sammy bryant as your perv coworker who acts as your personal bodyguard on when the precinct goes out to the bar...
it's a hot summer night in LA. you're wearing your tightest, prettiest dress. you get a little too tipsy, some dude gets a little too handsy, and sammy's shoving him off of you with the practiced ease of a gang detective, along with a muttered "watch it, motherfucker."
to you, sammy looks like an angel under the dimmed lights. his chubby cheeks are flushed a light pink and his curls are all messy. without giving it much thought, you wrap your arms around his thick neck, backing him into a dark corner. "sammy, c'mere..."
he indulges you, of course, his hands finding a respectful place over the midsection of your back. "one too many vodka crans, huh?" he teases you as his mouth curves into that signature sideways smirk.
"mmmhm..." you giggle back at him. you shouldn't find it so hot that he's memorised your drink of choice. "mm... sammy?"
"yeah?" he whispers.
"i think you're sooo pretty..."
sammy laughs under his breath in response, ducking his head. he's flatteredâ he knows he's not exactly the definition of pretty, but he'll take any kind of compliment from a girl who looks like you. "you do?" he replies, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"mhm," you hum sweetly, nodding. "and i know it might be naughty to say this, 'cause you're all married and stuff, butâ" you lean in clumsily, voice dropping to a hushed whisper against his ear, "i've always wanted to suck your cock..."
"... what?" you catch sammy completely off guard. he's always respected you as a member of the team, but when you're not in the field you look so sweet and polite. he had no idea you had such a dirty little mouth.
you continue, emboldened by the alcohol. "yeah. or... or like ride it or something... or.... sorry, don't know what'm sayin', you're just really hot..."
sammy exhales a little, shaking his head. he's so turned on right now that his wife is the last thing on his mind. "no, no, it's alright, you're drunk." his nose is full of your perfume, dark cherry and amber and cinnamon, and it makes his head spin.
then, your back arches slightly under his touch and his common sense goes out of the window. "y'know what? just dance with me a little."
he rocks you slowly to the beat of the song, his breathing harsh against your cheek. his hands dip down to your ass, pressing you into his crotch so you can feel the hard line of his cock through his jeans.
your breath hitches when you feel it. "sammy, 's wrong..."
"what's wrong, sweetheart? we're just dancin'," he murmurs, even as he grinds forward into you, one of his big hands drifting up your thigh under your dress until it hits the lace of your panties. "just dancin', that's all."
you wedge his thick thigh between yours, rubbing up on his stiff cock as you lose yourself to the thrum between your legs. "mmh.. fuck, sammy..." you sigh out against his neck.
"yeah, that's right, sweetheart," he groans as he scans the room behind youâ everyone's way too busy downing beers and trading stories at the bar to notice the way you two are grinding on each other in the back, how his hand is shamelessly palming your ass. then, sammy gets a bright idea: "y'wanna come to the bathroom with me, baby? i'll help you pee."
"but i don't need to pee, sammy," you whine, pressing yourself impossibly closer to his body. "just wanna dance with you all night..."
he chuckles at your drunken stubbornness, then pats your ass before extracting his hand from under your dress. "wanna know a secret?" he asks softly, already leading you by the waist towards the bathroom door. you nod carelessly as you follow him.
"you're not gonna pee," he whispers. "i'm gonna give you what you wanted, yeah? gonna get my cock in you."
pope the type to laugh at you struggling under his grip as he chokes you out w his bicepđđđđđđ #ineedthatsobadyoitsnotevenfuckingfunny
sick & twisted because he rarely laughs or even cracks a grin but the second youâre at his mercy, everything is funny âŠ
content <đ .á 18+, meanie!pope, manhandling / mentions of play fighting, breath play / choking, dirty talk, pet names.
âi wanna try something,â pope grunts above you, in the middle of working you full of his cock. you whimper at the interruption and he squeezes your waist under his heavy palms to settle you. his eyes rake down your bare frameâ the arch of your hips, the way youâre laid out on your tummy and waiting for him to make any kind of move. when you peer at him over your shoulder with a pout, he speaks again.
âdonât worry, brat. i think youâll like it.â
the last thing youâre expecting is one of his beefy arms hooked around your neck. you gasp just as he squeezes a little, eyes fluttering shut and lashes fanning over the tops of your cheeks while you go dizzy. heâs choked you before after you begged him to, but this is different. this is something heâs been thinking about. something that heâs only done a few times during some play fighting, not with actual intent.
his grip tightens. his bicep presses on your throat as his hips finally move against the fullness of your ass once again. deep thrusts that knock the sense out of your brain, all while youâre getting just enough oxygen to remain conscious so he can still hear those mewls and whimpers falling from your glossy lips. you hiccup his name out once, then twiceâ your hands come up from the sheets to claw at his arm with manicured nails, leaving little scratches and crescents on his freckled skin. only for him to laugh all breathy and deep over your ear.
âhey, heyâ whatâs wrong, sweetheart?â he grunts, kissing the side of your face as if he isnât applying more pressure. he gives your throat another good squeeze and although youâre struggling to take in a breath, your cunt flutters around his shaft like silk, âare you puttinâ on a show for me? because your pussy never lies tâme, sheâs loving this ⊠think i can make her cum before you pass out?â
summary:Â in a tight-knit small town, your bakery sits just streets away from his. the businessesâand your personalitiesâconstantly clash, fueling a rivalry the whole town canât help but watch unfold. what starts as a competition begins to shift the more your lives overlap, until keeping things strictly business becomes harder to maintain.
warnings:Â fem!reader x jack abbot, implied sexual content, age gap, cursing, mental health & family conflict related themes.
a/n: i want this to feel like a mix of bluebell, alabama and stars hollow, connecticut. the kind of town where everybody knows everybody & gossip travels faster than the morning paper! keep that atmosphere in mind while reading :]
c.ws :: mdni , smut , slight degradation , car sex , hint size kink , overstimulation , dirty talk, creampie.
the car is still warm from the drive, leather seats rasing and sticking to the backs of your thighs where your skirtâs bunched around your waist. you all too giddily agreed to allowing jack to drive you back to campus after your dad gave a nod in shared agreement â but his true intentions were clear when he steered wordlessly into a vacant lot.
it was also clear you shared those said intentions with your thighs pressed together, manicured fingers fiddling restlessly with your skirt.
jackâs got the front seats pushed all the way forward so thereâs barely enough room to breathe, just enough space for him to wedge himself between your openly spread legs in the back.
windows are already fogged thick due to the accumulation of body heat, streaks running down the glass from where your palm slipped earlier trying to brace yourself.
outside is pitch black, empty lot behind some closed warehouse, no lights, no cars, just the faint orange glow from a distant streetlamp bleeding through the misted panes.
heâs still mostly dressed as he was at the bonfire: flannel shirt unbuttoned halfway, leather belt undone, pants shoved down just enough to free his cock. thick, heavy, already slick from the way he dragged the head through your weeping folds before pushing in slow. youâre soaked, embarrassingly so, and every inch stretches you open until your breath hitches sharp against his palm.
his hand remains clamped over your mouth the second you start to moan â big, rough, calloused fingers pressing your lips shut. the same fingers you had to reprimand yourself each time you tried to subtly catch a glimpse at between buttered biscuits and shared beers.
his thumb hooks under your jaw, anchoring you back to reality, keeping your head tilted back against the seat. âquiet,â he mutters, voice low and gravelly, breath hot against your ear.
âdonât want anyone knowing what a filthy little thing you are for me, mm?â
he rolls his hips forward, grinding deep instead of thrusting. there isnât enough room for that. the base of his cock presses right against your clit, pubic bone dragging over it in slow, filthy circles. you feel every vein, every throb, the way he twitches inside you when your walls flutter helplessly around him. your thighs tremble around his clothed waist, heels digging into the small of his back through his pants.
you whine behind his hand â you canât help yourself â high, desperate, and humiliatingly muffled.
he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. âthatâs it. keep making those pretty noises just for me. my dirty little secret, huh? letting your dadâs best friend fuck you raw in a parking lot like some needy thing?â
his free hand slides up your thigh in tow to his words, blunt fingernails digging into the soft flesh before hooking under your knee and pushing your leg higher, opening you wider. the new angle lets him sink even deeper â shifting you how he wants â tip kissing against that particular gummy spot deep inside you on every grind. you arch, back bowing off the seat, muffled cry vibrating against his palm.
sweat beads on his neck, drips onto your collarbone, collecting damply on the top of your cardigan. the car rocks gently with every roll of his hips â suspension creaking faintly, leather squeaking under you.
you can smell him: expensive cologne mixed with the usual medical antiseptic and the faint metallic tang of his skin. mixed with you â sunscreen youâd asked him to lather on, strawberry body spray, and the wet slick sounds every time he grinds in and drags back out just enough to tease.
âfeel that?â he rasps as he does so, grinding harder, slower. âhow deep iâm buried? gonna fill this tight cunt up and send you riigght back to your dorm dripping me. no panties. just my cum leaking down your thighs while you pretend youâre a good girl.â
your eyes roll back as he murmurs something about ânice anâ studiousâ. the pressureâs building fast in your belly â low, heavy, coiling tight in your abdomen. every drag of his cock against that spot inside makes your toes curl in your ballet flats. youâre clenching around him so hard he hisses through his teeth, pupils blown wide.
âcome on,â he whispers, slightly weary, lips brushing your temple. âcome for me, just be quiet now, yeah? donât want the whole lot hearing how much you love getting used like this.â
one more deep grind, clit crushed against him, and you shatter.
your whole body tenses up â walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses, fluttering so hard he groans low in his throat. you bite the inside of his palm to keep from screaming, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity.
he keeps rocking you through it, slow and mean, milking every tremor out of you until your thighs are shaking and youâre boneless against the seat.
he doesnât stop.
just keeps grinding, chasing his own release now. his hand slips from your mouth to grip your jaw instead, tilting your face so he can watch you â flushed, wrecked, lips swollen.
âgood girl,â he breathes. âtaking it so well. gonna give you what you earned.â
đ ïč â forced to work as a cashier at a family owned grocery store, you believe your life is over. until a hot older guy with a staring problem comes in once. and then, never again. not for three years. suddenly, heâs back. and youâll make sure you never lose him again.
ââ warnings . . . not canon whatsoever. completely different universe with some of the same plot. cannot reiterate enough, this is completely big AU. lewd talks, curse words, bad jokes, sorta obsessive and stalker-ish!reader. will add more as the story progresses
ââ pairing . . . fem!reader x andrew âpopeâ cody
ââ note . . . this is me coping from that end. have to make a cute little smau
imagine you are tipsy, almost drunk, and pope picks you up but you donât recognize him and you kinda flirt with him bc subconsciously he looks familiar but you also set a limit bc whoâs this stranger? and it drives him crazyyyyyy (also can i be đŒ anon if itâs not taken? bc popes likes skateboarding and iâd love to skate next to him?)
hiiii, of course, đŒ !! <33
âoaaahhh my gosh! you have a cool truckâlooks like my boyfriendâs!â
youâre stumbling out of the bar, pretty drunk as you see popeâs truck parked along the curb. you walk up, slugging your arms through the window, giving him a dumb smile n and wink.
pope grunts, smirking a bit, âbabeâget in the car.â you gasp, mock putting your hand to your chest, âbabe? m sorry, my boyfriend is coming to pick me up, and if he heard that heâd beat you up.â pope rolls his eyes, unlocking the car, hoping you get the hint to jump in.
you just lean in closer, whispering, âyâknow⊠youâre kinda cuteâlove the moody thing you got goinâ on. love your curls too. mhmmmm.â pope chuckles, sighing, âthought you had a boyfriend, sweetheart.â
you tap your chin playfully, humming, âhe doesnât have to know.â and you winkâbut that comment has him turning a bit serious. âkay, thatâs enough, doll. get in the car.â
you squeeze your thighs a bit, panties drenched at his tone, n you open the truck door, moaning, âyouâre no fun!â
sleazy baby daddy Boyd who comes round your crib in a white beater and his backwards cap, unlocking the door like he owns the place (he has a key).
you guys are separated but he still grabs your ass from behind while taking his babygirl. âboyd make sure you-ooh! stop that!â âwhat? donât act like itâs not the reason we got here in the first place. love this fat ass.â youâd only been together a few months to a year when he knocked you up, and when he said he didnât want shit to do with that, you bailed on him. moved out, ignored his calls, ignored his scrub ass homeboys who would call your job asking for you.
but over time, he let the realization simmer in the back of his head. he has a kid. with a really cute fuckin girl, one he still loves. so he found you..somehow. you didnât think too hard on it. and you didnât let him back in your life so easily, not when heâd shown how heâd bounce if times got tough. but when it came time he went to your appointments, you were already far along enough to show. he has to be there for you, for his little girl.
he curls up on the fooor of your baby girls room, smiling as he crawls all over him and throws his glasses. u canât help but love it. he takes care of you, for the most part. doesnât let you go without a meal, rent, anything you need. even if you arenât together now, he still steps up. not letting you stay cooped up in your house, making sure your nails (toes too when he can) are done. reminding you to take it easy.
andâŠwhen you need it, he takes care of you in other ways, from time to time. itâs not like youâre seeing anyone else, not with a toddler on your shoulder. and itâs your right to ask him for something, heâs your baby daddy. why not ask the man who gave it to you so good in the first place?
he always knows what u want before you even ask, can see the way you look at him when he comes through the door, arms out and jorts so low you can see his happy trail. biting your lip at his stupid mustache, and his stupid hairy stomach, and his stupid hot arms. eyeing him up as he rocks the baby to sleep, talking low to you about work.
when he puts his girl down for a nap, shutting the door quietly heâs nudging you into your bedroom. âcmon, get on the bed. know what you want.â he closes the door soft behind him, already unbuttoning his pants as he watches you crawl on the mattress. youâre bare under your big shirt, itâs your house, youâre feeding, doing nothing with your baby all day. no real need for panties.
heâs got you on your back, legs hiked up over his shoulders as he plows into you, smirking along to your slew of moans. âfuckin love this pussy, thisâs my pussy. all mine, yeah? not lettin anyone in this shit?â ânever, never boyd promise,,â youâre so smitten by his cock you canât help but submit to him, especially when he talks so low in your ear with that voice you like.
and heâs so fuckin possessive too. he has to be, you might not be his lady, but youâre the mother of his child. heâll be damned if he lets you out his sight. âyou better not have. better not let any dirty fucks round my daughter either, alright? iâll fuckinâ kill em, you understand? say you understand momma.â heâs slapping at your ass, youâre so out of it that it inflicts a moan. âi-i understand, i understand i promise daddy ohmygod!â he ssooooo annoying oh my god
âyeah, they couldnât fuck you like this anyway. careful, or iâll give you another one.â one day Boyd wonât be so Sleazy.
KISS ME AND I MIGHT â a silly little crackfic typa smau where reader, a third year resident, navigates through last months of being 29 meanwhile trying to fight a crush on a certain attending and debating all of the life choices that lead to this.
LEFT HOOK, RIGHT PUNCH (warnings.) â me trying to be funny, horny corny jokes, plot all over the place, curse words(duh), idek. reader is dennis and trinityâs roommate (maybe iâll take some inspiration from house tour), hucklerobby, garsantos into santellis eventually, reader is bi, readerâs nickname is rosy thanks to a joke santos made about rose toys after learning readerâs birthday is on valentineâs day!
ITâS FEMININE INTUITION (a/n.) â im trying smth new alright. i wanna do smth on here but im literally so out of my mind that i cannot write anything coherent so for now itâll just be this i fear. amazing dividers by @robinavitchslut !!!
pope hates when his girl smokes. hates it. hates it.
cw: intentional burning
you'd been hiding it for a while. you thought you were doing a good job. no. pope's got the nose a bloodhound. he was giving you time to tell the truth. three nights had passed and you still hadn't fessed up. rage is under his skin, boiling. he couldâve let it pass for a night more, but when he came out to the back patio the smell filled his nose again.
he's sick of tasting the ash in your mouth when he kisses you. "give it to me." he commands. it catches you off guard.
"give you what andy?" you peer up at him from the beach chair. the night's coming to a close. you've been tanning outside at the cody house all day. you'd traded in your bikini for some shorts, and a tank top coverup.
"your smokes, give them to me." he holds his palm out.
"don't know what you're talking about and," you look at him confused.
he sighs. "bunny, don't fucking lie to me." he extends his hand out again. his hand flexes.
"andy, i genuinely don't know what you're talking about." the confusion plays well on your face. pope's proud of you for playing the innocent act so well. though it doesn't go far with him. he's judge, jury, and executioner. you're guilty, no need to prove innocence.
he grunts. pope yanks you up by your arm. the force surprises you. pope frowns at the pack of smokes on the chair, you'd attempted to hide with your body. "it's no good to lie to me bunny. you know i just want to keep you safe." his grip on your wrist tightens. "where's the lighter?"
"back pocket," you squeak.
"good girl, telling me the truth." he spins you around, grabbing the lighter from your pants. he releases your wrist, you dare not to move. he leans over to grab the smokes. he pulls one from the carton. he lights it up. he watches the flame. "this shit," he flicks the burning ash, "is disgusting." he states definitively.
pope grabs your wrist tightly. he presses the burning cig to your skin. you hiss. "andrew," you whine.
his eyes soften. "i'm sorry bunny. i'm sorry. but you gotta learn." he pulls it from your skin. the red irritated flesh, is screaming at him. "you sorry bunny or are you going to lie to me again?"
you accept his extension of redemption. "yes andrew. i'm sorry." your face is contorted. pope takes mercy on you. he kisses your temple. he pulls the cigarette from your body. he flicks it to the ground, stomping on it, the light quickly going out.
"there's the good bunny i know and love." he gives your ass a gentle love tap. "go inside so i can clean you up. don't pull this shit again."
you nod, some stray tears streaking down your face. "yes andy." you walk inside the house, as pope follows closely behind. you've got to learn someway, and pope is an eager teacher.
summary: youâve been helping smurf and the boys with jobs for three years now. on your third year youâre sent to mexico, once again to prove your loyalty to the family. when you return, thereâs news. the addition that was missing inside the family when you first came to know them, pope cody.
notes: suggestive content, afab reader, mention of drugs and alchool, curse words, daren and reader hooked up before he came out as gay but now theyâre bff!! craig isnât in the group chat because him and reader have beef, age gap, based off season 2/3 of animal kingdom, minor spoilers.
đŁČâ you, a bartender at derans small bar, what happens when deran and craig throw a small welcome back for pope and you finally get to meet him for the first time?
đŁČâ not canon at all, doesnât follow the actual plot of animal kingdom, yes j, nicky and the boys are in a gc already, just my form of my pope obsession, cursing, talks of sex in future chapters, baz is fine im sorry guys, smurf hate!, minor spelling errors, comment for taglist!
currently obsessed with the idea of hyperfem!ditzy!reader x pope <3
like youâre all short skirts & platform flip flops & big earrings & glossy lips and heâs⊠well⊠pope!
youâre closer in age to j then you are to pope, which is precisely why pope is so nervous to leave you alone with him. but thereâs never a reason to worry, the second popeâs truck pulls up, youâre stopping your conversation with j and squealing excitedly.
hopping over to his truck, a happy âhi andrew!!â rolling off of your tongue as you skip to his side and stand on the step bar by his window. leaning up and giving a dramatic smooch âmwah! hi baby, i missed you!â as you gaze up at him. heâs smiling, one hand scratching at the top of your head as you talk about your day. âyeah pup? thasâ good. missed you too. câmon, hop in. lemme take you to dinner.â
smiling really widely and going over to the passengers side, throwing open the door and hopping in. one more big kiss to pope, your long nails framing his cheeks, and youâre turning back to j with a smile. âbye j! see you later :)â
totally genuine, totally sweet. totally juxtaposed when you turn to pope, still bright & cheery, âbaby, can we listen to slayer?â
you feel a deep affection for the little girl who wanders into the store you work at unaccompanied and a deep vitriol for her seemingly neglectful father. when she is given over to the custody of her uncle, it's easy to see he's way out of his depth. less easy to see how completely obsessed with you he is. Â Â Â Â Â ( 9.6k words )
warnings : gun mentions, clear neglect of lena on baz's part, reader has an extremely strained relationship with her father, parental abuse, food insecurity, age gap (reader is twenty eight, pope is thirty-nine), mandatory tag for employee/boss relationship but mostly not really 18+mdni cw smut, reader is a bit of a perv (just a bit!!), female masturbation, voice kink/voyeurism? not sure how to tag it? inappropriate use of a platonic voicemail?
note : back to my roots with a long pope fic this is the first full length fic i've written since valentine's day why did nobody tell me???? i do intend for this to be a multi-part fic but that depends on if anybody reads this so if you like it please consider reblogging/commenting i actually worked so hard on this one and i'm really proud of it so i hope you enjoy!!!!
The craft store on Fern Road has been there ever since you could remember. Nestled between a hair salon and a bakery right in the middle of Main Street, it doesnât get a whole lot of natural light once you venture past the huge open windows. Surrounded by a U-shape of shelving around all three of the back walls, most of the middle of the store is taken up by display tables or large metal crates of stock. Thereâs a system, so meticulously organised you could probably recreate it with your eyes closed.Â
Notebooks go on the left wall; A5 bullet journals on one end and A2 canvas sketchbooks on the other and everything else in between. Planners, calendars, to-dos to stick on the fridge, everything had a place. On the right wall were the art supplies, paint at the back and crayons at the front, organised by skill level, price point and colour. The back wall was for the more novelty items, mostly things that you only buy one or two of. Hot glue guns, easels, even a sewing machine thatâs been collecting dust since you were in high school.
It had been there the day you got the job; fourteen years old and itching for something to keep you occupied outside of your house. Mrs. Rayskel had been a lot more involved in the operations of the store back when you had first started as its only other employee, but now she mostly leaves you alone.Â
The middle sections are the ones most likely to entice a child, you think. Huge metal crates of stuffed animals, short, open cabinets of bracelet making kits and paint by number books. Thereâs a table right as you walk in that has hundreds of different types of pens in dividers on the outside, the entire area of the surface taken up in thick sheets of paper meant for testing pen types, but really just being a place for kids to draw.Â
Youâre assuming thatâs what brought in the little girl sitting on the carpet now. Itâs pouring with rain outside, early afternoon in the middle of the week, and you havenât had anyone come in all day. You donât mind the slow periods. You keep your work station clean and organised (one of the perks of being the only employee is you donât have to worry about someone else fucking up your shit), you have your crochet projects to keep you company at the desk. Most of the time you put on a calming playlist of royalty-free music and mind your business until the early evening when you close. Mrs. Rayskel only works weekends now, so youâre in every other day from 8:30am to open until 3:30pm to close. Youâve got about two hours until you need to start your sweep (assuming anyone comes in at all), checking the pen caps have been put on, replacing sample paper, rotating stock for visibility, when you spot her.Â
Sheâs quite small, canât be older than seven, sitting on the plush rug by one of the windows. You hire a carpet cleaner every three months to treat the floors here, and you know it hasnât been very long since the last time. Still, when you approach, you only bend down on your knees. âHi.â
You hadnât heard her come in, and youâre not even sure if you were in the store when she did. You couldâve been in the bathroom, or taking a few minutes out the back door, or completely zoned out at your desk.Â
âHi,â she says back, shy. Sheâs wearing a purple raincoat that seems to have done a very good job of protecting her from the downpour, her dark hair sitting loose around her shoulders. In her hand is a stuffed unicorn toy, and discarded in front of her is a pegasus. âAm I in trouble?â
You frown. âNo, of course not. Youâre not in trouble.â Where are her parents? Youâre not sure if sheâs old enough to be in school yet, but itâs close enough to midday that she should be there if she is. Itâs not particularly cold outside but water is flowing down the gutters like rivulets, and you havenât seen anyone walk by in almost an hour. âWhatâs your name?â
She shrinks in on herself slightly. âIâm not supposed to say.â Right, donât talk to strangers and all that. That doesnât help you.Â
You nod slowly, careful not to come on too strong. Sheâs quiet, most unaccompanied kids you get in here are little hurricanes, impossible to miss. Youâre not even sure how long sheâs been here. Surely not longer than ten minutes.Â
You tell her your own name as a gesture of goodwill, pointing to the name tag clipped to your sweater. âI work here,â you wave your hand awkwardly at the rest of the store.Â
She likes knowing your name, you can tell. She says it softly, stuttering over one of the syllables, before eventually shuffling in her seat and speaking up again. âIâm Lena.â
Okay, you can work with that. Step one is establish trust, step two is locate her guardians. Step three might be call CPS if you canât get those two done before you close but the likelihood of that happening is extremely low. You have kids wander in here by themselves all the time, just not usually quite so young.Â
âHi Lena,â you say gently. âCan I sit with you?â
She nods politely, still looking like you might scold her, and your heart aches for this girl. âIâm sorry for touching your toys,â she says as you cross your legs.Â
You couldnât care less. âThatâs okay. Do you want to play?â
Lena perks up, still hesitant. âCan I?â
âSure!â You try to give her your softest, kindest smile. âDo you want me to play with you?â
Thatâs what really gets her, like she hadnât been expecting you to offer your time. âCan we play with the ponies?â When she smiles one of her bottom teeth is missing. You never want to let her go.Â
âWe can play whatever youâd like.â
Lena carefully gathers the unicorn and pegasus into her lap, examining them with great care. She hands you the pegasus. âThis one is yours,â she says, smile threatening to take over her entire face.Â
You accept it seriously. âWhatâs her name?â
Lena looks at you like you havenât been paying attention properly. âShe doesnât have one. Her name got taken by the evil magic unicorn.â She holds up the unicorn for emphasis. âShe has to get it back.â
You havenât played pretend like a little girl since you were one, but it was pretty easy to get back into the swing with Lena. Never just a game, always a full world with rules that spring forth fully formed, buried beneath layers of stories of princesses and ghosts. You remember how it felt to hold all of that in your head all at once, never about good prevailing over evil and instead how it felt to be betrayed, or forgiven, or loved.Â
You let her hold onto that for the next thirty-eight minutes until the bell above the door rings again.Â
âLena.âÂ
Lena smiles up at the man dripping onto the welcome mat just inside the door. âHi, Daddy.â
Pretty much all bravado youâve had about tearing Lenaâs guardians a new one, simmering and stewing the longer this poor girl sat here with only a stranger for supervision, disappears immediately when you look up at Lenaâs dad. He smiles politely at you in a way that scares you more than anything, barely glancing at his daughter. Youâve been yelled at by customers before, but based on the lump on this guyâs left hip you think this man might not be the yelling type.
âI thought I told you not to wander off,â he says, uneasy smile on his face. You think you might have read him wrong; not the type of man to yell in front of someone else.Â
Your metaphorical grip on the little girl in front of you tightens in panic. You had thought this entire time that what you wanted was for Lenaâs parents to come and collect her, and of course you donât want for them to have abandoned her. But there seems to be no secret third option where they just misplaced her and theyâre worried sick and they took their eyes off her for a second and when they looked back she was gone. âWe need to get home.â
Lena looks up at him like for a second she doesnât recognise him.Â
This man is clearly her father, or at least another relative. They bear a striking resemblance, the features Lena is still growing into looking sinister and cruel on the older man. You wonder briefly if heâs always looked like that. If there had been a time when her father had been a kind and loving man.Â
Right now at least she looks like she knows different than to argue with him. âOkay, daddy.â
She looks at you, the same smile on her face that heâd given you. It looks lovely and gentle coming from her. âThank you for playing with me.â
You donât want to let her go - least of all without offering some big act of kindness. You want her to remember you, if she ever needs something to hold onto.
âDo you want that one?â You gesture at the unicorn in her hand and hold out the pegasus. âYou can have them both.â Youâll take it out of your paycheque. Hell, youâd give her the whole damn crate. She had been so excited to have someone to play with.
Lenaâs dad is already halfway out the door as she stands up, brushing her knees off. âNo, thatâs okay.â She leaves the pony on the floor. âThank you for playing with me.â
Sheâs gone before you can figure out what to say.Â
You close up quietly, doing all your normal checks. Youâre not quite sure what to do with yourself, mind stuck on the little girl with the purple coat. You donât know whatâs going on between her and her father. Thereâs a high likelihood that heâs just having a bad day, that heâs usually warm and affectionate and not someone his daughter has to be scared of. You donât know this man, and you donât know his daughter.Â
But you recognise the look on her face when her father showed up. Sheâs so small, barely up to your hip. You canât imagine being her parent and not being obsessed with her. Sheâs clever, and articulate, and the story she dreamed up with those two stuffed toys shows that. Her father had a gun on him on a Thursday afternoon, in the middle of Main Street. Sheâs so little, she canât comprehend cruelty.Â
She has to make up evil creatures to process things.Â
You think about her for a few days after she leaves. You kept both the stuffed animals behind the counter; it felt wrong to put them back on display. Who knows, maybe you could have been reading way too far into it anyway.Â
ââ
You never really learned how to shop. It wasnât really a skill that you thought youâd have to learn, you supposed. Adults know how to do it, youâll probably figure out how to eventually. At twenty-eight, you figure itâll come to you any day now.Â
The store is always too bright, even though you always come in the evenings. Harsh, fluorescent lighting makes you feel like youâre somewhere more important than in your body. Youâve been standing in the cereal aisle for longer than you need to, one hand down by your side holding your basket against your calf, the other hovering over a box youâve already picked up twice.Â
$4.49
You turn it over, reading the nutritional label like youâre expecting anything called âCinnamon Raspberry Crunchâ to be even a little healthy. Most of the other cereals, less sugar, sit right beside it, all about a dollar cheaper.Â
You put the first box back.Â
Your basket has exactly three things in it: bread, milk, and a packet of penne that goes on sale every two weeks. You donât need anything else, you never really plan on getting much. But youâve been thinking about this stupid cereal for days now, since you last came in and passed it on your way out. You could just buy it. Youâre almost thirty.Â
You canât explain it, canât verbalise, canât even articulate for your own peace of mind the unease that comes from that box of cereal. Your chest constricts and you canât form any rational argument other than the fact that thinking about buying it makes your head hurt.Â
Your phone starts ringing. The timing is almost funny.Â
You let it ring two full times, trying to control your breathing. You never understood how some people can just take a deep breath before doing something and feel braced for impact. Itâs never really worked for you.
âHi, dad.â Your voice wobbles.Â
Your father doesnât bother saying hello on the other side, instead waiting. You think it might have been the amount of time it took you to answer the phone, but you donât bring it up because you hear how ridiculous it sounds even in your own head. âYou took your time.â
You shift your weight, glancing the other direction down the aisle to make sure thereâs no one else around. âIâm at the store.â
âAt this hour?â You can practically hear him deciding what version of himself he wants to be today. âI suppose you are a busy girl.â You donât know what to say to that so you say nothing.Â
He doesnât need you to talk to keep the conversation going. âMaking good choices?â
âYes, dad.â You feel like a little girl. Your father never knew what much to do with a girl. Heâd call you sport and drag you places like fishing. âI know.â
âYou have a few bad habits,â he says, like heâs spoken to you face to face even once in the last five years. You donât think he could pick you out of a lineup if the cops asked him to. âNever quite grown out of them,â he says gently.Â
You stare at the shelf in front of you like it might save you from this conversation. âI know.â
Thereâs that silence again.
âYou donât have to stop,â he says, voice dripping. Disappointment slides into his tone like it knew it was expected. âIâm trying to help you.â
âI didnât mean to snap.â Itâs been a long day and you know you have a pile of laundry to fold when you get home. âIâm sorry.â
Your father exhales, long and slow. You have the entire time to ruminate while heâs making his mind up. There really is no rhyme or reason to him sometimes, it is left purely up to his whim. Sometimes a mood you think is a good one can sour in an instant. Youâve known him for how long and you just canât get a read on him.Â
âAnyway,â he breezes past it. âI called because I realised you never paid me back for your electric bill last month. Remember? I covered it because you were short.â
Your car had died and youâd blown most of your savings on getting it fixed, leaving you short on your electric bill for the month. Your father had been practically a last resort, first spending hours researching all possible public transit routes to see if there was any way you could make it work. Youâd given him the money back immediately when youâd been paid. Asking your father for anything has always made you feel like youâre disappointing him and when it comes to your dad disappointment can look like a lot of things.Â
One time when you were really little there had been a party at your house. You donât remember what it was for â just that it had been really important because your dad said it was, and that meant everything had to be right. You remember more of the buildup than the party itself if youâre honest. The air was tight, so quiet that not even the house dared settle. Every day you would take the school bus home and every day youâd drag your feet longer and longer, anything to avoid getting home.Â
Your father is a perfectionist, you tell people now. Highly strung. Particular.Â
You remember being made to eat dinner on the porch that week, plastic plates balanced on your knees. You werenât allowed at the table, your dad insistent you would make a mess. You didnât think you were a messy child but your dad isnât the kind of person you argue with. He hated cleaning up after you â that part, at least, had always been made clear.Â
The night of the party, the house filled up in a way it never had. There had been too many people, all too loud, all of them laughing like your house wasnât riddled with landmines intentionally set to detonate around your father. You stayed outside, sitting on the stoop, watching the older boys from the neighbourhood ride their bikes up and down the street under the orange glow of the streetlights.Â
You could hear everything going on inside. Glasses clinking, voices rising, your fatherâs laugh louder than you had ever heard it before. Then a sharp sound, one that you knew could only come from the vase on the dining table being knocked over.Â
You had known what that meant, even back then. Something small goes wrong and everything else follows. The night would fold in on itself, people would leave too quickly.Â
You could hear someone inside begin apologising and all you could picture was your father standing there, shoulders tight the way they would always be right before he snapped.Â
âDonât worry about it,â he said, like it was nothing at all.Â
You didnât come inside until you were sure the last person had left; nobody came to make sure you were in bed. You have never been sure of where you stand with him.
So youâre careful when you speak up again. âI did pay you back.â
He hums. âI donât think so.â
Youâve barely been able to afford gas this month because of the extra money being taken out of your account. Your job is consistent and pays you pretty well but you still work retail
âI did, I transferred it. Iâll check-â
He cuts you off with your name, sharp and steady. âOkay, calm down. You donât have to get upset. If you say you did then Iâm sure you did.â He clearly doesnât believe you. You donât mind him being wrong, but to assign you facets of yourself that donât really exist is what spikes your heart rate.Â
âDad-â
He doesnât let you cut him off. âNo, I wonât keep you. If you can pay me back when you get paid, Iâd appreciate it. Maybe this will take you to be a bit more responsible with your money, hey? Love you, kiddo.â He hangs up after you repeat the sentiment weakly, leaving you staring at the cereal, burning up under the fluorescent lights.Â
ââ
Youâve become somewhat of a creature of habit as you enter your late twenties. You have your small, solitary hobbies â your crocheting, your crafts, your scrolling through social media and seeing which of your high school friends are getting engaged. Spring breaks into summer and you spend the next couple of weeks preparing for the summer rush. The rain settles, giving way to a dry heat that has you grateful your carâs air conditioning hasnât gone yet.Â
The storeâs air conditioning is fairly reliable and since youâre the only one who works no one ever messes with your settings. The store is kind of a hangout spot for some younger kids who have clearly been set loose for the first time. They come in for the ever-rotating collection of board games, and you become somewhat of an unpaid babysitter.
You donât mind, though. Most of them are polite and well-behaved, and youâve always loved being around children. Most of the time theyâre a lot nicer to be around than adults. Thereâs no small talk, no worrying about filling the silence, or being annoying. Most of the time, the type of kids who want to come into a quiet store and draw or play chutes and ladders for hours, they just like when adults pay attention to them. You hope you can make them feel important, even if itâs just for an afternoon. Education had been something youâd considered going into once you graduated high school but the workload and the student loans and the decisiveness of the whole thing had been too daunting and eventually youâd put it off for so long it didnât seem worth pursuing anymore.Â
You keep the two ponies under the counter, kept safe from stock rotations and curious children by your careful hands. You protect them from dust, keep them safe. It feels a bit silly to keep them there, keep them clean and ready. You canât bear to separate them.
The summer rush comes and goes and with it comes the back to school rush. You end up paying your father back a second time, too busy with work to have the energy to deal with the stress of it. You donât think he has your address, but you also didnât think he had it the last time heâd shown up at your place.Â
Itâs perhaps the first day of the slow season, early in the afternoon, right after all the kids have gone back to school. Youâve done all the restocking, youâve done all the normal cleaning, all the normal admin. Youâve even gone as far as to dust all the baseboards, youâre that desperate for something to do. Muscling through the boredom, youâve finally settled in your comfy chair behind the desk, crochet project on your lap and calming music playing through the speaker connected to your phone.Â
The bell twinkles as the door is shoved open and you donât even really have the time to look up before your name is being called, bright and warm. Sheâs not wearing her purple raincoat but you would recognise Lena anywhere. She looks at you sheepishly, like sheâs just considered the idea that you donât remember her.Â
Youâre sure it must be something awry with you. So desperate for connection, to find the innate good, to understand everything in your life, youâve always been incredibly quick to attach. Perhaps not attach exactly, you think, youâre probably less attached to Lena than perhaps the idea of her. You donât have the best memory, itâs not photographic or eidetic or anything, but you remember faces and names. You remember people in your kindergarten class, and adults who showed you kindness, and customers you had completely mundane interactions with. You wonder often what it says about you the memories your brain has decided to latch onto, what has shaped you into who you are. Your preschool teacher scolding you for talking during nap time when you hadnât been, being abandoned at the bus stop by a friend who promised sheâd wait for your bus before beginning her walk home. One time, you had been maybe seventeen, down by the waterfront after a vicious fight with your father. You donât recall what the fight was about, but you remember the little boy you had seen by the waterâs edge. He had a bucket filled with seashells, and his grandmother was sitting on the sand helping him decorate a sandcastle with his findings. Eventually sheâd stood up, dusting herself off, and told him they had to head home for dinner with his mama. The boy had cried something awful, tears and sobs, begging his grandma to just help him find one more shell. One more, just one more. Is it odd you can recall the moment with perfect clarity, feeling your own heart split in two just at the sound of his upset?
Lena has grown since you last saw her, and if she hadnât referred to you by name you wouldâve thought youâd projected her likeness onto a new girl. She beams at you with a missing tooth, skipping forward as if itâs been five minutes instead of five months.Â
Sheâs flanked by a man who is new to you, not the same guy who had come to collect her last time sheâd been in. Heâs staring at you when you look away from her, holding the door open for her to come inside and making sure he catches it before it slams. Blue eyes stare straight into you deeper than you think youâve ever really looked into yourself, and he doesnât look away at being caught.Â
Heâs thick, broad in the shoulders and stocky in the chest. You squirm under his gaze, feeling suddenly like youâre doing something wrong by looking at him. Your chest stirs and youâre completely aware of every single one of your limbs.Â
âHi, Lena.â Her smile widens impossibly far for such a small face. Your heart does the same thing. âHow are you?â
She seems more forthcoming this time, telling you all about how sheâs just started second grade, the friends sheâs been making, how hard the classes are. She talks with a level of familiarity about her life the way only a second grader could, like it would never even occur to her that you wouldnât have anything to compare it to. You discard your crochet project, scooting your chair forward and leaning over on your elbows to make sure she knows youâre giving her all your attention.Â
Well, almost all of your attention. The man she came with stands directly behind Lena, arms crossed as if heâd expect you to try and hurt her, and his eyes stay trained on you. Youâre not sure if heâs just a starer â some men are; how creepy it is depends on how long it goes on before he tries to talk to you â or if heâs watching for something.Â
You kick off where youâre leaning, wondering if he might stop if you move. âI have something for you,â you feel foolish already. Chances are sheâs forgotten, or she doesnât even like horses anymore, or she didnât even at the time but they were her only option. âPeople bought all the other ones but I remember you liked these ones.â You look like a fool holding out the two stuffed animals in your hand, not even knowing if she wants them. Lenaâs eyes light up at the sight of the ponies but she doesnât move towards them.Â
Instead, she looks up at her bodyguard. âCan I, Uncle Pope?â
Lenaâs uncle Pope finally tears his eyes from you, looking down at her. His mouth pulls into a small smile, strained like heâs not used to doing it but fond like he canât help it anyway. âYeah,â his voice is crackly and quiet. âHow much are they?â He looks back to you.Â
You wonder if he thinks youâre going to quiz him on your eye colour or something. You shake your head, practically tripping over your own actions to get ahead of yourself and skip through the first part of interactions. âNo, itâs fine. Theyâre for her.â
Lena gasps, collecting them both into her chest with an iron grip. She thanks you and doesnât have to be reminded, eyes shining. You get the idea that Pope has heard about the two of them before. He watches her glee, affectionate an albeit untrained smile widening on his face. âDo you want your pen things?â
Her eyes widen to saucers. âI can still have them?â Pope nods and Lena practically shoots off towards the stationery section, leaving the two of you alone. He turns to orient his body towards her instinctively, but heâs standing so close to you that you can smell his aftershave. It sends a hot feeling from your chest to your stomach.Â
His hair is thick and unruly, such a rich copper it almost looks brown in the warm lighting of the store. His curls look well loved but less well maintained and you find your mind stumbling forward again; what hair products does he use? Does he like it touched? Does he have anyone there to touch it? What would it feel like?
âShe talks about you a lot,â Pope says, sounding like whatever the opposite of conversational is. He speaks like he regrets it retroactively, aching for solitude but subjecting himself to small talk with strangers. âPractically begged me to come here since she has a half day. I told her if she did all of her homework she could get some of those pens.â He mimes using a pen. âYâknow the ones, they smell like all the different stuff? Bananas and apples and crap?â
You nod. Theyâre just called scented markers, but you donât feel the need to correct him. You picture him at a kitchen counter, trying to coax his niece into finishing a reading log with scented markers. You know Lena has a father, a man that she at least called âdadâ five months ago. What happened to him? Why isnât he bringing her to get sniff pens? Is he still around, with his concealed carry and his seemingly cold indifference? Thatâs probably unfair, you donât know this man, and Lena had clearly loved him.Â
But she looks far happier today than she had the last time you saw her, you canât lie to yourself about that.Â
âSheâs a good kid.â You have to assume. Sheâs lovely, incredibly easy to be kind to, but you donât know her when it really comes down to it. âSeemed like she was having a hard time last time I saw her.â You shrug with an indifference that feels completely unnatural. âI wanted to do something nice for her.â
Pope looks over at her, taking the caps off the sample markers to smell them, then down at you. You feel real juvenile with your little crochet stars in your lap, youâre planning on making bunting out of them, sitting there in your work outfit. Heâs clearly older than you by a significant amount, heâs probably got a respectable job, maybe a wife. You wonder what kind of family they are, both of them so different from Lenaâs father. Perhaps youâre being unfair, maybe it wasnât a gun, and maybe heâd just been having a bad day. You want to ask Pope about him, but you bite your tongue.Â
âYou didnât have to,â he says gruffly, looking down. He doesnât have a wedding ring on, and the fact that you have noticed makes your cheeks warm. âLot to do for someone elseâs kid.â
You feel a little bit scolded, shrinking into him. This man clearly cares a lot about his niece, perhaps more than her father, you want him to think youâre good for her. Want him to like you.Â
Youâre sure it has nothing to do with the fact that his biceps are too big for his shirt and when heâd been staring at you all the blood in your chest had stalled.Â
âI didnât mean to overstep,â you say cautiously.Â
He blinks at you. The expressions that heâs shot your way have been nowhere near as emotive as the ones heâs given Lena which is to be expected on a certain level, but heâs really been giving you nothing.
He looks at you for so long you have to be the one to break eye contact. Lena bounces up to the counter, marker pigment around her nose with a pack of scented felt tip pens. âOh, Lena,â you say, eyes darting back over to her uncle. Heâs looking down his shoulder at her. âYouâve got pen on your face.â
âSorry,â she frowns, scrubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. ââSâit gone?â She juts her head back to present to you.Â
You bend down to rummage through your purse, fishing out a pack of face wipes from the bottom. âHere,â you pull one out of the package and present it to her. âDo you mind if I wipe it off?â
Lena shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly. Sheâs got beautiful, dark hair, and she clearly didnât get that from her dad. She doesnât look much like Pope at all, and you donât remember her fatherâs face with as much clarity as youâll recall her uncleâs, but you donât see much of a family resemblance between the two of them. He could be from her motherâs side but given that Lena is clearly mixed youâd made an educated guess that the two of them were brothers.Â
âThank you,â she enunciates, nodding slightly on each word. You wipe away the pigment gently, catching sight of the way Pope watches you out of the corner of your eye. Youâre not sure if youâd been overstepping when youâd brought it up but youâre pretty sure it qualifies now. You finish up, curling the wipe in your hand and sitting back. Lena looks up at Pope with a toothy smile. âAll better?â
He nods at her. âBe careful with them. We canât go to grandmaâs if youâve got pen all over your face.âÂ
He doesnât have that way about him that people who spend a lot of time around kids usually do. None of the fake niceties in the voice, thereâs clear affection there and heâs good with her, but thereâs a level of clumsiness there. The love had come naturally but the mannerisms are still forming themselves. Easy and wrought with the deception of labour in the same breath.Â
Heâs holding a twenty out to you and you realise with a start it's for the pens. âRight.â Your face gets hot and you stand up to escape the feeling. You take the twenty, your fingertips tingling where theyâd connected with his. Theyâre rough, calloused, and they donât shy away from yours. You reach for the key to unlock the cash drawer in the till to get him his change.Â
âKeep the rest.â
He says it in a way that makes you not want to argue with him. You ignore that instinct.Â
âTheyâre four dollars.â
He stares at you again. âYou have a tip jar, donât you?â
Technically, sure. Thereâs a jar there thatâs labelled for tips, but people rarely leave cash in it. You know his name but you feel wrong saying it. Yours is displayed on the badge you have clipped to your top. You tell him anyway, changing the topic.Â
Pope blinks, eyebrows furrowing. âEveryone calls me Pope.â
âWell, Pope,â you say as if you hadnât collected that and tucked it away the second that Lena had referred to him. âThatâs like a two hundred percent tip, so.â You turn the key and the drawer pops out. You tuck the twenty away and hand him back a ten. $5.15 with tax, $4.85 tip. "Happy?â You dump the coins in the jar. He frowns, which is more of a reaction than youâve gotten the entire rest of the time, so you take that as a success.Â
Lena tugs on his sleeve. âAre we going to Grandma Smurfâs now? She said I could go in the pool, sâlong as I wear sunscreen.â
Popeâs frown deepens slightly but he manages to fix his face before he looks down at her. âWe can go now. You sure?â Lena nods resolutely.Â
You watch them go, Lena turning around to wave at you at the door. Pope looks right at you and raises an arm in goodbye. Thereâs a vein that runs down his arm and you have to duck behind the counter, mortified. When you make your ascent theyâre gone but your face is still hot.Â
You spend the rest of the night thinking about Lenaâs uncle Pope. You wish youâd introduced yourself with your surname so heâd been inclined to do the same. He hadnât given you any indication that he had liked you in any way, so youâre not sure exactly why heâs got you all hot and bothered. Heâs at least a decade older than you, if not more, but you canât argue and claim thatâs not your type.Â
He probably wouldnât have captured your attention so severely if he hadnât been so good with his niece. It had been something that youâd realised rather suddenly a few years ago; that you were no longer a girl but rather just a woman. Youâd felt your whole adolescence that you were too young to be an adult. Mrs. Rayskel had hired you two days after you had turned fourteen, so when you woke up one day and realised that you were actually an appropriate age to be working, in your mid twenties. That youâre not a young adult, instead, an adult. An adult who thought she wouldâve been in a relationship secure enough to at least be thinking about having children. Men your age donât want to settle down, at least none of the ones youâve ever met have.Â
But an older man with a niece he clearly adores? You have to slap yourself in the middle of stirring your pasta to stop yourself from perving on this poor man. You wonder if heâd mind.
ââ
You spend maybe two weeks having your heart race every time the door to the shop opens, and are rewarded for your diligence when eventually Pope does return, this time without Lena in tow.Â
Youâre actually working this time, restocking the board games in the corner. Youâre mostly hidden behind a shelf so youâre able to pretend you havenât seen him and thus, act adequately nonchalant as he finds you.Â
âOh, hi.â Youâre kneeling on the floor restocking the bottom shelf and despite the fact that your skirt ends at your calves you tug it down self-consciously. âLenaâs uncle, Pope, right?â
He nods slowly, so slow itâs like itâs something he needs to process. He looks marginally less happy this time and you know itâs probably because his niece isnât with him but thereâs a small spark in the back of your head that whispers his frown is directed at your outfit. Youâre being ridiculous, he doesnât give a shit what youâre wearing. He offers a hand and you donât even think before taking it. His hand is so much bigger than yours, and the vein on his arm bulges as he helps you stand. âEverything okay?â
You dust yourself off, looking down at your ruffled socks against your boots. Itâs still been fairly warm during the day but you have errands to run after sundown. Youâve come to the conclusion about Pope that he might just be a quiet man. Itâs not any disdain for you or anything youâve done, heâs just a pensive man.Â
âWhatâŠâ he clears his throat. Pope leans up to tug on a patch of his hair at the back, centring himself and speaking up again. âWhat do you do when youâre not at work?â
You perk up a little bit. Thereâs no way⊠heâs not asking you out, right? Itâs probably that he wants to know which crafts you engage in, maybe he needs gift ideas for Lena. The answer is embarrassingly sparse, and you definitely paint yourself as a bit of a homebody. âCrochet, drawing, I watch documentaries sometimesâŠâ you need to work on how you present yourself. If he wanted to go out with you before he probably wonât after this. âThen errands mostly.â
âYou donât have a boyfriend? Kids?â He asks bluntly.Â
âUh⊠no. Why?â
He has the good sense to look sheepish at his abruptness. âLenaâs my brotherâs daughter.â You can hear every breath he takes, heavy and with a heaving chest. That answers that question then. âI donât know how to take care of her, thought this shit was meant to be easier. Thought all the hard parts about parenting were diapers and tantrums and sheâs got neither of them. All I had to do was make sure she ate and did her homework and said please and thank you.â He lets out a hot rush of air. ââS not like that at all.â He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling.Â
You have no idea what he wants you to say. Did he come to vent â for parenting advice? Did he assume you must have kids based on how you acted with her?Â
âAll that shit was fine when she had her mom and dad but now,â he looks down at you, and for the first time since you first met him thereâs a different emotion behind his eyes. You donât have very much to go off, canât even name his baseline, but from the fluttering eyelashes and the furrowed brows this looks very much like a man out of his depth finally confiding a fear. âNow I have to look after her. Have to, get to.â He shakes his head. âI donât know how he did it. But I have to work, and she needs someone to watch her after school, and the sign out there says you guys shut before four in the afternoon.â
You raise an eyebrow at him, more surprised than anything. âYou want me to⊠babysit her?â
Pope seems to realise that this is an odd request. Perhaps not the most appropriate, either. He clears his throat and pulls again at the curls on the nape of his neck. âYou can tell me to get lost.â
âNo, justâŠâ you feel like if you donât shut your mouth he might realise how strange this is. Most people would like to vet a babysitter, Iâm a random adult youâve met once, how do I know youâre not insane and wonât just dump her here and run away? âYou want me?â
Pope gestures to you, your pretty skirt, your general disposition. âShe likes you.â He shrugs stiffly like the action is something unfamiliar to him.Â
âWhen would you need me?â As much as you like Lena and as much as the thought of having him in a position where youâd need to see him every day makes your heart palpitate against your ribcage, this is your job. You canât quit it for this, definitely not before youâre sure itâll shake out. âLike after school? Iâm usually here until four-ish.â
âShe finishes school at three forty-five, itâs only three blocks. You have a car?â You nod. âGood, a license?â You nod again. âIf you need to stay here to finish up she can take the school-bus here, stops down the street.â He points out the window, youâre too preoccupied looking at the way his shirt strains at the arm to see the bus stop. âIf you can, you pick her up from school, bring her back here or to your house or the park or my apartment or wherever. Keep her entertained, make sure she does her homework and eats her veggies. Sometimes Iâd need to work late, so sheâd need to spend the night with you and youâd have to take her to school. You can do it at my place or if you want to keep her at your apartment thatâs fine. School starts at nine but she can go in at eight if you need to be here. Plus weekends. Not every day, and not always that late. I justâŠâ he looks almost embarrassed to need the help. âI can pay you.â
Youâd hope so, for all that.Â
âLena mentioned her grandma?â You ask gently. âDo you think Lena could stay with her some days?â
He looks at you as if heâs surprised you would bring her up. âNo, I donât want her around my mom.â He sniffs, looking away from you. âIf you donât want to just say it. Donât have to make shit up to help me. I could give you fifty bucks an hour â what do you make here?â Itâs not fifty bucks an hour, you can say that right now. âDouble on weekends and for nights. Plus money for anything she needs, gas money for you to pick her up, money for dinner and whatever.â Heâs almost breathless. âI can pay you.â
What the hell does this man do?
âPope. Itâs a lot to ask,â you say. âI can definitely take her on the weekends, and probably a couple of days after school. I donât know about nights, but depending on where you live I could maybe swing by in the morning and help her get ready for school, drop her on my way?âÂ
Pope looks back at you, some semblance of a smile twitching the corner of his lip upwards. Itâs the kind of smile that makes it impossible for you to not smile as well, which is surprising considering it still doesnât make him look particularly happy. For a guy this steely, you suppose any amount of joy on his face makes you smile.Â
âWhy donât I give you my phone number, and we can talk about this while Iâm not at work?â What Pope and Lena probably need is a nanny, or at least someone who can full time devote themselves to Lena. You have a job that, while it awards you a lot of freedom, is something you couldnât live without. And while you adore Lena, and youâre sure thatâll only grow with time, you need the money desperately.Â
Pope reaches for you and after drawing a complete blank, you realise he wants your phone. âOh, sorry. I left it on the desk.â Your father has been calling you, upset that youâd fallen asleep last night and forgotten to reply to his message. You know what itâll be, either asking you for something or scolding you. You havenât the energy to entertain him at the moment. The two of you swap information and when he hands you your phone back he lingers.Â
âDo you like this job?â He asks quietly, cocking his head and studying your face. You nod, lost for words with him so close. One step further in and youâd practically be chest to chest. âWhen you were a kid you wanted to be a⊠craft girl?â
You canât hide your snicker, ducking your head, and he frowns like youâd yelled at him.Â
âNo,â you admit. âThis isnât what I wanted to do when I was little. I wanted to be a teacher.â Youâve never really told another person that, never had another person to tell. By the time you graduated high school you were lucky if your father noticed you hadnât been home in days, and when you finally moved out at twenty heâd looked at you like heâd forgotten you even lived there. Now he calls you every week, which is nice of him, but you wished in the decade itâs been since you last saw his face youâd developed a thicker skin. Or at least the ability to not cry whenever he hurts your feelings.Â
Popeâs eyes light up. âSee, youâre perfect.â He tilts his chin down to mirror yours like the two of you are sharing a secret. âThis is basically like being a teacher.â
You laugh again and this time he doesnât seem so offended. âGoodbye, Pope.â
This time when he leaves he doesnât turn to wave at you, but it gives you ample time to watch him cross the street to his car. Thereâs a man there who snickers and punches Popeâs chest when he gets in, but Pope doesnât even bat an eye, pulling the car out and meeting your gaze right as he reaches the edge of the window.Â
You look down at your phone. âPope CodyâŠâ you muse, looking at his contact information. Youâre surprised he offered his surname at all, the longer you speak to him the less he seems the type. You smile down at it and startle, caught, at the sound of the bell. Your phone slips from your grasp and you bring up your other hand to catch it before it hits the floor. The app closes in the fuss, and with it goes his unsaved contact information. âShit.â You hiss, looking up at the customer, a mom and two little boys who thankfully donât look like they heard your expletive and put your phone down on the counter. You can only hope that he texts you first, you suppose youâll find out if he expects you to make the first move.Â
ââ
Itâs late when your phone rings. So late, you know itâs not Pope. So late youâre going to regret this in the morning when you have to get up and clean your apartment in the morning. Youâre not not going to sleep, youâre just not trying very hard. Youâre sprawled out on your bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, trying to fight off a headache.Â
Itâs your father, heâs the only man with the audacity enough to call you at midnight on a Friday night. Youâll call him back in the morning, he has no way of knowing youâre awake to ignore him. Youâre so exhausted, your sheets are so warm and smooth, youâve been teetering on the edge of consciousness for a while now. The vibrating doesnât even catch up to you until itâs almost finished ringing.Â
Your phone screen goes black again, plunging the room into the sub-darkness that only comes from the whole city being asleep. Then, it lights up again with a text.Â
Huffing, your face pressed against your pillow, you slap the mattress on your side until you finally wrap your hands around the device.Â
You have 1 New Voicemail.Â
Your father has never left you a voicemail. Spam callers might, but usually theyâre unintelligible. Your phone will have taken a transcript as best it can, and you squint at the brightness. It streaks right past your retinas and into the core of your brain, making your headache worse.Â
Uh hey itâs pope Codyâ
You scramble up until youâre on your knees, heart rate spiking. You canât be laying down, not with your ears ringing the way they are. Based on the paragraph itâs not a super short message, and you bite your lip with delight when you see itâs almost a full minute.Â
Thereâs a feeling in your chest you canât get rid of, canât deep-breath or count-to-ten away. Itching for movement, you feel your hand start wandering up of its own accord from where itâs resting on your thigh upwards, slipping under the hem of the big t-shirt youâd been intending on sleeping in and finding your nipple. You toy with it almost distractedly, stuck in limbo of being desperate to rake your eyes over his words and wanting to hear him.Â
God, how tragic are you? Your nipples are both hard already and perhaps itâs just from the breeze drifting through the open window but you also feel a throb of neediness light up your core. You roll onto your back, clenching your thighs together. This is a line you shouldnât cross. Sure, itâs late, youâre horny, whatever. But this guy is about to be your boss, you should be able to listen to a voicemail without needing to touch yourself.Â
Heâs such a serious man, you canât imagine what heâd say if he saw the state of you, shirt lifted just below your breasts, soaking a damp patch into the front of your panties. The only way youâre going to be able to get through the message is going to be to get yourself off first like a teenage boy trying not to get a boner on a first date.Â
Popeâs also painfully awkward and it really does it for you. From the way he moves, to the faces he makes, to the way he talks. Fuck, the way he talks. You let your phone rest on your chest and your other hand finds its way down underneath your panties.Â
You havenât been fucked in a while but youâre way more turned on than you have any right to be. You donât bother teasing yourself, pressing the flat of two fingers against your clit. Your hips buck at the feeling, clearly more untouched than you thought.Â
Your fingers arenât as thick as his, and you canât help the perversions that cross your mind at the thought of Pope. How would he touch you? Would it be clumsy? Heâs pretty assertive, perhaps that would overtake the awkwardness. You let a whine escape your bitten lips into the darkness of your bedroom as you rub your clit.Â
Fuck this, you reach for the phone blindly, half blinded with the vision of his hand shoving yours out the way. You fumble for the button, but after a little while his voice rings out in your bedroom.Â
âUh,â he coughs. âHey, itâs Pope Cody.â Two of your fingers slide inside, your other hand coming to replace the fingers at your clit. The position is awkward but you canât focus on anything but the sound of his voice, already humiliatingly close. His voice is low and the phone quality crackles but it mimics the grooves of his voice well enough you donât even care. âLook, I know itâs late but do you think you can call me in the morning? I donât know how this thing usually works, the whole babysitter thing.â His fingers would probably get deeper than yours, but you curve them slightly until they hit your sweet spot.Â
Frustrated with the limitations the fabric is giving, you pull both your hands out and shove your underwear down your legs, letting it slip off your foot and onto the floor of your bedroom. âAnd you sound like you know what youâre talking about.â
âFuck,â you hiss, drawing your fingers from your hole and fucking them back into yourself slowly. He seems like the type of man who would take his time, or maybe thatâs just you projecting for slowing down so you donât cum before heâs even done talking.Â
âAnd Iâm sorry about ambushing you at work, it felt like the best place to come talk to you. I wonât come by again, if you donât want. But I want to see you.â
Youâre only halfway through it and you can already feel an orgasm forming. Itâs downright sinful the things you want him to do to you.Â
âI need to talk to you, I mean. About Lena. And about⊠yeah. I know this is probably stupid as shit but Iâm way in over my head here so⊠Whatever it is you want to do, Iâll do it. You want more money?â
You bring the hand rubbing your clit up to your mouth to sink your teeth into the back, instead grinding on the palm of the hand youâre using to finger yourself. The walls in your apartment are thick enough you donât have to worry about making a small amount of noise, but you donât need Erin and Carlos from next door to hear you whining. âAnything you want. Anything.â You can practically feel him breathing into your ear. Anything you want.Â
He says your name, low and deep and you tip into your orgasm, back arching against your sheets and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. Theyâre clenched shut, white filling your vision, and his face lives on your eyelids. Those big, sad eyes. Thick fingers and thicker arms.Â
Heâs gruff, and unsmiling and awkward and stiff, but Pope doesnât seem like the kind of guy to get hung up on rules. Heâs older than you, and heâs about to be your boss, and you realise with a thrill that you donât think that would stop him if he wanted you.Â
âOr if you donât want or, or you canât or whatever. Then if you know anyone, or like, a way I can find a babysitter? I donât fuckinâ know⊠Thanks for the help. Iâm around, if you want to call me when youâre not asleep. Okay.â He ends the message without a goodbye.Â
Your eyes are practically glued shut, walls fluttering around your fingers as your breathing slowly returns to normal. How the fuck are you meant to work this job? You canât even listen to the man talk for a full minute without soaking through your underwear.Â
You donât remember falling asleep, you wake up with a rumpled shirt and a new pair of panties you mustâve slipped on in a daze. Itâs a Saturday, so you donât have to get up if you donât really want to. You have chores to do and sleep to catch up on, you can hear the faint sound of rain picking up outside. Perfect circumstances for a day at home, resetting and fixing yourself up on one of your two days off.Â
Instead, you roll over and immediately reach for your phone.Â
Hey, sorry! I fell asleep and didnât get your call. Iâm free today, Iâd love to see you. You chicken out and tack onto the end and Lena! I can come over to your place or we can meet somewhere else?
You barely have time to close your eyes again before your phone is vibrating in your hand, once, then twice. The first message is an address. The second: give me an hour.Â
You roll back onto your stomach and try to stop yourself from screaming into your pillow.Â
summary â in which jack abbot has feelings for you, yet you continue to remain oblivious despite his desperate attempts at flirting, he just canât seem to read your mind !
warnings â age gap, profanity, some characters may be a bit ooc(sorry), not plot accurate, some chapters will include a lil bit of sexual innuendos, does not rlly have a set plot, uhmm Iâll add more as I write hehe !! <3
an â my first ever smau so Iâm sorry if it isnât that good .. parts of this will def be rlly self indulgent LOL !! bit busy sometimes but I dooooo plan on updating at least every other day !!!! taglist is open <3
warnings . . . this is going to spoil it but i haaaave to⊠SMUT! MDNI!!! being on tinder is a warning of its own i hate that place, fingeringâŠâŠâŠâŠ..
word count . . . 2.1k
You canât say you donât want him in the same car as you, but youâre definitely surprised to see him. But if thereâs one word to truly describe you, it's stubborn. Lenaâs sitting in her booster seat, wrapped in her pinky hoodie and zip up, headphones in as she watches her favorite show on her iPad. And Pope is sitting right beside her, watching you.Â
âWhat is he doing here?â You turn to J, whoâs driving the van.Â
âHe is the adult for the trip.â J shrugs, âjust hurry up and sit. We still have to pick Sammy up from her last class.âÂ
You huff, turning your chin at Pope whose eyes have yet to leave you. And despite the tingle that runs through you, you have to stay strong. You move to the farthest seat in the back, tucking yourself into the corner.Â
Nicky is next. Sheâs still half asleep as she slides into the passenger seat, snoring the second she settles down. Sammy, despite it being so early in the morning, is beaming as the van door slides open. Lena tugs her headphones off immediately. âSammy!â She giggles happily. And then, she turns to her uncle. âUncle Pope, move.âÂ
Nicky snorts out a laugh, now gouging down a hashbrown. J jumps in though, âmanners, Lena.âÂ
Lena huffs dramatically. A habit sheâs only picked up on since youâve been around her. âPlease.â She mutters out. âSammy promised to hold my hand when we go up the scary hills.âÂ
You expect him to put up a fight. Because the only other spot is on the same cushion with you and youâve decided that Andrew Cody hates you. So why would he want to sit next to you?Â
Your eyes widen as he easily slides out of his seat and crouches his way to the back. âW-wait!â You push forward, desperate to get this to stop. âLena, baby, Sammy canât do anything to help you. You need a strong man. Or⊠a man. He doesnât even have to be strong.âÂ
Lena gives you a bored expression, âthatâs not very nice.â The furrow in the little girls thick brows makes you hesitate.Â
You sigh, âsorry.â You press yourself up against the side of the car as Pope plops down next to you.Â
âThe hell are you doing?â He asks gruffly.Â
âWhat are you doing?â You huff, âsit at the corner.âÂ
âI donât want to.âÂ
âIâm telling you to.âÂ
âWhy do I have to listen to you?âÂ
âPope, move.âÂ
Heâs childish, youâve come to realize. Instead of scooching to the other side of the seat, he moves closer to you. âNo.âÂ
âPope.â You groan loudly.Â
âUncle pope,â Lena calls from her seat. Sheâs tapping away at her tablet with one hand as Sammy holds the other. âAre you being mean?âÂ
âYes.â âNo.âÂ
âThey just like each other, mama.â Nicky chimes in, turning in her seat to grin at Lena. âYou tease the people you like.âÂ
âI do not like him.â You hope they believe you, since itâs a complete lie. But your friends know you better than you know yourself.Â
Lena laughs like itâs the funniest thing in the world. âThey do like each other! So gross!âÂ
The drive is incredibly long. Your body was aching from the way you were pulling from him and you had to give in. His leg is nudging against yours, pressing harder at turns.
âMove.â You groan, nudging him away.Â
âNo.â He nudges his knee against yours again.Â
âPopeâŠâ you huff, glaring at him. âYouâre being annoying.âÂ
Itâs his turn to huff, âyou annoy me all the time.âÂ
âI do not.âÂ
âDo too.âÂ
âKidsâŠâ J chimes this time, âsettle down.â
âAinât a kid.â You toss a napkin at him from the back seat.Â
Pope decides to keep going, âsure act like one.âÂ
âSure act like one.â You mock, deepening your voice.Â
âI donât sound like that.âÂ
You mock again, âI donât sound like that.âÂ
âQuit it.â
âQuit it.âÂ
Sammy groans this time, âboth of you shut up.âÂ
Lena is out cold when you all get to Sammyâs family cabin. Itâs nice, sleek. It doesnât look like it belongs in the deep foliage, too modern. Her mother has expensive tastes though, so itâs not a surprise that thereâs technology all throughout the place.
J and Pope argued for a minute about taking Lena in but J ultimately won, now heading in with the lolling girl in his arms. Nicky follows suit, already complaining about needing a shower and the bugs all around. Sammy chimes in about the high tech bug zappers her mother has in every room.Â
Youâre stuck behind with your bags in your hand. âHello?â You call out to Pope as he starts walking to the cabin. âWhere are you going?âÂ
He turns, his own bags in his hand. âInside?âÂ
You wiggle your bag around. âWhat happened to chivalry?â
He glances at your bags and back at you, bored. âIt died.âÂ
âPope.âÂ
âYeah?â He hums, uninterested.Â
âHelp me.âÂ
Thereâs a grin tugging at his lips, one heâs trying to fight as he turns back to you. âWhere are your manners?âÂ
âPope!â You sigh, âreally? Iâm too pretty to do this.â But heâs not budging. âFine. Please.âÂ
Thatâs enough for him because heâs moving over to you, grabbing your bags with a triumphant smile, âgood girl.âÂ
You think about his words long after. You hate that you want him so badly. No matter whatâs said or done, nothing pulls you from this aching need.
You wonder if heâs being intentional. From what youâve gathered, he doesnât have much female attention. Not because women donât want him, you see the way eyes trail over him. But heâs awkward. Youâre not sure if he even notices the way heâs lusted after.Â
He spends so much of his time acting like he doesnât want you, when he makes a move that he is interested, you find yourself dissecting it for hours. Itâs hard not to, especially when his softer acts are rare, in text or person.Â
âWhat are you doing?â The strong voice makes you jump in your spot.Â
You pull your hand out of the hot tub, the water dripping down your now cold arm. You turn to him, leaning against the tub. âLetting it warm up.â A pause. âAre you getting in?âÂ
âNo. I hate hot water.âÂ
You roll your eyes, turning away from him. âWhatever.âÂ
You donât hear his feet shuffling away, so you know heâs still here. And you can feel him. Feel the way his eyes are on your backside.Â
âWhose shirt is that?â Youâre wearing a huge t-shirt, practically a dress as it sits right beneath your knees, and the neck falls off your shoulder, showing off your collarbone.Â
The idea is immediate. You bite your lip to stop yourself from cackling and giving yourself away. You dip your hand back into the bubbling water, humming, âwhy?â
âIt doesnât look like itâs yours.âÂ
You nod, âit isnât.â Youâre grinning, wanting to turn around and watch him. Watch the way his face twists in confusion. âAbsolute truth?âÂ
He hesitates but agrees. âYes.âÂ
The lie is easy as you turn to face him, face back to neutral. He doesnât know that youâve been celibate almost three years. He doesnât need to know that the T-shirt is Jâs which you stole from Nicky a while ago.
You shrug, continuing, âan old fling. Met him on Tinder.â You canât tell what heâs feeling. You hate that you canât because he always looks serious. Always looks stoic. âWe went for drinks and ended up back at my place.âÂ
âBut you live with your parents.â Heâs trying to get you to say more, that much you can tell.Â
âIâm not gross, Pope. I didnât let him touch me until they were gone for the night.âÂ
âOkay.â Is all he speaks.Â
You shrug, turning your back to him once more. Youâre scolding yourself because of course it didnât work. Heâs not into you. He doesnât want you. Youâre the one who wants him. Youâre the one who is chasing him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.Â
âWhat did he do to you?âÂ
His question makes your breath hitch. Slowly, you turn around to face him again. You flinch softly at how close he is to you now, chest practically pressed up to yours. âI donât think you want toââÂ
He doesnât let you finish. His harsh tone cuts you off, âTell me.âÂ
âHeâŠâ youâre scrambling. Nothing is coming to mind because this isnât remotely close to being true. Thereâs no other guy and thereâs definitely no Tinder. You mumble out the first thing that comes to mind. âHe fingered me.âÂ
His body close to yours tells you a lot more than youâve ever seen on him. His breathing is labored, chest rising and falling from what youâre assuming is jealousy. His hands are ghosting at your hips, scared to touch you. Now you know what you need to do. Â
âDidnât let him fuck me, Pope.â He backs you up fully against the hot tub, nose trailing down your cheek, to your jaw, and to your neck. He inhales you. Smells the mixture of your faint perfume mixed with the light sheen of sweat from the heat emanating from the hot tub youâve been hovering over. âCouldnât let him.âÂ
This solidifies what he wantsâ what he needs from you. His hands fall to your hips, face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His rough hands slowly move from your hips and to your thighs, letting your t-shirt scrunch up as he desperately searches for your soft skin.Â
You canât take a full breath. His hands are tugging at the bottom of your bathing suit beneath your shirt. You expect him to tug them off of you but that doesnât come. He pulls it taut to the side of you, letting it sit awkwardly. But you canât focus on that when a single finger pushes between your lips, letting the tip of him press at your bundle of nerves.Â
A soft gasp leaves you as he begins to rub circles at your clit. âFuckâŠâ you whimper softly, brows furrowing as the little waves of pleasure course through you.Â
Your hips grind into his hand, desperate for more from him. He adds another finger, and another. Heâs moved his face from your neck, his intense eyes watching your face twist in pleasure. âPope, IâŠâ you whimper softly, letting your forehead fall to his shoulder.Â
âHey, hey,â his free hand grabs your chin, forcing you to look back up at him. âDonât look away from me.âÂ
And thatâs all you need to listen to his command. His eyes wonât leave yours. Youâre embarrassed. Embarrassed with how vulnerable this feels, having him watch you.Â
You almost cry when his fingers stop the motion at your clit, but youâre quickly shut up when his hand slides a little ways down and a single finger pops into you. You try to hide your face against him again but he doesnât allow you to. The grip on your chin tightens, fingers spreading to your cheeks, lips puckered out, and keeping you still as he pumps the single finger inside of you.Â
You canât speak. Youâre a whimpering mess as he adds another finger. And another. Youâre riding his hand desperately, completely flushed and flustered by his utmost attention. Heâs captivated by you; by the way your face twists and turns in absolute pleasure, the way youâre rutting into him with a desperate need.Â
âAre you going to cum?â If this were anything else, youâd cackle at the serious way he speaks those words but you canât talk. You nod wildly, hips stuttering. Heâs smug. Youâve never seen him look so smug before. So damn proud of himself at the way heâs got you.Â
Youâve never cum so hard in your life because he refuses to let you look away. Your eyes have to be on him as your orgasm crashes over you, spasming around his fingers as your hips stutter and slow.Â
The grip on your face turns soft, thumb caressing your cheek. Your chest is rising and falling, catching your breath. You choke softly when his face moves closer into yours. His nose nudges yours, lips ghosting your softly painted ones. You close your eyes, lifting your chin softly to try and meet his lips. He doesnât let them, instead, heâs pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.Â
Youâre sure you could have taken more from him but Sammyâs familiar voice is heard. âI canât find the shorts I bought!â She calls out your name. Sheâs getting closer.Â
Pope pulls away from you, tugging your shirt back down your legs, hiding your body again. He doesnât speak. He doesnât even look at you as he walks out of the room, rushing past Sammy as she makes her way onto the back patio. She watches him curiously before turning back to you. âThe hell is his issue?âÂ
Your eyes are wide, âoh my god, Sammy. He just fucking fingered me.âÂ
â â â authors note . . . hey⊠hey⊠what yall doing⊠okay deadass honest opinion. tnd and ino is my first ârealâ smut and itâs not my forte AT ALL so i hope you all love it hehehehe (this is also not edited⊠bear with me)
summary . . . months of roleplaying the woman heâs truly in love with is tearing you apart bit by bit. you swore youâd never turn into your mother, but all you see is her face as you look yourself in the mirror, crying over a man who will never see you.
pairing . . . andrew âpopeâ cody x fem!stripper!reader
warnings . . . extreme low self esteem from reader, pope being a selfish lover for a hot minute, more cath roleplay, reader having no self-respect, unrequited love, pure angst, but also smut, some fluff and funny moments but they donât overpower. reader quite honestly being mean, death of a sibling (readers loss), mommy issues, domestic violence. smut!! mdni!!!!!!!! 18+!!!!!! masturbation, slight fingering, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, stripping, webgirl, camming. ANIMAL KINGDOM season 1 spoilers!! or allusions to what happens ig. will put more when i find more, this is off the top of my head
word count . . . 10.7k
an . . . wasnât going to make a part 2 to âtoday is (not) the dayâ but inspiration struck and i donât know⊠i love angst and writing screwed up readers
part 1, TODAY IS (NOT) THE DAY
Your mother rotated her men more than she did her meals. Every month was a different guy, a new gift that came with the guy, too, which was a pleasant part of your sad world. You learned at six years old and with her tenth boyfriend in your short life, to not get attached.
Tommy was your mother's least grandest love, but he was your biggest.Â
Soft-spoken Tommy with that awful mustache that you drew often while trailing off in class. Where your mother would yell, heâd soothe. Expletives were snarled your way and when your mother would storm off, heâd reassure you. Youâre not ugly. Youâre not worthless. Youâre not meant for one thing only. Youâre intelligent. Heâd try to counteract every bad word uttered in your direction.
He would take you out on daddy and daughter dates. The reason your closet was stocked up with good clothes straight from its source and not from thrift stores was all because of him. You werenât wearing cheap, off-brand shoes any longer, but the proper stuff, which meant that no kids could make fun of you anymore.Â
You werenât a stupid child. You saw it when your mother was losing interest. She was pulling away. And when she was near, sheâd argue so badly that sheâd start slamming her fists to his face. Thatâs when the men would have enough and leave for good.Â
The last time you saw Thomas Peterson was one of the saddest days of your life. You begged him to keep coming around, told him you needed him. You were six and telling him you werenât strong enough to survive past the fifth grade alone. He never came around, of course. That would have been weird, and he was anything but weird.Â
You didnât bother to speak to any of the men from then. Sure, youâd accept their gifts, but ignore their lame attempts at getting you to see them as a father figure. Some of them tried too hard, others avoided you. The ones that overlooked you gained more love and attention from your mother.Â
There was no one in your life that hated you more than her.Â
You suppose thatâs why you never amounted to anything. You graduated high school with a shitty GPA, and your perverted counselor being the only reason you could get that diploma. You never thought of college, not community or a four-year right off the bat. The second you could, you sold yourself. Never sexual favors, not that.Â
Webcams at first. Youâd tease at the camera. Your few loyal subscribers loved it. That ran out when they demanded more though, and you couldnât, for the life of you, do what they needed. You were shy then, your mother's lessons still ringing in your mind when the strap of your bra would fall a little too down.
You worked customer service jobs for a while. A cashier at a grocery store, a gas station, even at a cannabis store at some point in time. The hours were terrible, and the pay was much worse. The employees were awful, too. Old mothers who gossiped about everyone, guys who salivated at the sight of you, and younger girls who were jealous that these men would look in your direction and not theirs. You couldnât last long in one spot.Â
Your job before stripping was at an office. You were a receptionist, and it was a fantastic gig. The people were nice. Your hours were set, nine to five with weekends off. The women were lovely, regularly inviting you out to lunch with them. The men didnât bat an eye at you.Â
You didnât have to worry about begging your landlord to give you a few more days to make rent. You didnât have to fret about maxing out a credit card for all the necessities of your pets. You always had the money in your savings to pay it all back, thanks to holiday pays and overtime.
And for the first time in your life, you were happy. You were prepared for the future. You loved driving to work in your new car, lunch packed to exchange with your colleagues.Â
Until one of your coworkers found an old webcam of yours. It started with one email that snowballed into everyone in the office watching you dirty talk to your camera. It was humiliating. No one looked your way any longer. You sat alone, often having to eat in your car to avoid the judgemental glares from the women and the perverted looks from the men.Â
Youâre not smart. Youâre pathetic. You wonât amount to anything. Youâre meant for one thing only. Youâre meant for one thing only. Youâre meant for one thing only.Â
Youâre meant for one thing only.Â
You quit a week later, grabbed your belongings at the end of your shift and never returned. Your boss didnât bother calling to ask if you were coming in. You were a stain on the business and they were glad to be rid of you.Â
You met Geronimo a month later. You were putting in resume after resume into every company you found, even tried for cashier gigs. No one wanted you. You were resting on a bus bench, sobbing. You looked ridiculous, face puffy, snot falling down, and breaths hard and uneven. You thought little of him sitting next to you. It is a public bus stop. You pulled out your pocket knife when he claimed he had a proposition for you.Â
You were at his club a week later. The girls werenât the nicest. It was clear the new girls were bad for their business, but they didnât detest you. They helped you practice on the pole. You grinned when Yuri told you that you were made for stripping, crying about it later that night.Â
You were dancing a week and a half later. You didnât get as many clientele as the old girls, still stumbling in your comfortable pleasers. Yuri, the only girl who wouldnât ignore you, advised you to be more confident. Men are attracted to that single attribute. Walk around like you own the place, show them whoâs in charge. It was easy to do so when you realized the men who showed up at this place were all losers not deserving of much respect.
So, itâs not a shock that you agreed to Popeâs proposition. Youâve never been wanted. Not that he wanted you, he was using you like the others, and you realize this. You recognize that the sex is for him. The roleplay is for him. You perfect the role of the woman youâve yet to meet, for him. All to keep him.Â
You canât explain why you want him. Why you search for him every single night, why you want to make him laugh when he drives you home after your shift at the club, or why you yearn for those moments of tenderness when he finishes and is pressing soft kisses to your face. Why. Why. Why. Itâs a never-ending stream of soul-crushing questions.Â
âAnother rump in the hay?â His voice pulls you out of your deep trance. You turn to him as he runs his fingers up and down your spine. His cool sheets are rumpled at your ass, over his own legs as well.Â
You chuckle at his words, nose scrunched in disgust. âRump in the hay? What the fuck?â
He scoffs, but itâs visible heâs not upset as he drops himself to lie back on his bed. âWhat do you want me to say?â
âLiterally anything else.â He lightly smacks your ass as he gets up out of bed. âyou are not leaving me here alone.â You sit up, using the sheet to cover your bare chest. âLast time you left me alone, I had to put up with Craig asking for a peek.âÂ
He huffs out a laugh as he grabs a t-shirt, throwing it on. âIâm assuming you didnât give him one?âÂ
You roll your eyes. âUm, no? Iâm a classy woman.â He looks over his shoulder. his expression makes you snag a pillow and throw it at his backside. âIâm a classy woman outside of work.âÂ
âStill not true.âÂ
âAsshole.â You huff as you put your clothes back on. âGive me a ride home.âÂ
âGet your own ride.âÂ
You snatch his keys, walking past him. âShut up. Letâs go.âÂ
âYouâre bossy.â He hums, following you and shutting his door behind him.Â
âYou like it.â His keys are being tossed back to him, sliding into the passenger seat when he unlocks it. His truck, despite being a neat freak, is peppered with a multitude of your items. Hair ties, hair clips, one of your necklaces wrapped around his rearview mirror, a few perfume oils in the center console, and glitter. Glitter on his seats, his car mats, and even on his steering wheel. He tried to clean it off when you first started getting rides from him, but he gave up. And you had to hide your content when you realized how much it looks like he has a girl.Â
The drive to your apartment doesnât take very long. Which saddens you, as now heâll be off doig god-knows-what for days, not reaching out until he needs to release what he has pent up for Catherine. He parks in the parking lot of your apartment building. You sit there for a few moments. And embarrassingly so, you speak. âAre you free tomorrow?â
This doesnât stun him. A part of you wishes it did because heâs used to this. Heâs used to you asking for his plans in the upcoming days while he doesnât ask about yours, nor does he truthfully answer you.Â
âNo.â Is his plain response. Nothing more, nothing less, like always. The sting of it would awaken any self-respecting woman. Youâre not one of those.Â
âRight,â you clear yout throat awkwardly. âWell, tell your brother itâs happy hour tomorrow at the club.â
âYou canât tell him?â
Your eyebrows furrow at the attitude in his words. As if what you're asking from him is such a drag. âNo, I blocked him.â
He huffs, âthen why invite him?â
âBecause he tips well. What the fuck is your problem?â Like always, it turns sour. Something is always said or done. Someone always leaves upset for the night after an argument. Things are fine until they arenât. You give him the sex he wants, with the act and name he wants and he makes it weird. His fantasy clearly upsets him but he wonât stop.Â
And you wonât either. You do threaten it though. âSo, what, Pope? Do you want to stop this because I'm more than happy to if it means I wont have to put up with this weird guilt thing that you make everyoneâs problem.â
His scoff is loud and incredulous. âNot this again. Itâs not fucking guilt. You're the one making it weird by making me your messenger.â
âOh, get the fuck over yourself.â You angrily swing his truck door open, slamming it as he rolls his window.
âCome on, youâre being dramatic.â He calls out to you.Â
âWrap yourself around a tree for all I care!â
Happy hour comes along and while Geronimo doesnât like it when his girls are high, you decide that's the only way youâd get through your shift without crashing out. Still, you try to compose yourself as best as you can, keeping up sober appearances around the customers and your boss.Â
âAnd here is the entire reason why happy hour exists.â the tray of drinks in your hands spill a little at the sides with the way you jump at the booming voice. Craig sure knows how to make an entrance.Â
You grin, âand why does that accomplishment belong to me?â
Â
âCause youre the hottest piece of ass in this building for the next hour.â
Your laugh is an ugly snort, âyeah? So im ugly after the hour is up?â
He nods, taking your tray of drinks, "that's exactly it.â
âAsshole. That's for table three.â You chastise as you walk after him, surprised that Baz or Deran arenât following after him tonight. âWhere are the two gums at the soles of your shoes?â
He leaves the tray at table three and doesnât let you apologize to them because the giant man is dragging you away. âAh, is that your sneaky way of asking for Pope?â
You scoff, rolling your eyes at the mention of his oldest brother, even if you are itching to ask how heâs doing. You and Craig just arenât that close to discuss this with. âNo. I'm asking about Baz and Deran.â
He shrugs as he plops down on his seat, grabbing you to sit on his lap. He motions at the familiar server to bring him his usual, patting your bare thigh mindlessly. âThey have some business to attend to. Pope too.â
âI didnât ask about Pope.â
âBut you wanted to, ballerina.â He uses the awful nickname heâs given you recently. âWhat the hell is going on between you two? I know youâre fucking. Which, by the way, I'm completely offended. Why the fuck did you give it up to him and not me?â
âYou have this musty thing going on that completely turns me off.â He laughs, head thrown back, as if you made the funniest joke heâa ever heard. You're not joking but you won't burst his bubble.
âWhatever he did, Iâm sure he's sorry. He's been a sulking mess around our moms. Being a fucking buzzkill.â
You havenât gotten a lot out of Pope but you know his relationship with his mother is tricky. Which, story of your life. Mothers are nothing but narcissistic parasites who feed off the misery of their children. But this is different. You don't speak much of your mother but youâve let him know that she's an alcoholic that you don't speak to. He tenses up at the mention of her, nothing like Craig like when his eyes softly turn distant but ends up laughing it off. You know better than to ask though. He refuses to tell you about his day, much less will he tell you about his mommy issues.Â
âWhat do you know about Catherine?â you ask suddenly.Â
This drags his eyes off the show on the stage and back to you with an inquisitive look. âMy sister-in-law?â
You nod, confirming. âYeah, what's she like?â
âUm,â he clears his throat as he adjusts you on his lap. âShes cool, I guess. A ball buster. She's always on Bazâs ass about our family business. Good mother though. Lenaâs great, she's my booger.â
You disregard all else, âfamily business? Your motherâs buildings?â
He snorts, nodding. âYeah, ballerina, our real estate.â
âThe fuck does that mean?â Heâs about to respond but you see the realization of what he's said, cross his face.
Instead, âknow she was Popeâs childhood best friend. Don't remember her much from then, didn't pay her any attention. Our mom and Baz tell me he was in love with her.â
Your blood runs cold. You know this, of course it does but no one else has ever confirmed this. And Baz knows? This throws you for a loop. âBaz knows?â
He nods, âyeah. He doesn't care. It was a long time ago. Not like heâs still into her, thatâd be fucking weird, man.â
You want to yell. You want to spill it all to him but if thereâs one thing the Cody's are, is loyal. To each other, blood is thicker than water. Itâs a code of honor between them. So you stay quiet.Â
âIt's his birthday.â
You almost gasp at his words, âwhat?â
He downs his drink, âyeah. We usually do paintball, skydive, and go to a club but heâs on his fucking period or something.â He pauses. âHe has a twin. Had a twin. Maybe he misses her. I don't know. He's not exactly the forthcoming type.â
â
Heâs washing his truck when you get to his home. His dark grey t-shirt is form fitting, darker where heâs wet from the soapy suds.Â
Youâre wearing a pair of too baggy sweatpants and Craigâs hoodie that you stole from his car, not caring that your slutty outfit is still digging into you beneath it. All you can focus on is Pope. Pope and his birthday and how you snapped at him yesterday.Â
âWashing your car at night isnât the brightest idea.â He had been so wrapped up in scrubbing away the muck that he hadnât noticed you were there. His head snaps up to your smiling face, holding up a box, presenting it to him. âA little birdie told me itâs your birthday.âÂ
He eyes the cake carefully before his eyes meet yours again. âI donât celebrate.âÂ
You scoff, âyou werenât able to, thereâs a difference.â You put the cake down, sliding up the sleeves to Craigâs sweatshirt. Youâre glad to be wearing your sketchers as you grab a sponge from the metal bucket, letting the soapy suds cover your hands. âIâll help. The quicker you finish, the sooner we get to eat cake.âÂ
You plop the sponge down, wiping once before his hand grabs the wrist, stopping you. âStop.â He mutters out. âItâs too cold.âÂ
âYouâre doing it.â You retort. âDouble standardââÂ
âYouâre not seriously going to argue with me on my birthday.âÂ
You laugh, shaking your head. âFine. I wonât argue with you today. But once that clock turns twelve, itâs fair game.â You nod at the cake, âgrab it. I eyed it the entire bus ride here.âÂ
He does as told, picking the box up and following after you as you walk into his familiar home. He locks it behind him as you settle into his kitchen. Two plates, two forks, and a knife.Â
âSit.â He usually makes a snarky remark but heâs listening well. You realize he must be really out of it, he hasn't been this way with you since this entire ordeal began.Â
You place it all down to his table, where the chip at the corner seems to be the most important thing around, his eyes stuck on it. You wish you could reach out and comfort him. But you still feel silly for snapping at him yesterday.Â
You open the thin cardboard box of the cake and plop two candles into the blue and pink frosting. âThe bakery only had a gender reveal cake left⊠no one picked it up.â You reach your hand out to him. âLighter.â Because he always carries his own, you tease him about it. Now is not the time though.Â
You light both the birthday candles, âone for you,â you light the next one. âOne for your sister.âÂ
âWhat did you just say?â His voice is rough but not angry. Emotional, maybe. You canât read him very well.Â
âItâs your sister's birthday too.â You hum. âMy sister and I are ten days apart. My mom was too cheap to celebrate separately so we always blew out candles together.â
Heâs silent for a moment as you put the lighter down. âWhere is she? Your sisterâŠâÂ
âShe died.â The smile on your face is sad but itâs there and thatâs what matters. Or, thatâs what Geronimo tells you when heâs trying to help his girls from their saddened moods. Strippers, as it turns out, are very sad people. âSo I blow out two candles. Well, four in total. Two on mine. Two on hers. Youâre lucky. You only do it once a year, I never know what to do with so much cake.âÂ
The candles are lit up between the two of you, his eyes watching them flicker for a moment. âOkayâŠâ heâs about to blow but you instantly wave your hands.Â
âWoah, woah!â You stop him. âYou have to make a wish!â His expression seems slightly annoyed but you canât care. âIâm serious. Birthday wishes are real. And you have two! Iâm sure your sister wonât mind you taking hers.âÂ
He huffs, thinking for a second. âFine. I wishââ
âOh my god, youâre terrible at this.â You stop him from talking. âYou canât say it out loud! God, have you ever had a birthday? It wonât come true if youââÂ
âI wish you would shut up.âÂ
âOkay, well, now Iâm never shutting up. Thatâs the birthday law.âÂ
He groans, âfine. I wonât say it out loud.â He blows the candles quickly, not giving you any room to interrupt him again.Â
You grin, holding the knife out to him. âWant to see what the Walkers are having?â
He hesitates for a moment, sighing dramatically as he slices into the cake, the knife comes out brown. Your eyebrows furrow as he pushes the slice onto the plate. Itâs a chocolate cake. No pink or blue. You huff, âwhat the fuck? Are they having a brown baby?â You cut up the cake some more after snatching the knife from him. âThis is a fucking rip off. This shit was thirty-five bucks!âÂ
You finally look up at Pope to see his hands covering his face and his shoulders shaking. Youâre immediately concerned, scooting your chair closer to him. âAre youâŠâ you clear your throat, placing a single hand on his bicep. âAre you crying?âÂ
âIâm not crying.â He speaks in his fit of laughter, finally pulling his hands away. Your breath catches at the sight of him. His place is dim, too dark for you to see much of anything. But you canât look away from the way his soft eyes crease as he laughs, face completely relaxed.Â
You scoff, embarrassed to have read the situation wrong. And to be noticing him so tenderly. You replace your soft caress with a smack to his bicep. âScrew you. I was scared I did something wrong!âÂ
âYou did!â He laughs. âTheyâre having a brown baby? Who the fuck talks like that?âÂ
Youâre frowning, flushed with embarrassment. You look away from him, âshut up, asshole.âÂ
His laughter quiets down but you can still feel the amusement wafting off of him. His hand gently grasps your chin, making you look back at him. âStop pouting.â A pause. âIs that the only gift youâve got for me?â
You cackle, shoving his hand off of you. âYou are not hitting this tonight.âÂ
He groans. âCome on. Itâs my birthday! Birthday sex is a very real thing.â
You roll your eyes, shoving a fork into his slice of cake. âNope. Ask Catherine.â You throw.Â
âYouâre my Catherine.â You hope the way you flinch isnât noticeable. Of course it isnât, Pope isnât attentive to you in any way, and youâre slowly learning to live with it. He lightly pats your thigh. âCome on.â
You sigh, speaking with a bored tone. âHey, Andrew. Itâs me, Catherine! Want to have birthday sex?âÂ
He flicks your forehead, âHello, Catherine. It is me, Andrew,â he adds to the joke. âI would love to have birthday sex with you.â
You laugh, âokay, Andrew, it is still me, Catherine. Let us have sex.â
Heâs grabbing the sides of your chair, pulling you closer into him, lips meeting yours with a heavy and shaky breath. Your own body doesnât hesitate, lips moving against his with vigor, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. His own hands slide down your body, gripping onto your hips and sliding you on his lap.Â
The playful atmosphere melts away within seconds, his rough hands feeling you up. Itâs how this always goes. Some days, all he wants is to bury his face in your cunt but those are becoming more and more rare as the days go on.Â
It doesnât take long for you to end up on his clean and fitted bed. His place is spotless, nothing like yours. You know thatâs why he avoids your place. You donât live in filth but youâre not tidy. One of the handful of times heâs been to yours, you were too worn out to notice him crawl out of your bed and clean your place. It went back to clean clothes hanging off chairs and your bed and makeup and water bottles everywhere. Now, youâre pretty much only at his.Â
âThatâs weird,â you huff, leaning on your arms to look up at him. âWhat could possibly turn you on about leaving my pleasers on?â
He gets slightly pouty, âwhat are pleasers? I said heels.âÂ
âCommon misconception, rookie.â You hum, wiggling your foot clad in the black and silver accessorized pleaser. âWhile a form of heels, these are much better and weirdly, more comfortable.âÂ
He rolls his eyes, not entertained. âI love it when you tell me things I donât care for. Please, keep going.âÂ
You laugh, head thrown back. âI donât like this comfort youâre feeling with me. Itâs made you mean. Whereâs my shy Pope?âÂ
âDead.â He tugs your sweats off, tossing them behind him.Â
Itâs your turn to roll your eyes, âyou always speak to your Catherineâs like this?âÂ
He groans, letting his head fall to your shoulder. âCan you be quiet for a moment?â You can feel him wiggling atop of you, the clink of his belt, hand tugging once and heâs lining himself up into you.Â
Before he pushes in, his voice is shaky, hands beside your face as he holds himself up. As usual, he looks vulnerable. Not only does he look vulnerable, he sounds it. His voice cracks, begs, even goes as far as whimpering. âCan you⊠you say the thing?âÂ
The thing.
The thing is what gets him off lately. What makes him moan louder and louder as he grinds into you. You nod, legs wrapping around his hips, pushing him into you, the intrusion making a breath of air shudder out of you. Your arms wrap around his neck, a hand threading into his head of hair.Â
âMissed you, Pope.â Itâs a switch. Your voice turns soft, your touch comforting against his back as your hands trail down. âIâm always thinking about you, my love.â Youâve only been guessing as to how Catherine would act with him. It makes you cringe if you think about it too hard, like youâre violating the poor woman. Not that youâre fond of her, with the way Craig speaks of her, you canât believe anyone would like her. Calls her crazy, says she hinders Baz, whatever that means. Usually, you would know better than to believe a drug addict's words but youâre too blinded with jealousy. How could a woman have Pope and not want him?Â
Heâs breathing heavily into your ear as he moves tentatively. This is how it always starts. He needs to gather himself properly, let the roleplay settle. Some days, heâs quick and accepting of what you two are doing, others, itâs hard for him to focus, too ashamed. You canât tell what heâs feeling yet. Not until his heavy breathing turns into moans.
Small gasps leave you as he pushes deep inside of you, his hips moving faster and harder as he gets it together. He likes it tonight, you decide. âPope,â you moan, face twisted up in that familiar pleasure. You should have waited. You should have left those words until the end, until you got your own relief. âHappy birthday, Pope. I love you.âÂ
Heâs spilling inside of you, a loud groan leaving him, hips stuttering into you as he fills you up. âCath, oh, fuck, Cath!â You shut your eyes tight at the name being moaned into your ear. You donât care for your orgasm then, you just wish it was your name.Â
Heâs lying back now, fully relaxed an hour later. You were too stuck. Your mind is hazy. Not from an intense orgasm like he is. Youâre too upset. Youâre aching from the absolute need you feel for him. Youâre trying and trying to understand what it is that has got you hooked on him, why you canât let this go even when all you want is to never see him again.Â
Youâre watching him. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The speckled freckles across his neck, no doubt from the Oceanside sun. His arm is strewn across his face, covering his eyes from the soft, cascading moonlight streaming in through his window. âPope?âÂ
He hums, a rough one. Itâs your sign to keep going.Â
âDo you miss your sister?âÂ
You two sit in silence for a minute. âYes.âÂ
âWe could be at my place right now,â Pope sighs dramatically from his spot on the ground, looking up at you as you crawl around the stage. The club is completely empty. Which is extremely rare, Geronimo never closes. But half of his girls caught the stomach flu thatâs going around and after one tried to tough it out, spilling their guts on a customer who demanded payment for his expensive shoes, he deemed the club a hazard. âEating our meals.âÂ
You scoff from the stage, palms pressing against the black boards. âI got a meal. You got a fucking hamster meal. Who gets a protein style burger? Wack ass fucking hamburger.âÂ
âYouâre just mad you canât find your earring.âÂ
And itâs true. Your food was sitting cold in the back of his truck. You were frantic when you reached up to tug on your ear in an anxious tic, only to feel it empty. You made him pull over and search the vehicle with you. His truck was turned inside and out, seat covers yanked off harshly. You even grabbed his flashlight in his toolbox to search every dark nook and cranny. You were getting more and more frustrated.Â
You threw the dressing rooms apart, even dug around in the bathroom. You searched behind the bar. Around the tables. Now on the stage. Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. And youâre angry.Â
You let out a loud yell, dropping yourself onto the cold floor. âThis is the worst!âÂ
Pope leans over on the stage, watching as you flop around on the ground. âWas it expensive or something?â A pause before he continues. âIâll just get you new ones. Better ones.âÂ
You turn to lie on your stomach, leaning your chin in the palm of your hand. âAs much as that turns me on⊠it's the sentimental value that makes them important.âÂ
A single eyebrow of his raises, watching you carefully. âSentimental?â The shock in his voice is evident and this makes you peek up.Â
âWhat? Whatâs wrong with that?âÂ
He shrugs, hands drumming against the boards of the stage. âYouâre not really a sentimental person.âÂ
The face you make shows how offended you are by his words. âWhat? Yes I am.âÂ
He shakes his head, âemotional? Sure. Sentimental? Nope.âÂ
You huff, sitting up on your ass and glaring at him. âDo you even know what youâre saying? You sound stupid.âÂ
The way he sighs makes your blood boil. âItâs always a fight with you.â His words make it worse.Â
âExcuse me, you shrimp dick loser?â He was right on the emotional front. You let your feelings win constantly. You can never not have the last word in an argument. If something so much as slightly offends you, you pounce. You argue. You scratch. Itâs how you survive against men.Â
âThere you go. Iâm just saying youââÂ
âYou,â you interrupt him, eyebrows furrowed in complete anger and disdain for him. âYou donât know meââÂ
âBecause you donât let meââÂ
âBecause you donât askââÂ
âWhen am I supposed to askââÂ
âWhen youâre not moaning another bitches name in my ear!â Youâre standing up, pacing back and forth. âGod, do you even hear yourself?! Iâm not sentimental? You donât know shit! You are so fucking stupid, it astounds me how you get through your day to day lifeââÂ
âYou done?âÂ
âNo!â You seethe. âYou are such a fucking loser pining after a woman who doesnât want you! Iâm the emotional one?! Youâre the one begging me for sex so you can rock your jollies off to the thought of your sister-in-lawââÂ
âI found your earring.âÂ
You gasp, jumping off the stage and rushing to him. You grab the fake diamond earring, immediately inspecting it for any scratches. âOh my god, my baby.âÂ
âYour baby?â You can hear the amusement in his tone but youâre wiping at your earring with care
You roll your eyes at him, âI know I'm not sentimental enough for you but my moms ex-boyfriend got me this.âÂ
âYour moms ex-boyfriend?â
You donât care for the judgment in his tone as you speak, âyeah. He was⊠important to me. He was the only one who really cared for me. Obviously I changed the part that goes in my ear. I went to a jewelry store and had to pay extra but⊠I love them.â You donât care for the silence as you tuck the earring safely into the zippered slot in your bag.Â
âTell me more.â You freeze, fingers fumbling with the zipper of your bag as you secure the strap. You fix it on your shoulder, looking back up at Pope.Â
âAbout?âÂ
He shrugs, his hands in the front pocket of his jeans as he leans against the stage, watching you. âI know you have a dead sister. Your mother was kind of slutty. And you have a favorite father figure.âÂ
You huff out a laugh, taking a seat on one of the soft cushioned seats in the club, you two seemingly forgetting about your argument less than a minute ago. âHe wasnât really a father figure. They dated for eight months.âÂ
âOkay, so⊠tell me about those eight months.âÂ
And for the first time, you do. You tell him about Thomas Peterson and how you still have the low quality photos of you and him. Your cheek pressed up to his, the two of you grinning up at the cheap camera he bought at a random pharmacy. How he helped you, even when he was gone, even when he forgot about you. You tell him about the other men, the nice ones and the ones who ignored you. You tell him about the gifts you received. About your sister. Your other siblings you havenât spoken to in years. All of it.Â
By the end of it, you two are completely wrapped up in the conversation. Heâs putting in his own two cents, how his mother was with men as well. How she treated them all growing up. He hesitates during some retellings, hiding something deeper, but you donât pry. Heâs already giving you enough.Â
âAnd then?â Youâve never seen his posture not be perfect but heâs leaning on the table at your story. âWhat happened then?âÂ
You raise your arms, motioning to the club around you. âNow⊠Iâm a stripper.âÂ
He taps his fingers against the table, nodding. Heâs looking around the room, taking in the room with its full lighting on. The fluorescent lights show off every nook and cranny of the usually dim place. âThis place is ugly.âÂ
You snort, walking over to the stage and hopping on. âYou think? We see it like this before shift all the time. Sometimes itâs hard to get in the mood.â You lift your sleeves. âHave you ever danced on a pole?âÂ
He chuckles, watching you from his seat. âCanât say that I have.â He settles into the seat, arms crossed over his chest, thick arms bulging through his top. âGonna show me?â
Your hands grips onto the pole, letting yourself twirl slowly. âYouâve seen my performances plenty.â You grin. âAnd then some.âÂ
âYes, but those are for everyone.â He begins as you place your other hand onto the silver pole. âGive me something for me.âÂ
âI do give you something thatâs just for you.â You try, lifting your feet as you twirl yourself gracefully.Â
âStop stalling.âÂ
You place your feet back onto the floor, watching as he sits back. His eyes are hooded as he watches you. And the growing tent in his jeans is very visible. âWe have In-n-out in the car.âÂ
âRather watch you.âÂ
You laugh easily, zipping your sweater down teasingly. âYeah? What do you want to watch, Mr. Cody?âÂ
He adjusts himself in his jeans, hand gripping his cock through the rough material. âAnything.âÂ
You roll your eyes as you tug the material off, leaving you naked from the waist up. You find it pointless to wear a bra around him, better to be comfortable. âJeans too, baby.âÂ
âHow bossy.â You hum but do as told, leaving you in your panties. âThis is extremely unhygienic. And now your cock is out of your jeans? How naughty. The cameras donât scare you?âÂ
He shakes his head, hand tugging at himself as he watches you. âDonât work.âÂ
âAnd how do you know that?â Youâve lifted yourself completely off the floor and you begin with your show for him. Twirling, spreading your legs, giving him a view of your ass.Â
âPart of my job.âÂ
âAh, the mysterious career of yours,â his chest is rising and falling, breathing labored, dripping some spit to lather on his pretty and pink cock to keep stroking himself to you as you dance for him. âWant me to stop talking?âÂ
He groans, âno. Fuck, no. Keep talking. Like listening to you.âÂ
âWell, now I donât know what to say.â You giggle, pulling off of the pole, leaning your backside on it to watch him as he undoes himself.Â
âGet on your knees.â He commands, voice rough as his hand jerks around him.Â
Youâre usually a brat with him but you decide today isnât the day to test him. You slowly fall to your knees, legs spread, showing off the way your panties stick to your wet cunt like a second skin. The sight of him turned on, touching himself to you, it turns you on more than you ever would have cared to admit.Â
âLike this?â You ask sweetly. Unlike your normal fiery self. âThat good enough for you, Pope-y?â
He groans, nodding hastily. You can tell heâs teetering over the edge, âyeah. Good. So fucking good. Look goodâŠâÂ
You really thought this was for you. The way he was pumping at his cock was for you. The way his eyes danced on your tits was for you. You just had a heart to heart with him. You spilled each other's guts out to one another.Â
âLook so good, Cath.â He moans.Â
Youâre frozen in your spot. Your blood runs cold and pounds loud in your ears. Your confidence washes away instantly, feeling more naked than ever before. He doesnât see you.Â
He will never see you.Â
You pull away slowly. You canât meet him here. You canât go there. His place is too far and you have an early morning. A vet appointment for one of your many cats. A coworker needs a lift to the airport. Geronimo needs you to watch surveillance after shift. Youâre too tired. Youâre on your period.Â
He doesnât show up to the club. He hates it there, itâs m too noisy. Too many men tossing their money. Too many women wanting his money tossed at them. Itâs an overstimulating nightmare for Andrew Cody.Â
Not for Craig Cody.Â
âGonna shake that ass for me?â He grins, leaning on the counter of the bar youâre standing behind.Â
You had just gotten off the stage, your trash bag full of money beside you and your dark purple thong riding up your ass. You still feel hot from the performance too, a sheen of sweat over your cleavage and smooth chest. Usually, youâd be calming down in the dressing room but the bartender is heavily pregnant and peeing every second.Â
You turn, scoffing at the man. âTalk about my ass again and Iâll get you trespassed.âÂ
âNah,â he drums his hands against the table. âIâm Geroâs best customer. Ainât that right, old man?â He calls out to Geronimo as the fat man walks past them.Â
âLeave me alone.â He mumbles as he keeps walking off, barking orders at the next girl thatâs on.Â
And back to Craig, âwhat are you doing here? Itâs a Wednesday. The freaks come out on Wednesdayâs.âÂ
âWell, shit, you shouldâve told me that. Wouldâve been here way sooner.â He humps the air.Â
You grimace at the sight, throwing a wet rag at him. âEw, youâre disgusting!âÂ
He grabs the rag and tosses it back at you, âno. Iâm here because your dog is hanging around me more than usual.âÂ
âMy dog?â You question, genuinely confused by this mention. âI donât get it.âÂ
âMy brother.âÂ
You roll your eyes, annoyed by the thought of Pope. So you joke, âAw, Deran misses me?â
âOh, please, youâre the last woman he would ever miss.âÂ
The way he emphasizes the word piques your interest. âWait⊠so you know?âÂ
He hums, a small smile on his lips. âKnow what?â He feigns.Â
You eye him carefully as you wipe a cup clean with a new rag. âHmm⊠you know, Craig, when youâre not high out of your mind and not trying to motorboat me, youâre actually quite nice.âÂ
âI cannot stop staring at your tits.âÂ
You groan, putting the glass cup down. âYou ruined it.âÂ
He laughs, âaw, come on! Theyâre in my face. Okay! Okay! Fuck, stop!â He canât grab the limes youâre throwing his way any longer. âIâm kidding. You know I totally respect you as a woman.âÂ
âThat doesn't even sound right coming from you.â You scoff. âThereâs something else.âÂ
âYeah, heâs miserable without you.âÂ
Now this really makes you laugh. âRight.â It takes everything in you to not explain why he misses you. Explain why Pope needs you so much. âWell, I need new dick. Getting tired of what I had.â You wipe the counter, trying to distract yourself. âDonât suppose you want to volunteer?âÂ
âI will fuck you on this counter right now, you know this.â He downs a random shot that was forgotten on the table. âYouâre Popeâs girl now, though.âÂ
âIâm not Popeâs anything.â You snap at Craig. âSeriously, all we do is hookup. Thatâs not special.âÂ
âHave you two emotionally fucked?â
You let out an incredulous laugh, âwhat?âÂ
âHave you two bared your souls to one another?â He rolls his eyes, as if exasperated by you.Â
âUhm⊠sorta?âÂ
âThatâs it!â He slams his hand on the table making you jump, scolding him softly. âHe fucked you emotionally and now he canât get enough.âÂ
He canât be more wrong. But you canât exactly tell him that. So, you sigh dramatically instead. âYeah. Maybe thatâs it. Want your usual?â
â
âYou are leaving me?â You caught Geronimo at his car before he could leave the clubs parking lot.Â
The night is cold, the air biting your skin. Yet again, you had stolen Craigâs hoodie, using one of his old pair of sweats as well. âNo, Iâm not leaving. My sister needs help with her new babyââ
âYou leave me!â The Russian man groans. âI need you. You not leave me!âÂ
Itâs your turn to groan, âlisten to me, fat man. I am not leaving you completely. Iâm only going to Sacramento for a few weeks. Iâll still be back.âÂ
âI can feel this breaking.â He places his hand over his heart. âYou okay with this? The breaking of my heart?âÂ
âGero, youâre being dramatic. Iâm coming back.âÂ
âYou leave, you fired!â
âGero, listen to me.âÂ
âNo, you fired now!âÂ
âGero, shut the fuck up and let me talk!âÂ
He nods, looking behind you. âLittle man here.âÂ
You stiffen for a second but donât bother turning. âJust⊠weâll talk tomorrow, okay?âÂ
The Russian scoffs, âno, you fired.â And he gets into his car angrily, driving out of the parking lot with a screech.Â
You turn to finally come face to face with Pope. âAndrew Cody,â you hum. âWhat brings you here?âÂ
âAre you really fired?â He questions. âI can help you. You wouldnât have to work here again.âÂ
Your eyebrows raise in amusement at this, âwhat?âÂ
âI can help⊠maintain you.âÂ
You cackle, âShut the fuck up, Pope.â Itâs truly the last thing you expected to hear from him. âHe fires me twice a day. Heâs just butthurt he wonât be making money from me for a while.âÂ
âOkayâŠâ heâs struggling to speak again. He hasnât done that with you in a while. âWhat does that mean?âÂ
You wrap the hoodie tighter around you as another soft breeze hits. âWhat does what mean?âÂ
âWhy wonât he be making money from you?âÂ
You hesitate being honest with him. The last thing you need is Andrew Cody knowing where youâre going. This wonât be a relaxing break, since youâll be spending all of your free time helping your sister with a newborn but itâll be a break from him. From him and his drama. Or, really, from him and the drama you bring to this. Heâs never really given you an issue, not unless you start one first. But you canât stop making issues that stem from the insecurity and jealousy embedded in you.Â
You try to hold back. You really do, but heâs looking at you with those soft brown eyes of his. Youâve been able to see them angry, hurt, pleasured, confused and on rare occasions, soft in the way heâs being now. âIâm going to Sacramento for a few weeks.âÂ
âWhat?â He seems perturbed by this information. âWhy are you going out there?âÂ
âMy sisterâs giving birth in a week. She needs my help.âÂ
His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, no doubt surprised at the mention of your sister. âYouâre speaking with your sister?âÂ
You nod, shoving your hands into the pockets of Craigâs hoodie. âYeah⊠I reached out to her last week. She got knocked up by some bum. Needs help. I think itâll be nice for us.âÂ
âWhat about your cats?âÂ
You laugh, âwhat about my cats?âÂ
âWhat are you doing with them? You canât leave them.âÂ
âNo shit,â you snort. âIâm taking them with me.âÂ
âI can watch them.âÂ
âYou donât like animals.â You point out to him.Â
He shrugs, âtheyâre cats. They donât need much attention, right?âÂ
âThatâs completely false. They need as much attention as dogs.â You huff, tucking your blowing hair behind your ear. âThatâs your worst nightmare⊠litter changes.âÂ
âI can do it.â He sounds determined.Â
Your face scrunches in confusion. âWhat is up with you? Why do you want to watch them so badly?âÂ
âCanât I help out a friend?âÂ
You eye him carefully, unsure of what heâs trying to do here. Itâs off-putting. âYouâre being weird.âÂ
âThatâs just my personality.âÂ
You donât speak again. Youâre standing there, arms crossed over your shivering body. You canât figure out what to say to him. Looking at him, you know thereâs no one else you want more. And thatâs why you canât be near him much longer. Itâs why you need this break from him. Itâs why you need to fight against these pathetic feelings that heâll never reciprocate.Â
âYouâre coming back?â He asks, too soft.Â
âYeah.â Is your bored and lacking response.Â
âI just donât get why I canât just watch your cats.â He starts again.Â
âWhat the fuck is your issue, Pope?â Youâre frustrated now, not understanding whatâs going on.Â
âWhy wonât you let me watch them?â A pause, his fists clench and unclench. âIf youâre coming back, it shouldnât be an issue.âÂ
You scoff, shaking your head. âYouâre not making any sense, Pope. Iâm going back inside if you have nothing meaningful to add heââ youâre trying to walk past him when his bigger and rough hand grabs your forearm, pulling you into him.Â
Your breath stutters at the way his nose nudges against yours, his rising and falling chest pressed to yours. âWhat are youââÂ
âI need to make sure youâre coming back.âÂ
You canât look at him. Youâre looking at anything but the parts that make you want to reach out and keep giving him your all. Instead, you watch the tiny scar that dances on his cheek with every word he speaks. Not his eyes. Not his lips. âAnd you keeping my cats is going to ensure that?âÂ
He nods, nose rubbing against yours. Your eyes shut for a moment. You have to gather yourself. This isn't the life for you, it canât be. This pathetic back and forth. The way he makes you want to crawl into a hole and wither away. The way your blood boils and you snap at him mindlessly, snarling the cruelest words you can conjure up at him.Â
Instead, you pull your arm from his hand. âI donât need to do that, Pope. Iâll be back and whether you believe me or not is none of my concern.â Youâre hoping your words are harsh but you canât hear much of anything as you avoid looking at him. âWeâre less than friends. Remember that.âÂ
Youâre gone for two months. And you donât want to pull away. Youâve fallen completely in love with your niece. You never understood parents when they said a child changed their world. Getting to be there for your sister, cutting that childâs umbilical cord, and caring for the baby did change your world.Â
So, when the time comes, youâre standing across from Geronimo, handing him a monthâs notice. He doesnât believe you at first. He tosses it into the trash and tells you to go back out there. But you remind him every single day that comes.Â
You donât see much of Craig during your first two weeks back. Or any of the brothers, really. You donât call or text Pope, not like you used to when you were begging for his attention. And you want to, badly. But you hold back. Youâre proud of yourself for the time in your long life.Â
Fatima calls out sick your last week in Oceanside. So youâre behind the bar this shift. It's not as much money as performing but itâs something until youâre out of here. Geronimoâs upset with you so he gives you Fatimaâs gig, a sort of punishment for leaving him. But heâs not an evil man, he knows a guy up in Sacramento, getting you a secured dancer position at another club. You pressed a kiss to his scratchy cheek, thanking him.Â
Youâve packed all that you own into a rented U-Haul. Itâs not much, but itâs all youâve worked for while performing at the club. And youâve been living on scraps for something like this. For the move. You never dreamt it would be to move in with your estranged older sister and her newborn all the way up to Sacramento but youâve got enough to secure a bigger space for the three of you. You donât know much about children but you figure sheâll need space.Â
âWoah, do my eyes deceive me? Is that the hottest woman in all of Oceanside?â Youâre pulled out of your thoughts, glancing up at Craig whoâs leaning against the bar again, just like he was almost three months ago. âMissed you, ballerina.âÂ
You smack his hand thatâs sprawled on the counter, âIâve been here. Where have you been?âÂ
He shrugs, running a hand through his greasy hair. âAround. Working on a big project with my mother.âÂ
âAh,â you hum knowingly. âA top secret mission. You Codyâs are full of mystery.â
He agrees with a nod as he watches a new dancer walk past, blatantly staring at her ass. âCouldâve had all this.â He turns back to you. âMy body. My heart. My business mind. But you chose Pope.âÂ
âI didnât choose anyone.â You deny vehemently. âHavenât spoken to him.â You bite your tongue but it still comes out. âHowâs he doing?âÂ
âWeird.â He shrugs. âHey, is the new girl single?â
âWhat do you mean weird?âÂ
âWeird. Just weird. Heâs always weird though. Is she?âÂ
âAs far as I can tell, yeah.âÂ
You get to your empty apartment that night with his words eating away at you. Weird. Pope is being weird. You know thatâs who he is. You know that Pope being weird isnât out of the ordinary. But you canât help but wonder whatâs going on in that fucked up brain of his. If something is gnawing away at him.Â
You sigh, dropping your bag onto your countertop. Shake it off. You have to shake it off. Youâve got a single week left here and once youâre gone, you wonât have to think twice about your life here. Itâs done. Itâs over. Ties with everyone need to be severed.Â
You miss your cats but you left them behind when you decided Sacramento was the way to go for the next step of your life. Youâre lonely. Too lonely. You groan loudly into your pillow, frustrated with your need to fill the void with a guy. Not just any guy, Andrew. The worst you know. Did a prison stint, cheated with his brother's wife, still daydreams about sleeping with his brother's wife. You're not sure which is worse, his record or lack of loyalty to his brother.
The only thing you have in your fridge are carrots, ranch, and a bottle of sweet and cheap wine. So, deciding that the last thing your car needs is more miles on it after fourteen plus hours of driving, you realize this is the best itâs going to get. Ordering-in costs too much money too, especially since you've decided most of your money will now go to your new niece.Â
The ring camera hooked onto your door rings annoyingly, the familiar tune ringing through the door and the notification through your phone. âGeez, fucking psychosââ your words are cut off when you open the notification and see a distraught looking Pope.Â
You should ignore him. You were going to ignore him, pretend you weren't home even though you had just yelled. But you can see the tears in his eyes even through your shitty camera quality. And this worries you.Â
Your door is swung open quickly, eyes frantically searching his body. He gets into fights sometimes, from that mysterious Cody work of his, but he's never cried over it. There's no visible blood, no open wounds that need tending toâ whatever it is that's got him like this, it's not physical.Â
âFuck,â your breath is shaky as you take him in, âwhatâs wrong, Pope? Talk to me.â Your hands are on his face, thumbs wiping at the streaks of tears rolling down his freckled cheeks.Â
The sob that leaves him makes your heart ache, and before you can think, he's pressing his face to your shoulder, crying into you. âI fucked upâŠâ you dont hesitate to wrap your arms around him. âBad. I fucked up, I fucked upâŠâ heâs repeating into you.Â
You're asking what's wrong in the softest tone you've ever carried for him. Your own eyes are tearing up, hands rubbing up and down at his back, trying your best to soothe him. But nothing is working. He's repeating the same phrases, calling himself a monster, that heâs going to hell after what he's done. You didn't peg him as the religious type but you can't question that now. âShit, Pope, you aintâŠâ you release a shaky and fearful breath, "I gotta know what you did in order toââ
His lips meet yours hastily, his salty tears mixing into the heavy kiss you're sharing. You fall into him for a moment, missing the way he felt and tasted. That familiar scotch and mint. But the sob he cries against your lips makes you crash back into reality.Â
You pull your lips from his, shaking your head as you wipe him off your skin. âPope, stop. We can't do this, you're not okay.âÂ
His hands are on your face, pulling you back in. âWe can, we can," his voice cracks and you can't tell if it's because of how terrible he is or if he desperately needs you. âI need you⊠pleaseâŠâ
You're turning over a new leaf. You're making a move you didn't think you'd ever have the balls to make. No more trashy men, no more loneliness, and no more destructive tendencies. Itâs definitely easier said than done, of course.
You realize just how fucked up you truly are when you let him press up into you, groaning as he tugs your jeans down, mouth sucking bruises into your neck. âFuck, fuck, fuckâŠâ your breathing is heavy as his thumb rubs at your clit. Your lips desperately search for him, moaning into his mouth when you two meet.Â
You're pushed onto the couch, letting him toss your jeans to the side, panties off as well. âWait, Pope, you don't have toââÂ
He doesn't let you finish as he sucks your clit into his mouth, âI need to. Fuck, I need toâŠâ he groans into your heat, the vibrations running through your body. âLet me have this, please,â he's begging. Not completely unusual, but the name he moans is. Since starting this tryst with him, he's always moaned out for Catherine. Instead, it's your name he's repeating as he laps away at you.Â
This pushes you into your orgasm sooner than you'd like. He eats away at you like a starved man, tongue flat and drinking up every drop of you. He only pulls back when your writhing turns uncomfortable, lips glistening and staring down at you, his breathing ragged.
He doesn't seem to notice your empty apartment, tugging his cock out of his jeans. Before he can move again, you place your hand on his wrist thatâs tugging at his cock. âWait, Pope. Talk to me.â
He refuses, shaking his head, âno. just⊠let me fuck you, please.â
You sigh, about to deny him but you won't. Maybe you can, maybe you've finally learned how to say no to Andrew Cody. But you won't do it. Instead, you let his cock nudge into you, let him fill you up like before. You watch him carefully as his face twists up in pleasure at the grip you have on him. âPope, IââÂ
He shuts you down again, âstop, just stop. Don't ask me again.â He whimpers in your ear as he slides in and out of you, arms shaking as he holds himself up. âTell me⊠tell me⊠pleaseâŠâ
You're not playing as Catherine but the only way you can tell him such a thing is by pretending to be her. You're not sure that you can act this time. Even if your feelings for him are confusing and vary on the day, you know it's not love. A fucked up version of it maybe, but youâve debased yourself too much around him. You're unsure if you can handle more.Â
The words slip out easily when a single one of his tears falls to your chest, âI l-love you, Pope. I love you, fuck, love you.â
His hips are stuttering, and heâs crying into your neck. âPromise⊠promise you wonât leave me too.âÂ
Too. That sticks out. You wonât leave me too. Someoneâs left him. Itâs why heâs distraught. Your legs wrap around his waist, moving him to push deeper into you. You nod, agreeing in your hazy thoughts. âPromise, I promise, Pope. Iâll never- fuck, Iâll never leave you.âÂ
You two cum together that night. And you hold him for hours after. Heâs too wrapped up in whatever trauma heâs reeling from, to take note of your apartment. How empty it is. How youâre leaving it all behind.Â
Heâs facing you, thumb caressing your cheek. For the first time all night, he looks calm. At peace. âFeeling better?â You ask softly, letting yourself fall into his touch.Â
His voice is rough from his previous sobbing as he answers. âYeah, yeah⊠feeling better.â He presses a warm kiss to the tip of your nose, lying his forehead against yours. âThank you⊠you always make me⊠make me feel better.âÂ
You hum in content, letting him hold you on your couch. âOf course, Pope. IâŠâ you clear your throat gently. âI care about you. Whenever you want to talk about it, Iâm here.â A lie. You won't be here. Youâll never be there for him. And the thought makes you want to cry.Â
He falls asleep, giving you the chance to slip out of his hold. You wrap your fluffy robe around your naked body as you slide into the bathroom.Â
You donât recognize yourself. You never have, really. There are deep bags under your eyes, skin having lost that glow of yours. Not that it was ever truly vibrant but it was never this dull. Youâve never been this dull. Heâs sucking the life out of you. Youâre letting him suck the life out of you.Â
He wants you now that someoneâs left him. Now that youâve found even a tiny semblance of footing in your life, a reason for beingâ he wants you.Â
You wonder if this is how your mother felt late at night after a long days of letting men use her. You wonder if she went from man after man to pull away from the one she really wanted. You wonder if she ever, at least once in her cruel life, wished youâd never be crying over your bathroom sink over a man. You remembered seeing her crying like this. Hiccuping silent sobs, gripping onto her chest, as if begging her heart to stop.Â
Youâve never felt closer to your mother than you do now.Â
â-
Leaving for your final shift is hard. Itâs not supposed to be your final shift. You have three more in the books but you canât handle any more of this. You need to leave sooner rather than later.Â
Pope is sleeping like a log when you leave, not a single finger twitching. His long nights have caught up to him, which is helping you. Youâve packed the last of your stuff in your car, nothing but wrappers and the man whoâs ruined you in your apartment.Â
You mess up on countless drinks behind the bar. Most of the men scold you but a handful of them pity you. Youâre not sure which is worse. One too many complaints to Geronimo and he tells you to go home. He doesnât need the hassle of an emotional server. Heâs confused when you wrap your arms around him, thanking him. He shoves you off, tells you to stop being such a crybaby.Â
Youâre on your way to your car when Craigâs familiar voice calls out to you. You turn, smiling softly at him. âHey, Craig.â
His eyebrows furrow, âthe hell is wrong with you?âÂ
You realize then that you havenât told him youâre leaving. You sigh, grip tight around your bag. âIâm leaving.âÂ
âWell, duh. But this is really early for you.âÂ
You roll your eyes, âno, I mean, Iâm leaving Oceanside.â You admit, wording yourself better.Â
This stuns him. âWhat? Why? Where?âÂ
You nod with a small yawn, âyeah. Uhm, I have family out in Sacramento. Came to realize thatâs what I need. Itâs too⊠lonely out here.â
It takes a second but he eventually nods, âI get it. Iâd go crazy without mine. When are you leaving?â
You glance down at your phone, itâs almost five and all you need to do is fill up your car and go. âRight now, actually.âÂ
âGeez,â he nudges your shoulder. âLate notice.â He pauses and the smile he shares with you is genuine. âTake care of yourself out there, ballerina. Always got a friend if youâre ever back in the city.â
âWeâre friends?â You tease, nodding. âThank you, Craig.â But this is too sentimental for the two of you. âWant to motorboat me before I go?âÂ
âAre you fucking kidding me?â He gasps. âThatâs all Iâve ever wanted.âÂ
âIâm kidding, pervert.â You punch his arm as you walk past him. âBye, Craig.âÂ
Before you can climb into the driver's seat, he asks. âPope doesnât know?âÂ
You donât hesitate. âNo. He doesnât.âÂ
He lets out a troubled whistle. âSheesh. Did he screw up that bad?â
You laugh, ânah. I did.âÂ
âFind that hard to believe.âÂ
âYeah, well,â you climb into your car with a sigh. âYouâve never had sex with me.âÂ
âNot for lack of trying!â He calls out as you reverse, flipping him off.Â
The tall man waves his arms dramatically as you drive off, blowing kisses as he gets smaller and smaller until you canât see him any longer.Â
Itâs not the Cody you wanted a goodbye from, but youâre also content itâs not the one who's broken you.
an pt 2 . . . me vs giving pope and reader happy endings togetherâŠ. i really do love pope guys đđ but me personally? i have too much self-respect to keep a man like this and i think i tap into that a lot. i struggled so much writing a difficult relationship because im actually mike sherm but a sexy woman so this took a lot from me⊠kiss me if youâre proud of me
