “You always make me feel good, no matter what you do so…” 

Your voice trails off into a thick silence, eclipsed by the thump of your heartbeat in your chest. 

He sighs, collapsing onto the bed next to you, turning to his side, propping his head up on the heel of his palm. His other hand comes to your bare abdomen, fingers trailing up and down your skin. Then, it rises to your cheek, his knuckle lightly grazing the soft peach skin there. 

“You don’t trust me?” His lips pucker into a pout, the heads of his brows cinched together in dramatic concern.

“Of course I do,” you’re quick to rectify, not wanting Leon to sit with that thought for a second more. 

“Then what is it? Are you not comfortable with me?” 

“I am,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am.” 

“But?”

When you fail to answer before the sand runs through the hourglass, Leon huffs, turning to lie on his back. “Then I’m not touching you until you tell me what you want. Simple as that.” 

“What?” It’s your turn to sit up on your elbow, gazing down at him. His lids are shut, faintly fluttering as he adjusts his head on the pillow beneath it like he does when he’s preparing to sleep.

“You heard me.” 

“But you had such a long day at work. I want to make you feel better.” 

He lifts the arch of his brows, eyes still closed. “Now you know how I feel.” 

You swallow hard, falling back onto the bed beside him, weighing your options like produce on a scale. Your pussy is aching, clenching around nothing but your own arousal, desperate to feel him inside you. There’s a tightly-wound ball of tension in your gut, yet you don’t know what would sate it. Maybe it’s your lack of experience dictating your desires, or the shame you anticipate would creep up your limbs if you voiced it. 

But you trust Leon, and you’re comfortable with him, like you said. So why can’t you just string the words together and breathe life into them like he needs you to?

“Leon,” you say with a shaky breath. 

“Baby?” He arches a brow at you, head reclined on the pillow, unmoving. 

“I want–” you choke down the lump rising in your throat. “I want you inside me.” 

His eyes open, cutting toward you. “That so?” 

You nod, the simple gesture enough to lure him back on top of you, arms bracketing your head once more. 

“Your fingers.” 

“Ah.” One of his hands remains by your temple, caressing your head, as the other slinks down your waist, between your legs, his knuckles nudging them open. They spread for him almost instinctively, barely needing any encouragement, and his fingers take no time slathering your arousal through your folds, around your clit in languorous circles, teasing your entrance. “How many do you want, baby?” 

“Two,” you squeak, the stretch of his middle and ringer finger sending an electric eel writhing through your veins. Icy-hot and magnetic. 

“And do you want me to push them in and out?” 

You shake your head. “No, keep them in, but bend your knuckles.” Inside you, he swiftly repeats the ‘come hitcher’ motion you perform with your own digits, and the pads of his fingers immediately press the sensitive spot behind your front wall. 

“I–I–” you gasp aloud, front teeth sinking into the plush flesh of your bottom lip. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he goads, looking down at you from half-lidded eyes. “Tell me what you need.” His voice is so soothing, so lulling, you can’t resist. 

“Harder.” 

He obeys, bending his fingers inside you until you can no longer contain your pleasure, and your walls contract around him, the muscles of your abdomen tensing and releasing at an erratic pace. You cry out his name, the sheets beneath you now balled up in your fists. It’s the most intense climax you’ve experienced in a while, and your come down is violent and jarring, your insides throbbing as you fall back against the mattress. 

It was December 28th, everyone was coming down from the high of celebrating Christmas with their loved one, while your boyfriend Sammy was coming down anxiety-panic filled chaos that was his shift.

Dead bodies, medical emergencies, car crashes, people calling for a “fun prank” was the main things Sammy had seen that day. It wasn’t unusual seeing these things, he’ll he expected it! But it was something about the bustle of life with you, Nate, and the holidays that really dragged him down.

That’s why when he came home, he was full on expecting to go through the typical night time routine, eat dinner, wash dishes, put Nate to bed, shower, and climb into bed and cuddle you.

But when he walked in he found you sitting at the dinner table waiting for him, Nate no where in sight. At seeing him walk in, you got up from your chair greeting him with a hug.

“Hi sweetie! How was work?!” you pulled away from the hug but kept your arms wrapped around the back of his neck.

Sammy gave a sardonic laugh and rubbed his hand up and down your back.

“It was rough and I’m gonna be honest I don’t wanna talk about it…no offense” you nodded in understanding. He continued, “but anyways where’s Nate”. He began to look past you into the living room to find his ginger-haired son.

You smiled and gently guided his eyes back to yours. “I fed him and put him to bed a little early. I figured I’d let you relax, take your shower while i make you dinner.”

Sammy faltered, surprised that you would do such a thing. It’s not to say that you never did meaningful things for him but you both have been caught up in your lives and sometimes stop and remember to think about the other.

Sammy smile begin to stretch and he nuzzles his nose into your neck, “Babe you didn’t have to do that”, you smile and giggle lightly at his nose tickling you. “you gonna join me in there” he teases the presses a few heated kisses to you neck.

You laugh at your boyfriend’s suggestive words, “No, I wanna make your dinner first baby.” Sammy groans jokingly not really. “Maybe tonight we can spend some time together in bed” you pull his face away from your neck and give him two kisses on his lips before sending him off to the shower.

Hearing the water turn on, you begin making the sides for your dinner. Thankfully you already had your smothered chicken cooking in the oven. You begin preparing the mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn.

When Sammy comes out after drying off and changing into his old L.A.P.D. training shirt, he sat down at the table and chowed down. You honestly not sure if you’ve ever seen him eat so quickly without stopping.

By the time you both head into the bedroom there’s no chance of Sammy and you getting into any sort of fun. It seems the combination of his long shift and a full tummy has him too tuckered out to try to woo you in anyway.

When morning comes, Sammy groggily opens his eyes to find the sunshine pouring in from the bedroom window and an empty spot next to him in bed. When he checks the time on his phone, he sees that the time is 9:28, wayyyy past when he usually wakes up.

I never typically sleep through my alarm, he thinks. What he doesn’t know is you turned them off so he could sleep in.

Quickly, the smell of pancakes and bacon flood his nose and the sound of hushed whispers from you and Nate approaching hits him.

The door opens and there’s you carrying a tray with a plate of breakfast and Nate huddled next to you holding a small Happy Birthday balloon.

You gasp animatedly, “He’s awake!” you look down at Nate. “Let’s say it dude, Happy Birthday daddy!” you and Nate say in chorus.

"Oh my gosh thank you buddy", Sammy gave Nate a tight hug after Nate crawled into bed beside him.

As you rounded the bed and stopped on Sammy's side, you leaned down to carefully place the tray in his lap. After you set it down, you leaned back up to join your two boys in bed only to be pulled back down by Sammy.

"Thank you baby" he said sincerely then pulled you in for a gentle chaste kiss.

Once you pull away with a sweet smile, you join both boys in bed. Occasionally taking a bite of the spread that Sammy had offered on his extended fork.

You had today perfectly planned, the three of you would go down to the annual Christmas parade, enjoying all of the festivities and booths in the area then later that night, you and Sammy would drop Nate off to spend the night at Sammy's mom's house so you and Sammy could go out and enjoy some alone time together.

The parade went extremely well, Nate loved watching all of the different Christmas characters wave and the bright lights that decorated each float. Both you and Sammy were so excited that it was a calm time with Nate, avoiding any tantrums.

As the evening neared, you and Sammy got Nate ready to head to his grandma’s, packing a bag with anything and everything she may need to avoid having to return home or pick him up early.

Lord knows how many times date nights or moments in bed were put on hold or flat out ended early because Nate had either had an accident or some other unforeseen event.

You and Sammy made the drive to Sammy’s mom’s house enjoying time with the 3 year old boy just a little while longer. When you finally arrived at her house, Sammy carried him to his mom and wved goodbyes by hurrying off, saying you would be late for the reservation.

The drive to the restaurant was calm. Sammy played his favorite music, coasting his way to the Everett’s, one of Sammy’s favorite steakhouses.

Every now and then you’d catch a glance of Sammy looking at you, you’d give a timid smile and say, “What?” with a laugh.

All he would say in return is, “You’re just so beautiful.”

When you and Sammy made it inside of Everett’s, you were seated at. table tucked towards the back of the restaurant. There was a decent amount of people there to where you could hear the chatter of the people seated near you but not too many where you couldn’t hear the things Sammy was saying.

“You know I really appreciate you doing all this for me…I-uh hope you know that today has been perfect, better than anything I could imagine.”

“Oh Sammy-“

“No I’m serious, it means a lot to me. Getting to spend time with Nate and you, my pretty girl” he smiles softly. “Just means a lot to me and I love you.”

“I love you too” you smile lovingly back at him.

The rest of dinner runs smoothly, the food was delicious, exactly what you had hoped for. Steak was cooked perfectly to temp, sides were fresh, and your wine glasses rarely ran empty. The conversation even flowed well between the two of you, you both had opted out of talking about life’s typical stresses like work, bills, and Tammi and enjoyed each other’s presence.

After paying the check (Sammy paid despite the many times you had protested that you would pay for his birthday dinner), you both had headed back home. Sammy had declined dessert to the waiter, telling him that you guys had dessert at home. You were confused but decided not to question at that time.

Now that you both were in the car making your way home, you decided to ask Sammy. You had considered ordering or even making a cake but didn’t have enough time with the plans of the day.

“Hey-uh babe, I’m sorry but I don’t have any cake at home. I think we have some of those freezer pops Nate likes but that’s it.” you pouted slightly, worried you had ruined a part of his day.

Sammy turn his head partially to see the nervous look on your face before turning back towards the road and giving a light chuckle. He took his right hand, leaving the left on the wheel to place on your upper thigh giving a slow run to your thigh.

He turned back towards you once more to give you a knowing smirk, “You’re my dessert tonight sweet girl.”

Your body burned at his scandalous words.

Protective!Abbot who has a sixth sense for when you’re feeling uncomfortable. He will be by your side in seconds, hand on the small of your back. A little reassurance for you.

Protective!Abbot who has your location ping to his phone. Not in a controlling way but he needs to know where you are at all times in case something happens to you. He’d lose his mind if anything bad happened to you.

Protective!Abbot who dotes on you when you’re sick.

Protective!Abbot who when you’re out together will hold your hand, and be as close to you at all times in case anything happens.

Protective!Abbot who if anyone tries anything with you will scare them off, and then hold you close reassuring you that you’ll be ok. Kissing your forehead, hugging you. And whispering in your ear telling you that you’re safe.

Protective!Abbot who has taught you basic self defense moves just in case.

Protective!Abbot who will call or text whenever he gets a moment on shift just to check you’re doing ok.

⊹ ࣪ .✦ ݁˖ pope love love loves his girl... one thing he doesn't love is the glitter. everywhere. he sits by the pool so he can keep an eye on you, as always. you swim for a bit and when you return, he's staring at his hands like they personally wronged him.

"what's wrong?" he looks up to meet your worried gaze as he shows you his sparkling palm with a huff and a furrowed brow.

"shit gets everywhere," he grumbles as he walks towards the house. only reason hes not super irritated is because you showed him that tape takes off glitter. needless to say, he spends the next five minutes putting tape on his hands over and over again while wondering what could've possibly required that much glitter.

⊹ ࣪ .✦ ݁˖ he lets you do whatever you want. if you thought you were spoiled rotten before, trust it gets 10x worse around pope. if you want something, don't even mention it! he already bought it for you! and its pink, because of course it is. he lets you bedazzle, paint, and color on anything you want. smurf (being the bitch she is) hates it. she hates that you run wild and pope makes no attempt to stop you. if anything he encourages it.

buying things and customizing things isn't all. he does every silly trend with you, even if he catches shit from his brothers about it. baz usually comes down on him worst about it, though. always "why did you let her do that," or "that looks terrible for you," but pope has never cared. if his girl is happy, he's happy too.

he loves to watch you put sparkles on everything, buy things on his card, and make everything your own. he is perfectly content watching you shape the world so it revolves around you — and even happier to help you.

⊹ ࣪ .✦ ݁˖ he partakes in EVERYTHING you do. i mean, he is a willing participant who takes his role very seriously. specifically, shopping. he loves to watch you try on half the things in the store, with his stoic expression and the occasional mumble. of course, you think hes disinterested, so you stop trying things on.

he stops you as you start to leave the dressing room, four tops you haven't tried on in hand. "where ya going?"

"you dont look like you're having fun."

he rolls his eyes, like whatever hes about to say is glaringly obvious. "i am. who do you think put half the shit in your basket? santa claus? i wouldn't take you here if i didnt want a fashion show," he says, a small smile growing on his face. he quickly levels his expression, as though he was told not to smile. "go. back in the room. and i hung a skirt i wanted to see."

You were never shocked by the knock on your door, no matter how late or how randomly placed in the middle of a boring week.

The sun would be set, dishes washed and put away in their respective places, and your feet still lingering near the doorway as you waited for the inevitable sound of knuckles against wood.

It had been a few days since the last time you heard it so you knew it was becoming overdue, skin slightly prickling as you waited and waited in your front hallway far too patiently. You felt a bit foolish for standing there for so long, in a slight trance whenever you thought about who was coming.

Thirty minutes of you hovering passed before you were sighing and retreating to your room.

Your feet froze in place when the noise echoed from behind you, making your chest tighten and a surge of adrenaline hit you so hard you felt a bit dizzy when you hurriedly spun back around and made your way to the entry again.

Sammy looked melancholy when you pulled the door open, hand raised in a fist like he was about to knock again. His shoulders deflated when he saw you and you figured it must be in relief considering the way he was surging forward and pulling you in.

You sighed when he tucked his forehead down against your shoulder, instinctively wrapping your arms around him. You rubbed up and down his back softly, your other forearm securely pressed to his side reassuringly as you both swayed from the force of the embrace.

It took awhile for him to let you go, you had to coax him back just enough for you to be able to walk.

He followed you fully into the living room with a distant look on his face, sitting down on the cushion and getting a panicked expression when you made a move to walk away.

“Relax.” You say as softly as you can, pressing your hands against his shoulders to keep him sitting. “Just going to get some water for you.”

He didn’t look too pleased by it but he let out a breath and settled back against the cushions long enough for you to go to the fridge and fill him up a glass.

It was pointless considering he ignored it once you came back, barely getting his fingers around it before he was setting it down on the coffee table in favor of wrapping his hands around your middle and bringing you down to sit in his lap sideways.

You sighed but leaned against his chest and let him tuck against your neck again, breathing you in deeply and holding you so tight you felt a little dizzy.

“Bad day?” You kept your voice quiet but it was enough for him to hear you and pick up his head, eyes full of hurt that was reflecting off the dim lighting in the room.

“Couldn’t have been worse.” He answered honestly and you gave him an empathetic look, running your hand over his jaw and feeling the way he rest against it and shuts his eyes. “I needed to see you.”

“Did you even go home?” Your eyebrows furrow and he looks at you again, the guilt on his face making the answer obvious. “Sammy we talked about that. She goes crazy if you don’t at least stop by.”

You never would shy away from talking about Tammi because there was no point. She was the main thing you thought about when you were with him, his wedding ring currently pressing against your waist and the knowledge of his wife hanging over your head like a weight.

You admittedly had very little empathy for the woman.

You’d gone to high school with both of them but you’d known Sammy a few years before. You were always drawn to him, even before you could even really understand what that meant.

You just wanted to be around him, a young and sweet boy with an adult like patience that you didn’t get to see at home. He was always extra kind to you when you came to school tired or bruised, sharing his lunches and then pressing soft kisses to the side of your mouth once you got a bit older.

He’d been stricken with Tammi the moment he had seen her as you entered high school, fixated on her loud voice and extreme personality.

There was no other option than to watch him fall in love with her and then watch him lose that lightness he always carried trying to keep her happy.

What started as soft complaints on the phone after a shift turned into meeting up on his breaks to have lunch and absorb all his worries silently. Then he started to come over late into the night, something Tammi had forbid a few years ago.

She had tried to pretend to be civil with you when you were teenagers although grimacing at your kindness whenever you greeted her or made an attempt to bond. It was clear she didn’t like that Sammy had a girl best friend and she drew the line firmly once you were all adults.

There was no longer a need to try and seem friendly because Sammy was wrapped around her finger both metaphorically and legally in the form of the metal band she rarely wore.

He had called you a few years back to tell you that he couldn’t be around you anymore unless it was a group setting, absolutely no alcohol could ever be involved and he was definitely not allowed at your house.

It had sent you in a bit of a spiral, wondering if Tammi was just being as insane as she always was or if she had somehow seen deep down into the hidden part of you that had loved Sammy since you were practically children. And if Tammi knew, did that mean he did too?

“I dealt with her all day on the phone.” He was complaining softly and bringing your attention back to the present, still sneaking around and crossing boundaries just enough to make your head spin.

You never talked about it but his big hands would run over your waist, pulling you far too close to be friendly and taking deep breaths of your hair and skin like he was addicted to it.

Sometimes you caught him looking at your lips when you spoke, eyes a little distracted and then embarrassed when you’d clear your throat to try and get his attention.

You tried not to think about how Tammi would react to you being in his lap right now, holding his jaw and leaning down to kiss his cheek softly in comfort as he complained about her for the hundredth time.

“What’s she upset about now?” You know you’re playing into it, feeding the flame that never seems to burn hot enough to actually make him recoil.

He’ll talk about it endlessly and you can tell he really wants to leave her but he always goes back home at the end of the night with his tail between his legs.

“I mentioned your birthday.” He sighed and then gave you a look when he saw the automatic frown. You’d had plans with him for your birthday, beyond excited when he invited you out to dinner but you figured you should have known it was too good to be true. “She didn’t want to come but then she found out she wasn’t even invited and she lost her mind.”

“I don’t want to go at all if she has to be there.” You say immediately and you feel a little guilty for being so selfish with his time but you decide you deserve it considering the way she acts around you.

Admittedly you also just want him all to yourself and you know he won’t give you the same amount of attention if she’s around because it’ll without a doubt piss her off.

“I know sweetheart.” He breathes out and you hate the tone of his voice, the premature disappointment like he knows there’s no solution to the problem already.

And the petnames always break you, another old habit he had abandoned years ago that seems to be making an appearance more and more often lately.

“It’s fine.” You run a hand through his hair and he blinks tiredly up at you. You don’t want to add to his ever growing stress even if your throat feels tight at the let down. “I’ll see if Alex can come instead.”

You felt Sammy tense underneath you and his hands tighten around your middle. You stopped rubbing his hair in favor of sighing and resting harder against his chest, knowing exactly what was on his mind.

Sammy had always been the same way, patient and gentle to a fault. The only thing that really seemed to set him off was sharing you with other people.

He could tolerate your girl friends, he’d easily encourage you to go out and have fun and listen to your recaps the next morning while he drove to work. Guys, however, were a completely different battle.

You remember one of your first ever fights, only starting after you told him and your other friends that you finally had your first boyfriend. It had taken you until your junior year of high school to be over Sammy enough to move on, accepting by then that him and Tammi were more solid than you realized initially.

He’d been quiet the rest of the day and then pulled you to the side before you could walk home, lightly pressing you back against a tree and slightly interrogating you about the boy you were seeing.

It felt like a fresh memory, the butterflies in your stomach when you saw how serious he was and how wanted you felt as he told you that you deserved better. Sammy was jealous, there was no point in denying it and you knew you weren’t being delusional just because you had feelings for him.

He spent the next fifteen years getting the same expression whenever you talked about a guy or brought one to group cookouts, his glare fixated on a hand around your waist or the way you’d softly kiss the guy in thanks when he brought you a drink.

You knew Sammy found the same comfort in you that you got from him but that was the first real time you considered that Sammy might feel something more for you too.

Alex had started at your office a few years ago and just like always, Sammy had gotten that serious expression as soon as you started mentioning him casually. One of your mutuals friends had joked over drinks a month or two ago that you should make a move and Sammy immediately excused himself to stomp his way up to the bar.

Now his big hands were softly kneading into your side like you were a stress ball, staring past you to instead burn holes into your coffee table.

“Don’t do that.” You attempt to scold him but it comes out overly fond, a soft teasing whisper that makes him slightly scoff in amusement.

“I’ll figure it out.” He says a bit sternly and you give him a long disbelieving look. “I mean it. Don’t go out with him.”

“That’s not fair Sammy.” You try to be more serious so he can really understand but you can almost see the way your words fall on deaf ears.

He’s turning his head so he can press soft kisses on your skin, one laid against your cheek and then moving further until his lips are against the side of your mouth. It’s torture for you but you’re a willing participant, letting your eyes close and your body relax so he has no reason to stop.

And he doesn’t, peppering you in affection like he’s trying to erase the memory of Alex himself.

You feel his hands rubbing from your sides to your back, sliding under the hem of your tank top to rest on your shoulder blades like it’s a completely normal way for two friends to be touching.

You’d never deny Sammy anything but especially when it involved him fawning over you like this. You almost wanted to push it further, talk more about Alex and really exaggerate the nature of your relationship just to see how much it took for Sammy to decide he needed to lay a real claim on you.

He wasn’t yours so by default you couldn’t be his, that ring pressing against your hot skin an endless reminder of your situation.

“I know and I’m sorry.” His voice was soft and quiet like he truly meant it and part of you thought that he might.

You didn’t think his selfishness came with any malicious intent but it was still there, still pulling him towards your door after a fight with his wife and making him touch you in that confusing intimate way.

You didn’t go out to dinner with Alex for your birthday, you couldn’t stomach the thought even if Sammy hadn’t been so upset by it.

Instead you ended up sitting across from Tammi, trying to ignore her glare as you did your best to make small talk. You’d invited a few other friends so it felt less like third wheeling but you still had to make a point to not look at Sammy for too long.

She had a perfect view of your face from this angle and you knew exactly what she would see. The way your eyes softened when they met his and the obvious longing in your gaze when it was directed at her husband.

Sammy was staring holes in the side of your face anyways, maybe thinking he was being more subtle about it than he actually was. His ankle was crossing yours under the table every few minutes and you had to routinely send him a small glare to get him to stop.

You took the opportunity for a smoke break as dinner transitioned to drinks, placing your order and making your way outside before anybody could object. You figured you were leaving them to awkward small talk, your other friends barely knowing Sammy and unable to tolerate his wife, but you needed to breathe.

It wasn’t really possible considering the door was pushing open almost as soon as it shut behind you.

You sighed softly when you saw Sammy coming out into the small dark alley but you didn’t object when his hands were sliding over your sides, back and forth for a few seconds before resting on your lower back and pulling you closer.

“You’re not having a good time.” He said softly, not a question but a statement.

“How could I?” Your eyebrows furrow in frustration as your palms wrap around his biceps. “Your wife is glaring at me everytime I speak at my own birthday dinner and you’re trying to play footsie under the table.”

He frowns and you feel bad for how harsh you’re being, especially when he’s brushing your hair behind your ear and softly kissing your jaw a few times. He knows exactly how to unravel you, lower those walls and keep you melting against him.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is slightly muffled against your skin so he picks his head up and his nose brushes yours. “I just wanted to see you and she wouldn’t let me go without her.”

“It’s fine, she’s actually not being that terrible.” You sigh and it’s the truth. Tammi hadn’t said much of anything which was almost scarier than her making snappy or inappropriate comments. You felt like she was observing you closely, noting your every micro expression. “You’ve got to stop looking at me like that though.”

You didn’t need to clarify because you both knew what you were talking about, the same look he was giving now as his head tilted slowly in amusement.

More than longing, something deeper and heavier. You would have thought you imagined it a few years ago but you knew better now and you were more than aware of the fact Sammy wanted you in some capacity.

“Can’t help it. You look so beautiful tonight.” His voice had dropped and he leaned back down to kiss your skin again, this time a lot closer to your mouth than before.

You sighed and leaned further against him, trying to ignore the heated sensation in your stomach when he lightly guided you backwards so you were against the wall. His hands stayed on your lower back for the most part but he occasionally moved them to rub against your waist and hips, leaving you a little dizzy as he kissed down your neck.

“Sammy.” Your voice was breathy and he hummed against your skin in question. “This is so unfair.”

Normally that was enough to pull him out of it, sober him to the fact that you were getting hurt by his actions. He either didn’t register your complaint or maybe didn’t care, thinking he could make it up to you if he kept going.

You couldn’t deny him this, not when his big hand was rubbing up your back and his mouth was moving softly across your neck towards yours.

You were holding onto him tightly and trying to keep the breathy noises to a minimum, getting harder when he was shuffling even closer and fully pressing you against the brick behind you.

It was brief when his mouth finally pressed against yours, only a fleeting second before he was moving past it to kiss the other side of your face.

He tensed suddenly like he had only just now realized what he was doing so you prepared for the coldness that would hit you when he backed away. Instead, there was suddenly a lot more warmth as he pecked your lips again softly.

He pulled back for a few seconds, chest slightly heaving as he looked down at you in question. You thought he was an idiot for that because you’d never dream of objecting to this, even if it was so risky and stupid to be doing something so damning right outside the building his wife was inside.

“Unfair.” He mumbled, repeating your words as he kissed you lightly again. “Unfair is you wearing this outfit when I can’t touch you.”

His hands tightened against the fabric like he was emphasizing and this time you were less surprised when he kissed you. It lasted a little longer than a brief peck, just enough time for you to move your mouth against his before he was pulling back again.

“You can touch me.” You insisted softly, wondering if you told him what he wanted to hear he’d maybe keep kissing you. “You can always touch me.”

It worked, enough for him to really press against you and let you kiss him back. You’d gone nearly two decades without kissing eachother despite the tension floating over your heads and it was obvious in how filthy it got so quickly.

You were both eager and desperate, gripping anywhere you could reach and refusing to come up for air as you kissed him deeper and deeper.

You made no objections to his tongue smoothing into your mouth, tangling it with your own and savoring the sound he made at the taste of you. You’d never crossed this line despite the little things you did potentially being worse, the intimacy of the way you moved around each other almost comparable to the heat you felt now.

Sammy was insatiable now that you’ve broken the illusion that you were able to be just friends, tugging you closer and closer and licking into your mouth like he was starving.

It took a long few minutes for either of you to pull back and even then, he was still surging forward to kiss you softly like he was afraid to let it end. You understood the fear, stomach twisting at the thought of him gaining some clarity and regretting what you did.

Sammy was a good man despite how it may seem in his desperation and he wasn’t the type to cheat on his wife, no matter how cruel and detached she was.

“We fucked up.” You breathed it out in anticipation, assuming if you got to it before he could then the upcoming rejection would land better on your already damaged heart.

“What?” His eyebrows furrowing surprised you, fully expecting him to agree with you and let you chalk it up as a stupid mistake you could forget. Instead he was shifting closer again so you weren’t able to look away from him even if you wanted to. “No we didn’t. It was my fuck up all those years ago when I married Tammi.”

You had to get some space from him then or you wouldn’t be able to breathe, softly pushing at his chest and being beyond thankful that he easily moved backwards and let you shift away from the brick wall.

“That is so shitty of you to say.” You wanted it to come out more frustrated so he would really let it process but you just sounded tired.

He looked like he wanted to object, maybe apologizing judging by the way his face softened with guilt. Luckily the door was opening then, one of your closest friends stepping out into the alley and giving you a scolding look when she saw the way his fingertips were grazing your waist and the swollenness of your lips.

“You should come in.” She said it softly but you knew she’d be scolding you once you left the restaurant, subject to your Sammy fueled rants for years now. “I’ve got your drink ordered.”

You gave her a thankful smile that didn’t reach your eyes and she turned her stare towards Sammy, hardening as she scanned over his guilty stance, a hand rubbing over his mouth.

“And your wife is looking for you.”

You both tensed up at the obvious call out and you followed quickly behind her when she went back inside so you didn’t have to deal with his reaction to that targeted comment.

It was instinct to avoid Sammy after that even though it tore your heart out of your chest. You figured you might as well get it over with because he clearly had no plans to leave Tammi any time soon and you weren’t going to magically get over him after you spent the majority of your life following him around like a helpless fawn.

His calls went unanswered on your own phone and some others, your friends reaching out to let you know he’d been getting ahold of them too so he could ask where you’ve been.

You ignored the knocks on your door, putting a pillow over your ears and trying to keep your crying quiet enough that he wouldn’t be able to hear you.

There was the obvious defect in your plan, the fact that Sammy knew you better than anybody possibly could.

He stayed away for a few days and you thought it had worked, he’d finally given up and manage to read your silent message that you couldn’t do this with him anymore.

Instead he was sitting on your porch when you got home from work two weeks later.

You were coming home late, you’d stopped at your nearest library and then the liquor store to give you two distractions to get through the night with, so you figured he must have been sitting for a while.

You let out a sigh at the end of your walkway and he was shooting up off the cement, eyes full of that annoyingly sweet hope and hesitation as he stepped aside to let you pass him by.

He was standing behind you as you unlocked the door and you spent the time it took to get your key in the doorknob trying to build up the courage to tell him to go fuck himself, but all you could manage was to lightly hold the door open for him behind you.

You could hear it shutting and locking as you set your bag down in the kitchen, the obvious sound of the glass bottle clicking against the counter making him raise an eyebrow.

“You’re avoiding me.” He spoke softly as you kicked off your shoes, lingering near your doorway and watching your every move as you followed your usual routine after getting home and made yourself comfortable like he wasn’t even there.

“Wow amazing conclusion. Congratulations detective Bryant, you figured it out.” You felt slightly bad for how cold your voice was, so out of character for you that you knew it must be throwing him off.

He proved that when he was moving closer and lightly touching your hips to get you to stop wandering around, your breath hitching as you looked up at him and the pure desperation on his face.

“Please don’t do that, let’s talk about this. I get enough of the passive aggressive shit from-“ He cut himself off with a deep sigh, lips pursing so he didn’t say it even though you typically didn’t avoid the topic.

“From your wife.” You finished it for him, eyes cold as you glared at him. “You can say it Sammy.”

“I just don’t understand. It’s never been an issue before.”

You pushed him away from you at that but he was persistent, following you as you walked closer to the couch and grabbing you again. You felt his fingers digging slightly into your hips as he tugged you backwards against him, your back hitting the softness of his stomach as he crowded your space.

His chin hooked over your shoulder, large fingers splayed across your belly button to keep you in place against him.

You naturally settled backwards, sucking in a deep breath as his familiar scent instinctively calmed your nerves. You were suddenly very aware of how hard the two weeks without him were, the longest you’d gone in a long time being apart from each other.

“You’re an idiot if you think it wasn’t an issue for me.” You’re whispering now, afraid if you speak too long he’s going to be able to pick up on the undeniably heartbreak in your voice.

“Let me fix this.” You can feel him moving his mouth closer and you mentally brace for the impact, still feeling unprepared for how good it feels to have him softly kissing up your neck as he starts to rub your stomach and waistband. “I hate when you’re mad at me. It’s eating me up.”

You let him continue for a few seconds before you’re spinning around, seeing the disappointment and light panic on his face before he realizes you just want to face him, his entire body relaxes as he holds your lower back.

Your hands go to his cheeks, pressing on the soft skin and feeling the light stubble he’d built up in your absence.

“There really isn’t a way you can fix it Sammy.” You say honestly and his face falls, lips parting like he wants to object. “Other than the obvious.”

There’s no need for him to say it, you can tell by the look in his eyes when you add that on that he can’t give you the answer that you want. It feels so far out of the realm of possibility that you don’t even feel disappointment, much less resistance when he’s ignoring your suggestion completely in favor of leaning in to kiss you.

It’s different than the kiss you shared at your birthday dinner, lacking the heat and desperation as you soaked up the small amount of time you had before you got caught.

Now it’s slow and deep, much more like the first kiss you’d always imagined with him.

His hands are so gentle as he rubs up your sides, keeping you tight against him as your mouths move together like you’ve done this a thousand times. You can’t help but mentally compare this kiss to the way you’ve seen him be with Tammi, feeling a bit smug at how obvious the difference is.

There’s no awkwardness between you, no stiff and routine hard press of lips like you’re checking it off a to do list.

He’s clearly wanting, craving almost as he pulls you impossibly closer and tilts his head to make sure the kiss doesn’t stop or lose its rhythm.

You’ve missed him so much and you’re such a fool in love that you don’t even think about stopping him and asking him for real answers.

Instead you’re softly licking into his mouth like the needy teenage version of you that used to fantasy about this, soaking up the soft hum he lets out at the feeling before he’s matching the action. You’re playing with the hairs on the back of his neck as your tongues tangle together and you go with him easily as he backs you up towards the couch.

It takes landing in his lap for you to sober back up, pulling back from the kiss just enough to catch your breath.

His eyebrows pull together when he sees the hesitation on your face so you hide in his neck so he can’t keep looking at you, wanting to spare his feelings even though you can quite literally feel your heart suffocating in your chest.

He’s warm underneath you and smells so overly familiar that you could cry, staying with your chin resting on his shoulder and closing your eyes for a brief moment so you can pretend you’re in a different timeline with him.

Maybe you’re still fifteen and laying in his bed together, holding hands on rides home from the beach when your moms aren’t looking. Or you’re twenty four and it’s the first time him and Tammi break up, his sullen frame taking up space on your couch until you quietly pad out there and insist he come to bed with you instead.

You think about being in your fifties, a reality where he never met Tammi and instead spent the rest of his life with you. It felt like the world you were supposed to be living in, just you and him like it always used to be until the love eventually built up into something real, something that came with growing grey hairs together and building a family.

He seems to know what you’re thinking, possibly going down the same list of all the missed chances. His hand runs through your hair on repeat like he’s trying to soothe you and you don’t understand why until you realize that you’re crying.

You try to go back to avoiding Sammy after that but it’s impossible.

You can’t bring yourself to stay away from him and each late night conversation ends up the same now that you’ve crossed that line, your mouth pressed against his and his hands all over you.

He’s nearly insatiable even though you can tell that he still feels terribly guilty over the entire thing. It’s like he’s just as powerless as you are, unable to keep your distance for each other despite how awful you’re both being.

Currently he’s with you in your kitchen, two months after your birthday and two months of sneaking away to get to have him for a brief moment. He’s completely lost in the taste of you, mouths moving together slowly with his hands under your shirt and tracing patterns on your spine.

His fingers feel calloused but you remember when they were smooth and youthful, remember loving him before the lines on his face appeared or the light ash colored strands of hair you occasionally saw when he was under the sun.

You were growing old with Sammy despite it not being in the way you wanted.

You’re kissing him back because of course you are, holding tight to his biceps and letting yourself get swept up in the way he feels pressed against you. It’s deep and almost filthy if it wasn’t for how romantic it all seems, the lights in the kitchen dim and some slow jazzy song playing from your radio in the living room.

“You have to know by now.” He’s whispering as he kisses down your neck and you sigh at the feeling, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side to give him full access. “Tell me you know how I feel about you.”

“Sammy.” You’re meant to sound like you’re warning him, not wanting to hear him talk about feelings in these circumstances, but it comes across breathy and wanting.

Clearly he thinks so too because he lets out a low groan, letting his hands leave your shirt until he’s got them pressed against your back pockets. He tugs you closer and you gasp softly at the sudden feeling of him touching you like that, immediately soothed by the way he’s still kissing your skin carefully.

He’s not leaving any marks even though you’re not the one who needs to worry about that.

“You’ve got to go.” You say back and he lets out a frustrated breath even though he clearly knows you’re right judging by the way he stops kissing your neck in favor of resting his forehead against your shoulder.

You’ve been half distracted by his phone vibrating on the counter behind you for the last thirty minutes, no question in your mind about who is relentlessly trying to reach him.

“Did you not go home today after work?” You ask him softly, touching his jaw until he’s picking his head back up to look at you. “You know you have to stop doing that.”

“I can’t take it.” He says back and your shoulders deflate with light frustration. “It’s endless arguing with her.”

“You know I get what she’s like but I’d be pretty pissed too if my husband wasn’t coming home on top of your already long hours.” You’re trying your best to talk some sense into him but it’s easy to he distracted when he’s back to touching you.

He’s rubbing up and down your back, dipping under your shirt again and smiling softly when you shudder at the feeling of his skin on yours. You smack at his forearm when you catch sight of the near smirk and he does his best to school it although the efforts don’t do much.

“It would be different if it was you.” He says quietly and you tense up before he can elaborate, already knowing exactly what he’s trying to say. “If you were my wife.”

“But I’m not your wife.” You snap as soon as the word leaves his mouth and he lets out a frustrated breath.

He’s kissing you again like he thinks that will make you forget the truth of your situation and it nearly does, kissing him back eagerly because you’re never sure when it’s going to be the last time you get to.

You’re interrupted by the phone buzzing again and you pull back to lean against his chest, hiding your face in his neck and trying to ignore how good it feels when he rubs your sides in comfort.

“Go home Sammy.” You whisper and you look up in time to see his face fall, eyebrows furrowing in hurt when you lightly push against his chest to get him to back away from you.

You use the small space between your bodies to leave the kitchen, his footsteps following you into the living room. You let him pull you back, hands on your hips and then your stomach when your backs against his chest.

He kisses the back of your neck and then the side of your head, soft and parting before he’s letting out a deep breath and backing away from you.

You lean against the front window as you watch his headlights pull out of your driveway, blinking a few times before he turns to fully leave your street and head back to his house, back to reality.

The thought plagues you when you get into bed by yourself, daydreaming of the version of your life where he wouldn’t have to leave each night. You let yourself think about having your own ring on your finger, his things on the empty bed side table and his hands on you as you fall asleep.

You know it’s not healthy and, quite frankly, you know it makes you a terrible person.

Your friends tell just as much when you finally break down and tell them everything, crying about the night he kissed you and confessing that you’d spent almost every night with him pressed against you and making promises he can’t keep.

“He’s an asshole.” Cathy is stern with her tone, stirring her coffee in pointless circles and fixing her glare on you and your upset face. “I can’t believe you’re putting up with him still.”

“I think it’s sweet.” Victoria is quicker to be sympathetic although pouting in your direction. “He clearly loves you and just doesn’t know what to do about it.”

The topic of love makes your stomach turn a little and you try not to think about it after you leave your brunch, ignoring his calls for a few hours even though you’re well aware it will end with him knocking on your door.

There’s no surprise when it happens but you try to hold your ground with him, turning your head to the side when he tries to greet you with a kiss. His lips press against your cheek instead and then downturn into a frown.

“Are you mad at me?” He asks softly as you walk to your bedroom, sitting down on the foot of the bed and blinking at him when he stops in your doorway.

“No Sammy.” You breathe out even though you’re not sure that’s true, not really able to put a label on how you feel about him right now. The love that sits heavy on your chest muddies everything else around it. “I’m just tired.”

He’s coming closer and then going down to his knees in front of you, hands on your thighs as he stares up at you almost pleadingly. It’s such a vulnerable position that it makes you a little sick and you grab at his arm to try and tug him back to his feet.

He takes your hand and holds it instead so you can’t pull at him, kissing your knuckles briefly.

“I want to fix this.” He whispers and you feel teary almost immediately. “I can’t lose you because I’m being selfish. I’ll do whatever you want me to do but I can’t leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave.” You say back, voice small and defeated. You wish the statement wasn’t as true as it feels, the thought of not having him at all being so much worse than the twisted relationship you’re stuck in. “But I want that all the time, I want you to just be here. I want to have a home with you Sammy.”

“I love you.” He says it quietly and he’s said it before, in passing or casually when he hangs up the phone, but it lands a lot different now.

Realistically, you’re not at all surprised by the confession. You know Sammy, regardless if you can have him the way you want or not, you know him better than anybody and you knew he wouldn’t be doing something like this if it wasn’t because of something genuine like the same love you have for him.

The kind of love that makes you awful and selfish, devoted in a twisted way and blind to the consequences if it means you can have a few more hours together.

He’s standing up finally but only to gently push you backwards until you’re laying on the bed, climbing over you so he can kiss you softly as you melt against the comforter.

“I love you so much. It should have been you.” He’s murmuring the confessions between kisses that are getting deeper and deeper with each minute that passes. “I’m so sorry that it wasn’t you.”

“I love you Sammy.” You say back and it shocks you how easily it rolls off the tongue, the weight of it feeling a little lighter in your chest now that it’s out there.

He’s kissing you more feverishly after you say it, tongue pressing against yours as you make a soft pleased sound.

He’s holding himself up above you but you wish he wouldn’t, wish he would just press the full extent of his weight down on you until all you could feel was the softness of his stomach and his chest rising and falling. You want to feel his heartbeat racing like yours is and what it’s like to be completely his for a moment.

Sammy’s kisses are feverish and he finally does press against you, pulling your leg to the side so he can slot between them and lower himself down right where you need him.

You’re softly breathing, a bit shy when he starts to take off your clothes and then fully flushed when he’s kissing your chest and whispering how beautiful you are. You’d spent a lot of years imagining what being touched by Sammy would feel like but you hadn’t even came close to the euphoria, the undeniable thought that you were finally complete after being so empty.

He made love to you the first time, it was slow and gentle and nearly bringing you to tears when he told you how beautiful you were and how much he’d wanted this.

You felt good with him, like something had settled in your chest after rattling around for a long time. Everytime he said that he loved you seemed like it was the first, sending a warm rush through your blood that made you shiver.

It was more desperate in the weeks after, kisses turning rough and almost angry when he’d come over smelling like Tammi’s perfume or leave early because she wouldn’t stop calling him.

You felt like it became an outlet between you but you didn’t necessarily mind, a large part of you having fantasized about this version of him too. You liked when he got rougher with you, hands moving you around to his liking and fucking you harder whenever you purposefully brought up his wife to try and get under his skin.

Sammy and you didn’t fight with each other, you would get into tense conversations because you were both hurt, but you’d never fight. This was the closest thing you had to it, bruises on your hips and his back so scratched up he had to avoid taking off his shirt the next week when he went to the beach with Tammi.

He was good to you, always double checking after if it was something you enjoyed. He made you swear over and over again that you actually liked it and weren’t just doing it because he did, only stopping when you got embarrassed and had to bluntly admit that you were really into it.

You were into him, obsessively and all things about him. Tammi had gotten on him to eat more healthy and it nearly made you sick, the thought of him changing in any way outside of his own wants making you dizzy.

And you didn’t feel insecure about how much he loved you back because despite the obvious issue, you knew that he truly did.

His hands were never off you, rubbing your thigh while you watched a movie or kneading your stomach while he kissed the back of your neck at the kitchen counter. He liked to run you warm baths, sitting in the room with you while you soaked just so he could hear about your day at work.

You sometimes wondered how much of this he was doing for Tammi. A part of you accepted that it was probably just as much as he did for you because that was just the type of man he was, but you selfishly let yourself enjoy being spoiled by his affection.

You didn’t go a day without flowers even if he wasn’t able to come and see you, he sent coffee to your work before you even got there, and he’d travel across town on his lunch break just to come and eat with you.

There wasn’t a night that you didn’t cry in bed and wish things were different. You’d stopped talking to your friends about because you were getting paranoid about the possible judgement in their eyes, unable to explain what it felt like to love somebody so much that you’d disregard your character for them.

But you did love Sammy that much.

So much so, that when he was coming over on Christmas Eve with an arm-full of gifts for you, you didn’t hesitate to pull him inside and kiss him until he lost the chill in his cheeks.

He disregarded the boxes in the entryway, lifting you up and bringing you to your bedroom before you could even greet him properly.

“Stay the night.” You breathed against his mouth and he tensed up a little ontop of you, brushing your hair out of your face so he could get a perfect view of your eyes and expression. “Wake up with me on Christmas morning. I’ll make us breakfast and we can open our presents by the tree together.”

You both knew what you were describing, a clear cookie cutter image of a husband and wife in your heads as you spoke.

He was hesitating, looking like he was unable to deny you despite how difficult the circumstances were. You weren’t just asking him to stay with you for the holiday, you were giving him a clear choice between the two of you.

Tammi wouldn’t be able to forgive him not coming home on the night before Christmas and you’d never forgive him for leaving. You were sure of that now, even though you felt so happy just to look at his conflicted face that you weren’t sure where you’d put all that love if he did leave.

You were happy to even be an option to choose from and that understanding almost made you crawl out from under him just to get some space.

Maybe he saw the pain in your eyes at the idea or maybe he came to the conclusion all in his own, but either way, he was leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to your lips before letting one linger on your temple.