antique queer

i know pope isn’t so good at getting head. he doesn’t like the idea of something that only feels good for him. you have a very switchy dynamic between you two but he finds it hard to believe that his pleasure is just as important ad yours. it takes a lot of reassurance on your part that it’s something you really want to do.

when you finally get to a place where you both feel comfortable you reduce him to a puddle in a matter of moments. with your hands, with your mouth, the way your tongue moves and your lips suck- it all drives him nuts. it’s the first time you really hear him whimper. and i mean really whimper. he’s moaning and clawing at the sheets, running his hands through your hair. he’s barely able to from words much less full sentences. he’s finally able to let go and just feel good without responsibility or shame.

you praise him the entire time, making sure he feels safe and loved and that he knows you’re loving every second of what you’re doing. you tease him for longer than necessary just to hear him moan for longer. you start building up, determined to make him cum like this. part of you wants to make him beg for it, but you think better of it and keep that in you back pocket for next time.

he starts to get shy as he’s about to cum. he’s trying to warn to, telling you to release him from your mouth. he’s scared to cum in your mouth. you pull yourself off to talk to him but keep your hand working his dick.

“i really, really want you to cum down my throat. if you’ll let me, that’s exactly what i plan on happening. you’re safe, you’re loved, and my god are you intoxicating. now are you gonna be good for me and cum down my throat?”

his eyes widen and his grasp on the sheets tightens. he gasps out a “yes” as your hand works him up and down and that’s all you need to take him back into your mouth and finish the job. it’s only a few more moments before he’s shaking and shooting his load deep down your throat. you’re both panting and you raise yourself up to kiss him.

“i love the way we taste together.” you purr into his ear. his head falls back on the pillows and you lay your head on his chest. his hand finds your back and lazily traces circles. you kiss each other wherever you can reach. he tries, sleepily, to offer to return the favour but you politely refuse.

“tonight was for you my love. it’s allowed to be all about you sometimes.” he doesn’t have a verbal reply, it’s all a lot for him to process, but he holds you tighter and doesn’t let go until he knows you’re asleep and finally falls asleep himself.

The air was thick with salt and humidity, that particular heaviness that came with coastal evenings. Your skin felt sticky, and where your bare thighs pressed against Pope's jeans, you could feel the heat radiating between you. The sun had dipped below the horizon maybe twenty minutes ago, leaving behind streaks of pink and orange that were slowly fading to deep purple. A few early stars were beginning to prick through the darkening sky.

“This is perfect,” Pope murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest into your spine. His breath tickled your ear, warm and smelling faintly of weed and the mint gum he'd been chewing earlier. You felt him shift slightly beneath you, adjusting his position, and you became acutely aware of the solid warmth of his thighs, the way his body cradled yours.

“Mm-hmm.” You took another hit, held it, watching the smoke curl from your lips and dissipate into the salt air. Everything felt heightened, the sound of the waves was almost musical, each crash and retreat a perfect rhythm. The wicker chair creaked slightly as you both breathed, and you could hear the distant sound of someone's music playing down the beach, just a faint bass line carrying on the wind.

Pope's hands rested on the arms of the chair, his fingers drumming slightly to some internal beat. You noticed he was being very careful not to touch you, even though you were literally sitting in his lap. It was so Pope, respectful to the point of awkwardness, even in an intimate situation. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself carefully still.

The weed was making you hyperaware of every sensation. The cotton of your tank top felt soft against your skin, and you weren't wearing a bra, hadn't bothered when Pope texted saying he was coming over. You could feel your nipples hardening slightly in the cooling evening air, and you wondered if he'd noticed. The thin fabric didn't hide much.

Your shorts were denim cutoffs, frayed at the edges, and they'd ridden up slightly when you'd settled into his lap. You could feel the rough texture of his jeans against the backs of your thighs, and the contrast between that roughness and the smooth warmth of his hands, even though he wasn't touching you, made you shiver slightly.

“You cold?” Pope asked immediately, his voice concerned.

“No,” you said, and your voice came out lower than you'd intended, almost husky. “Just... feeling good.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, and you felt him relax slightly behind you. “This is nice. I needed this. Been a crazy week.”

You hummed in agreement, taking another hit before passing the joint back to him. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, and even that small contact sent a little spark through you. The weed was definitely making you sensitive, making every touch feel more significant.

The ocean continued its endless rhythm, and you found yourself swaying slightly to it, your body moving in small circles. It was unconscious at first, just responding to the sound and the feeling of being high and relaxed. But then you became aware of it, aware of the way your ass was pressing against Pope's lap, the way the movement was creating friction between your bodies.

Pope's breath hitched slightly, and his hands tightened on the chair arms. You felt a little thrill run through you, he'd definitely noticed. You did it again, a little more deliberately this time, rolling your hips in a slow circle.

“You, uh...” Pope's voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. “You good?”

“I'm great,” you said, and you let your head fall back against his shoulder, exposing the line of your throat. The movement pressed your body more firmly against his, and you felt him tense. “Really, really great.”

You could feel his heart beating faster against your back, could hear the slight change in his breathing. The joint had burned down to almost nothing, and he stubbed it out in the ashtray on the small table beside the chair. His hands returned immediately to the chair arms, gripping them like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

You wiggled again, this time more obviously, grinding down slightly. The friction sent a pleasant tingle through your body, and you realized with a lazy, weed-hazed smile that you were getting turned on. The sensation was building slowly, a warm pressure between your legs that was becoming harder to ignore.

“Jesus,” Pope breathed, and you felt him shift beneath you, trying to adjust himself. That's when you felt it, the unmistakable hardness pressing against your ass. He was getting hard, and he was clearly embarrassed about it, trying to shift away without being obvious.

But there was nowhere for him to go, and every time he moved, it just created more friction, more awareness of his growing erection. You bit your lip, feeling a surge of arousal mixed with affection. He was trying so hard to be respectful, even as his body betrayed exactly what he was feeling.

“Andy.,” you said softly, turning your head so your lips were close to his ear. You could see his profile in the dim light, the strong line of his jaw, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. “It's okay.”

“What's okay?” he asked, his voice strained. “I'm not-I mean, I'm just-“

You wiggled again, deliberately this time, grinding down against the hardness you could feel pressing against you. He made a choked sound, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, and his hands finally left the chair arms, hovering uncertainly near your hips before returning to their safe position.

“You're so hard,” you murmured, and you felt him shudder. “I can feel you.”

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean to-you're just sitting there and you're so-and I can't help-fuck, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry,” you said, and you pressed your nose against the side of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. He smelled like weed and ocean air and something distinctly Pope clean sweat and that expensive body wash he used, something woodsy and masculine. You let your lips brush against his skin, just barely, and felt him suck in a sharp breath.

His pulse was racing beneath your lips, and you could feel the heat of his skin. You kissed him again, a little more firmly this time, your lips pressing against the spot where his neck met his shoulder. His skin was slightly salty, and you let your tongue dart out, tasting him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rough and strained.

“Kissing you,” you said simply, doing it again. You dragged your lips up the column of his throat, feeling the vibration as he groaned. Your hands came up to rest on his thighs, and you felt the muscles tense beneath your palms.

“We're-we're high,” he said, like he was trying to convince himself of something. “And we're friends, and I don't want to-I don't want to take advantage or-“

“Andrew,” you interrupted, turning in his lap so you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. The movement pressed your core directly against his erection, and you both gasped at the contact. His eyes were wide, pupils blown dark, and his lips were parted. He looked wrecked already, and you'd barely done anything. “I want this. Do you want this?”

“I-fuck-yes,” he admitted, his hands finally, finally coming to rest on your hips. His grip was tentative at first, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he held on too tight. “I've wanted this for so long, but I didn't think-I didn't know if you-“

You cut him off by rolling your hips against him, grinding down deliberately. The friction was delicious, the seam of your shorts pressing against your clit through your underwear, and you could feel how hard he was through his jeans. The layers of fabric between you were frustrating and arousing at the same time.

“Oh god,” Pope groaned, his head falling back against the chair. His hands tightened on your hips, and you could see him struggling with himself, wanting to pull you closer, wanting to maintain control. His neck was exposed, the tendons standing out, and you leaned forward to kiss along his throat.

You worked your way up to his jaw, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses, occasionally letting your teeth graze his skin. He was making these small sounds, almost whimpers, and each one sent a bolt of arousal straight through you. Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his thin t-shirt, and you could feel his heart racing.

“You're killing me,” he breathed, and his hips jerked up involuntarily, seeking more friction. “You're actually killing me.”

“Good,” you murmured against his ear, then caught his earlobe between your teeth, tugging gently. He made a strangled sound, and his hands slid from your hips to your ass, gripping firmly. The touch sent electricity through you, and you ground down harder against him.

You could feel how wet you were getting, your underwear already damp, and the knowledge that he could probably feel it too through the layers of clothing made you even more aroused. You wanted him to know what he was doing to you, wanted him to feel how much you wanted this.

Your hands tangled in his hair, and you tugged slightly, angling his head so you could kiss along his jaw. He had a day or two of stubble, and the scratch of it against your lips was intoxicating. You kissed the corner of his mouth, teasing, and felt him turn his head, trying to capture your lips properly.

But you pulled back, smiling, and kissed down his neck instead. His hands were kneading your ass now, pulling you against him in a rhythm that matched the rolling of your hips. The friction was building, that pressure between your legs intensifying, and you knew if you kept this up you could probably come just from grinding against him.

“Please,” Pope groaned, and you weren't sure what he was begging for. “Please, I need-“

You kissed back up his neck, along his jaw, and finally pressed your lips to his. The kiss was immediately intense, all the pent-up tension exploding between you. His lips were soft and eager, if a little clumsy at first, but then he was kissing you back with increasing confidence, his tongue sliding against yours.

You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head, holding you to him. The kiss was deep and hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless gasps. You could taste the weed on his tongue, and underneath that, something distinctly him.

Your hips were still moving, grinding against him in a steady rhythm, and you could feel him getting harder, if that was even possible. His jeans had to be painfully tight, and part of you wanted to reach down and free him, to feel him properly. But another part of you was enjoying this, the teasing, the building tension, the way he was completely losing control.

You broke the kiss to gasp for air, and immediately started kissing down his neck again. This time you didn't hold back, sucking hard enough to leave marks, wanting to see evidence of this tomorrow. He groaned, his hips bucking up hard, and you felt a surge of power at the response.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” he panted, his hands sliding under the hem of your tank top, finally touching bare skin. His palms were warm and slightly rough, and the touch sent shivers through you. He explored cautiously at first, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then growing bolder, sliding up your ribcage.

When his thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts, you both froze for a moment. You weren't wearing a bra, and he clearly just realized it. His hands stilled, and you could practically hear him thinking, trying to decide if he should continue.

You made the decision for him, arching your back and pressing your breasts more firmly into his hands. “Touch me,” you breathed against his neck. “Please, Andy, touch me.”

His hands cupped your breasts, and you both moaned at the contact. His thumbs found your nipples, already hard and sensitive, and when he brushed over them, you gasped, your hips jerking against him. The dual sensation, his hands on your breasts, the friction against your clit, was almost overwhelming.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with arousal. “So fucking good. I can't believe-I've thought about this so many times, but I never-“

“What did you think about?” you asked, genuinely curious. You rolled your hips in a particularly deliberate circle, and he groaned.

“This,” he said, his thumbs circling your nipples. “Touching you. Kissing you. I thought about, fuck, I thought about what you'd taste like, what sounds you'd make. I thought about making you come.”

His words sent a bolt of heat through you, and you kissed him again, hard and desperate. Your hands slid under his shirt, needing to feel his skin, and he helped you pull it up slightly.

His chest was muscular and tanned, muscles defined from physical work, and you ran your hands over him appreciatively. His skin was warm and smooth, and you could feel his heart racing beneath your palm. You dragged your nails lightly down his chest, and he shuddered, his hips bucking up hard.

“Inside,” you gasped against his mouth, the need becoming urgent. “We need to-bedroom-“

“Yeah, yeah okay,” he panted, and then you were both standing, stumbling, still kissing frantically. His hands were everywhere now, your waist, your ass, sliding up under your shirt to touch bare skin. You knocked into the doorframe, then the couch, giggling between kisses, drunk on him and the weed and the overwhelming need.

The journey to your bedroom felt like it took forever and no time at all. You were vaguely aware of moving through your apartment, of Pope's hands on you, of the way he kept stopping to press you against walls and kiss you deeper. At one point he lifted you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, grinding against him as he carried you.

“Fuck, you're so hot,” he groaned against your neck, his hands gripping your ass to support you. “I can feel how wet you are, even through your shorts. Are you wet for me?”

“Yes,” you gasped, the dirty talk sending another surge of arousal through you. “So wet. I've been wet since I started grinding on you outside.”

He made a sound that was almost a growl, and then he was moving faster, carrying you the rest of the way to your bedroom. When you finally reached it, he set you down, and you started to pull away, intending to fall back onto the bed. But his hands tightened on your hips, stopping you.

“No, no, wait,” he said, slightly breathless, his lips swollen from kissing. “Don't-don't lay on the bed with those clothes.”

You blinked at him, confused and aroused and impatient. “What?”

“They smell like weed,” he explained, and his hands were already moving to the hem of your tank top, his fingers brushing against your skin. “Gonna get your bedsheets all dirty and smoky, and then you'll have to wash them, and-“

He pulled your shirt up and over your head, dropping it on the floor, still talking in that earnest, practical way that was so quintessentially Pope. Your breasts were exposed now, and you saw his eyes drop to them, his words faltering for a moment before he continued.

“-and that's a pain in the ass, you know? Better to just-“ His hands went to the button of your shorts, and you realized with a thrill that he was undressing you without even seeming to realize what he was doing. He was so focused on his explanation, on the logic of it, that he didn't notice the way your breath had quickened, the way you were watching him with heavy-lidded eyes.

“-take them off now, and then the sheets stay clean, and-“ He popped the button and slowly dragged down the zipper, his knuckles brushing against your lower belly. The touch made you shiver, and you saw him swallow hard, his throat working. “-you won't have to do laundry tomorrow, which is good because laundry sucks, and-“

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and started pulling them down, kneeling as he did so. The position put his face level with your hips, and you saw his eyes darken as more of your skin was revealed. You were wearing simple cotton underwear, nothing fancy, but they were damp with arousal, and you knew he could see it.

“-the detergent you use is expensive, I've seen it in your bathroom, so it's better to not waste it on sheets that don't really need washing, and-“ Your shorts hit the floor, and his hands skimmed up your thighs, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. His face was inches from your core, and you could feel his breath, warm against your skin.

He finally seemed to register what he was doing, his eyes traveling up your body, taking in your underwear, your bare breasts, the expanse of skin he'd just exposed. His hands were still on your thighs, and you could feel them trembling slightly.

“Oh,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Fuck.”

You reached behind you and hooked your thumbs into your underwear, slowly sliding them down. His eyes were locked on the movement, watching as you revealed yourself to him completely. When you stepped out of them, kicking them aside, you were completely naked, and he was still kneeling in front of you, fully dressed, staring at you like you were something holy.

“You were saying something about keeping the sheets clean?” you asked, your voice teasing.

His eyes snapped up to yours, and the heat in them made your breath catch. “I, uh... I forgot.”

“Andrew,” you said, reaching down to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his lower lip. “Your clothes smell like weed too.”

“That's-yeah, that's a good point,” he managed, and then you were pulling at his shirt, and he was helping you, yanking it over his head. You'd already seen his chest, but seeing it again in the better light of your bedroom made you appreciate it more, the muscle, the tan skin, the way his stomach tensed as you ran your hands over it.

You made quick work of his jeans, unbuttoning them and pushing them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around it, stroking slowly. He made a choked sound, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and his hands came up to grip your shoulders for balance.

He was hot and hard in your hand, and you could feel him throbbing, could see the bead of precum at the tip. You swiped your thumb over it, spreading it, and he groaned, his head falling forward to rest against your stomach.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he panted against your skin. “But if you keep doing that, I'm gonna come way too fast, and I want-I need to-“

“What do you need?” you asked, still stroking him slowly.

“I need to taste you,” he said, his voice muffled against your stomach. “I've thought about it so many times. Please, can I-“

“Yes,” you said immediately, and then he was guiding you backward to the bed, his hands on your hips. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, you sat, then lay back, and he followed you down, settling between your legs.

For a moment, he just looked at you, his eyes roaming over your body with an intensity that made you feel exposed and desired at the same time. Then he leaned down and kissed your inner thigh, his lips soft and warm against your skin.

“You're so beautiful,” he murmured, kissing higher. “So fucking beautiful. I can't believe I get to do this.”

He kissed his way up your thigh, taking his time, and the anticipation was almost unbearable. When he finally reached your core, he paused, his breath hot against your wet flesh, and then he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit.

You gasped, your hips jerking, and he made a sound of satisfaction, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you in place. He licked again, more firmly this time, and then his tongue found your clit, circling it slowly.

“Oh god,” you moaned, your hands tangling in his hair. “Andy, that's-fuck-“

He was enthusiastic if a little inexperienced, but what he lacked in technique he made up for in eagerness. He experimented, paying attention to your reactions, learning what made you gasp and moan. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, your back arched off the bed, and he did it again, harder this time.

“Yes, like that,” you panted, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Just like that, don't stop-“

He didn't stop. He worked your clit with his mouth, alternating between sucking and licking, and then you felt his finger at your entrance, pressing in slowly. The stretch was delicious, and you moaned, your hips rolling against his face.

He added a second finger, curling them inside you, searching for that spot that would make you see stars. When he found it, you cried out, your whole body tensing, and he focused there, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm while his mouth continued its assault on your clit.

The pleasure built quickly, that familiar tension coiling in your lower belly. You were making sounds you'd be embarrassed about later, but right now you didn't care. All you cared about was the feeling of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the way he was completely focused on your pleasure.

“I'm close,” you gasped, and you felt him double his efforts, his fingers moving faster, his mouth more insistent. “Andy, I'm gonna-oh fuck, I'm-“

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, pleasure washing through you in pulses. Your inner walls clenched around his fingers, and you heard him groan against you, the vibration prolonging your climax. He worked you through it, only slowing when you started to squirm from oversensitivity.

When you could breathe again, you looked down at him. His face was flushed, his lips wet and swollen, and he looked at you with such satisfaction and desire that it made you want him all over again.

“Come here,” you said, pulling him up for a kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, and it made you want him even more. “I need you inside me.”

“Condom,” he said, pulling back slightly. “Do you have-“

“Nightstand,” you gestured, and he reached over, fumbling in the drawer until he found one. You watched as he rolled it on, his hands slightly shaky, and then he was positioning himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

“Ready?” he asked, and you loved that he checked, even now, even when you were both desperate for it.

“Yes, fuck, yes-“

He pushed in slowly, and the stretch was perfect, filling you completely. You both groaned at the sensation, and he paused when he was fully seated inside you, his forehead dropping to yours. His arms were shaking slightly with the effort of holding still, and you could see the tension in his jaw.

“You feel so fucking good,” he breathed, his voice strained. “So tight and wet and perfect. I need a second or I'm gonna come right now.”

You clenched around him deliberately, and he made a choked sound, his hips jerking. “Don't-fuck-don't do that, I'm trying to-“

“Move,” you urged, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Andy, please move, I need-“

He pulled almost all the way out, then slid back in, and the friction was delicious. He started a slow rhythm, deep strokes that had you gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders. Each thrust hit something deep inside you, and you could feel the pleasure building again already.

“Harder,” you urged, and he obliged, his hips snapping forward with more force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room along with your moans and his grunts. He shifted the angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.

“Oh god, right there, don't stop-“ You were babbling now, incoherent with pleasure, and he maintained that perfect angle, that perfect rhythm, driving you higher and higher.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his face buried in your neck. “So fucking good. I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you for so long.”

His words sent a surge of emotion through you, mixing with the physical pleasure, and you pulled him down for a kiss. It was messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth, and you could feel him getting close, his rhythm starting to falter.

“Wait,” you said, pushing at his chest. “I want-can we-“

He pulled out, looking concerned. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” you assured him quickly. “I just want to be on top.”

His eyes darkened, and he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. You straddled him, positioning yourself over his cock, and slowly sank down. From this angle, he went even deeper, and you both moaned at the sensation.

You started to move, rolling your hips in a slow grind, and his hands came up to grip your waist. From this position, he had a perfect view of your body, and you could see his eyes roaming over you, your breasts, your stomach, the place where your bodies were joined.

“Fuck, you're so hot,” he groaned, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. “I love watching you ride me. I love seeing you take what you need.”

You increased your pace, bouncing on him now, and the pleasure was intense. You could feel him so deep, hitting all the right spots, and the friction against your clit was perfect. One of your hands came down to touch yourself, your fingers finding your clit, and Pope's eyes locked on the movement.

“That's so hot,” he panted, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. “Touch yourself. Make yourself come on my cock.”

The dirty talk was unexpected and incredibly arousing, and you rubbed your clit faster, chasing your orgasm. Pope's hands were on your hips now, helping you move, and you could feel him getting close, his cock throbbing inside you.

“I'm gonna come,” you gasped, your movements becoming erratic. “Andy, I'm-“

“Come for me,” he urged, his voice rough. “I want to feel you come. Want to feel you squeeze my cock.”

Your orgasm hit you hard, your whole body tensing, inner walls clenching around him rhythmically. The sensation triggered his own release, and he thrust up hard, groaning your name as he came. You could feel him pulsing inside you, and it prolonged your own pleasure, waves of sensation washing over you.

You collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. His arms came around you, holding you close, and you could feel his heart racing against your cheek.

For a long moment, you both just lay there, catching your breath, enjoying the afterglow. Then Pope carefully lifted you off him, disposing of the condom before pulling you back against his chest.

“That was...” he started, then trailed off, like he couldn't find the words.

“Yeah,” you agreed, pressing a kiss to his chest. “It really was.”

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. “About wanting you. This wasn't just... I mean, I really like you. Have for a while.”

You lifted your head to look at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. “I really like you too,” you said softly. “This wasn't just a high hookup for me either.”

He smiled, that genuine, slightly awkward Pope smile that you loved, and pulled you in for a kiss. This one was slower, sweeter, full of promise.

“Stay,” you said when you broke apart. “Tonight. Stay with me.”

“Yeah,” he said, his arms tightening around you. “I'd like that.”

Outside, the ocean continued its endless rhythm, and inside, wrapped in Pope's arms, you felt perfectly, completely content. The high was starting to fade, but the feeling of rightness, of finally being where you were supposed to be, only grew stronger.

You dozed for a while, comfortable in the silence, but eventually you felt Pope stir beneath you. “Hey,” he said softly. “You awake?”

“Mmm,” you hummed, not quite ready to move.

“I was thinking...” he started, his hand sliding down your back to cup your ass. “We should probably shower. Get the weed smell off properly.”

You lifted your head, seeing the mischief in his eyes, and grinned. “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” he said, his hand squeezing gently. “Wouldn't want to smell like weed tomorrow. Very irresponsible.”

“So responsible of you,” you teased, sitting up. His eyes immediately dropped to your breasts, and you saw his cock twitch with interest. “Think you can go again?”

“With you?” he said, pulling you down for a kiss. “Definitely.”

The shower was long and steamy, full of soapy hands and slippery skin and Pope pressing you against the tile wall as he fucked you from behind, his hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. The water cascaded over you both, and when you came, it was with his name on your lips and his teeth on your shoulder.

Afterward, you dried off and climbed into bed properly, your sheets still clean just like Pope had wanted. He pulled you against him, your back to his chest, and you felt his lips press against your shoulder.

“This is perfect,” he murmured, echoing his words from earlier on the balcony.

And it was. It really, really was.

He’s had his handgun, a Sig Sauer P938, since he was 21, a birthday gift from his oldest brother. It’s basic, compact, reasonably light. Just a modest and reliable self-defense weapon. Getting a Pennsylvania concealed carry permit was one of the first things he did upon moving to Pittsburgh. Good thing too, since it might’ve been impossible after he stopped having a permanent address.

Having it often made him feel a lot more secure, especially when he became homeless, a beloved tether to a sense of safety when he wasn’t sure where he would end up on any given night, what kind of situations he would find himself in. When it came down to it, he preferred sleeping rough to having to give it up to sleep in a shelter—the shelter was chaotic and dangerous enough, he couldn’t bear to sleep there unarmed.

He’s never had to use it, thank God, but he did threaten someone once. He surprised someone snooping around his tent coming back from class, and the guy, shifty-eyed and probably in withdrawal, looked Dennis up and down and got into a fighting stance. Dennis lifted his shirt to reveal the handle of his gun in its holster at his hip. The guy bolted.

Dennis didn’t sleep much that night, replaying the interaction over and over again, unraveling every millisecond in case he ever needed to do it again, analyzing what he should have done differently.

He’s had to make some really sketchy decisions. The University obviously has a no firearms on campus policy, which Dennis has violated on a number of occasions—if security was more effective, his whole life, everything he’s worked so hard for, could get fucked absolutely sideways in an instant. Dennis feels deeply ambivalent about that. Eventually, he has to start leaving it by his tent. Leaving it makes him extremely anxious, haunted by the idea of someone finding it and taking it even though it’s buried twenty paces from where he’s hidden his other stuff. When he finds his hiding place at PTMC, it’s a huge relief to know his belongings are reasonably safe even though sneaking past security with a gun in his backpack is one of the most nerve-wracking things he’s ever done.

He didn’t sleep at all the night after PittFest, thinking about everything he’d seen that day, the absolute carnage someone can unleash with a firearm. He’s been around guns all his life, they’re just part of the culture in Broken Bow, as in much of the United States. He thinks about home, about his brothers and his parents, what they might say to him if he called.

At Trinity’s, he keeps it in a lock box, with a trigger lock, in the back of his closet, unloaded. The ammunition is in the back of his sock drawer.

One night, Trinity tells Dennis about her history of self-harm. She tells him she’s been struggling with depression.

He doesn’t want to store his gun elsewhere, at first, though it’s one of the first things he thinks about after that conversation. The idea of not having it around invokes a mild but persistent feeling of dread, but nothing like the acute and justified concern that it is too dangerous to have in the house with someone experiencing depression. He wants to be as safe and responsible as possible, was raised to take firearms seriously, to respect their power. On that, he and his dad can agree, though the specifics of whether or not depression is real might be a bridge too far. And anyway, he’s already storing the gun and its ammunition separately, it’s not like it’ll be any use in an emergency. He doesn’t feel unsafe, doesn’t feel like he actually needs it for its intended purpose. There’s really no good reason not to store it elsewhere.

At the end of his shift, he asks Dr. Abbot for a word. It’s a little excruciating to be on the receiving end of that steely gaze, but he can’t think of a better person to ask, so he spits it out, asks Dr. Abbot if he’d be willing to store his gun.

Abbot doesn’t look at all fazed. “Do you have a safety concern in your home I should know about?”

The second part of that sentence feels like an out, but Dennis doesn’t feel like he’s dodging anything when he says no. They agree on a time for Dennis to come over and it gets dealt with, no biggie.

This all comes out one day when Dennis accidentally lets it slip that he’s been inside Abbot’s house.

Trinity raises an accusatory eyebrow. “And why, pray tell, was my little Huckleberry in his hot older attending’s house, hmmmm?”

Dennis tries not to blush, tells her about him keeping Dennis’s gun. Only in retrospect does he realize he probably should've predicted how she'd react.

“What the actual fuck, you had a GUN in my HOUSE?! And you didn’t tell me?!”

“Uh, no? Why would I?”

“Because it’s a fucking gun! In my house!”

“Yeah, which is why I could never blab about it like that?”

Trinity is looking at him like he’s a from another planet and Dennis is starting to think maybe this is one of those urban-rural cultural divide things everyone is always talking about. They go back and forth about what Dennis would consider a fundamental misunderstanding of basic firearm safety protocol when suddenly Trin goes quiet.

“Wait, why did you give it to Abbot then?”

“Well I just thought, since you…yknow…”

Dennis’s words wither watching Trinity’s eyes widen. She’s clearly hurt, deeply hurt, and Dennis wishes he had never brought it up, desperately wishes he could rewind just 10 minutes and not say the thing about Abbot’s furniture. Anger, worse than he’s ever seen, settles over her face. She doesn’t yell, she whispers.

“Oh, so you think I’m fucking crazy then? You think I'm gonna blow my brains out?”