Title: At Least You're Consistent
Disclaimer: Very much not mine.
Summary: Post-2x08. The thing that really bothers her is that he's right.
Note: Short and smutty. Writer's block is making me go through some old, random, unfinished fics and seeing if I can finish them… so I did.
It's becoming more and more often that she finds her way to his bed, drawn to him for reasons doesn't quite want to analyze yet. Like always, she knocks on the door and opens it without waiting for an answer, kicking it shut behind her.
"Hey, now, come on, Margaret," he chides. He's got a raggedy-looking book propped open in one hand. "I could've been indecent."
She saunters over to where Pope is seated on his mattress. "You're always indecent," she says. She puts her feet in between his and plucks the books from his fingers, tossing it aside.
"Mmm," he hums. He puts his hands on her legs and lets them wander upward until they're on her backside. "You like that about me." He slaps her ass and grins.
Maggie leans into him, her arms sliding around his neck as she plays with his hair. It's long, getting longer, and even though she's offered to cut it for him, he always refuses.
He puts his arms around her waist and tugs her forward until she's forced onto his lap, her knees pressed to either side of his hips. He thrusts up against her, and she lets out a gasp that dissolves into soft chuckles.
"You just assume I came in here to fuck you," she says, her mouth against his ear.
He bites the skin under her jaw lightly. "I know you came in here to fuck me."
"Maybe I just had something I wanted to tell you." Even as she says it, she's sneaking a hand between them and under the waist of his jeans.
"Tell it to my dick."
She laughs. "Oh, you wish," she says. She wraps her hand around his shaft and strokes up and down, feeling him come to life between her fingers.
Pope's breath catches in his throat. "Oh, come on. Have you forgotten last night already?" He licks his lips and leers at her. "I haven't." He leans forward and catches her ear between his teeth. "I can still taste you, Margaret."
Now it's her turn to shudder, his words and the way his mouth sucks at her earlobe making her squirm on top of him. She presses closer briefly, her still-clothed breasts brushing against his chest, and urges his body to move further onto the bed before scooting herself backwards.
She pulls on his jeans and boxers until his erection is exposed, and then she dips her head to drag her mouth along his shaft. He shifts, mutters under his breath, and watches as she ducks back down and licks a stripe up his cock.
"Fuck," he groans. He watches her head bob up and down and can't help but reach out a hand to tangle in her hair, holding the strands out of her face.
Cheeks hollowed, she takes him into her mouth again and again, her tongue swirling around his swollen head and along the vein on his shaft. He pulls harder on her hair, and she pinches his thigh.
She's annoyed but not surprised that he doesn't warn her when he comes, because he's Pope and he's kind of a bastard and she really doesn't know why she goes to him, anyway.
It earns him a dirty look and another pinch, but then he flips her onto her back, placates her with his fingers and his mouth, and she again finds that she doesn't mind him so much.
"I'm nothing like you," she tells him. They're on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere, what feels like a lifetime later. "You disgust me."
"Well, there was a time," he says, far too softly, eyes roaming down her figure, "when you felt differently."
"No," she insists, steady and calm and less than convincing. "There was a time when I lied about it."
She knows he can see right through her act when he sneers, "At least you're consistent."
The thing that really bothers her is that he's right.