mystified scream queen

Could I possibly request them in white or a pale purple colour please? Thank you in advance and thank you for what you do! <3

hi! thank you so much, and absolutely! here you go! 💖

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#52 "please, I'll finish fast"

For the entirety of your relationship, you've known that Andrew is a sub leaning switch. He doesn't do dominance. Not really. The closest he gets to it is occasionally telling you what to do.

random pope moments that make me bark

TODAY IS (NOT) THE DAY

summary . . . craig is the only cody you pay any mind to at the club. that is, until he’s paying you eight grand to sleep with his brother who’s been out of prison for less than a week.

pairing . . . andrew ‘pope’ cody x stripper!fem!reader

warnings . . . low-self esteem from reader, reading saying they want to die at some point (kys), ig it can be seen as sex work, stripper, half-naked reader at almost all times, weird roleplay, reader sometimes being judgmental but can you blame her, smut 18+only, oral sex, he’s bad for a moment but he gets better, p in v, no condom please wrap it before you tap it, uhm angstyyyyyyyyyyy

word count . . . 10.9k (it was longer too but i had to cut some parts >_<)

an . . . i haven’t written full-fledged work like this in literally YEARS and i definitely forgot how to so grammarly was my best friend 😫 regardless, im very proud of this! smut isn’t my forte but i had so much fun getting out of my comfort zone! please don’t hesitate to comment or voice your thoughts in reblogs! while i do it for the love of the game and not just attention, it still feels nice to be appreciated haha! thank you bbs

part 2, IT’S (NEVER) OVER

You get used to living in sadness. After years of torment and abuse, it’s hard not to live in it. You want self-respect. You want to look at yourself in the mirror and decide that today is the day you finally respect yourself. 

But it’s hard when the person looking at you is full of glitter, wearing nothing but a thin string on your chest and a thong so far up your ass you can’t help but want to pick it. But you can’t, not when Geronimo told you it looked unattractive to the customers of his lovely establishment. 

After an incident on the pole, you can’t dance. So, with a small limp in the huge pumps, you have to serve. It’s not as much as shaking your ass on stage. But it’ll do, at least, until your bills can no longer be covered. 

It’s not like you miss being on stage, either. You always have a nervous sinking pit in your stomach at the idea of exposing parts of yourself that your mother told you were meant to be shared with the man you love. She was also a conservative drunk, though, so the stacks of bills at the end of the night made you forget about it. Until it was time for bed, and tears fell, and you prayed to a god you’re not sure you believe in. 

The music is pounding all around the club. Tabitha is dancing now, her turn for the next twenty minutes. Usually, you’d be next; instead, you’re walking back and forth from the bar to the customers who are dropping far too much money for a few ass shakes. But, hey, you’re the one shaking ass, so you can’t exactly judge, can you? 

“Another Bloody Mary!” You order from Fatima, the gothic woman, her eyebrows furrowing.

She snorts out a laugh, “Who the fuck orders Blood Marys at a strip club?”

You laugh loudly, nose scrunching in disgust at the drink. “The same type of men who get a chub from watching our feet as we pass on by.”

The cackle she lets out makes you grin, proud to have amused her. You place the drinks onto your platter and turn. You look out at the scene ahead of you. Men. Men. Men. Only men. All watching your coworkers with those dark eyes they always carry. It's scary, genuinely scary. They know they have the upper hand here. They know that they can reach out and touch without any repercussions. Mostly because Geronimo would take their side, but also because they’re men. They always take what they want. It will never be any other way so you’ve decided to give in.  

You don't get much longer to take it in, because Geronimo is walking over to you. Staying to talk with him will ruin your mood, and you're still on the clock for five more hours; it's best not to poke the bear. You hear him call your name as you walk past him and call over your shoulder, “Can't talk. Too busy hustling. Making you those big bucks you love!” 

You only get to see a second of his disgusting mug before deciding to forget. Forgetting, it's all you can do. Plastering that disgustingly sweet smile on you for this place, you turn back to the couple of weirdos who ordered said Bloody Marys to begin with. “Here you go,” and just like that, your confidence has to shine through again. Your posture is straighter, boobs out, strutting in those too-big pumps. “Now, if y’all need anything,” your finger runs across the man’s chest. “Anything at all, you ask for me. No other pretty girl.” 

The man and his friends laugh haughtily. His hand lands on your hip, pulling you into him. You laugh prettily at the way he shoves a few bills into your panties. “Got it, sexy.” You want to throw up. You finger-wave them and turn your back to them, your face immediately falling. But it doesn’t last very long, because soon enough, strong arms wrap around your waist. A squeal leaves you, not from fear, but shock. 

You immediately know who it is. Geronimo lets the men at the club get away with a lot, but nothing so blatant. Only one man would do this. You laugh when a pair of lips meet your neck, “Craig! Off!” You smack at his buff arms with one arm, the other carrying the empty tray. 

It’s almost sad how well you know this man. He’s here every single Friday, Saturday, and on occasion, Sunday. Not sad for you. For him. He’s such a depraved freak; he has nothing better to do with his time than snort coke and motorboat the women here for fifty bucks. Not you, though. Not since the first and only time you allowed him a little over a year ago. It was too weird. Now, he never even offers to throw money at you in such ways. Only tips you when you serve him, and at times, his brothers. Today is one of those times, apparently. 

You look over Craig’s shoulders, immediately spotting two more familiar faces. “Baz. Deran.” You greet politely as the two nod their heads at you, eyes scouring the club for their favorite girls. But the faces behind Craig don’t end there. There’s a smaller guy. Smaller in height, definitely not body mass. You glance at Craig and back at the little guy. Little guy. That’s what you've decided on. 

You give everyone names for your mind and your mind only. Craig was originally ‘Hippie’ because of his long hair and beard. Baz was ‘Cheater’ because of the wife he had waiting for him at home. Deran was ‘Wanderer’ because he always looked like he was dissociating when he was with his girl. And now, Little Guy.

“And who’s this?” Immediately, you’re on the prowl for tips, circling Little Guy, looking him up and down, checking him out. He’s not as big as Craig is, but most men here aren’t. He’s got muscles, that much is clear— only when you look at him from certain angles—a sleeper build, you take notice. 

“This right here,” Craig’s arm is grabbing you, pulling you into him as if staking some claim on you, as Little Guy looks you up and down now. But his eyes immediately leave you, continuing to scope the place out. How odd, most men can’t take their eyes away from your body. The bob in Little Guy’s throat tells you it’s not because he doesn’t want to look at you, he’s nervous. And this amuses you. No man who walks in here is ever nervous. Not even the first-timers. “Is my big brother. Pope.” 

You hum, surprised by this. “Big brother?” You voice aloud, Deran snorting a laugh beside Baz, who seems to have not found his girl yet, distracted by the task. What surprises you is the way Little Guy actually looks upset by your words. Not defensive, like most men are about their height, but upset. “I mean no offense, Pope,” your tone is saccharine, as is the smile on your face. “Craig is just really old in my opinion, and you don’t look older than him.” You make a jab at Craig that has him laughing loudly, in a way that screams he’s coked up. 

“Alright, alright, Hipster.” You try for a giggle that isn't awkward, but you fail. You lightly smack his arms, and he does as you told him, releasing you. “Want me to walk you to your table, or do you need my help with that too?” You joke with Craig. 

Craig, graceful as ever on coke, clumsily bows to you. “May we have the honor of you leading us?”

A scoff of a laugh leaves you, eyes trailing back over to Little Guy. He’s still scoping out the place, as if something or someone were to come out and pounce on him. Not that they wouldn’t, the girls here can be ruthless and cutthroat about their money, and new men means more money. 

He’s got freckles all over his face—no doubt from countless days under the sun in Oceanside. Most men in Oceanside have sun-touched skin like so, but paired with his buzzcut and a stoic, bordering on psychopathic, look, it’s different. You can’t put your finger on it, but it’s there, and it’s glaringly obvious to you. 

A nudge from your side pulls you out of your analysis of Little Guy. You look up at Craig with furrowed eyebrows, confused by this sudden need for attention. It’s not that odd, seeing as he always needs female attention, but he doesn’t grab it with a nudge, only with his huge hands. His eyes trail to Pope, nodding at him for you. He seems to be overestimating your connection because you can’t read what he’s saying at all. He huffs, annoyed by your lack of understanding. He leans over to whisper to you, “Sleep with him.” 

His words catch you completely off guard. You sputter out a laugh, taking a step back from him. But you wince when you step wrong, ankle throbbing. “Fuck, fuck…” You hiss, and you grab onto the nearest thing. Or, person. It’s Little Guy.

He acts as if your touch burns him, pulling away with wide eyes. His sudden pull away makes you stumble some more. Craig catches you quickly, glaring at his brother. “The fuck is your issue?” 

You shake your head, balancing yourself on Craig. “It’s fine, Craig, I jumped him.” Once you’re on your feet, you look over at Little Guy. And the guilty expression on his face makes your breath catch. “I’m sorry, Pope.” You apologize. Usually, your apologies to the men in this place are insincere, or they don’t get any at all. “I hurt my ankle while dancing last week, and I stepped on it wrong. Panicked and grabbed the closest person. I didn’t mean to bombard you.” 

He’s looking at the floor, hands nervously rubbing at his blue jeans. He shakes his head, refusing to look at you. “It’s fine.” His voice is rough. An intense drawl that makes your skin bump and fingers clench and unclench, needing something , but you can’t figure out what.

You lead the brothers to their usual table. Your pumps are too tall for you to grab the heavy chairs, so Baz does it for you, filling up the table. “Alright, your usuals?” You ask as they all sit. Even as you ask your typical question, you can’t completely look away from Pope, glancing at him repeatedly, desperate to keep your eyes on him. To analyze him, of course, nothing else. You barely met the guy, so you can’t say it’s anything more than that. He's just so damn odd. His back won't touch the chair, and he’s sitting so stiff because of it, hands fidgeting on his knees. Weird. So fucking weird. 

But Craig shakes his head, grabbing your arm and pulling you onto his lap. You laugh, not disgusted by this for once. If it were any other man, you’d curse and hit. But it’s Craig. And he’s handsy, but he’s innocent. He whistles over to Iggy, ushering the blonde to take their orders. Baz and Deran, now with their women, order their usual with your coworker. But your attention is on Craig, arm around him as he whispers into your ear. “He just got out.”

Your eyebrows furrow, glancing at Pope again. He still won’t let his back touch the seat. You don’t blame him. Some fucked up crap has happened there. Some form of OCD, you deduce. You people watch so much that you’ve given yourselves a degree in psychiatry. You can tell when a man is depressed, or anxious, when their confidence is low, when they’re manic, even when they’re doubting their sexuality. It’s hard not to. They’re so easy. “Like,” you whisper to Craig, turning back. “From his house?” 

He laughs, shaking his head, “No,” the way you two are seated seems intimate. His hands are on your thighs, feeling you up. Oddly, it’s not sexual; he needs something to do with his hands when he’s this high. “Prison.” 

Your eyes widen, eyes searching Craig’s face, looking for the joke. You don't find it. You glance back over at Pope, and he's still being weird. It’s all making more and more sense as Craig tells you more, “was in three years. Was supposed to be six but got off on good behavior. Honey, he needs to get laid.” 

You huff, unamused. “And what’s that got to do with me?” 

He gives you a bored expression, “you’re hot. Got ass for days. Good tits. Not the biggest I’ve seen—“ he winces when you pinch his nipple through his shirt. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” 

But you’re glaring at him, upset by what he’s asking of you. “I’m a stripper, not a hooker.” 

“A thousand.” 

“What?” You pull your face from his. “I just said—“

“Three.” It certainly grabs your attention, but not enough to bite. 

“Craig, I'm not sleeping with your brother for money!” You hiss into his ear. 

He pauses and sighs, “You’re gonna milk me dry here. And not the good kind. Fine, eight.” 

As pathetic as it is, that certainly catches your attention. Eight grand. Eight thousand dollars. Eyebrows furrowed, “Why? Why are you…” you trail off momentarily before coming back to earth, “can’t you find an actual hooker on some corner? Probably worth a hundred bucks.” 

He scoffs as if your words are utterly ridiculous. “He’s my brother. I’m not letting him get crabs. You’re clean. Nice. You’d treat him well.”

You snort, “I’m nice? Have you met me?” You’re many, many things. Outside of work, sure, you’re nice. You don’t donate money, but when you’re not debating killing yourself, you’re at the local church, helping with the food bank. But that’s barely a drop in the countless bad things you do, so you don’t count it. At work? Definitely not nice. Fake nice, sure, you can fake it. But at some point, that facade starts to fade. Luckily, most of the men drawn to you are into being degraded. And it’s easy to degrade a man. 

“Oh, no, you’re a straight-up bitch.” He hums, not minding when you smack his chest. “But you’d be good for him. C’mon. Do it for the community, or he’ll be out on the prowl.” You look back over at Pope, his back still not touching the seat. 

You turn back to Craig with an amused smile, “he looks harmless.” 

He raises an eyebrow at you, “Yeah, right, harmless. As harmless as a fucking landmine. Step on him wrong and he’ll explode. You doin’ it?” 

You should say no. Just earlier, you were upset about the lack of respect you have for yourself working this type of job. But you also need the money. Eight thousand is a lot of goddamn money. Enough that you won’t have to worry about coming in for at least a week and a half. You would finally be able to rest your ankle enough to get back up on stage. 

“You got it on you?” You ask, a nervous undercurrent to your voice. You’re not a virgin by any means, but up until this point in your depressing career, you took pride in the fact that you never took anyone’s money for sex. It’s offered to you countless times. And Geronimo tells you all not to take it, but that look in his eye tells you he’s not serious, only do it on your own time. He doesn’t want to get busted for a brothel and lose the building; it’s clear that’s always been his only concern.  

He shakes his head, “nah. Not right now. I do have it, though.” And there go your plans. You scoff, making a move to climb off of him, but his hands tighten around you, pulling you back down. “I have it. I promise I do.” You huff, fingers unconsciously curling into his head of hair, yanking. 

“I’ll kill you if you don’t.” Granted, you don’t mean it. You don’t have any means to do such a thing, nor have the stomach for it. You would find a way to get payback, though. You glance at Pope, who’s still uncomfortable in his chair. You turn back to Craig, “Is he bad at sex?”

He laughs, “How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

You huff at his laugh, glaring at him. You grab his chin, making him look at you. “You promise you’ll pay me?”

As seriously as he can manage, incredibly coked up, he nods. “Yes. Promise. Have I ever let you down?” 

“A few times.” You confirm. 

He rolls his eyes at you, “whatever. I mean about money. I always got you.” And he’s right. He always pays his tabs, always tips you and the other girls hefty sums. There are lots of stingy men around here, but Craig isn’t one of them. 

“I suppose you don’t want him to know I was paid?” 

He shrugs, “don’t care. Or…” he mulls it over for a few seconds, “nah, don’t tell him. Up his confidence.” 

Still tall on his lap, you turn to look over at Pope again. Your eyes widen slightly to find that his eyes are already on you. He either doesn't seem to realize you’ve caught him or he doesn’t care because his eyes don’t leave yours. You wonder if he was confident before prison, if his years of being untouched by a woman just caught up to him, or if he was always so stoic.  

He’s a handsome man, you can’t deny that. But he’s handsome in a way that most women who overlook him are into pretty boys. He’s a grown man. The few lines on his face tell you he’s got years on him, but not too many. He’s just the right age. He’s tan, not as much as a lot of the surfers you see in Oceanside, but it’s there, and it’s clear that Little Guy’s first few days out of prison were spent in the sun. Or maybe he’s naturally tan, but you can’t tell quite yet. 

Regardless of that, you don’t believe you’d hate sex with him. He’s not hideous. Not your cup of tea by any means, but definitely not hideous. And you’re certain he won’t last long, but you’re getting eight thousand for it, so you really don’t care if he cums while sliding inside of you. 

You pat Craig’s thigh a few times before sliding off and strutting over to sit beside Pope. The seat beneath your thighs is freezing, despite the heat of the bodies around you. You cross your leg over the other, his eyes looking down at your bare legs before looking away and back up at you. “So,” you lean your elbow on the table, chin in your hand, as you grin easily at him. “Why haven’t I seen you before?” You act as if you don't know about his prison time. 

His eyes dart over to his brothers and back to you. He doesn't respond. Not for a few seconds. He’s thinking, as if he needs to go over what he wants to say before muttering it out.  And then— “you work here.” It’s awkward, out of place. 

And for the first time all night, your smile is genuine. Your lips tilt, amused. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Now it's your turn to mull over what to say next. You can't just pounce on him. Or maybe you can, you haven’t decided yet. “Going on two years now.” You explain. 

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t show that he’s actively listening to you, as most would with a single shake. You almost think he’s ignoring you until he speaks, “been away. ‘S why you haven’t seen me. And I don't…” he clears his throat awkwardly. “Don’t like these places.” 

You raise a single eyebrow at this. A Cody man doesn’t like strip clubs? It’s a shock to you. All of the Cody sons are regulars here. Except for Deran, who only tags along with Craig on random occasions. Even Baz, who’s supposed to be a family man is here too often. 

“Why’s that?” You question. He doesn’t answer, instead, his eyes keep flickering around the club. When you realize you won’t get a response, you decide to change tactics. A few days of relaxation sounded nice, but you couldn’t dance around him. Not when you just wanted this over with, even if he’s the first man to ever make you softer around the edges, in fear of scaring him away. 

You’re standing up from the chair, hand pushed out to him, waiting for him to take hold of it. He eyes your hands, the long acrylic nails with intricate designs on them, slowly back up to your face. His back is pressed against the chair for the first time that night, looking up at you with confused and darting eyes. “Come on,” you snake your hand slightly, bracelets jingling. “Let’s go.” 

It takes him a few more seconds, but eventually, he puts his hand in yours, and he’s up on his feet. You’re taller than him in your pumps, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You can feel his brother's eyes on both of you as you lead him through the crowd. 

There's not really a spot where you can have sex with the man without cameras, but you figured he wouldn’t mind Geronimo’s beat-up couch in his office. To get there, though, you need to walk through the dressing room. It’s big, with lockers on the walls and typical wooden, glossed-over benches. There are vanities everywhere, big mirrors with lightbulbs around for better views of your makeup and checking how you look between sets. 

You look over your shoulder and at him, and you have to look away to hide your smile at the way he sniffed the air and grimaced at the smell of pure aerosol and different perfumes mixing. 

You’re surprised to hear him speak first, “This is where you change into…” You turn to face him, catching his eyes as his eyes flicker over your half-nude body. “That.”

For the first time since starting this job, you feel naked. Which, you very much are. Always are when you step foot into the stuffy club. But the way Little Guy was looking at you? It makes your stomach churn. It makes you feel judged. You know you always are. Most of the men here always look disgusted by the end of the night. As if they can’t believe who they spent time with over the past few hours. But you don’t let it get to you—you got what you needed: money. That’s all that matters. 

But Pope isn’t giving you money. Craig is. And he’s not here watching you with an intensely awkward look. If Craig ever looked at you the way Pope is, you’d smack the guy, shove past him. But it looks cute on Pope. Chin slightly tilted down, eyebrows furrowed. He looks like he's struggling to push something out, and you realize it’s his words. He can’t push his words out, at least not in a way that he wants. 

“You read people well.” He speaks when you don’t. 

The truth of his words makes you nod, pushed out of your trance. “I do.” You two are standing in the middle of the changing room now, not making a move. “Perk from the job.” You add. 

A pause. 

You speak again, and at the same time, he does. “I don’t—“

“He’s paying you, right?” His words make you still, unsure how to handle the situation. You don’t exactly care for his feelings, or you tell yourself you don’t. And yet, you’re hesitant to confirm. 

When you don’t see anger in his eyes, you decide you’re safe to speak again. “That a bad thing?”

A slow blink and then, “depends. Do you do this a lot? Sleep with the patrons?” 

The snort of a laugh you release is completely unattractive, and you regret it, but only for a split second. You don’t need to care if he thinks you’re attractive. Men will fuck anything, right? “No. I don’t. Do you?” 

For the first time, you see amusement in his dark and serious eyes. “Do I sleep with the patrons? Can’t say that I have.”

The roll of your eyes can’t hide your smile, “no, silly. Do you sleep with strangers often?”

His answer is instant, a shake of his head and— “no. I haven't…” he swallows. “Haven’t been with anyone in three years.” 

You hum, letting his words sit. Three years is a long time. You figure it was his prison stint. But he doesn’t know that you know, so you refrain from asking if anything happened there. “Are you trying to warn me that you won’t last long?” You tease. 

He huffs out a small laugh, “Yes. Not sure I know what an erection feels like anymore.”

You’re pleasantly surprised by his honesty. Seeing as he was awkward and stoic not even five minutes ago. “Well, then tell me about your last erection.” 

He looks at you like you’ve grown another head, eyes wide before he relaxes them. “What?” 

You shrug, “What was it like? Your last erection. I’m assuming it was during sex, right?” 

His nod is a bit jerky as he replies. “Yes.” 

“Okay…” You watch him. You can not watch him. “Tell me about it. With who? How hard did you come? In bed? Against a counter? Was it raw? Did you—“ 

“Are you always this vulgar?” He interrupts.

You laugh—a real laugh. “Pope, we’re in the middle of a changing room in a strip club with nothing but floss covering my nipples. And this isn’t even my worst outfit.” 

His smile is tight-lipped, looking to the side. “Yeah… guess so.” He peeks back up at you. “He payin’ you a lot?”

“Enough.” You confirm. 

He’s wearing that look again, the one that yells he can’t spit out the correct words. But you know why he’s shy about this. 

“You want to roleplay the last time you had sex.” It’s almost comical how wide his eyes get. You shrug again, “told you, I read people well, a perk of the job.” 

He releases the nervous breath he had been holding in. “You seem close to Craig.” 

You scrunch your nose softly, shaking your head. “Not really. We only see each other here.”

“But he’s around often?”

“Pathetically.” 

He agrees with a nod. “Last time I had sex was with Catherine.” He speaks her name like you’re supposed to know who she is. 

“Heigl?” You joke. 

It flies over his head. “No, Belen.” 

“Right…” your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Anway… tell me about it.” 

He seems ashamed as he thinks back on it, and this only piques your curiosity. “Let’s sit.” You open Geronimo’s office door and let him inside. It’s a typical office. A desk, a computer, stacks of paper in thick manila folders. There's art on the walls of dogs playing card games, corny Godfather quotes, and a bear head hanging from your boss's hunting. You ignore it as you lock the door behind you and take a seat on the battered couch beside Pope. “Tell me about it.” You urge.  

He clears his throat, legs spread open on the couch. Not by choice, you notice. “We were drunk.” He begins. “It was… stupid. To her. Meant nothing.”

You’re leaning your arm on the couch, eyes stuck on him as he speaks. It almost breaks your heart to see that hurt expression on him. “You wanted it to mean something.” You add. 

“It did.” His words sound defensive as he spews them. He's not your first upset customer, though, so it doesn’t faze you. “It meant something.” 

To you, you want to tell him. But you bite your tongue. “Okay, it meant something.” You validate him. “What else?” 

“That’s all.” 

But you’re eyeing him. He’s not telling the whole truth. It’s easy to see. To you, at least. “You ever been told you’re a bad liar?” 

“No.” His tone is sincere. 

“Well, you are.” You huff. “There’s more. Tell me. Who is Catherine?” 

He’s quiet again. That same tense look. He can’t find his words. Not for a few more moments. “Baz’s wife.” 

Your head tilts, gathering your thoughts. Baz’s wife. Baz is his brother. Catherine is Baz’s wife. It clicks. “Damn.” You sigh, shaking your head. “Geez, Pope.” 

He glares at you, but you don’t find any real heat in it. “Thought strippers weren’t supposed to judge.” 

You give him a bored expression, “That’s a fake rule.” 

“You think I’m gross.” He almost sounds hurt. 

You scoff, “I don’t care what you do, Pope.” A pause. “Only a little. Not from the sex… that’s really the woman you want?” 

He doesn’t hesitate. “More than anything.” 

You almost gasp in shock, but you rein it in. “Geez, Pope.” You repeat. “You’re fucked.” 

The hum of the overhead light fills the quiet room. You’re letting him sit in his truth for a few minutes, playing with a loose thread on the couch. 

“You want me to pretend to be Catherine?” Your voice cuts the silence. 

With a shaky breath, he nods, “Yes.” 

You feel disgusting. You really try not to judge, but it feels wrong. His brother is just outside, having his own fun with one of your coworkers. You have your own moral compass about cheating. The bartenders laughed when you told them as such. You’re a stripper, and half of your clients are married. It’s the one hope you let yourself cling to, that you happen to get the unmarried ones. There are never rings. Never ties to the outside world. Not even a tan. You’re a good person. You’re not a cheater. You’re a good person. 

You’re a good person.

And yet— 

You take his hand and lead him over to the only space on Geronimo’s office wall. You press your back into it. He’s standing a few steps away from you, so you grab his hand again and pull him into you. His breathing is labored, not against your cheek. His hands are fidgeting, unsure where to place them. You grab them again and press them to your cheeks. “We can’t, Pope.” Your voice cracks. “Baz, he… he’ll… I can’t hurt him.” 

His breath hitches. His eyes are darting across your face, like he can’t believe this is really happening. “He won’t…” he licks his lips, mouth dry from his nerves. “He won’t know.” His hands on your face tighten, ghosting his lips over yours. 

“He will,” you furrow your eyebrows, and your face twists up in fake guilt. “Pope, he will.” 

“Won’t.” His teeth nip at your bottom lip. “Can I kiss you?” You wonder if he truly asked Catherine’s permission. 

You jerk out a small nod, and his lips immediately press to yours. Despite the ferocity of the placement, the kiss is soft. Deep. You don't sleep with patrons, but you have shared a few kisses with them. Nothing extravagantly deep or emotional. Mostly sloppy and open-mouthed ones that always end up with their tongue down your throat. 

Pope Cody is a damn good kisser. His hands are still on your cheeks, pulling you into him. While he does so, your hands fidget with the buttons to his shirt, needing to undo them. But you can’t grip them, not with the way his tongue is lapping at yours. 

Your brain is mush. The kiss is wet but not in a sloppy way, warm and desperate but full of a type of yearning you’ve never felt. It feels as if he’s trying to fuse you two into one. Or really, he’s trying to fuse himself and your Catherine act into one. It’s almost romantic. 

He didn't tell you he got to his knees for her, so you’re shocked when he pulls his lips from yours and kisses down your jaw, to your neck, the dip between your breasts, and to your mound. 

The thong you’re wearing is tugged off with his shaky hands, falling to your ankles. It’s helping that you’re wearing pumps so tall, he sits at your cunt perfectly. But the position you’re in is uncomfortable. And so is the pace. His face is smushed into your cunt, lapping and sucking at it wildly, not actually hitting anything.

He notices. The small whimpers you’re releasing are practiced and completely fake. And he notices. He pulls away from you, confused. “Are you not enjoying this?”

You’re caught off-guard, and you figure you’re not playing the role correctly. Catherine must have loved this. “I am! Just as good as—“

He cuts you off, “not Catherine… you.” 

Now you’re really confused. “Uhm…” you think it’s a trick, as if testing whether you’d break out of his fantasy, so he can find a way to revoke that money from you. “I enjoy what you do.” 

Granted, you met him for the first time just forty minutes ago, so saying you've never seen him this angry before seems redundant. He's angry. Really angry. He's getting up off his knees, taking a step back from you. “You hate this.” He utters it like a cold, hard fact. 

“N-no!” You need to salvage this quickly. You’re telling yourself it’s for your money. The eight grand that will sit so prettily in your bank account. But the embarrassment and anger in him are what’s pushing you to make this right. And you hate that it is. “Pope, listen to me, I really, really liked the kiss—“ 

He interrupts again. “But not the pussy eating?” He’s watching you, waiting for your answer. 

With an awkward voice, you decide to speak the truth. “No…” and you hate that his shoulder slumps even slightly. “It’s not a bad thing! You have the potential! You have the passion for it, the one most men don’t have. You can’t just slobber away at it and hope for the best.” 

That surprisingly calms him down. He pauses, lets your words sink in, and he nods. “Okay… okay…” a pause. “Show me.” 

He’s full of surprises, and you’re not sure what to do with them. You were certain this would go one way. He’d search for his release and his only. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy you chose to be with was selfish, and it wouldn’t be the last. But he wants to learn. 

“O-okay.” You hate the way your words falter. You clear your throat, trying to gather yourself. “First things first, I need to be comfortable. Back to the wall isn’t my favorite.” 

“Okay.” He’s on it. It’s his first time in this office, and he’s ushering you onto the couch. You can’t think straight. This was supposed to be his freaky roleplay about his sister-in-law, not a pussy eating lesson. 

Now, you’re sitting back on the couch, legs spread open for him. You’ve been laid bare like this plenty of times. You’re not a prude by any means. You can’t be with a job like this. But his eyes on your bare cunt make you anxiously bite your bottom lip. He’s not looking up at you, eyes fixated on your legs. “I know this feels good,” his finger ghosts your sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You shiver, “Jesus, Pope.” You scold the guy with a glare. “Just… fuck, I don’t know how to teach anyone this.” 

He huffs, finally looking at you from his spot on the floor, “You’re the one who said I’m terrible at this.” 

You defend yourself, “I did not.” You huff, trying to sit up, but he grabs your thighs, pulling you back down and into him. 

“Sit still,” he presses soft kisses to your inner thighs, making you tense up. “I’ll just do what I usually do. I’ll… I’ll slow it down.” 

You try to sit up again, but he pulls you back, “fuck, Pope. This is supposed to be for you, not—“ your breath stutters when he presses a sloppy kiss to your clit, hands gripping onto the cushions beneath you. 

And he's true to his word. He isn’t devouring as he had been before. He’s savoring you. He’s licking up every slick drop off of you, desperately searching for more.

“Wait… fuck…” You’re not sure what it is you're asking for, but you don’t want this to stop. And he knows it. Before you can think, he’s dragging you further into him, pushing your legs to his shoulders, one of his arms hooking to your waist, locking you in place. And not once does he stop his ministrations. 

Your thighs are shaking. Your mind is racing. You swear you can feel your heartbeat in your clit as he’s ravishing you. He doesn’t go all in like before. It’s clear he forgets himself at times, though, and slows down, pulling at your clit, lips puckered and sucking you into his mouth, releasing to press soft kisses to your wet folds. You gasp when he slips a single finger inside of you. Your spasming hole now has something to grip onto, and it only adds to your mewls. 

He’s lapping from your sopping hole up to your clit in fat stripes. “Pope… I… I can’t… wait… fuck.” He slips a second finger in, slowly pumping in and out of you. You’re about to warn him, tell him you’re teetering to the edge, but you don’t get the chance to. He curls his fingers once, and your orgasm crashes over you. 

Stuttered moans leave your lips, head thrown back in the throes of pure pleasure. He lets you ride out your orgasm, softer with his tongue. When he deduces that you’re overstimulated, he pulls his face away, arm slipping out from under you, placing his hands on your bare thighs. He doesn’t make a move to get up. 

Breathing labored, your chest rising and falling, you sit up enough to get a better look at him. Your eyebrows furrow as you catch him looking down at the floor. “Are… are you okay?” You ask, concerned about whatever this reaction is. 

His hands squeeze down on your thighs, flesh stinging slightly. “Yeah…” is his only response. 

You sit up straighter, legs closing as you do so. “Are you, like, overwhelmed or something?” 

“No, just stop talking.” He doesn’t let you go, hands still on you. He’s shaking, his hands tightening and untightening repeatedly. 

“Okay, now I'm really worried—“ 

“I just need to calm down.” He sneers at you. He’s not angry, he’s embarrassed. And he turns sheepish as he mumbles the next part, “got too excited. Don’t want to… release yet.” 

It takes a second for your brain to catch up to his words. And then, you’re laughing. “Crap. Crap. Sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I promise!” You’re a giggling mess, trying to get yourself together. “Fuck, I just… I’ve never heard that.” 

He huffs, annoyed by your laughter. “You’re laughing because I liked eating you out.” He glares at you. “Most women would like that, right?” 

You manage to catch your breath, the grin unable to leave your face, “didn’t say I don't like it.” But he's pouty and you like it. “Fine, fine, sorry. It was good.” You reach over to grab a tissue to clean his fingers. “We can keep roleplaying your sister-in-law.” 

He snarls, but you still don’t take it seriously. “Don’t call her that. Makes it weird.” 

You have to hold yourself back from telling him that it is weird already. To be fantasizing about your brother's wife is an odd thing. To have had sex with your brother's wife is an odd thing. They have a child together, from what you’ve gathered through being around Craig. But that’s your own moral compass. Which you know you should lighten as you’re about to have more sex with this unknown man for eight thousand. You’re not exactly the spokesperson for morality. 

You scoot closer to him, letting him kneel between your legs. And the switch is back on. 

“Should’ve been you, Pope.” You can hear his breath hitch. Your fingers run through his very short head of hair at the back of his head. You’re pressing soft kisses to his jaw. “Should’ve picked you.” 

And he’s jumping right into it too, eyes shut tight. To hide the fact that the woman he’s with right now isn’t the one he wants. It makes you wonder if love is that great. You’ve never felt it. Not romantically, at least. Barely even familial or with friends. To be so hung up on a person who will never love you back sounds draining. And embarrassing. You find yourself wishing you could cure him of this ailment. 

Your lips meet his once more. And this time, you’re in control. Your lips push against his, his hands sliding up your bare thighs to your waist, gripping onto you. “Pope…” you pull your lips from his for a moment, but he chases after you, meeting once more. Your hands reach down to his jeans, the cold metal of his button twisting between your fingers as you undo them. 

The groan that leaves him vibrates against you as you pull his jeans and boxers down simultaneously. Without breaking the heavy kiss, he slowly gets up onto the couch, lying you on your back against the battered and scratchy couch. It’s small, the two of you barely able to fit, but you’re making it work. 

He’s hovering over you now. You pull your lips from his, placing your hand over his mouth to stop him from chasing after you again. His hands are on the sides of your head, eyes wide with lust before he closes them again. To keep the fantasy going. 

Your hand is shaking slightly as you reach down between you two. The moan he draws out when gripping his hard and warm cock is filthy. You’ve never been with a vocal man before. His hips are twitching desperately already, and you know for certain now that he won’t last long at all. 

You easily guide his cock to your entrance, letting just the tip of him notch inside of you. Your eyebrows twist, a small gasp leaving you with the sense of the slight intrusion. You haven’t even so much as glanced down to see what he looks like. You can’t care for that right now. Not when his eyes are shut tight over you, eyebrows pinched, and small noises are leaving him. You’re too focused on his face. Deducing by the twitch of his nose, what he’s feeling, and how you can keep making it good for him. It's all about him. 

“Push in, Pope…” your arms are wrapped around his neck, whispering seductively into his ear. 

You didn’t have to tell him twice. His moan is loud, hitching at the end as he bottoms out inside of you. “Fuck.” 

Fuck is right. He fills you perfectly. He’s not huge, you’ve had some abnormally big dick, but you didn’t enjoy it as it was more painful than anything else. You don’t believe size matters either; it’s what you do with it that's important. But ninety percent of the small dick losers you’ve been with don’t know what to do with it, or the big ones. You almost snort out a laugh at the thought of this being a Goldilocks story, only your filthy version. 

Your soft hands trail down his back and to his ass, pushing him into you, as if your small touch could help him grind deeper into you. “Shit… Pope…” your breathing is labored as he fucks into you. The couch is shaking with every thrust, and his face is burrowing into you. 

You almost forget you’re roleplaying for a moment, and in the haze of your pleasure, you speak again, “knew you’d…” he punches a moan out of you as he thrusts harder. “Knew you’d fit me perfectly. Meant for me, Pope. Never wanted him. Only you.” 

And this spurs him on. His thrusts are becoming erratic, his moans are louder and vibrating at your neck. Shakily, his voice warns, “I’m gon— I’m gonna—“ 

You don’t let him finish. Instead, you whisper, “I love you, Pope.” 

And he shatters. His moan is loud, hips locking yours down as he pushes and pushes deep inside of you. The warmth of his cum fills you. Your pulse is racing, blocking out the way his moaning turned into full whimpers, sounding distant. 

He’s out of breath as he lays his limp body against yours, hot against your neck. He’s sweating, small dribbles of it collecting at his temple. He moves his head from your neck, your eyes widening as he leans his forehead against yours, his nose nudging against yours. His eyes are still shut, and the flutter in your stomach from his move is gone. This is still roleplaying, but you’re embarrassed. 

Embarrassed that you forgot about the role-playing for even a flicker of a second. Embarrassed that you focused so much on him. Embarrassed that you’ve accepted this deal with his brother. Embarrassed that you let yourself fall to the level your coworkers are at, always taking money for sex. And still you continue to embarrass yourself. 

“I pick you, Pope.” You’re pressing chaste yet sweet pecks to his lips. He’s not fighting you, falling into your lips when the kisses get longer and heavier. 

His breath hitches, just like you knew it would. He pulls his lips from yours, “Say it again.” 

You oblige, “I pick you, Pope.” For a second, it sounds like he's crying, and you sit up, sliding out from under him. You eye him carefully, worried, “Are you okay?”

He clambers back as well, the two of you sitting naked on the couch. The office smells of old cigarette buds and now a tinge of sweat from their rump in the stuffy office. 

The energy is tense. Like it’s dawning on you both what you just did, he’s back to what seems his normal way of acting, awkward, but that undercurrent of toughness. 

“Was it…” You clear your throat, nervous. “Was it accurate to… to her?” You ask like a project waiting to be graded. And you’re worried. Worried that the response will be bad. 

“No.” It’s blunt. And you don’t know him well, or at all, actually, but you know it’s just who he is. He’s blunt. Unsure of how to speak, maybe it’s just with women, you’ll never know. After this, you don’t plan on interacting with him again. You’ll even go as far as to ignore Craig if you need to. 

“Sorry.” You’re scolding yourself. Sorry? What do you have to apologize for? You did nothing wrong. You don’t know his sister-in-law. You don’t know what she looks like, how she talks, how she acts, how she treats him. And yet, his answer is eating you up alive. What could you have done better? How could you be more like the woman he’s in love with? 

More silence. 

“She wouldn’t say what you did.” 

His words pique your interest. You want to be careful with your words, but there’s no way around it: “If she’s not into you, then why’d she sleep with you?” 

He shrugs, “We were drunk. I was nervous for my… job. She and Baz got into an argument. It just happened.” 

“Sex doesn’t just happen, Pope.” You reach over for your thin top and put it back on, which doesn’t do much but hide the pecks of your nipples. “She must feel something for you.” 

He huffs, “Yeah, disgust.” 

You slip your matching thin panties on as well. He’s still sitting naked on the couch. You don't point it out. Instead, you plop back down onto your seat. You reach over to Geronimo’s desk, grabbing one of the joints that he confiscated from your coworker a few days ago. It’s a bit stale, but you light it anyway using his cheap lighter on the desk. You cough when you inhale, and there are bouts of smoke puffing out with every breath. You hold it out to Pope, and he shakes his head. 

You shrug and say, “suit yourself.” You turn your body fully to him. “Let me guess. Catherine was your childhood best friend, who you always loved, but she picked your brother.” 

He doesn’t try denying it. He nods, “Yeah.”

Another hit, “fuck. Sounds terrible.” 

He doesn’t respond. So you keep going. “Have you tried moving on?” 

“No.” His response may come off as blunt, but the look he’s giving you tells you he’s being sarcastic. 

“Geez,” you lightly smack his chest, eyebrows furrowing further as he looks from your hand and back to your face. “Just saying, a way to get over someone is to get under another, right?”

He laughs. It’s small, but it’s a laugh. And you smile at the sight, “I just did that.” 

You laugh as well, nodding. “Yeah… guess so.” Playfully, you ask, “So, after sleeping with me, how much closer to getting over her are you?” 

He’s quiet for a moment, as if actually mulling it over. “I was five percent over her. I’m now seven.” 

You cackle, feeling a tad smug. “I bumped you up two whole numbers? That’s amazing. Maybe we should sleep together more. Get you to at least a solid seventy.”

A scoff, “You wish.” 

And a part of you does. 

—

A week and a half of pure relaxation comes. Craig scrounged up the money a day later, said his brothers were pissed they had to chip in, but they ended up understanding. It ticks you off that they believe their older brother can’t pull women. 

Geronimo was pissed for a minute, but he got past it. Still, it doesn’t stop him from texting you every hour of the day to pick up a shift; he even adds “please,” which is completely unlike him. You don’t bother responding, you leave his messages on read every time. 

And despite needing to rest, you decide now is the right time to go to the grocery store. Out of all the chores you have to do to function like a normal adult, this is the worst one. It drags on, and there are far too many people. 

You’re pushing the rickety cart around, with nothing but a bag of carrots and a bottle of ranch so far. The choices are overwhelming you. Why are there so many types of breads?

“Almost didn’t recognize you with all those clothes on.” The familiar voice of Craig fills your ears. You turn slowly, scared to make contact with him. But it’s too late. 

“Haha.” You voice dryly, fully turning to him. He’s right. This is the most clothing he’s ever seen on you. Usually, you’re in slutty skirts or thongs, matching bras that show too much. But that’s part of the gig, and you’re not going against what pays for your lifestyle. “What are you doing here? Let me guess, the sketchy guy at the deli is your plug?”

He snorts out a laugh, running his hand through his long, brown hair. It’s greasy, as usual when he’s been on binges. “No, my plug is a hot babe.”

You grimace, feeling gross at his words. “Ew. Also, this is really weird. Maybe we should stick to only seeing each other at the club.” You voice, hoping he understands. But he’s Craig. 

He blows a raspberry, waving his hand at you. “Nah. You’re like my sister.”

“Oh, god, ew no!” You laugh, nose scrunched up in disgust. “I’ve given you countless lap dances, Craig. That’s not fucking sisterly!”

He scoffs, placing his big hand on your hip and pulling you into him. “Fine, you’re like my sexy step-sister.”

“Ew, Craig!” You’re laughing, pushing at his chest when he leans down to press kisses to your neck. “That’s just as bad!”

“It ain’t.” He’s still trying as you giggle and try to push him away. 

“Why are there so many goddamn flavors of Oreos? Did the obesity rate in children go up while I was gone?” That voice gets you. It completely stops you in your step, letting Craig fall into you. You can’t see his face with Craig over you like this, and you’re glad for it. Only for a moment because you’re shoving him off of you, desperate to look at Pope. 

He’s holding four packs of Oreos when you turn to him, watching you with that same intense look. “P-Pope. Hi.” You greet, trying your best to act nonchalant. You feel like you’re failing, and the weird glance Craig gives you solidifies it. 

Instead of greeting you, he holds the packets of cookies out to you. “Which one do you think tastes best?” 

You’re taken aback by the question, glancing at the options. “Uhm… the original?” Your look turns from confusion to a grin at the soft, ghost of a pout that falls to his lips as he glances back to the cookies. 

He hums, “I thought so too. But she’s six. She must like these, right?” He holds out the rainbow cookies. “It’s Rainbow Sherbert.” 

You shrug softly, “don’t even know what sherbert is. Or why it’s a rainbow.” 

Craig places cash against Pope’s chest. “Just buy ‘em all. Gotta talk to her.” He tries to shoo his brother away from the two of you. 

You can tell by the look in Pope’s eyes that he doesn’t like the command. And the delusional part of you wants to believe it’s because he wants to talk to you and he doesn’t want to leave you alone with Craig. But it’s too wishful thinking for you. “Fine.” He mutters, pocketing the cash. 

But before he can leave, you jump up, pushing your cart. “I’m done too. I’ll go with you.” 

“But we need to t—“ 

“No time!” You interrupt Craig, content when Pope slows down enough for you to catch up to him. The taller guy is left behind as the two of you head to the registers. “So…” you clear your throat, unsure of what to say. You know you want to say something. You feel like a lost puppy following along after him. You know you look pathetic, or you at least feel it, yet you can’t let this go. 

“What else do six-year-olds like?” He asks. 

You’re not sure how to answer. You’re not around kids often. You’re not even sure if you like them, your opinion is yet to be formed. “Barbies?” 

His nose scrunches slightly as if the idea of buying a doll pains him. “She’s not white.” 

You let out a loud cackle, completely taken aback by his words. “What the fuck are you on about?”

He eyes you as if you're the out-of-pocket one here. “Barbies are notoriously white. Lena isn't white.” He adds. 

“Okay, woke king.” You joke. You nod at your cart, “Put the cookies in. I'm taking you to a world of diversity.”

He does as told and puts down the four packets of cookies. The cart is loud as you take him down to the toy aisle. There are far too many as you take him to the dolls specifically, rows upon rows of them, all in different shapes, colors, and sizes. You grab a specific doctor doll with brown skin and hand it over to him. 

“Heard Craig say something about Catherine being a ‘crazy Latina’.” You hum. “Pretty good influence to have a Latina doctor as a doll, right? Get Lena to reach for the stars.” You grab another with the same skin tone. “Or she’s an Olympic gold medalist. Is she sporty?”

You're still going through the dolls as he answers, “Don't know.” You glance at him at the somber tone of his voice. “Catherine doesn't like leaving her alone with me.”

You pause. “Okay… is there a reason for that?”

He scoffs. Offended. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Geez. Chill out. I'm not accusing you of anything. It's just a question.” you defend. 

“It sounded accusatory.” 

“Or maybe I’m just trying to get to know you.” You huff, irritated by the interaction. 

“Well, don’t.” 

“Well, I want to.” You argue. 

“Why? Because we had sex once?” His words make your blood run cold. 

The easy smile is easily replaced with a sneer. You’re hurt. You don’t have a right to be hurt, or that’s what you’re telling yourself. You don’t know him. You met him once, and you were paid to have sex with him that same day. And you feel foolish for thinking it could be otherwise. “Right. Bye. Have fun with the kid that’ll never be yours.” You don’t even bother taking the cart, grabbing your bag, and walking away from him. Limping away, actually, and it only makes you feel more pathetic. 

—

Work is still the same when you show up two weeks later—the same desperate men, the same skimpy outfits, and the same annoying boss. 

“I know, Gero—” but he keeps interrupting you, still going on his spiel about treating his patrons with respect. “Gero, stop. C’mon, let me talk!” But he won’t stop. 

“You have enraptured one of my customers!” His Russian accent is thick, and he is always trying to use words that he has no inkling of what they mean. 

“I’ve done what?” 

“A customer is mad at you!” He snarls. “Old man comes here and asks of you day to day!” 

You huff, shaking your head at the man. “Old man? Gero, you’re not making any sense!” 

“He old! He mad! He looks like—“ and he tries to mock what you assume is how the old and angry man looks. But he looks constipated. “He angry!” 

“I didn’t anger anyone! Gero, stop overreacting!” 

“You are fired!” 

You roll your eyes, finishing up your lipstick when you turn back to the mirror. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, fat man.”

“You fired!” You get up from your chair, ignoring him as he walks after you. Your ankle is feeling much better after the two-week break, so you’re no longer serving but back on the stage. And today is the most embarrassing day of all. You and the girls here begged and begged him not to do this. He didn’t listen, and now you’re all dressed up. It’s costume night. There are white mouse ears on your head, a white two-piece that leaves very little to the imagination, and giant white pumps. Definitely the worst you’ve ever worn. “Are you listen to me?” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” You huff as you leave the employees’ section and enter the main venue. Before going on stage, you have to walk around and speak to the men, find one to fixate on and get them to toss all their savings your way. It’s just the way the club runs. 

Suddenly, his big and sweaty hand is stopping you in your step. “Angry man.” He nods to the entrance of the club. 

Your eyebrows are furrowed in both confusion and annoyance as he pushes you behind him as if we were to protect you from said angry man. “Gero, your hands are so fucking swe—“ you freeze at the sight of Pope with his hands in his pocket and searching the club. “That’s the angry man?” 

Geronimo nods, “yes, I tell you! You do not listen to me, stupid girl!” 

You pull your arm from Geronimo’s, eyes on Pope still. You can’t tear your eyes from him. Even in his stiff button-up and jeans that are too tight, he looks good, too damn good. “It’s fine. He’s not angry. He just looks like he is. I’ll talk to him. Make sure you don’t have any angry customers.” 

You don’t get to hear what it is that Geronimo says because you’re walking away from him and towards Pope. You’re a few feet away from him when his eyes finally find you. And you see the amusement flashing in him as he eyes your clothing. “Shut up.” You huff, crossing your arms. “Why have you been asking for me?” 

But he doesn’t answer, “what the fuck are you wearing?” 

You hope your glare is lethal as you direct it to him, “I’m a mouse.” 

“I can see that.” He snorts an awkward laugh. “Why?” 

You motion to the room, where all your coworkers are dressed in different costumes. Slutty versions, of course. “It’s costume night.” 

“And you decided on a mouse.” 

“Was gonna be a button because I’m cute as a button but I couldn’t find a costume. Cute as a mouse is just as g— no, what are you doing here?” 

His lips pursed, hands still in his front pockets. “I’m here so you can apologize to me.” 

Your scoff is loud and completely bewildered, a few eyes flickering to you both. “Excuse me? I have nothing to apologize for, you short excuse of a man.” 

He laughs, loud, shoulders shaking. “Short? That’s the best you can come up with?” But he doesn’t hear your rebuttal. “You have rooms here, right?” 

You scoff, “they’re booked up.” 

And just your luck, Geronimo is walking over to the two of you. It’s clear he’s the boss, with the hideous suit he’s wearing paired with the most obnoxious gold jewelry. “How much is a room?” 

Geronimo glances at you, sees your stiff stance and you’re not sure if he’s trying to make more money or he’s genuinely worried for you but he speaks, “a grand an hour.” You almost hum in content at the high price. Usually, a room is a few hundred for the night, and the renter must include a tip to the girls. Never a grand. 

He’s handing a card over to Geronimo. And the older and fat man betrays your trust as he mutters, “room five. Is all yours, lovely couple.” 

You’re sitting stiff at the edge of the couch in the small room. He’s sitting on the other edge, watching you. But you’re not looking in his direction. You can’t. Not when you can see the hard-on at the crotch of his jeans. It’s been quiet and awkward for the past ten minutes, neither of you saying a single word. 

Your foot is impatiently bouncing and before you know it, he’s scooting up to you, placing his hand on your knee. “Relax.” 

You pull away from him with humph, “no. You relax.” You hiss back like a petulant child.

“I am relaxed.” He hums for a moment. “I spoke to my brother.” 

A glance at him and quickly away because you’ll give in if you keep your eyes on him. “I don’t care.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “I told him about you. And how I can’t get you out of my head.” And now, your head is spinning. But you still refuse to speak or look at him. “He said it’s because you were my first after three years. That I was too pent up.” 

You can’t say anything. You can’t look at him. 

So he keeps going, “I tried. With another woman. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. You were all I was thinking about.” 

You scoff, his words infuriating you. You don’t think it’s romantic. You can’t even believe he’s telling you he’s been with another woman in just those two weeks. “You were thinking about me pretending to be Catherine, so, really, you were thinking about Catherine.” 

His hand shakily takes a hold of your chin. “Yeah… maybe. I asked her to roleplay too. It wasn’t the same.” And this makes you pause. Really, really pause. 

He does only want you so you can keep pretending to be Catherine, the woman he truly wants and loves. Not because it’s you. Not because you’ve made him laugh, not because you’ve listened to him, not because it was his first time in a long while, and not because you helped him. None of that matters to him. 

“So… you want me to keep pretending to be Catherine and have sex with you?” You ask shakily as his lips ghost yours. 

He nods, nose nudging against yours. “Yes.” His breath is warm as it dances against you. “That’s what I want.” 

You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to bash his fucking head in. 

You don’t want to let this go. Because for the first time in your long, pathetic, and miserable goddamn life, you feel something. Even if it’s fleeting. Even if it’s only in your head, it’s yours.

You press your lips to his, letting his hand run into your head of hair. After a moment, you pull from him and nod. “Okay...” 

You get used to living in sadness. After years of torment and abuse, it’s hard not to live in it. You want self-respect. You want to look at yourself in the mirror and decide that today is the day you finally respect yourself. 

But it’s hard when you’re letting Pope moan Catherine in your ear as he fucks you in the rented room.