@likedovesinthewnd reads

it was the same cycle of little things here and there that had you realize sammy was unaware of how good to you he was. it ranged from sending him a dirty text or picture while he was gone only to be met with a response like "you know you sent that to me right?", to trying to get him undressed and in your pants the second he got home just for him to scrunch his face up and say "you don't have to do that for me."

some nights, you even thought you were the problem. because every time you tried to tell him you felt needy for him, he always double and triple checked if you actually wanted to. your confusion came to a head after dinner on his couch one night.

you'd wanted him inside you since the second he got home, but as always, he looked at you like you had four heads when you tried to make a move. so you waited until after dinner and halfway through the movie he let you pick out. you lean over to start kissing his neck and you hear his breath hitch when you sling a leg over his waist to straddle him. "missed you today sammy.." you hum as you reach his lips while trailing your fingers down his soft belly to his pants zipper.

"are you sure you want to?" is what he murmurs when you tug at the metal tab. you huff, pulling back to look at him. "do you.. not want me or something sammy?" his hazel eyes look cartoonish the way they bulge outwards. "w-what? of course i do."

you play with the buttons on his shirt as you whisper, "then why are you always acting surprised when i want to be with you?" his pudgy cheeks redden instantly, a hand carding through his curls as he looks anywhere but you. "cause it is surprising for me. i guess." when your face scrunches in confusion he rubs the back of his neck as he continues. "my ex she uh, she cheated on me. and i- i think its because of y'know.. her not being satisfied with my… abilities."

the frown takes over your face instantly, heart sinking at the fact that his insecurities come from a woman who wasn't even faithful to him. you think for a second, the last few months becoming clearer in your mind. "sammy… you know that i think you're really good at sex right?"

"baby, you don't have'ta lie-" "i'm not lying! i swear, sammy. you're the only guy who's ever made me finish." he blinks up at you, hands tightening on your hips as you rock once on top of him. "i- i am?" you nod sweetly, not being able to help grinding down on him as you feel him fully harden beneath you. a small groan slips out of both of you at the movement.

"mhm.. you make me feel so good sammy. only you" his lips part at your admission before he cradles your face in his chubby hands to pull you down to kiss him. by the time your tongue slips into his mouth you're desperate, rocking back and forth and whining on top of him.

a surge of confidence rushes though your boyfriend as he whispers against your lips, "w-want me to make you feel good right now?" you don't try to fight of your soft moan of anticipation, which causes sammy to buck his hips up involuntarily as you nod.

you both quickly stand up and all clothes are discarded in between needy kisses before settling back onto the couch. you stop him before he can roll you into missionary, his go to position, and you pray that you've reassured him enough that he'll let you try something new.

you scoot around until you're hovering upright on his lap as you face away from him. you glance over your shoulder and bite your lip when you see his eyes glued to your ass. "this okay sammy?" his enthusiastic nod has you giggle, which is quickly cut off by a moan as he guides you to sink down onto his cock.

"jesus- fuck- you feel so good like this baby." sammy babbles already as you start to ride him in reverse cowgirl for the first time. you're crying out his name as he stretches you until you feel him in your throat.

even though you're not face to face, the new position lets you lean back against his soft chest and easily turn your head to kiss him. it's a sloppy kiss that has your hips faltering when he starts grinding upwards to meet each of your bounces. "oh god- so big sammy ooohh god-!" you yelp when he reaches around to rub your clit just how you taught him to, which you reward with a "just like that- mhm-! so good sammy."

sammy starts to whine into your mouth when you clench around him. "tell me that you're making me feel good. say it sammy." he hesitates for a second before you bend down and gently cup his balls that sit just below where he's touching your clit. he chokes out a groan before nodding in agreement. "im makin' you feel good baby- makin' you f-feel so good."

you're tugging on his bottom lip with your teeth as you whimper, "so good sammy- best anyone's ever made me feel." he speeds up his thrusts, his thick tip hitting the sensitive spot inside you relentlessly. he breaks your kiss to stick two of the chubby fingers from his free hand in your mouth, humming in satisfaction at you when you suck fervently and look back at him with glossy eyes.

he releases them with a *pop* and brings them to pinch one of your nipples and your orgasm approaches you like the inevitable drop off at a cliff. you feel him puff out his chest a bit against your back. and when he grunts, "yea.. yea- i'm the best you've ever had- hnng - f-fucking this tight pussy better than anyone else has, r-right?", you're a goner. you spasm around him, reaching forward to grab at his knees when your eyes squeeze shut in pleasure and you free fall with a shaky moan.

and sammy's right behind you, muttering a few "so good baby, fuck- best ive ever felt." and "gonna fill you up jus how you like it- gonna be so full a'me. only me." the next second your insides are flooded with warmth as he whimpers your name. you shiver at his come filling you to the brim, sending lovely aftershock waves through your body.

He had hidden in his room the second he could walk across the yard without sporting a tent in his jeans.

Nobody really cared enough to notice anyway. Except maybe Deran, who had laughed at him wrapped in a towel around his lap as he made his way inside. And Craig, who’d caught his eye from across the yard with that huge shit-eating grin splitting across his face. Pope had practically bolted into the house without another glance at either of his brothers.

He wasn’t sure where you’d gone either—probably back into the party with Nicky trailing behind again, but he kept wondering if your lips still tingled too. If you kept touching them absentmindedly the way he did now.

He'd stayed in his room, just sitting, listening, waiting.

He sat and watched the daylight crawl slowly across his walls for hours, the room now dark except for the weak yellow spill from the outside lights coming through his curtains. The party finally began to thin out over the last few hours, the house settling into quiet little by little. Pope sat stock still on the edge of his bed in his same jeans, same shirt, his shoes toed off by the door.

Every so often his tongue would drag unconsciously across his bottom lip, catching phantom traces of you. If he closed his eyes and let his mind wander a bit, he could still feel the warmth of your mouth against his. And that little gasp you'd made when he'd kissed you back…

His cock had finally gone down enough to stop hurting sometime in the last hour, but not fully. The denim of his jeans still stiff and awkward over it, and twice he’d thought about jerking off just to make the ache stop, but the idea died immediately every time he looked at the bedroom door. Smurf never allowed locks in the house. What in the world would you have to hide from your mother? she'd said once. I've seen it all anyway, baby.

So Pope sat there instead with his spine tight and his jaw tighter, listening to the sounds drifting through the house beyond his walls.

At one point, sometime around one or maybe two, when he thought it was safest, he’d finally gotten up for a glass of water because the house had gone so quiet he figured everybody must’ve finally left. But the second he stepped into the kitchen and looked out through the windows over the sink, he saw you and J in the pool together in the empty backyard.

Blue underwater lights rippled over you while you splashed at each other playfully in the deep end, your body only a mirage beneath the water from where he stood. Pope had frozen there with the cabinet door still hanging open beside him, unable to move while he watched you float backward through the water giggling, hair pulled up on top of your head, J swimming after you through the glowing light.

Pope had returned to his room and sat for a while longer, though he wasn't sure how long anymore. Only that his thoughts had gone from a little ashamed of how hard you'd made him to downright possessive and angry and wishing he could just be normal, normal enough to stay out at the party all day, to find you again, to kiss you again. To make you explain to him what you'd meant.

At some point—he couldn't tell if it was minutes or hours later—he heard the door to his bedroom open.

He first thought maybe it was one of his brothers coming to say goodbye, though he knew better. They never did that anymore. Then his stomach tightened at the thought it might be Smurf checking in on him, asking him why he'd disappeared all night, why he looked so wound up.

But then he heard your voice, and his neck turned so fast he nearly put a crick in it.

“Hi,” you whispered.

His eyes were on you in an instant, standing there in the doorway with the warm light from the hallway turning most of you into silhouette, but he could still make out the tiny strings of your bikini at your hips. Your denim shorts were gone.

Pope opened his mouth automatically, but nothing came out at first. His throat felt tight in a way he didn’t know how to fix, so he cleared it roughly before managing a quiet: “Hi.”

“Can…I come in?”

He nodded once and immediately looked away from you again, eyes fixing hard on the curtains over his window. You sighed softly and stepped further into the room.

“J just, um, went to bed,” you explained. You didn't sit down or make yourself comfortable. It felt like neither of you really knew what to do or why you'd come in here at all. Pope could smell the chlorine follow you inside, the smell of your shampoo stronger now that your hair had gotten damp.

"Listen—Andrew…" you said with a sigh, clutching your fists a little tighter.

"It's fine," he said softly. "You don't have to explain."

"I—" you started, but then paused. Maybe because you hadn't expected him to say anything at all. But the blood was pounding through his veins now, his head going in circles. So many times today he wished he could snatch you from Asshole's arm, to tell J to go fuck off to one of his other girlfriend's houses. But he couldn't. When he'd open his mouth, he knew it would only scare you. He scared everyone, after all. And he was too afraid of what you'd do if you realized just how violent his most inner thoughts really were. He wasn't even sure why he had them, why he thought that way. Maybe it was the only way people actually listened to him was when he got angry. A ticking time bomb, his brothers called him.

"I want to explain, though." you said. "Is…that okay?"

Pope still couldn't really look at you again, but your question caught him off guard all the same. He spared a glance up, and immediately regretted it. He could just make out the reflection of the light in your eyes, the pearl drops of water from your hair dripping onto your shoulders.

He nodded, hands tightly strained on his knees.

Slowly, you sat beside him then, and took a deep breath.

"I… should've told you the truth sooner." you said gently. "And…I know I shouldn't have pounced on you like that."

He could feel the warmth of the long day of sun on you, so close his body as you turned towards him. He didn’t even care if whether or not your bathing suit was wet on his bed. Though he did wish wished he could reach over and find out for himself. The little ties were so close, just barely up against his jeans now. Normally that sort of thing would wring his mind to no end— the wet spot on the comforter, the sheets underneath, whether it would soak through and make him feel it later when he tried to sleep—but right then all he could think about was the bare line of your thigh beside his and the small drop of water sliding from your hair to your shoulder and down your arm.

You sighed when he didn't answer. "Andrew? Are we… okay?"

He nodded just once, almost more of a tick than a real answer. Why did he have to be like this? He had no clue what to say, what to do to make it right. And as his hands were still clenched on the planes of his thighs, rubbing just a little back and forth over his knees, he thought there had to be were words somewhere. He knew there were. Other people found them and put them in the right order and made girls want to be beside them instead of having to sit through this awful silence.

Your hand came down onto his arm. Oh, you were so cold. Your fingers frozen from the pool water, but somehow still warm where you sat next to him, the touch spreading under his skin until his whole arm felt too aware of itself.

"Did I make you uncomfortable today?" you murmured, "If I did...I'm sorry."

He shook his head quickly before squeezing his eyes shut. No—no, no no. That made it so much worse. That you thought it was you who did something wrong. That you were apologizing to him. When it had been him hiding in his room like a dog with his tail between his legs, his dick in his pants going between strained and half hard over a kiss.

"No." he finally said. And then, pulling all the courage of a man who had robbed banks, who had fought for less and killed for far higher stakes than a kiss, he looked up into your eyes.

"I've wanted…that…too."

You blinked at him, your mouth parting only a little. He wanted to bring his hand up to your face, or to where the shine of a water droplet slid down your neck. The room seemed smaller now, now that he'd said the thing that had kept him locked in his own head this whole time.

"You… want…?"

"Yes." he whispered immediately. Instead of reaching up like he'd wished, he settled for something more gentle, easier. He had done the thing, he had jumped off the cliff, waiting to hit the water below. Whether he'd live through the fall or not, he'd done it. He brought his hand up to cover yours where it laid on the crook of his elbow. So careful at first, unsure if he was allowed to. But his fingers curled more firmly around yours as your eyes softened up at him.

"Show me." you whispered.

Pope's mouth parted under your changed gaze, the soft look in your eyes shifting in the dim bedroom light. He noticed how dark they'd gotten, your pupils taking up that pretty color of your eyes. They'd looked so nice in the sunlight today too, but he thought he maybe liked them like this best—reflecting the weak light from the hallway, glazed as you watched him lick his lips.

His hand moved up your arm, achingly slow—still unsure, still wanting to do the right thing. Your skin was so fucking soft, warm from the heat of the day, cold where the water still pearled on your skin. His thumb caught on one of those little drops and dragged it up the inside of your arm, spreading it thin until it disappeared under his touch.

He leaned in.

His breath felt so heavy coming out of him, even as shallow as it was. His chest hurt with the effort of keeping himself still when every part of him wanted to grab, pull, take. That was the part he didn’t trust. He could feel it sitting under his skin, mean and hungry and too big for the quiet room.

You were so close again, so close he could feel the breath of your shaky lungs on his face. And then you were holding it. A small, cute little gasp before he was brushing his lips against yours.

He pulled back just as quickly as he touched you, but it was no matter. You were following him, not letting him run away or listen to the fears that screamed in his head to run and hide like always. How could a man rob banks and commit the worst crimes of humanity and not be able to fucking kiss a woman?

It all happened very fast.

One moment, it was just him, brushing his lips against yours, pulling away, uncertain, and now—now you were slotting your mouth with his, warm and wet and so eager that the sound he made got caught between you. His hand tightened once on your arm before he made himself loosen it again. Careful. Careful. He had to be careful with you.

He let you push him back, your still partially wet body climbing over him, knobby knees bracketing his wide thighs, your hands pushing into his hair. The mattress dipped under the shift of your weight, springs giving a dull little creak beneath you both. Your damp skin pressed through his shirt, cold at first, then warm, then all he could think about.

"You're so—" he whispered, "—cold—"

He wasn't sure if that was the right word—your skin was actually scorching from the sunshine all day, but your hair that dripped down, your hands that carded through his hair—they were so cold it made his skin rise in goosebumps. Little beads of water fell from the ends of your hair and landed on his neck, his collar, the hollow beneath his throat. His whole body kept reacting before his head could catch up.

"Warm me up then, Andy," you murmured before diving back into him.

He let his hands finally reach out to rest gently on your hips. He wanted to be so, so careful. Didn't want to spook you. Didn't want to move too fast and see your eyes change. But there was something about you today—something new, something changed. A bravery he'd never seen in you before, not like this, not turned directly on him. Asking for exactly what you wanted.

"Touch me," you said, one of your hands coming from his hair, down to his hand where it gently laid over your hip. You brought his hand closer, sliding it over the skin of your waist, up to your ribcage.

His palm followed because you told it to. Because your hand was over his. Because you were breathing harder now and looking down at him like he wasn’t too much, like you wanted every awful thing he was trying to keep leashed. His thumb brushed the curve beneath your breast, and he stopped there, frozen, throat working around nothing.

You sat back then on your haunches, onto his aching denim covered length that strained and throbbed beneath this layers. He was panting harder than ever before, just staring at you, the silhouette of the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. You were so fucking pretty, that was the word. Pretty eyes, pretty hair, pretty as your hands folded behind you, then lifted to the strings at your neck, untying it all, letting it fall onto his chest with a wet slap.

Oh.

Oh, you were so pretty.

"You think so?" you giggled.

Fuck, did he say that out loud?

"Yeah," he said hoarsely.

The bikini top sat bunched against his shirt, damp, useless, but he couldn’t stop looking at you. At the way your skin rose in goosebumps too. Your chest rising with every breath while you waited for him to do something. His hands flexed.

"Want you to touch me, Andy, please."

He would never make you beg, not tonight. You'd never have to beg him to do anything. It was he—he who should be begging you, thanking you. He brought his hands up again, only skating them both over your ribcage, careful even now, careful enough to make his arms tremble. His palms spread over your sides, thumbs moving just beneath the soft weight of your breasts.

Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling, a gasp of breath inhaled from your lips.

He didn't touch you fully yet, his hands flattened just under your breasts, cupping the weight of them from beneath—perfect. You weren't just pretty—you were—

"Perfect," he said, sitting up a little, pushing his hands up under your breasts to squish them together before putting his mouth over your nipple.

The sweetest little moan escaped your lips as he latched onto you.

"Oh, fuck—" you whimpered, your hands going immediately back to his hair.

He moaned louder into you, the sound coming up rough from his chest before he could stop it. Your skin tasted like chlorine, that same smell of apple shampoo and sunscreen still caught on you, stronger where his nose brushed against the curve of your breast. Your nipple was cold to his touch, a little damp from your swimsuit, but it warmed under the wet muscle of his tongue as he flattened it over you, brushing up and around before nipping lightly.

Your hips jerked at that.

He kissed across your chest, down the valley between your breasts, and then did the same to the other. He noticed everything—the hitching of your breath, how you moaned louder when he bit down on the peaked nub of your nipple. He felt how you were starting to grind down on his aching cock, the seam of his jeans catching hard against him each time your hips moved.

"Feels so good, Andy, oh god—" you moaned, throwing your head back as you pushed your hips harder onto him.

"You're—" he breathed between moans ,"you're so good, baby."

"Yeah?" you said, a breathless little smile pulling your lips wide as you looked down at him. He was looking up at you—and he knew how it looked. His eyes wide, glossy, like you hung the fucking moon for him. Your mouth opened, the smile wiped off your lips when he took the other breast in his big hand—big enough to squeeze and cup and pinch your cute little peaked nipple hard.

"Oh, oh Pope—Andy, Andy—I might—I think I might come like this—please don't stop. You're so good, Andy, you're doing so good—please don't stop—"

He wouldn't fucking dare.

He moaned at the praise, eyes fluttering shut, only to open again because he wanted to watch. Needed to watch. He wanted to see every change in your eyes, the rising heat in your cheeks, the way your lips parted around his name. Praise did something ugly and sweet to him. It went straight through his ribs and down to his dick, making it strain against his pants even worse.

Good. You thought he was good. And you were saying it like you meant it, like there wasn’t a single part of him you needed to flinch from.

Both of your hands were in his hair now, nails scraping his scalp. He could swear he was purring like a kitten in your hold, his own hips twitching up into the crook of your lap. If he wasn't careful, he could come like this too, untouched except for the wet heat of your body grinding over his jeans and your voice breaking right above him.

You were chanting his name, music to his fucking ears. A symphony only for him—Andy, Andy, Andy—

And then you stopped, your mouth open in a sweet 'o', your eyes wide, head fallen back on your neck as you shook. Your body stayed locked up, and he could swear he felt the pulsing of your cunt over his throbbing length, even through his pants.

He watched, enamored as realization passed through him. He'd done that to you. Him. With his mouth, his hands, his name on your tongue.

He kept kissing your breasts, letting his tongue lave over you hungrily, dragging up and down over your nipple while your body trembled through the last of the pleasure. Finally, your body fell boneless, collapsing over him, your head falling into his shoulder.

"That's it, that's it. S'okay," he said, letting his lips skate over your shoulder. His voice sounded wrecked to his own ears, lower than usual, hoarser. "Come here, lay down."

He turned you over now, letting you lay in his perfectly made bed.

"Don't wanna—" you sighed, letting your arms stretch out, the high of ecstasy making your muscles ache—"don't wanna get your bed wet, Andy."

His stomach did another flutter at the nickname. Even if you'd said it a hundred times, he'd never get used to it. It made him smile.

"Okay if I take these off then?" he whispered, his fingers going to the strings of your bottoms. You hooked your top teeth over your bottom lip, the sweetest little vixen he'd ever seen in his life, and nodded.

"What a sweet girl—" he murmured.

There was something about this—something that had just changed his mind about everything he thought that was true.

Because before, he thought maybe you were only choosing him out by the pool because he was the scariest of the Codys. He was an easy tactic to scare of that Asshole. He was there, sitting practically alone if it weren't for Craig. Maybe you knew he would never say no to you. Maybe he was the idiot for thinking you could feel something else.

But now…

Now, the way you were moaning his name, the way you'd ground down on him like that in his lap, the way you kissed him harder at the smallest show of equal want… Pope Cody had realized something.

You wanted him.

And you wanted him badly.

Maybe just as much as he wanted you. Maybe more.

It changed his chemical makeup. Just within the last ten minutes, he felt himself go from Andrew, shy and awkward, to Andy—yours. No one ever dared to call him that anyway. He was Pope to his family—fucked up, violent, a ticking time bomb. He was Andrew to his mother, who only saw him as a dog to sic on people to get her way.

But you saw Andy. The man who would do anything for you. The man who would be the best version of himself for you. He would take care of you like you deserved, would do it right. Right now, like this, but in other ways too. He would learn your favorite way to eat a sandwich. He would learn your coffee order. He would find out if you liked chocolate or sour candy more. It made his tongue tingle just thinking about it.

You squirmed in his hold as he pulled the little bikini strings, slowly, unwrapping his own present, his own skin on fire as he looked at the cute trim of fuzz over your pussy. His mouth began to water in earnest now, and before he could think of throwing the bikini from his bedsheets, he was diving in.

"Oh!" you squealed when his hot tongue dove between your legs. You let them fall open, hand going back to his curls.

His hands pushed your thighs open, spreading you wider over his perfectly made bed, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin there to hold you open for his mouth. You were so warm here, slick and swollen from grinding on him, and the first taste of you made his hips twitch against nothing.

He licked and ate at your pussy—tongue flat, collecting your sweet arousal on his taste buds. You tasted like honey and musk and something so you it made him moan. His eyes threatened to roll to the back of his skull as he situated himself in the cradle of your hips, your knees getting thrown over his shoulders.

"Oh, Andy—" you moaned, arching your back, "I'm already so—so close, please, oh fuck that feels so good—"

He brought two fingers up then to prod at your entrance, watching the way you clenched before he even pushed in. He could feel you already pulsing against his mouth at how he licked at you, suckling gently on your swollen clit before licking up from your entrance again. His two fingers gently slid only to the first knuckle before he felt your hand pushing his head back.

"Too—too much!" you said, craning your neck to look down at him, a frown on your pretty, fucked out face.

His whole body went still, mouth hovering wet against you even as he panted, fingers barely inside. For one sharp second, panic punched through his ribs so hard he could barely breathe. Too much. The thing he’d been trying not to be all night—all day—the thing he was always trying not to be. His fingers flexe before he forced them still, his eyes lifting to yours from between your thighs.

"I have to—I have to baby," he panted.

"Nooooo—they're too thick, Andy."

"How'm I supposed to fit my cock in here if you can't take my fingers?"

Your head fell back into the pillows as you heaved in deep breaths, whining. "Oh, godddddd—"

The sound of your sweet little cries, the way your body squirmed around the little bit of his fingers you’d taken— it made his stomach go tight. His cock ached so bad it made him dizzy, trapped against the mattress and his jeans, but he kept himself still instead of moving. He could wait. He would wait. He would make himself wait if it killed him.

"Slow, I promise I'll be slow—I'll be good," he whispered.

"You are good, Andy, you are."

He hummed at that, kissing back up your slit, the glistening mess you'd made now sopping, collecting over his lips. His brain felt like it was short circuiting again and again as you said it—that you thought he was good. Every time it landed somewhere in his chest, somewhere deep and locked away.

He licked the beads of your arousal off his top lip before diving back in, suckling again at your clit before pushing his fingers in to the second knuckle.

You gasped, hands tightening in his hair.

"Slow, slow," he whispered as he flattened his tongue. You nodded.

He watched your face the whole time, every little pinch between your brows, every parting of your lips, every pull of breath into your chest.

"Gotta get her ready is all," he said, then pushed both fingers in until the palm of his hand was cupping your pussy.

You wailed at the feeling, hips jutting, fingers scraping his scalp raw.

"Good girl, good girl, sweet girl," he whispered against your skin.

He gently began laving his tongue gently over your pussy again, and could feel your velvet walls contracting around his fingers. The tight heat of you made a terrible sound tear out of him, despite how hard he tried to contain it, and his mouth worked harder while his fingers stayed buried, letting you adjust around them. He curled them only a little, careful, watching your stomach tense and your thighs pull tighter around his shoulders.

"More," you whispered, and he felt your muscles relax a little.

"More?"

You nodded, looking back down at him. "Feels so gooooood…"

He smiled up at you, bringing his mouth down to eat at you hungrily, a yearning in his mouth to give it as good as you'd ever had, better than you'd ever had. If he did, if he was good to you, maybe you'd never leave him, you'd want to stay—stay just with him. It was a stupid thought. A desperate one.

"I'm gonna—please don't stop Andy, fuck me with your thick fingers, pleaseeee— I'm gonna—oh!"

He didn't stop. He wouldn't have even if the house burned down around him.

He was pushing his fingers deeper inside, crooking them as he pulled back, pistoning them into your walls as he pushed his tongue up against your clit faster and faster, until your body shook again, locking up, your thighs clamping down around his ears. He couldn't hear your moans as you mewled, too muffled behind the press of your skin around him. But he watched you—watched your jaw unhinge from your skull, watched your cute breasts rise and fall rapidly. Until you loosened your hold on him, and let your knees fall bonelessly to the mattress again.

He was climbing over you, not wasting a moment. He kissed you again, your breathless moans still filling his ears, louder now, as he let you taste yourself on his tongue. Your delicate hands went to his pants, your tongue dipping out to lick the droplets of your arousal from his face, down his chin, kitten licking at the mess you'd made of him.

"How are you? Are you okay?" he asked.

You giggled a little, "Yes, Andy, I'm more than okay."

"Okay, okay, good." he smiled a little shyly.

Your fingers dragged over his belt, his waistband, the front of his jeans where he was still so hard it hurt. His stomach jumped under the brush of your knuckles.

"Would be better if you could help me get you out of your clothes."

He smiled at that too, quickly disrobing himself of his shirt. Your hands were all over him in an instant—he nearly moaned just at the feeling of your fingertips skating over the skin of his chest, down to his belly, over his hips and around his back. You dug your nails in a little as you dragged them down his shoulders.

His skin lit up everywhere you touched—like you were lighting a fire against his body. Over the lines of his back, the scars at his arms. His head dropped for a moment because of how embarrassingly good it all felt. He hadn't been touched like this…

"Taking too long," you whispered in his ear when he began unzipping his pants.

He couldn't help it—he was smiling so fucking much around you. How could this have happened today? One second he was pissed off about some Asshole with his arm around you and now…now you were under him, in his bed. Pope Cody's bed.

"Sorry—I'm sorry—" he breathed. You kissed his jaw, his chin, up to his lips again, and finally, finally he was free of all the confines that kept you from touching him. As he laid over you, you hooked your legs around his hips, hot skin to hot skin, his arms coiled around you tightly. The first press of his bare cock against your stomach made him grunt into your mouth when your lips pressed against his again.

You pulled him in tighter, your lips going back to his ear.

"Are you going to fuck me now, Andy?"

"If—if you want." he said, gasping into your neck when your hand moved down between the two of you, stroking his cock. He groaned into your skin, your hand so fucking soft and delicate and perfect. Your thumb stroked over the velvet head of his length, making him gasp and shake above you. His hips twitched forward before he could stop them, the movement small and helpless into your palm.

"So sensitive…" you whispered.

He was a mess. He knew he could've pretended to be cool, pretended it didn't affect him—the simplest touch from you. But fuck, this was all he'd ever wanted. He was moaning into your neck as you let your hand drift up and down his cock that throbbed for you, a dribbling of precome dripping down onto the softness of your belly. His hips jutted of their own accord—back and forth in your hand, just fucking your grip.

"Want you inside me, Andy, please…" you said, and then, pulling your face away, looked up at him. The hand that wasn't holding his cock came up to his face, gripping his cheek so he'd look at you. "If you want. If it's okay."

"I do—" he answered quickly, "I want you so badly. It's all…all I've ever…" he hiccuped as you pulled him closer.

"I've only ever wanted you too, Andy. What took us so long, huh?" you smiled, then reached up as you kissed him gently on the lips.

He wanted to answer you, and say—I don't know, I'm sorry, I was a coward—but he couldn't because you'd pulled his length closer so it was slipping between your lower lips, pressing into the thick honey you'd made for him. His stomach tightened at the feeling, at the way your body opened under him, wet and warm and waiting.

Both of you gasped, the air leaving one mouth to the other. So close. So intimate. Your hand adjusted him against your wanting entrance, sweet little thing you were, lining him up while your legs tightened around his hips.

Pope held himself there for one shaking second, the head of his cock just pressing into you, his forehead nearly touching yours.

He forced his eyes to stay open.

To watch.

To watch your eyes shut, then shoot open like you'd thought the same thing. Like you wanted to watch him too. He wanted to see your mouth open wider, to watch your lungs shudder, the way the pretty color of your irises had completely disappeared. He pushed slow, so slow his arms started to shake from holding himself back, every inch of you tight and hot around him. His breath kept catching in haggard pulls, mouth hovering open around yours. When you'd exhale, he'd inhale. When he'd exhale, you'd inhale. Breathing each others breaths.

He had the most violent thoughts all of the sudden.

Not of you—you, sweet, beautiful thing.

But of today. What it would've been like if that Asshole had gotten his way. If he'd thought he could take you out on a date and fucked you in the back of his parents car.

Or, what if Pope had had his way after all? What if he could've stood up in front of everyone, taken the kid by the head and thrown him into the pool? What if he'd jumped in after him, held him down at the bottom until the bubbles stopped coming up? What if he'd listened to those thoughts and found out what his skull sounded like against the cement of the backyard?

"Andy?" you whispered, looking up at him, "Are you okay?"

He was still inside you. Buried all the way now, his balls up against your skin, your thighs hooked around his hips, your cunt clenching around him in little pulses that made his stomach twist. Belly to belly, limbs tangled, your breath shorter, and all he could see for one hot second was Asshole’s face going under the blue pool light.

"I wanted to kill him," Pope whispered.

Your cunt tightened down around him. Pope’s eyes snapped back to yours. He was here, he was with you again.

"Who, Andy?"

"That asshole—I wanted to—I wanted to kill him for making you upset."

"Derek?"

Pope nearly snarled hearing his name on your lips. He didn't have a name. He was Asshole. He was a pair of hands where they didn’t belong. He was a mouth too close to your ear. He was a body Pope should’ve buried along PCH tonight.

Asshole deserved a bullet in the head.

But Pope had to be very careful—he didn't want to scare you. This night was too perfect, he wouldn't ruin it. He couldn't. You were too perfect.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—" he began to say, wanting to lean into you, to bury his face against your neck and swallow the rest of it down, forgetting he'd ever said it.

You shook your head, your hands going to his hair. "Say it again. Tell me… tell me what you would've…"

Pope tilted his head at you.

"What I would've what?"

"Done," you finished. "To Derek."

"Stop saying his name." he growled.

You gasped, Pope not realizing he'd jerked his hips so his cock drove deeper into you.

Your eyes went wide, your mouth parting, and he felt the way your body grabbed tightened, your cunt pulling him in like the growl had gone straight between your legs. His jaw flexed as he held himself back and looked down at you, trying to piece together what was happening. Something in his face must have changed because your fingers tightened in his curls.

"Yes, Andy, okay, I'm sorry," you said obediently. "I only wanted… tell me what you wanted to do today to him."

He leaned down, lips heaving, breathing in your air.

Oh.

You were just as fucked up as he was, weren't you?

Because why else did your pussy tighten up on him just now? Why else were your nails digging into his neck, urging him on? Why else did you look up at him with those glassy eyes, asking for the worst parts of his head like you wanted him to hand them to you one by one?

"I wanted to fucking kill him." Pope said again, very, very carefully.

He pulled his cock out only a little, and your hands scrambled for purchase on him, pawing at him to keep him close, your ankles locked around his back.

"I wanted to bash his head in," Pope said, teeth bared.

You nodded. "Yes, yes, tell me more."

He was breathing heavily, unable to believe his ears. Unable to believe you were still under him, legs spreading wider, still looking at him like this was not the thing that would finally send you running. If anything, it had you pulling him closer.

"He's never going to touch you."

You shook your head, mouth opening, head tilting back, eyes hooded. "Never, Andy. Never."

"You're mine, mine, mine—" he said, pushing his cock back inside slow enough to make you feel every inch. In turn, he let himself slide against your walls, tuned to just how badly your pussy was sucking him in, clenching down around him at his words.

His brain had started to go fuzzy as he leaned into you, his arms circling your body, holding as tightly as you held him. The bed creaked when he began to move in earnest, hips beginning to saw back and forth. The headboard slapped against the wall when he picked up his rhythm, wanting to hear more of your pretty moans.

"I'm yours, Andy, I'm all yours," you moaned into his ear, kissing the shell of it, panting heavily, "I'm all yours,"

"I should've drowned him," Pope went on, "I should've—should've fucking killed him for the way he looked at you, thought he could take you—have you."

"Never, Andy, he'd never," you chanted, "oh god, please, please keep fucking me. You're so big, Andy. You're splitting me in half—oh god—"

His hand slid beneath your shoulder, pulling you flush against his chest, your damp skin sticking to him, your nails scraping down his back as he drove into you again.

The room was hot now, the remnants of damp pool water on his sheets cooling under your hip while the rest of you burned around him. He could feel every place your skin pressed against his. Your mouth at his ear, your ankles locked at his back, your hips against his. Your cunt taking him so tight he could barely keep his head.

"Does it feel good, baby?" he whimpered, trying to keep himself in check, trying to keep a rhythm. He wanted to be good for you, no matter how depraved his thoughts could be. He would be good. He had to be. Even with his teeth bared against your skin, even with his hands tight enough to leave bruises. He would be good.

"Oh, yes," you breathed, kissing his neck. "Feels amazing. I want more, Andy. Harder. Harder."

He moaned loudly as your pussy clenched down on him as he bit into the crest of your shoulder. You mewled for him as his hips swung back almost completely before he buried himself into you again. And again. And again.

The sound of it was filthy, skin meeting skin, the mattress squeaking under both of you, your breath breaking every time he filled you. You were a squirming mess beneath him, and yet, he held you tighter. Your ankles stayed locked, but it was like you couldn't decide if it was too much or not enough. Like you were trying to match his speed, but were wailing when he'd push in too hard.

"Are you sure, baby? Are you okay?"

"Andrewwwwwww—" you moaned, dragging the name out until his hips stuttered. "Please, please—promise me—promise me you'd do it."

"I'd do anything for you—anything." he admitted.

"Promise me!" you cried out.

"I promise, I promise," he whispered, pulling back just enough to kiss you, his lips planting over yours, opening and letting his tongue slide against yours. Both of you were moaning, sweaty messes, the sounds lewd and obscene filling the room as the headboard hit the wall even harder now in uneven knocks.

"I'm gonna come, Andy," you whimpered against his lips, muffled because he just kept fucking kissing you—licking behind your teeth, nipping at your bottom lip so much it began to swell and fatten up, a little kiss bruise forming there.

"Me too," he whimpered.

"Come with me," you begged, hands flying to his hair, holding him close. "Please."

He nodded as best he could.

"I love you Andy, come for me, come for me."

He was a moaning mess, unable to contain any multitude of normalcy, of trying to seem like anybody else. He ate at your mouth like an animal, fucked you like one, hips losing rhythm, his hands greedy and squeezing at your flesh until he shunted his hips against yours one last time, burying himself deep. Your pussy squeezed him, milking every rope of come that he had out of his cock, his balls wet from your arousal that soaked him, dripping onto the bedsheets below.

Your back arched at the feeling of him filling you, your mouth falling open under his as you shook through your orgasm. He could feel the flutter and grip of you pulling him in deeper while his own body kept giving, giving, giving. It was too much. It was everything.

His head dropped to your shoulder, breath punching out of him in rough little sounds he couldn’t swallow down.

"So good," he heard himself say. His mouth moved over your face, your jaw, your neck as you crashed down from the euphoric high, your lungs suddenly filling with air again. "You're so good, such a good girl, I'm sorry—I'm sorry—you're so good, baby, so good. I'll be good. I'll be good for you."

As you sucked in more air, your eyes fluttering and hazy, you looked up at him. Your hands pushed through the mess of curls at his forehead that had fallen sweat-slicked onto his skin.

Both of you were still breathing too hard, his lips dry against your skin, his body too heavy. He was softening slowly, pulsing, his wet spent cock sticky inside of you.

"Why're you sorry, silly?" you breathed, swallowing dryly.

He laid his head in the crook of your neck and let his mouth press into the soft column of your throat, nuzzling. He inhaled your smell—different now, now that the room filled with the salty mix of sweat and breath. But still you. You still smelled like green apples and chlorine. It settled him a little, let him pull in even breaths.

"Hm?" you asked when he didn't answer.

"I wish I was…normal." he finally answered.

You tilted your head so you could look at him as he stayed laid over your collarbone.

"I don't want you to be normal," you answered, your hand petting through his hair and down his neck, trailing over his freckled shoulder. "Hey, Andy, look at me."

He finally did.

Your face was close enough that he could see every damp lash stuck together at the corners of your eyes. Your lips were swollen and a little bruised from his mouth. Your cheek was warm under the hand he hadn’t realized he’d brought up to touch you.

"You don't scare me," you said softly.

He frowned a little at that.

You shook your head. "You don't."

"I should."

You cracked a sad smile at that.

"No, I don't think so," you whispered, and leaned in to kiss his nose. Your lips were still wet with spit from his mouth on yours. "I think we're the same, actually."

Oh?

You nodded at his change in expression, your fingers sliding back into his curls like you were making sure he heard you, not just soothing him out of it.

"I think we're just…different. And no one else will ever understand that. But I do." You sighed, your thumb brushing once over his temple. "And I understand you. I want you."

"You said… you said you… love me." he whispered.

You smiled wider. "See? You're not the only crazy one here."

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Maybe you were. Maybe you both were. And maybe… that was why today had happened, after all. You, coming to him, asking him to kiss you to show off how crazy you could be, to be with him. And him, giving in so easily, wanting so easily.

"I do love you, Andy." you admitted under your breath. Your thumb brushed over his eyelashes, over his temple, his cheekbone, down the bridge of his nose and over the cupid's bow of his lip. "Is that…crazy?"

Your skin was still warm as his palm moved from your face, gently trailing over your shoulder and down to your wrist to keep your hand against his cheek.

Maybe it was a little crazy.

He kissed the pad of your thumb.

But it was his kind of crazy.

And then he was leaning in and kissing you again.

you get to be pretty with pretty girls and enjoy their pole work as they go up. plus, your bachelors degree seemed to mean zip once you moved out to california and frankly, closed mouths don’t get fed.

you start making your rounds now, hiking the sides of your thong up. it has ties on the sides so you pretend to fumble with it, “accidentally” letting one side loose so you can ask the guys at the booth you’re walking up to, if they can help you. really selling it, you “stumble” into the table letting your plush hip bump into the table.

“oh! im so sorry boys!” you say in a clipped chirp

the table jiggles a bit upon collision, their glasses clinking with the ice inside. you fake steady yourself with your free hand so you can lean a bit over the table. tilting your tits forward, they threaten to spill out your balconette.

“could one of you help me with this?”

looking up through your lashes, your heart drops. the booth you’ve sorrowfully stopped at is currently resident to all of the cody’s. baz, craig and deran stopped by frequently together. all separately having had their time with you before. great tippers, but baz thinks he can charm you into letting him be handsy, craig just gets crazy high and lays back, with deran being the most tame. pope you’ve only ever seen once or twice. he’s easily the scariest out of all of them but somehow that makes him the hottest. all the girls knew about pope like he was an old wife’s tale. he’s only with the other boys once in a blue moon and if he was, you could look but he’d never touch you. those auburn curls and broad figure could ruin the whole building. but he always just seemed to stare around. never asking for a dance from anyone. all he does is frown. that intrigues you. especially when he’s the one closest as you’re batting your eyes waiting for assistance.

the boys are leering at you now, except for him, who’s just staring plainly still. this starts to make you feel a bit insecure and silly now. why’s he the only one that doesn’t look interested? a spike of hurt twinges considering there’s nothing you wouldn’t give to ride that frown off his fa-

“pope why don’t you be a gentleman and help this little lady out?” baz taunts as he claps pope on the back.

pope looks down at this and rolls his shoulder. his brothers exchanging looks like school boys. pope’s tilting to looking up at you now, his eyes glaze to your breasts soooo briefly before shifting forward. motioning you to get closer, he flicks his index and middle finger towards him.

“cmere”

you swear you leaked just at that. your face heats at this realization, hoping he couldn’t possibly notice as he takes the strings you’re holding from your hands. his calloused fingers graze yours as you let go. his hands burning traces onto your hip where he works your bottoms into a perfect bow. you try not to focus on how you can feel wisps of his breathing on your side. when he’s done, he pulls it taught, running his hand softly over the knot before dropping it.

you think you could teeter over with a single push now. remembering you’re at work, your eyes rise from the floor addressing the four- three sets of hungry ones before you. brushing hair from your face to pull yourself together, you sigh

“any of you boys looking for a dance tonight?”

being that it’s a full table, you know that at least one of them will say yes. a cash grab guaranteed being the only perk of entertaining this booth. you just hope that it’s deran before baz tries to-

“yeah let’s go” pope drawls

you swear you misheard until he’s raising hand up ready for you to take it. before you even think of letting him change his mind, you clasp it softly. pulling him behind you eagerly swaying your ass with help of the tips of your heels. you don’t even need to look back to know that his brothers are gawking at eachother. you can almost hear craig’s laughter as he jeers at baz— who would have surely jumped the gun had the eldest not beat him to it. this is interesting. something attention-seeking blooming inside of you. curious. pope has barely been around here, let alone gotten a dance. you’re going to have fun with this one.

you open the door to the last room down. velvet seating lines one side of the room, scattered with pillows. light dancing all around as it plays through a chandelier above. there’s a pole in the back, right in front of the mirror spanning the whole wall.

“you can take a seat now baby” testing with a pet name as you let go of his hand to adjust the lights.

you spin back to pope now, still in his controlled form, staring. but a bit relaxed now, hands on his stomach clasped. slightly leaning back against the cushions. you could lick your lips at the sight. if he was so gentle tying your bottoms, you wonder how rough he could be in other situations. you chide yourself mid thought. you don’t know why you’re thinking like this. you’re at work, you’re working and he’s just a customer. you’ll dance and he’ll pay and then he’ll leave. you mentally roll your eyes— how boring that’d be for you.

you saunter over and straddle his thick thighs. they’re so big they practically have you full spread over them. you bring one hand to brace yourself on his shoulder, the other winding its way behind his neck, playing with the curls there.

“you ever have a dance before baby?” you lilt, you’re testing again.

he quietly shakes his head no.

“mkay, so this is how it’s going to work-“

you look down to pull his hands from his stomach and place them on your hips. you suck in your breath slightly as you feel his warm hands on your bare skin again. you “adjust” yourself better onto him scooting closer.

once you look up from the contact, you notice that it seems like he’s steeling himself a bit. his eyes still softened but now he’s chewing on his lip. oh.

“hey, we don’t have to touch if you don’t want to?” you almost whisper, moving your head down so you can level your eyes with his.

“i think i just want to watch you first, sweetheart”

god his voice. the gravelly soft hush makes you throb a little. and he called you sweetheart at that… you think this cody is already better than the others.

you lift yourself off of him and turn to put on some music. this is also why you enjoy your job, you get free rein over the aux in a private room. you click on one of your favorites, excited to use it for this occasion.

cherry by lana del rey floods the speakers.

you look in the mirror to see him already tracking as you glide to the pole. you’re unordinarily nervous now, feeling the need to impress. to give him his money’s worth. to be good for him.

you drag your toes into your step as you reach the small platform. you inhale sharply for composure as you grab the pole with both hands. bending over deeply, ass facing him, with your legs spread behind you. you hope he can’t see how needy you are through your thong. only making things worse for yourself— but better for the show— you bow more and free one hand to fall by your ankle and slowly drag up your leg, your thigh and then between until you’re drawing your hand over your now soaked cunt. you’re feeding off of the way you can feel his burning gaze in your peripheral of the mirror.

you snap up with one hand sliding up the pole, making your way around it once before dropping legs spread, pussy facing him. keeping eye contact with him now, you’re not as nervous. now you need him to see all of you. you start to bounce on your knees when he begins to draw his hand to a forming bulge. fuck.

you want to up the ante, so you rise next to the pole poking your ass out fully into the mirror grasping the pole with your right hand. you kick into a jump with your left hand catching the metal, your feet still in the air swirling around. pope’s hand is grinding into himself now. god.

“you’re so beautiful” he sighs continuing the slow hard pushes on his cock.

you can’t take this anymore, you think you need him right now. you make to step off the platform when you hear three loud bangs on the door making you jump. pope doesn’t even flinch but a scowl returns to his face.

“pope! we have to dip- now” its craigs voice behind the door. if rage could’ve set your skin ablaze you’d be on fire right now. but it seems pope isn’t that happy either as he stands, gruffly smoothing the front of his jeans. you mosey over to him now, thinking about how this would happen the one night he’s here.

“well it looks like you have to go huh” you frown— mainly for yourself.

he scratches at the back of his neck as he reaches into his back pocket.

“it’s okay,” he then steps close enough to steal your breath “we’ll just have to make up for it next time hm?” tilting his head, he places eight, hundred dollar bills in your hand without breaking eye contact. your eyes flick quickly between your hand and his and his plain expression as he makes for the door. he’s turning away grabbing the door handle when you stop him.

“hey! wait this isn’t-“

summary: due to your reputation as a renowned criminal psychiatrist, you're assigned to a difficult patient at riker's island. during a session, he makes an offer that tempts the boundaries of your professional curiosity.

a/n: I can't say enough how blown away I am that y'all loved the offer so much. it was just meant to be a slutty lil one off for kinktober, a way for me to play around with an idea that had been lingering in the back of my head for awhile, and a chance for me to try my hand at writing for dex. your excitement made me so excited, and i've been having so much fun with this. thank you thank you thank you again. 🖤

if you'd like to be notified for updates, feel free to join the taglist here!

»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.

»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.

session one: the offer

session two: the rules

session three: the complication

session four: the final session

termination: the escape

It's not your dream job — far from it, actually — but the pay is decent, and if you manage to flash a sweet smile convincingly enough to the right clients, the tips can be pretty consistent.

After a relatively long drive from the secluded ranch you managed to buy from a man who didn't ask many questions when you asked to pay upfront with cash, you park your beat-up sedan in front of the diner.

As you walk in you flash a smile to the few regulars you recognize, and you great your coworker behind the counter — a young girl too sweet for her own good.

"Morning!" she replies with a smile of her own, despite the fact that's way to early for someone to look this joyous.

After exchanging a few niceties, you tie your apron and officially begin your shift. It's the same routine as usual: go up to tables, take orders, and refill cups with coffee that you know for sure tastes like shit.

But then, just like clockwork, at exactly the same time as every day you work the morning shift, your favorite costumer walks in.

He's older and unfairly attractive, with his broad shoulders and graying blond hair. Like usual, he sits at a booth far from the windows and he picks up the menu, carefully studying it, despite always ordering the same thing.

"Good morning, Tony! What can I get you today?"

You take out your notepad from the pocket of your apron, and let the pen hover over the blank page, waiting for his answer.

"I'll have a banana milkshake," he replies, looking up at you with a controlled smile, making a shiver run down your spine.

There's nothing unusual about him. He's polite, always thanks you when you get him his order, and tips way too much considering he always gets the same banana milkshake.

But there's something in the way you feel his eyes following you whenever he's in the diner that makes you feel naked — like he knows what you're so desperately trying to hide.

Still, you keep on the facade you use whenever you're interacting with other people, especially costumers, and leave to make his banana milkshake.

His gaze burns on the back of your head, and your hands tremble slightly as you pour the milk in the blender. You try to sneak a glance in his general direction, but when your eyes land on his figure, he's already looking somewhere else.

After, the routine resumes as usual. He drinks his milkshake, you give him his check, and he leaves a generous tip before walking out of the diner.

In the past, you tried imagining what his life outside might look like. Where does he work? Does he live nearby? Does he have someone waiting for him at home?

Questions like this usually leave you feeling uneasy and unsatisfied when you realize that you'll probably never know the answer.

Later that night, desperately trying to push further away any thoughts about Tony, you decide to call Chris over.

He's a nice guy. Definitely not the love of your life, but a pleasant enough distraction from your previous life.

You met him a few weeks ago at the diner, and when he shyly asked for your number — after pushing the initial instinct to give him the wrong one — you left it written on his check.

After that first encounter, he brought you on many dates, but still, you never got past first base, and he, like a gentleman, never pushed further.

Tonight, though, things are going to change.

At 8 pm sharp, you hear the doorbell ring, and when you open your door, you find him still in uniform, holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.

"Sorry, I just got off work. I would have changed, but I didn't want to be late, and-" you press your lips against his, muffling the rest of his apology.

Truth be told, at first the fact that he's a cop made you nervous. You worried he would look into your past and find out what made you run away. Instead, he seemingly believed every word that came out of your mouth when you told him your made-up background story, and it made you more inclined to keep seeing him. At least, until he realizes that everything you told him, even your name, is a lie.

"Don't worry about it," you mumble against his lips. "I'm pretty sure I've got some clothes that could fit you. Now, come in."

You take his free hand in yours and drag him past the threshold, closing the door behind him.

Then, after putting the bouquet in a vase, you walk towards your bedroom, looking at him over your shoulder, silently inviting him to follow you. Like a siren luring in an unfortunate mariner.

He seems to take the bait, and gladly follows you. Men are so predictable.

"Here, let me see if I can find some sweats," you say, looking inside your closet.

In the meantime, Chris stands awkwardly near the door, looking so out of place in your bedroom.

As you rummage through the few clothes that you brought with you, he takes off his holster and places it on your nightstand, making it land on the wooden surface with a loud thud.

The cold night air enters the room through your open window, moving the blinds in an almost hypnotic way, catching Chris' attention.

Then, he freezes.

You turn around in that exact moment, holding a pair of oversized sweats in your hands, and furrow your brows when you see him looking attentively at a distant point outside your window.

"What is it?"

"I think I saw something."

You let out a giggle, taking a step closer to his unmoving body.

"I live near the woods. It was probably just an animal."

You can see it in his eyes that he's not convinced, so you lay the sweats on your bed and place your hands on his chest.

"Come on. Let's get you out of this uniform, officer," you whisper near his ear, before placing a languid kiss on his jaw.

It turns out to be a good enough distraction. His gaze shifts in your direction, and his hands immediately find your hips, pulling you closer to his body.

You push him on the bed, and then straddle him, before moving your hands on his shoulder and leaving a trail of kisses from his jaw down to his neck.

His back is pressed near the window, making it possible for you to see some movement near a couple of trees outside your house.

Before you can think about your next move, a knife slices the air, landing on the opposite wall. You let out a scream, as Chris moves your body and lunges towards the gun on your nightstand. He then fires two shoots in the general direction of the attacker. But it's too late. He's gone.

Your heart is beating so fast in your chest that you're pretty sure Chris can hear it as well. He has something more urgent to think about though.

Blood is running down his left arm, soaking his uniform. The wound is pretty close to the spot where your hand was just a few moments ago, and yet, you're unharmed.

Did the attacker miss, or were you never the target?

"Shit," Chris says, as he tries to apply some pressure on the cut.

"Wait, let me help you."

You raise from the bed and run to your bathroom, where you keep your first aid kit. Once you're back in the bedroom, you help him take off his uniform, and as you begin to disinfect the wound, Chris breaks the silence.

"Who the fuck was that? He had a fucking- A fucking mask, and he-" his tone is understandably panicked, and his mind was clearly running a hundred miles an hour.

"Was that one of your exes?"

The question sounds so absurd you almost laugh, but decide that now is probably not the right moment.

"If that's your ex you should probably own a pistol, you know that?"

You blame his rambling on the adrenaline that's probably running through his veins right now, and keep cleaning him up.

It doesn't take you long to stop the bleeding. The cut is actually not that deep, but it doesn't seem to ease his mind. On the contrary.

As soon as you finish securing the sterile gauze over the wound, he grabs his things and almost runs to the door, mumbling something about calling you tomorrow.

He does offer you to spend the night at his apartment, but when you decline he doesn't try too hard to change your mind, instead getting in his car and driving away as if someone were chasing him.

When you go back to your room, for some reason unknown to you, you don't feel scared or threatened.

Your eyes land on the knife, still plugged in the drywall. You walk closer and pull it out, the weight feeling oddly comforting in your hands.

There's some of Chris' blood on it, so you wipe it on your sleep shorts, before hiding it in your underwear drawer.

And in that moment you think: it was never meant for you. It was meant for him only.

The next morning, when you check your phone, you don't find any missed calls from Chris. You think that what happened last night must have scared him away for good, and, weirdly enough, it gives you a strange sense of relief.

Throughout the rest of the day you keep occasionally checking your phone, mostly because it feels like the right think to do, not because you're actually concerned.

You should be worried. Maybe you should try to reach out. Go to his apartment, even. But you never do.

Instead, you go back to your house and slip in the shower, trying to wash away the smell of fried bacon and burned coffee that always lingers on you after you leave the diner.

Once you're done, you realize you've forgotten your towel, leaving you no option but to walk completely naked to your bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the floorboards.

The blinds in your bedroom are open — as they usually are — but now, for the first time since you moved in this house, you feel a pair of eyes on you.

A shiver runs down your spine, but you do nothing to cover yourself or close the curtains, because there's something familiar about this feeling.

You brush it off, instead applying lotion over your damp body, before finally putting on your clean pj's and going to bed.

Next time you're at the diner, something strange happens.

Tony walks in at the same time as usual, he sits at his usual booth, and he orders the same banana milkshake.

Nothing is out of the ordinary. Except this time the way his gaze follows you feels warmer than usual, and just as you're about to pour the drink inside the glass, the realization suddenly dawns on you.

Tony's the one who has been looking at you through your window. And he's probably the one who threw that knife at Chris.

You remain frozen on your spot until another waitress squeezes past you, reminding you that you're still in a public place. And he's in the same room as you.

You swallow hard enough to make noise, before pouring some whipped cream over the milkshake, grabbing a straw and walking up to Tony's table.

"Here you go," you said placing the glass down on the table, praying he didn't notice the way your voice wavered.

"Thank you, ma'am," he replies, reaching for his milkshake and accidentally brushing your fingers with his.

You immediately move your hand as if you got burned, and without saying anything else you walk away, busying yourself with other costumers.

His gaze, though, weights heavier than it ever has today, and you can't breath properly until he leaves.

The drive home after your shift is silent — you don't even turn on the radio — but that's fine, because your thoughts make enough noise on their own.

The road that usually seems never ending, today feels uncharacteristically short. Even after turning off the engine, you remain seated inside your car.

Your skin is prickling with a feeling similar to anxiety, but not quite.

Excitement, that's what it it.

Despite the rational part of your brain telling you that you should feel scared, that you might be in danger, and that Chris' radio silence might have been caused by something quiet dark, you can't help but hope Tony will be outside your window, watching you.

So you walk inside your home.

Everything's silent. The only sound that can be heard is the low buzz of your fridge. Despite that, you have a feeling you're not alone.

"Tony? Is that you?" and after a moment. "Is that even your real name?"

Then, from a dark corner, a broad figure emerges. Despite the tactical gear and the mask covering everything beside his eyes, you know immediately that the figure that has been inhabiting the shadows near you for longer than you might expect is none other than your favorite costumer.

"Hi, Tony," you great him, your voice just above a whisper. "Or you wanna tell me your real name?"

For a moment you're met with silence, so long that you begin to wonder whether you got it all wrong and there's an actual stranger in your house. Your heartbeat begins to raise, until he speak.

"Benjamin."

"Hi, Benjamin."

You stand there, staring at each other, until you take a step forward in his direction.

"So it was you, uh? How long have you been watching me?" you ask, but there's no real malice, or anger in your voice. Just plain curiosity.

"Ever since I first met you."

It's weird, you would have expected him to be unwavering, sure of himself. Terrifying, even.

Instead, he sounds almost ashamed, making it difficult for you to believe that he's the same man that threw a knife at your date the other night.

You take another step forward, never moving your gaze from his masked face.

"Are you going to show me you pretty face or not?"

He lets out a sharp exhale, sounding like he just got punched. Experiencing first hand the power your words have over him makes you feel almost high.

When he doesn't make a move to take off his mask, you raise your hands to his neck and do it yourself.

The moonlight shines over his messy locks, and the scar on his cheek catches the light just right, making you want to lick it.

Instead, you let the mask drop on the floor, and begin lightly scratching his chest over his suit, your touch featherlight, almost imperceptible.

"So, you watched me for weeks. What was I doing?"

The way his expression shifts and the tips of his ears redden slightly make your lips curl into a smug smile.

You can see his gloved hands clenching at his sides, almost like he's making an active effort not to reach out. Like he's waiting for your permission.

"You were reading, mostly. Sometimes you would watch a movie, if you were not too tired. Most of the times you were too exhausted to do anything. Other times-" and he stops, his face burning.

You tilt your head, confused by what he might be referring to, until you realize.

"What? What was I doing?"

Silence.

"Touching yourself."

Your grin widens, and your hands shift from his chest to his hair.

"Hm, and how did that make you feel, uh? Did it turn you on? Did you wish you could replace my fingers with yours?"

As you ask him these filthy questions, you tug his hair. Hard.

In response, he lets out a low moan, and his hands fly to your hips, mostly trying to ground himself.

"P-Please..."

The word comes out almost uncertain from his mouth, making your lips curl in amusement.

How the tables have turned. How did he go from being your stalker to begging you to let him touch you?

"Please, what?"

"Let me make you feel good."

His voice is strained, almost as if he were in physical pain.

"You really think you can do that?" you ask mockingly.

He nods, looking so eager to please.

You don't offer him a response. Instead you start walking to your bedroom — the same bedroom he has been spying for weeks — and you don't have to look back to know he's following you.

The mattress sinks under your weight as your sit on it. Benjamin doesn't hesitate before falling on his knees, right in front of you.

He starts soft, gently kissing your knuckles. Then he starts traveling higher, his lips caressing the soft skin of your arms, making your eyes flutter closed.

He then places his hands on either side of your body, steadying himself as he kisses your neck. He keeps getting closer to his final destination, grazing your jaw, your cheeks, and finally your lips.

At first the kiss is soft and tender, until you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. This seems to be enough of an invitation for him.

The kiss turns hungry, almost desperate. You can feel the weight of his body over yours as he lays you down on the bed. But you don't stay in this position for long.

Taking him by surprise, you flip him over — but you have the suspicion he's right where he wants to be, underneath you.

His hands begin exploring your body, and your own move back to his hair, burying your fingers in his graying locks.

Underneath the layers of his tactical gear, you can feel him getting progressively harder. All it takes is you grinding your hips over his bulge to get another moan out of him.

You keep moving, chasing friction with his clothed cock, trying to ease the heath between your legs.

Surprisingly, he's the first one to break the kiss.

"Please, can I taste you?"

He sounds so desperate you can feel your panties getting even more wet than before.

In response, you take off your pants and your underwear in one go, but when you move to lay on the bed, he stops you. Instead, he moves your hips higher up, near his face.

Without a warning, he pushes you down on his face. Your hands immediately travel back to his hair, tugging them as you let out a high pitched moan.

At first, he drags his tongue from you needy hole to your clit, before laying a kiss on the bundle of nerves.

His movements are unsure at first, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you. Then, when you start grinding on his face, he seems to gain more confidence, and begins to eat you out like a man starved.

Even though you're completely lost in your pleasure, you can feel him moaning and whispering praises into your cunt.

Things like "you taste so good," and, "you're so perfect."

But the closer you get to your release, the darker his words get.

"Ain't no man allowed in your bedroom except for me," or, "he couldn't have made you feel this good," or simply, "you're mine."

The possessiveness in his voice is enough to make you reach your orgasm, holding onto him like an anchor.

The sound of your release paired with the way to keep pulling his hair — hard enough to sting — is enough make him cum untouched in his pants.

After catching your breath, you move from Benjamin's face and roll over, laying by his side.

He moves as well, resting his head in your lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you so tight that you think he might be afraid that you're going to disappear at any moment.

A moment of silence passes between the two of you.

"Benjamin?"

"Mhm?"

"What happened to Chris?"

"I killed him."

A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!

All the love, Anna ♡

You knew this. He had told you stories in the past about how his brothers had always chosen for him the past. Activities that they liked to do. He had told you that once Julia was gone, he had found the occasion lonely, not used to blowing out the candles alone. That the three years behind bars had him forgetting when it even was.

Naturally, that had broken your heart. So you took it upon yourself to make sure that things would be different, especially now that you were around.

It was casual and intimate, just him and his family sharing drinks under the blanket of the quiet night in their backyard. The candlelight of the two candles sitting atop of the grocery store cake that Deran had brought glinting off the rippling blue pool water. After a few slices of cake and a few too many shots in Julia’s honor, the two of you were left alone, the low murmur of jovial conversation from the rest of his family muffled by the glass doors. Andrew had moved to sit on one of the loungers that were scattered around the pool, feet firmly planted on the floor. He’s got a beer in hand and a calm look on his face, staring into the water.

“Happy birthday, handsome,” you say as you approach him from behind, hands wandering across the broad expanse of his chest. Nosing into the crook of his neck, you can see the beginnings of a smile take over his features as he lays a hand atop of yours. “I hope you had a good time.”

“C’mere,” he grumbles, pulling you by the wrist and into his lap. It’s a familiar position, his strong arm wrapped around your waist. You slide a hand into his hair, nails scratching his scalp. His eyes flutter shut for a moment at the feeling, and you swear that if he was a dog you’d be able to see his tail wagging. You giggle at the thought and lean down to give him a soft kiss, one he gladly returns. “Thank you.”

With one hand settled on his shoulder, you pulled out the joint Craig had taken the time to roll for you from behind your ear. A big grin on your face, you brandish it in front of him, extending a silent invitation. He’s got an eyebrow cocked, half smile on his face at your excited expression more than anything. 

“Care to partake, Andy?” You ask, slipping the joint between your lips. Wordlessly, he pulls his lighter from his back pocket and lights it for you, flame warm as it approaches your face. With a deep inhale the cherry burns orange, and you place it between your fingers before exhaling the smoke. You place the joint between Andrew’s lips down, smirking at just how easily he accepts it from you. Smoking with Andrew was always a rare occasion; he was never one to partake at the hundreds of parties that happened at the house. It was always just you and him, sometimes the rest of his family too.

You swing a leg over his lap so you can watch him properly as he takes a toke, everything blurring into the background. He turns his head to blow the smoke away from your face, ever the gentleman. Handing it back to you, he lets out a small laugh, eyes a little glassy and he turns his head back to you. Warmth spreads through you, although you’re not sure if it’s from the weed or from the way he’s looking at you.

His eyes are half lidded, blown out pupils falling to your mouth as you take a toke of your own. He’s still wearing a goofy smile, the one he always gets when he’s able to release his inhibitions under the influence. Being high makes you hyperaware of his touch, the meaty hands settled comfortably on your hips, his body heat making your skin tingle underneath the fabric of your clothes. You lean forward and brush your lips against his, a matching smile stretching over your lips. If you didn’t know him any better, you wouldn’t have noticed his shuttery exhale over your lips as you did, or the way that his grip tightened ever so slightly on your hips. His lips chase yours as you pull back with a giggle, teasing.

Instead, you grab his face in one hand, manicured fingers resting against the soft skin of his cheeks. He’s looking up at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars but you can see the want painted on his face, clear as day. You shift in his lap and you can feel him growing hard underneath you, mouth parting silently. With a grin that can only be described as evil, you bring the joint to your lips once more. His fingers twitch as he watches you move, squirming in your grasp a little in the effort to make sure that he has the full picture. The way that he looks at you has your thighs clenching; like he wants you to eat him whole.

You hold the smoke in your mouth, fingers adding just a bit of pressure so that Andrew’s lips are puckered for you. When you lean forward, back into Andrew’s space, you can see his eyes flicker with the recognition of what you’re about to do. The smoke curls in the air between the two of you, sweeping over his face as he inhales. The sight is almost more intoxicating than the weed itself, his lashes fluttering as your hand slides down from his cheek to his neck.

And then he lets out a giggle.

It’s endearing in the best way possible, even as he cants his hips up to meet yours in a slow roll. You can’t help but follow suit, the edges of everything blurring in the most blissful way as your high takes hold of you. You’re still holding the roach between your fingers, the cherry long gone out from the night time wind. And he’s still looking at you like that and his half hard cock under you has your brain going foggy, so you surge forward and press your lips against his. He lets out a broken whimper into your mouth, hands instantly pulling you flush against him.

Andrew wastes no time licking into your mouth, already kissing you deeply. You can still feel his smile against your lips, like he just can’t get it off his face. The kiss sends your nerves alight, the feeling much too mesmerizing for you to pull away. He’s letting out these small moans, noises getting swallowed up in the sounds of your heavy breathing. The way he rolls his hips has you gripping his hair, to which he shutters and lets out a low groan.

“Gotta be quiet, Andy,” you mutter, still too wrapped up in the pleasure of the kiss to pull away for longer than a moment. He tries his best to obey to his credit, you can tell from the rumble in his chest every time you grind against the denim of his jeans.

God, his jeans.

You’ve been checking him out all day. They’re your favourite pair of jeans; they’re so tight in the right places, leaving you drooling after him. They accentuate his thick thighs and you can’t shake the thought out of your head.

The kiss is messy; wet, open-mouthed, teeth knocking like you’re trying to see who can devour each other first. It has your mind spinning but your thoughts are still with his legs, his thighs. Despite the fact that you feel like you’ve melted into his body, you pull away, moving backwards until you're settled on one of his thighs, your legs bracketing. The muscle feels strong and thick under your core; you’re sure that you’re leaving a wet spot on his jeans.

“What’re y’doing, baby?” he asks, a little desperately. His eyes are still basically closed and he’s lurching forward to follow you, still chasing your lips so he can kiss you again. You oblige for a moment, hands winding tight into the fabric of his shirt.

“I wanna ride it,” you sigh into the kiss, hips already rocking slowly against the denim. He lets out a low groan and nods his head, although you’re not entirely sure if he heard you or not. His hands are all bunched up in your skirt, skimming over the curve of your ass as you move. “Please?”

“Okay,” His answer is simple, breathless. You’re still a bit boneless, the high keeping your body relaxed, but it’s easy to keep moving with Andrew’s guiding hands on you. The pace the two of you have set is brutal, and it has you mewling and your face dropping into his shoulder after just a few minutes.

His hands slide under your skirt and his fingers hook into your panties, pulling them taut. You let out a loud moan as the fabric adds pressure to your clit, tipping your head back. He takes advantage of that and slaps a hand over your mouth, muffling your noises. You notice how quickly his eyes fly to the window that the rest of his family is seated behind but his attention is back on you in no time, blown out pupils matching yours. “Gotta be quiet, sweetheart.”

He hands your words back to you, and you’d roll your eyes at him if pleasure wasn’t building low in your stomach in a way that made your legs shake. Instead, your eyes roll back when he shifts in place, hitting a whole new angle. The chair creaks underneath you from the way the two of you move, his hips rising occasionally in an effort to release some pressure. The noises you make are still stifled by the palm of his hand, but Andrew knows your body well enough to know that you’re close. You're soaking into his jeans, chest rising and falling at a quick pace that matches his.

“So pretty,” he says mindlessly, eyes trained on your face, the way it’s twisted up in pleasure. You know that he loves watching you like this, looking at you like he’s trying to burn the memory into his mind. “You gonna cum for me?”

You nod frantically and he bares his teeth at you, just for a moment, wrapped up in the thought of you coming undone for him. His mouth is hanging open as he just watches, looking as blissed out as you feel, and you’re not even touching him. He’s getting off on this; watching you use him. The thought alone has you careening over the edge, shuttering in his lap as your orgasm overtakes you. He lets out a raspy groan at the sight, moving forward to tuck his face into the crook of your neck as your hips still on his thigh. 

Popes jaw twitches, like he’s recalibrating.

"Please. Get into the car." The words come out from gritted teeth. His anger never dissipates fast. It’s still there brewing under the surface, threatening to fester into something dangerous.

You’re not one to cower from him. You know he would never raise a hand to you. But you also know that he needs to be reminded that you’re not a ragdoll to be thrown around.

“What. Happened.” Your words are slow and deliberate. It’s clear that you’re not budging.

Pope looks away from you, eyes cast somewhere in the distance. You take his jaw in one hand and bring his gaze back to yours. Bring his focus back to you.

The longer Pope looks at you, into your eyes, the steadier his breathing becomes. Twitching, restless hands fall heavily to his sides. When you’re sure you have his attention, you drop your hand from his face.

“Smurf.” He grunts.

“Said..?” You supply. You know it’s not going to be good.

“Not to trust you.”

You know there was more said, surely. It’s never that short or simple with her. Especially if it set him off this much. But you also know that Pope will never tell you the whole truth. Not about her, at least. Not when he knows it will sting.

You never argue or insert yourself in family business. You make breakfast and clean up after the boys. After a job, you patch up your boyfriend as best you can, sometimes his brothers, if they need it. You pick up Lena from school. There hasn’t been a single thing to suggest that you would cross any of them, least of all Pope.

All of that anger you tried to quell in him has risen up in you now. Your own hands clench at your sides, and a million nasty words rise in your throat.

Pope identifies it in you a half a second before you’ve even made the decision yourself. When you spin on your heels to go back to the house, his arms are already around your waist, pulling you back.

“Stop it,” Pope warns.

“No!” You pull at his forearms, knowing it’s fruitless. “I’m going to give her something to bitch about!”

“You know you can’t do that.” His mouth is right at the shell of your ear.

It’s like only one of you can be furious at a time, balancing the scales. That’s your relationship. Balance.

“Let me go!" You continue to struggle against his iron grasp. “I’m going to knock her teeth in. See if she has anything to say then.”

At that point, Pope knows that’s enough. No longer willing to entertain your flailing, he forcefully pulls you back, towards the truck, pinning you against the passenger side door. His hands are pressed against the door on either side of you, holding you there.

“That’s enough,” he growls. The situation is a cruel mirror to how you looked at him just moments ago.

Both of you have a deep, hot anger simmering in your bellies. Both of you searching for solace in each others eyes.

Desperate to claim him, to make your mark, to remind yourself that you belong to each other, you bring Popes mouth to yours.

The kiss is passionate and angry. Pope presses his body against you, fully trapping you against the car door. Mouths open and sloppy, he swallows your moans. You drag your leg up and wrap it around his waist, trying to get him as close to you as possible. Needing to feel him.

Pope grips your plush thigh, fingers digging into skin.

“Not here,” he mutters when your hand slips up the front of his shirt.

“Yes here,” you counter, hands gripping his hips.

Pope takes your hands off his body and pins them above your head against the car. “Not. Here.” It's final, but it's not the end.

That anger is still buzzing within you on the short drive back to your place. For all of your consoling and comforting when Pope needs it, it's hard for you to take your own advice. His hand rests on your thigh as your leg bobs up and down, irritation just growing as you sit with it. The energy and anger wanting to claw its way out of you.

“I can’t take this,” you swing the door open and practically stomp inside, throwing your bag onto the floor.

“You see why I tried to get you to leave,” Pope follows behind. He picks your bag up and hangs it on the rack where it belongs.

“Are you just going to stand there and lecture me?” You’re not even looking at him when you say it, already pulling your shirt off and storming into the bedroom. Pope follows after you.

There’s only one dim light on in your bedroom, and Pope can see the outline of you shedding the remainder of your clothes. He stands there, just watching you, not sure how to make you calm down.

“Clothes.” It’s an order. You tug at his belt, undoing the leather through the buckle. He stands like a rock.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he says. His hand finds your bare upper arm, squeezing. “You know I don’t give a fuck what Smurf thinks about you.”

“But I do. For some reason.” The words come out more angry than desperate, still fighting an invisible force. Your jaw clenches, and you direct your attention to the buttons on Pope’s shirt.

“So I’m going to fuck you,” the shirt falls away from his broad shoulders. You start to kiss his freckled skin. “And I’m going to leave marks on your pretty little neck, scratches on your sun-kissed back-”

A stifled groan leaves Pope as you make your way up his jaw. He holds your waist, his grip tightening around you.

“And when she sees you next, she’ll know that I’m not going anywhere.”

You drag Pope to your bed, climbing on top of him. While the kisses have less anger laced through them, they aren’t less feverish. You bite and suck at his neck, leaving a hickey just too high for his collared shirts to cover. And another one. And another one.

His hands grip your bare ass as you mark your territory, moving you against his hard dick, straining against his boxers. It’s getting stiffer the more you grind on him.

You reach and shove his boxers down, letting his thick cock spring free. You rub your dripping cunt up and down his length, making lewd sounds with every movement.

“Tell me you love me,” you moan, desperation dripping in your words.

“You know I do,” Pope says. When he grips your thighs, it’s firm enough that you know he’s leaving his mark on you, too.

Pussy quivering in anticipation, you pump his dick a few times before slowly sinking down onto him, taking him all in at once.

“Fuck, thatta girl,” Pope’s voice shakes, losing his breath as you take him all in.

“Please, Andrew,” you whine as he nearly splits you in half. You lean forward and slam your ass down on his hips. Chasing validation from him and a release from inside your belly.

“I love you,” he says finally. And twice more, punctuated by each bob of your hips. "God, I love you so much."

You take a deep breath, letting his words wash over you. Pope reaches up, snaking his fingers through your hair and gripping the back of your neck. “I trust you with my life. You’re- oh fuck- you’re it for me.”

When your movements become shorter and faster, Pope wraps an arm around your waist, pulling himself up so that you’re chest to chest. Your legs wrapped around him, his dick still buried inside you. He kisses you with an open mouth, tongue sliding against yours, sealing his words.

He starts to move again, and the new angle reaches a spot that blurs your vision. You bury your face in his neck, moaning at every sharp movement. His shoulder is right there, and you sink your teeth in, causing Pope to let out a low groan. You kiss and lick the tiny indentations in his skin, whimpering sweet things in his ear.

"You fuck me so good," you moan. "I'm gonna come."

When Pope hears this, his grip around your waist tightens, and he bucks his hips up into you deeper and harder, chasing that orgasm.

Your face twists as you come undone, hands gripping Pope wherever they can grasp. "Come on, Angel," he grunts, watching your face.

"Andrew, fuck," you whimper as he thrusts into you, your pussy still twitching around him.

Pope peppers your neck with light kisses before easing you out of his lap, letting you catch your breath and regain your senses. He lays you on the bed, holding himself over you with arms on either side.

"I shouldn't have said anything," he mutters. He buries his face in the crook of your neck.

"I want to know," you respond, bringing his face to yours. "Besides, you can't hide when you're upset any more than I can."

Pope considers this for a moment. He doesn't like it, but nods anyway. "Guess that's true."

You tilt your face up and kiss the corner of his mouth. Pope returns with more, like he always does. More intensity, more passion, more him. When you loop your arms around him, you can feel his dick line up with your entrance.

"Come on, baby," your voice almost gets lost in his kisses. "I'm yours."

He pushes inside you, unable to hold back once he's inside. He slams into you, unrelenting, getting lost in your bliss. The way you feel wrapped around him. You grip his shoulders, pulling him down to you, nails leaving small crescent moons in his skin. You dig into his back, scratching and clawing, leaving more marks in your wake.

"So good," he grunts, "so good to me." He mutters your name over and over, praying to you, devoting himself to you. "You know that?"

"Mmm" is all you can manage. The smirk is wiped off your face by the euphoria washing over you. He's close, you can feel it.

"Fuck, baby, m'gonna come," he pants in your ear.

Your grip on him tightens, pulling him closer. "I want to feel you, Andrew."

Within moments, he slams his cock into you, jaw slack as he spills inside your pussy. "Shit," he mutters, working his way through his climax.

You kiss his mouth, his cheek, his forehead. Invisible marks that Smurf will never see, but you know are there.

Later, Pope pulls your body against his, your back against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around you. Your thumb rubs gently back and forth over his forearm.

"You asleep?" you ask. You know the answer.

"No," Pope kisses the back of your head. When you don't say anything, he rolls you over onto your back to get a better look at your face. "What's going on, Angel?"

It's unfair, how beautiful he is. You bring you hand up to cup his jaw and just look at him. At his face, his freckles, and the small bruises just beginning to bloom, trailing down his neck.

"I hope you know, I'll always defend you," he says, chewing on his bottom lip. His eyes search yours.

"I know," you smile. "And I'll always look out for you."

Pope rises from the bed, and bends down to retrieve his discarded boxers. A dramatic gasp escapes you, and his face snaps to yours.

"What? What is it?" he looks alarmed.

You bring your hands to your mouth, unable to hide your smile. "Your back," you giggle. "I think I got a little carried away..."

Pope goes to the bathroom and cranes his neck, straining to see the damage your nails have inflicted. "Christ," he mutters.

You follow close behind, admiring your handywork. "You've been through worse," you shrug, trying to bite back your smirk. "I think you look sexy."

"Yeah?" Pope smiles at you. He ducks his head into your neck. "Maybe I should return the favor, then."

The obnoxious opening notes of Barbie Girl suddenly blasted from his phone on the nightstand.

Adrian didn’t even slow down. If anything, he tightened his hold on your hips and kept pounding into you, dragging another sharp cry from your lips as he reached over and snatched the phone. He glanced at the screen, eyes lighting up.

Peacemaker.

Without missing a beat, he swiped to answer, still buried to the hilt inside you. His voice came out bright, cheerful, and utterly casual, like he was lounging on the couch instead of railing you into the mattress.

“Hey, dude! What’s up? You miss me already?”

There was a long pause on the other end.

There was a long, stunned pause on the other end. Then Chris’s voice, equal parts confused and horrified:

“…Dude. Are you watching porn right now?”

Adrian barked out a laugh, the sudden jolt making you whine and clench around him. He gave your ass a quick, soothing pat.

“Oh shit—sorry, baby,” he mumbled, half-apologetic, before immediately picking up the pace again. His voice stayed cheerful and completely unbothered. “Don’t be ridiculous, man. I would never watch porn while on the phone with you. I’m fucking my girlfriend.”

Another thrust nailed that sweet spot dead-on. Your back arched sharply as you pushed back against him with a needy moan. Adrian huffed, gripping your hip tighter to keep you in place.

“Jesus, hold on a second,” he told you, like you were the one interrupting. Then, back to Chris: “Yeah, man, she’s right here. Being very impatient, actually. You’d think she’d have some manners when I’m on the phone with my best friend.”

Chris made a strangled noise. “Adrian, what the fuck—”

Adrian just laughed again, low and breathless, clearly having the time of his life. He leaned forward, pressing his chest flush against your back so he could speak right next to your ear while still holding the phone.

“Say hi, babe,” he grinned, giving you a deep, filthy roll of his hips that ripped a loud, broken moan from your throat.

“Adrian, I’m hanging up—”

“No, wait! Did you need something? Is this about the mission? Or did you just call to cockblock me? Because that’s kinda fucked up, dude.”

You turned your head just enough to shoot him a wrecked, furious glare over your shoulder. Adrian blinked at you, looking genuinely confused by your outrage.

Chris sighed—the deep, exhausted sigh of a man who had suffered too much. “Just… call me back when you’re done being a freak.”

“Roger that!” Adrian said happily. “Might be a while though. She’s really into it tonight.”

He hung up, tossed the phone onto the floor, and immediately buried both hands in your hair, tugging your head back as he started fucking you even harder. You cried out, fingers clawing at the sheets.

“A-Adrian—you can’t just answer the phone when we’re—fuck—”

“But it was Peacemaker,” he groaned, voice strained as he picked up the pace. “I had to—ah, shit, I’m so close…”

His hand slid from your hair, smoothing down your sweat-slicked back before gripping your hips tight. He slammed into you with deep, punishing strokes, trying to bury himself as far as physically possible.

“Adrian—” you gasped.

“Don’t wanna come in you till you come first,” he panted, voice wrecked. “C’mon, baby… I can feel you getting so close—”

he shifted angles and drove in even deeper. The new position had the head of his cock dragging perfectly against that spot with every thrust, sending white-hot sparks racing up your spine.

Adrian’s grip on your hips was bruising, using the leverage to pull you back onto him in time with his punishing rhythm. The wet, obscene sound of your bodies colliding filled the room again, louder now that he was chasing both your pleasure and his own with single-minded intensity.

“That’s it,” he moaned against the back of your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—gonna milk me dry if you keep that up.”

Your fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. Every deep stroke pushed you closer to the edge, your thighs trembling violently. A particularly hard thrust punched a raw, desperate cry out of you, and Adrian moaned in response, the sound low and filthy.

“Yeah? Right there?” He did it again, grinding against you in tight circles. “Let me hear it, baby. Come on my coc, please.”

The coil snapped.

Your orgasm crashed over you, ripping a loud, shattered moan from your throat as your walls clenched rhythmically around him. Pleasure flooded your body in pulsing waves, making your vision blur and your legs give out. Adrian cursed loudly, hips stuttering as he fucked you through it, drawing out every last tremor.

“Fuck—yes—, just like that—” His voice was hoarse, strained

Before you could even catch your breath, he pulled out just long enough to flip you onto your back. Then he was sliding back inside you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt as he braced his forearms on either side of your head. His face hovered above yours—flushed, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes, that wild, adoring grin still plastered across his lips.

“Hi, beautiful,” he breathed, like he hadn’t just railed you senseless while on the phone with his best friend. He rolled his hips slowly, savoring the way you fluttered around him in the aftershocks.

You could only whimper, oversensitive and dazed, hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. Adrian’s pace quickly built again, chasing his own release now that you’d fallen apart for him. His thrusts grew erratic, deeper, more desperate.

“Shit, I’m—fuck—” He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes locked on your face like he needed to watch every second of your pleasure. “Gonna fill you up, baby. You ready?”

You nodded frantically, nails digging into his back.

With a guttural groan, Adrian slammed in one final time and came hard, hips jerking as he spilled deep inside you. He kept grinding through it, like he couldn’t bear to stop, whispering broken curses and praise against your lips between messy kisses.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he finally collapsed half on top of you, still buried inside.

Thenl he reached blindly for the discarded phone on the floor, checked the screen, and let out a soft laugh.

“Chris texted,” he mumbled against your collarbone, voice sleepy and satisfied…

───﹒♡﹒─ the great panty caper ─﹒♡﹒───

You should’ve known it was a simple scheduling error, an oversight from whichever manager had been responsible for this week’s schedule, but the thought of getting take-out and spending your Friday night catching up on a few of your favorite shows that you’ve neglected the newest episodes of had been too tempting for you to think about questioning why your name wasn’t listed under Friday, as it usually is.

Then, at 9:15 pm, precisely fifteen minutes after your shift's typical start time, your phone rang. Right away, a ball of nausea wound tight in your stomach. You didn’t even have to look at the screen to know whose name was displayed across it.

You also knew better than to risk not answering.

“Yes?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

Silas is pissed. That’s nothing new. Silas has been in a perpetual state of pissed off since the day you had the misfortune of meeting him. Pissed is his default.

“Not at work.”

A loud, sarcastic guffaw sounds from your speaker. “Yeah, I fuckin’ see that. Why the hell do you think I’m calling you? To ask about your overall wellbeing?”

“Oh, I’d never think that,” you mutter under your breath, too low and quick for him to make out over the roar of R&B music that blares in the background. “I wasn’t on the schedule tonight,” you say more clearly, digging your nails into your palm in an effort to keep your voice level.

“Yeah, and your buddy Trevor is getting his ass chewed out for that, too,” Silas spits. “You always work Friday nights. The only exception was the time you got food poisoning because I didn’t want you shitting on a customer during a dance. You know that.”

Damn it. Trevor is your favorite of all of the floor managers - the only one who talks to you like a human being. Why couldn’t it have been Gregory? That pervert getting in trouble would almost be worth this phone call and whatever punishment Silas has in mind for you not being at work right now.

“It’s not my fault that Trevor fucked up the schedule,” you say, voice still lethally calm. “I show up when I’m told to. Nothing more.”

“I don’t give a rat’s fat ass whose fault it is,” Silas hisses. “And I’m telling you to show up now, so you better get here before ten o’clock or—”

You don’t want to hear whatever he’s about to threaten you with. It could be anything from not letting you perform a solo routine on center stage tonight to taking a bigger cut of the money you make from private rooms…to even worse.

“Okay, okay. Jesus fuck. I’m on my way.”

You hang up before his voice can give you a migraine before you even arrive at the club.

Forty minutes later, after doing your hair and makeup in record time, throwing on the first cute lingerie set you can find that’s clean, and speeding at least ten over the speed limit the entire drive to the club, you show up with less than five minutes to spare.

Luckily, Silas is nowhere to be found when you enter through the back door. You know that he’ll bitch at you some more whenever you see him, but right now, you’re relieved to start your normal rounds while he’s otherwise occupied. Likely smoking himself to death with a hotdog-sized cigar in his office.

You walk the main floor, making small talk with a few regulars that aren’t complete pieces of shit as far as men who frequent strip clubs go. You book your first private room of the night, and Gregory is a little too happy to inform you that Silas will be taking sixty percent of your earnings tonight as opposed to the standard fifty.

As annoying as that is, you can’t help but feel a little relieved. As far as punishments go, a ten percent increase in his cut is mild. Last time you were reprimanded (for not fucking smiling enough), Silas added an additional five grand to the already exorbitant amount of money that your father owes him.

The exorbitant amount of money that just so happens to be the very reason you are working in this shithole in the first place.

Not even two hours into your shift, and you’re already over it. So over it that you offer to take out a bag of trash for the bartenders just as an excuse to get some fresh air for two fucking minutes.

This part of Los Angeles isn’t exactly quaint - there’s a near constant stream of car horns blaring and police sirens wailing but it’s white noise to you at this point. At least the night air is a nice reprieve from the stench of cheap weed and cheaper cologne even for only a moment.

It says a lot that you consider hanging out by literal dumpsters more appealing than being inside.

You should’ve been out of here a long time ago. It wasn’t supposed to take more than a year to clear the debt that isn’t even your debt to clear.

You didn’t even know that your dad was sick. Not until you came home from college on a random weekend, hoping to surprise him, and found him far thinner and more frail than you had ever seen him, hooked up to a dialysis machine to keep himself from dying of kidney failure.

He’d tried his hardest to keep it all from you. He didn’t want you to worry, didn’t want you to drop out of school to take care of him. He tried to handle the medical bills that accumulated rapidly on his own for as long as he could.

And when he accepted that he couldn’t, he got desperate.

He thought Silas was just a lender. Someone who would help him stay afloat long enough to get a transplant, recover, and get back to work. He didn’t realize exactly what kind of man he had borrowed from until Silas showed up at his house, uninvited and unannounced, waltzing right in like he owned the place.

So vividly you can remember the look of shame on your father’s face when Silas revealed the truth, and the panic that quickly bloomed when he looked directly at you and said the words that changed the trajectory of your life.

“You failed to mention that you have a daughter,” Silas purrs. “She sure is pretty. You know, I think she’d do real well working in one of my clubs. Yeah, she’d be popular. Make me a lot of money. How does that sound? You wanna help your poor, sick daddy out?”

Your dad had instantly refused, pleading with Silas to just give him a little more time, but you could tell that Silas wasn’t really asking. He was telling you what you were going to do. And because you were scared, for your own life and your father’s, you agreed.

Here you are, three years later, with no true end in sight.

The club’s back door screeches open, and you know that your ninety seconds of the closest thing you can get to peace around here has come to an end.

“The hell are you doing out here?” Silas booms, interrupting the relative quiet of the alleyway. “It’s almost time for you to go on center stage. You’re lucky that I’m even letting you go on at all tonight. I wasn’t planning on it, but there’s a group of guys in there requesting you.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. The last thing you want is for him to change his mind at the last second and give your solo slot to one of the other girls. “I’m coming. I was just taking out the trash.”

You take a step to walk past him, but he blocks the doorway, his clammy hand shooting out to catch you by the elbow. His grip isn’t quite hard enough to bruise, but still makes bile churn in your gut.

“Don’t get cute with me,” he spits. “You’re already on thin ice tonight.”

You don’t say anything, biting your lip to hold back the overwhelming desire to spit in his face. Silas leans in, his breath foul with the stench of whiskey and cigar smoke.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten what’s at stake here.” His fingers tighten just a fraction around your arm. Just enough to make you wince. “Maybe your dad needs a reminder.”

You taste iron from where your teeth break the skin of your lip. “I said I’m coming.”

Silas snorts, satisfied for now. He lets go of your arm with a shove that is more dismissive than violent and turns back toward the door.

“And try not to fuck up your set,” he snaps over his shoulder. “Those guys in there are blowing their money on you. Don’t make me regret doing you any favors.”

And then he’s gone, letting the metal door slam closed behind him before you can follow him inside.

You stand there for a moment, breathing in and then slowly exhaling when movement from your peripheral vision catches your eye.

Great. Just what you fucking need right now. An audience. Men, of course. Two of them. Just close enough to have heard every word.

“What are you looking at, boys?” You call, voice void of emotion as you make direct eye contact with the stocky, curly-haired one.

He’d be cute, you think, if he wasn’t the kind of guy to spend his Friday night outside of a strip club. The sandy blond looks slightly surprised that you’re acknowledging them, but his buddy remains stoic.

You jerk your chin towards the door Silas slammed behind him.

“The show’s inside.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope all but forced Deran to switch tasks with him at the last second.

Originally, he was supposed to be the one keeping a close eye on Silas Leary, Solstice’s owner, while Deran scopes out the club’s main floor for the heist that Craig, of all people, is orchestrating.

He shouldn’t be surprised. A luxury gentleman’s club based heist is quite possibly the most Craig heist possible.

But now, instead of watching the balding, sweaty jackass who had berated you in the alleyway not even ten minutes ago, he’s watching you on stage.

You’re more pleasant to look at, at least.

He’s never really seen anything quite like it - the way you dance. This isn’t his first time at a strip club. His brothers have coerced him into going to strip clubs before, though every time prior to tonight was for pleasure, not business. Still, he isn’t unfamiliar with the scene. He’s watched women pole dance before, but not like this.

You’re the only thing in the room that he can concentrate on. For the entirety of the five minutes and some change that your set lasts, he forgets that he’s technically here for recon. He and his brothers made this trip to Los Angeles to get a feel for the building’s layout, to see how operations work, to check out the security systems…not watch the strippers.

He tells himself he’s keeping up appearances. It would be weird to not watch you. Everyone in the room is - even the other dancers, though they watch with less enchantment and more disdain than the patrons.

The song comes to an end all too soon, and Pope continues to watch as you make quick work of collecting all of the bills that had been thrown onto the stage. He stands just a few feet away, close enough that he can see the body glitter dusted across your chest sparkle in the glow of the neon stage lights.

When you stand up, thick stack of cash in hand, your gaze locks with his for one tense but fleeting moment. The look in your eyes is the same as when you had made direct eye contact with him outside the club.

Just as fast as you had appeared on the stage, you then disappear, leaving Pope staring after you.

He thinks back to what he and Deran had witnessed in the alley. He had instantly recognized Silas Leary from pictures he’d seen online, so he and Deran hung around to witness the brief interaction, hoping to get some idea as to what Silas is like in person before entering the club.

It came as no shock to Pope that his reputation precedes him. Harsh, volatile, cruel seemingly for the sake of being cruel. That isn’t what made Pope freeze in place in the alley. It’s what Silas had said to you.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten what’s at stake here. Maybe your dad needs a reminder.”

And your response. You didn’t agree or disagree. Didn’t fight him on it. You looked Silas dead in the eyes, expression unreadable, and barely flinched. Like you had heard the threat a thousand times before, like you were used to the way he grabbed you by the arm. Like it hardly even phased you.

Pope’s first instinct had been to intervene, but he knew doing so would have tanked the job before it began. He couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself and Deran, and deep down, he also knew that stepping in would have likely made things worse on you, too, in the long run.

So he watched from the sidelines, feeling more at peace than ever at the prospect of stealing loads of money from someone, knowing Silas Leary deserves what’s coming for him.

Deran knew it, too, playing it off with a joke that sparked an idea in Pope’s head.

“Shit. You think she hates the fucker enough to help us rob him?”

Pope had said nothing at the time, but he was unable to shake the thought. The entire time that he watched you on stage, the look of unadulterated hatred on your face kept replaying in his mind.

But for just a few minutes, as you danced on the center stage, you seemed different than you did in the alley. Different than you did when you were collecting the dozens of tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills off of the stage floor. For a few moments, Pope saw himself in you. The way you seemed to completely dissociate while you performed, like there was no one else in the room but you and nothing else mattered. In his own way, he’s been there. With skateboarding, and with boxing. For him, those things are escapes.

He can’t help but wonder if that’s what dancing is for you. An escape from this place.

He supposes there’s really only one way to find out - if he’s right, and if Deran could possibly be right, too.

Good thing Craig had suggested they all bring plenty of cash with them. To keep up appearances, he had said. If you’re going to a strip club, you should always have cash on you. This is just recon, but you never know.

He’d smirked when he said it, as if he already had plans to spend said cash in ways that weren’t relevant to recon, but he still made a fair point.

Pope’s eyes scan the crowded room, searching through all of the dancers and customers in hopes of finding someone who might be of some help. He notices a short, pudgy, middle-aged man who appears to be scolding another dancer.

Gregory, Pope sees that his name tag reads once he approaches him.

“The dancer that just finished up on stage,” Pope asks him, “What’s her name?”

A creepy, almost unsettling smile grows on Gregory’s face. “Oh, that would be Soleil. Why? You want a room with her?”

What Pope wants is to wipe that perverted look off of his face, but rationally he knows that would be counterproductive right now, so he settles for a curt nod. “Yeah, I do.”

“Half hour? Or a full hour?”

Pope knows that he’s supposed to meet his brothers and nephew where they parked a couple blocks away in less than an hour, so he isn’t really sure why he lets the next words come out of his mouth, but for whatever reason, he does.

“Full hour.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Gregory barges into the locker room without so much as knocking.

You’re dressed (as dressed as you possibly can be in a place like this), just counting the money you made from your solo set, but his sudden presence still unnerves you.

“You’ve got a private room,” he barks, not bothering to be subtle with the way his beady little eyes trail up your legs. “Room two. Full hour. This guy asked for you after watching your solo performance, so you better not disappoint him.”

You cram the rest of your money into the locker and snap it shut, trying not to give Gregory the satisfaction of seeing how irritated you are - at the way he thinks he owns this place and can enter a changing room without knocking, and especially at hearing you have to do another private room. For a full hour.

You don’t bother asking who the private room is with. You’re confident it’s one of the men who had convinced Silas to let you go on center stage tonight. A group of four or five sat as close as possible to the front, several familiar faces throwing bills at you every few seconds. Any given one of them looks like the type to drop six hundred dollars on an hour-long private room.

“Oh, I’ll try my hardest,” you breathe sarcastically. “Now can I have a second to freshen up? Alone?”

“Hurry,” Gregory snaps. “He’s waiting for you.”

You wait until the door clicks shut behind him to curse under your breath. Sometimes, you think you might hate Gregory as much as you hate Silas - if that’s even possible.

After reapplying your lipgloss and spritzing on a little more perfume, you reluctantly make your way to the private room where you’ll spend the next hour of your life.

At least once it’s over, it’ll be after midnight, which means the rest of the shift likely won’t be quite as busy, and you’ll be able to go home soon—

“Hi,” you chirp, slipping into the room with a forced smile and your best customer service voice. “I’m Soleil. Thanks so much for booking a room with me tonight. And what’s your na—”

You freeze as soon as you turn around from shutting the door behind you, the question dying on your tongue.

Not one of the men from the eager group that sat right next to the stage. You do recognize him, though. He too had stood close to the stage, by himself.

One of the men from the alley.

“Oh,” you quip, voice rising an octave. “You’re—”

“Pope,” he interrupts, and you’re thankful for it, because you didn’t really even know where you were going with that sentence. “My name is Pope.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Pope,” you smile, taking a tentative step closer to where he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Would you like to sit down?” You ask, gesturing towards the couch behind him.

He nods. You hover for a moment, giving him space as he lowers himself stiffly onto the couch. He looks around with uncertainty, like this entire process is completely unfamiliar to him and he isn’t sure what exactly he is supposed to say or do.

“Let me guess,” he starts, settling into the velvet couch. He runs his palms over jean fabric that conceals his bulky thighs. “Your name isn’t actually Soleil?”

You snort a laugh as you take a seat in the empty space beside him. You tuck your legs beneath you, one arm relaxing across the top of the couch, your hand coming to rest just behind his head. Instinctively, your fingers inch towards the base of his skull to toy with the reddish brown curls there, but you stop yourself at the last second, instead smoothing your fingertips over the soft, velvet material of the couch.

Normally, you wouldn’t hesitate to show physical affection for such high-paying clientele - that is what at least 95% of them are here for, anyway - but something about the way he stiffens at your sudden closeness makes you think twice before touching him.

“That depends,” you counter. “Is Pope actually your name?”

He turns his neck to look you in the eye - now close enough that you’re able to see his hazel irises and the light dusting of freckles across his skin.

Pretty, you think - even if he is the kind of man to spend an asinine amount of money on a nearly naked and complete stranger’s attention, you can’t deny that he’s pretty.

“No,” he says lowly. He pauses, swallowing. “Pope’s just a childhood nickname. My real name is Andrew.”

“Andrew,” you repeat with a slow nod. “And which would you prefer that I call you?”

A slight blush appears on the apples of his cheeks. “You can call me whatever you want to.”

It doesn’t really make a difference to you, considering you’ll likely never see him again after the hour he paid for comes to an end, but you can’t help but think the way he blushed when you said Andrew was oddly endearing.

“Well, Andrew,” you hum, “you are correct in assuming that my name is not really Soleil. That’s just the stage name I chose to go by.” You nod towards the sign on the opposite wall that spells Solstice in neon, cursive lettering. You give a small shrug. “I thought it pairs well with the name of the club. Soleil at Solstice.”

There’s something close to a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m sure you’re already aware that soleil means sun in French.”

Yes, you are aware of that, but you’re slightly surprised that he knows that. Most men that come here don’t know their left from their right.

“That it does,” you agree. “Kind of ironic, actually.”

His eyebrows pinch together a bit. “How so?”

Because there isn’t actually any sun in a place like this. A dark, dystopian fucking hellscape.

But you can’t say that, of course. God forbid you say anything even slightly negative about this place and word somehow gets back to Silas. That would be your third strike of the night, and he’d likely tack on an additional twenty grand to your father’s outstanding balance for the hell of it.

You instantly regret saying anything at all.

“Oh, nothing.” You shake your head in dismissal. “Just meant the only thing that’s bright here is the strobe lights.”

He stares at you for an extended moment before responding, his gaze heavy on you. “I wouldn’t say the only thing.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, your cheeks warming more than they should at the sentiment. It fills you with a bit of shame, really - the fact that you’d feel even slightly flustered over a vague compliment from a stranger paying for your company.

“So, Andrew…” you say, breaking the brief but loaded silence that had settled between you. “You paid for this room. What would you like to do in it?”

You dread what comes next. You always do. The kind of “dancing” that you hardly even consider dancing. The stripping, the touching. There’s supposed to be boundaries, of course, but most men think that if they’re paying then that gives them a right to cross them.

But private rooms are part of the job. Silas has made that clear from day one. He lets you perform your solo routines because they generate too much revenue to deny you the one part of the night that you don’t absolutely despise - but your sets last five, maybe ten minutes at most. Your shifts run about six hours. That leaves five hours and fifty minutes to keep the money flowing if you want to keep Silas appeased, which means doing every soul-sucking part of the job you hate: the floor dances, the private rooms, the mandatory mingling and endless flirting.

Every now and then, though, someone will book a private room and pleasantly surprise you.

“I just wanna talk,” Andrew says simply. “If that’s alright with you.”

You have to hold back the urge to sigh in relief. Talking you can do. And the fact that Andrew doesn’t reek of body odor and stout liquor like the majority of your customers makes the thought of conversing with him for the remainder of the next hour even less painful.

Six hundred dollars (well, significantly less once Silas takes his sixty percent cut…) and all you have to do is sit and talk to a decent looking man who isn’t belligerently drunk? You’ve had far worse nights.

“Of course,” you smile, and for once it isn’t completely forced. “You’re paying. If you want to talk, then we talk.”

Andrew is silent for a moment, as if he’s considering what to say next. His stare is unyielding, but not in the way that would normally make you cringe so hard that you risk breaking a tooth. Instead, it feels like he’s really looking at you. Not Soleil, but you.

“I watched your set earlier,” he says when he finally speaks. “That was very impressive. How long have you been dancing?”

Ah. Yes, you had noticed him towards the very front of the crowd when you finished your routine. He’d looked every bit as serious and solemn as he had when you first saw him in the alleyway earlier tonight.

“Dancing? Since I was four. Ballet, tap, jazz, lyrical…” You list off all of the weekly classes you remember taking throughout your childhood. “Pole dancing, though? About three years.”

Andrew looks surprised by the answer, his brows lifting slightly and hazel eyes widening. “Only three years? I would’ve thought a lot longer than that. Is that how long you’ve worked here, then?”

You nod, retracting your arm from where it had been resting behind his head now that it’s clear that - for whatever reason - Andrew is only interested in conversation. You let yourself relax a bit, relieved that you don’t have to put up the usual facade that makes most men swoon.

“Yeah, right at three years now. I practice a lot at home, though. I even got a pole for my apartment. If you work here, you’ve really gotta know your way around a pole, so…I’ve put in the hours.”

He looks impressed at that - or maybe surprised. Or maybe something else entirely. You aren’t sure. You can’t read his facial expressions or his body language nearly as easily as most of the men that enter this room.

“Wow,” Andrew hums with what appears to be a nod of approval. “That’s dedication. You must have really wanted to work here to put so much effort into learning such a specific skill.”

You barely manage to hold back a cackle at that. If he only fucking knew.

You give a half shrug, playing it off. “What can I say?” You sigh. “Guess I really needed the money.”

It’s the truth. Not the whole, disgusting, gritty truth, but it is accurate. As accurate as you can be without trauma dumping and jeopardizing your life…and your father’s.

Andrew nods, looking down at his hands splayed across the tops of his thighs. “Yeah. I get that. I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t made money in some unconventional ways.”

That piques your interest. “Oh? Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

He exhales a small laugh before bringing his eyes back to yours again. “As long as you promise not to tell anyone. If I tell you, it can’t leave this room.”

You make a motion with a hand across your mouth as if you’re zipping your lips and throwing away the key. “My lips are sealed. Pinky promise.” Then, for good measure, you hold out your pinky finger to him in offering.

He stares at your littlest finger for a long moment, the slightest hint of a smirk beginning to tug at the corners of his lips again before he finally lifts a hand of his own, pinky finger upright. He wraps the digit around yours, giving it a firm squeeze before slowly pulling away.

“Years ago,” Andrew starts, “I robbed a bank. It didn’t go as planned, and I spent a few years in prison for it.”

You blink, and wait for him to laugh, or say that he’s kidding. But then five, ten, fifteen seconds pass, and he’s still looking at you with the exact same unreadable expression.

“You robbed a bank?” You ask incredulously. “Jesus, I thought you were going to say that you sold pictures of your feet online or something.”

He doesn’t smile or flinch, just holds your gaze for a second longer. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t say that I’m proud of it, but I did.”

You know that your face must give away your surprise. His revelation should freak you out - if he’s capable of bank robbery, what else is this stranger capable of?

Maybe you’ve become somewhat desensitized to the concept of people going to extremes for money. Your dad. Silas. Even you. A few years ago, you never would have imagined that you’d be here right now. But you have your reasons, and you are. Even though it isn’t your first choice, you wouldn’t want anyone to judge you too harshly for doing what you feel you have to do.

You don’t know Andrew’s past. You have no idea what happened in his life that led him to make the decision to rob a bank. It probably wasn’t because he woke up bored one morning and decided that it sounded like a fun thing to do. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and you know that all too well.

“Well,” you huff a laugh, “I can’t say that I really blame you. I mean, I’d never be able to execute something like that, but it’s fun to fantasize about on occasion.”

“On occasion?” Andrew repeats in a low, curious tone. His brows lift in question. “Like when you’re here?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Please, if I was planning a bank robbery every time that I’m here, I would’ve been locked up years ago. But this place…” You trail off, searching for the right words for what you want to say but know you shouldn’t, “this place can get to you sometimes. Makes stupid ideas sound less stupid. No offense.”

Andrew makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a hum. “No offense taken.”

The rest of the hour drifts by far easier than you expect. Andrew tells you some stories from his time in prison, and about how he grew up not too far from here, in Oceanside. He talks about his siblings, looking down at his lap when he reveals that he’s a twin, but his twin sister, Julia, passed away somewhat recently. You try not to talk too much about yourself, but when he asks you questions, you answer as honestly as you can - telling him that you had been in your third year of college when you started working here, and that one day, when the time is right, you’d like to finish your degree.

By the time a knock sounds at the door signaling that the hour is up, you’re almost startled. It barely feels as if sixty minutes have passed.

“Huh,” you muse, rising from the couch as he does. “That went by a lot quicker than time usually does here.”

Andrew is silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face, still as serious as when you had first made eye contact with him in the alley. Then, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small envelope.

“Here,” he says quietly, holding out the envelope for you to take. “This is for you.” He pauses. “Just you. Not your boss.”

Your eyes shoot up to his in surprise. Not at the fact that he’s offering what you presume to be a tip, but at the last three words. Not your boss.

When your brain catches up, you accept the envelope, clutching it in both hands. “Thank you,” you murmur, trying to keep an even, neutral tone, though you’re sure your face betrays you. “It was, uh…it was nice to meet you, Andrew.”

He gives a small, polite smile as he takes a step towards the door. “It was nice to meet you, Soleil.”

Only when he reaches for the doorknob do you stop him by uttering a single word. He looks back over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised.

You repeat yourself once more. “That’s my name,” you clarify. “My real name.”

He says your name softly. Barely audible. As if just testing how it feels to say it. Then, with a slow nod, he turns the doorknob and exits the room without another word, leaving you staring after him.

Only after his footsteps fade down the hallway do you open the envelope and find that he has given you a thousand dollars.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“You’re joking, right?”

Jay’s voice fills the silence that had settled over Smurf’s living room following Pope’s suggestion.

“No,” Pope says, trying not to let impatience slip into his tone. “I’m not joking. I really think she would be willing to help us.”

The three men take turns looking at each other before turning their stares back to Pope.

“The stripper?” Craig snorts. “That’s your big idea? I mean, I love strippers as much as the next guy, but you can’t be serious right now.”

“It was technically Deran’s idea.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Deran pipes up.

“When we saw her in the alley,” Pope says, like it’s obvious. “You asked me if I think she hates her boss enough to help us rob him. The answer is yes. I think she does hate him that much. I think she hates that whole place that much.”

No, you hadn’t blatantly said so, but you didn’t need to. He could see it in your eyes, and hear it in your tone. It may as well have been written across your forehead.

“Jesus Christ, man, I wasn’t being serious.”

“Still,” Pope implores, “I spent an hour talking to her. It’s clear she doesn’t want to be there. And after what we witnessed in the alley? It wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.”

His brothers and nephew are silent again, exchanging glances amongst each other.

“She’s been there for three years,” Pope continues. “She knows the layout. She knows when Silas comes and goes. And I’m willing to bet she knows exactly where that safe is and how to get to it, too.”

“So she hates her job,” Craig shrugs. “Doesn’t mean she’s cool with risking a felony charge.”

Pope shakes his head. “She didn’t seem too put off when I told her that I’ve done time for armed robbery.”

All three voices erupt at once.

“You told her what?”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“Dude, are you insane?”

“I wanted her to know that she can trust me,” Pope says simply. “And she reacted fine. More than fine. She seemed to understand.”

Jay clears his throat. “Look, if we do this, she can’t be a liability. She needs to know what she’s doing, and she needs to keep her mouth shut.”

“She will,” Pope says instantly. “I know she will.”

Deran squints. “How? You spent one hour with her. You don’t actually know her.”

Pope meets his eyes with an unblinking stare. “You think I’d risk all of our asses if I wasn’t sure? I know enough to know that I’m not wrong.”

Pope’s stare is locked on Craig. It’s his operation and therefore he gets the final say. If it were solely up to Jay, or even Deran, he wouldn’t think there’s a chance of getting them to agree. But Craig’s a little riskier than they are. If he thinks there’s even a slight chance that it’ll increase the odds of the job being a success, he’s likely to agree.

“Fuck it,” Craig finally mutters, shaking his head. “Fine. We’ll try it your way. But we aren’t sharing our cut with her. If she gets anything, it’s coming out of your share. I’m not sacrificing my payday because you have a crush on the stripper.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope knows a guy who knows a guy who somehow knows everything about everyone. And if that guy doesn’t know, he has ways of finding out.

Well, technically Smurf knew him, but Pope uses that connection to his advantage.

The information doesn’t come cheap, but Pope needed to know with absolute certainty before waltzing back into Solstice and asking you to help him rob your boss.

Except now he isn’t just asking for help pulling off the heist. He’s going to ask for help pulling off an execution, because he doesn’t just want Silas Leary’s money, he wants him dead.

It may have cost him three grand, but Pope now has confirmation that his suspicions were correct and somehow worse than he had thought. Not only are you essentially being trafficked, but you’re doing so because your life and your father’s are on the line.

Now he knows, without a doubt, just how desperate you must be for a way out. And even though he’s only met you one time, Pope wants to give you that way out.

If only you’ll be willing to take it.

Pope makes the hour and a half long drive from Oceanside to Los Angeles again the very next night without any confirmation that you would even be working, but it’s a chance he’s willing to take. Craig and the others want to get on with the job, and Pope wants to get you away from the likes of Silas Leary as quickly as possible.

He goes over it all in his head the entire drive to the club. Everything he knows about you, from what he had witnessed the moment he first saw you in the alley, to every word you said to him in the private room, to what the private investigator informed him of.

But that’s not all he thinks about. He also thinks about the way your pinky finger felt wrapped around his when you offered the symbolic gesture to keep his secret, and the intoxicating smell of your perfume that he had to fight the urge to inhale the entire hour that you sat beside him on that tiny couch. He thinks about how sweet it sounded to hear you say his name, his real name, and how it sounded even sweeter when you told him your real name.

Maybe Craig is right. Maybe he does have a crush. That’s the most logical explanation for why Pope suddenly no longer cares how much money he pulls from this job. There will always be another job - if he wanted to, he could rob another bank by himself next week. He cares more about getting you out of the unfortunate predicament you’re in, and ensuring that Silas can never bring harm to you or anyone else ever again.

When he arrives, it’s close to midnight and the club is packed. He can barely get through the dense crowd of dancers and patrons that occupy the main floor, his eyes carefully scanning the crowd as he makes his way to the bar, where he orders a beer to keep up appearances until he’s able to spot you.

He waits for over half an hour. He doesn’t move from his seat at the bar, where he has the perfect view of center stage, the main floor, and the doorway to the hallway that leads to the private room he shared with you last night.

Just observing it all is overstimulating. From the loud music that pulsates through Pope’s barstool, to the neon strobe lights that make his eyes throb, to the smell of bodies and liquor that hangs heavy in hot club air, he doesn’t know how you have done it for three years without losing your sanity. Even just sitting here, all Pope can think about are all of the germs on every surface of this place.

When you finally appear at the mouth of the small hallway that leads to the private rooms wearing a pale pink, ruffled bodysuit that looks like it was custom made for you, Pope momentarily forgets why he’s here.

He watches as your eyes flicker around the main floor of the club, as if you’re dreading stepping back into the chaos of it all. When you finally glance towards the bar, your gaze locks with his and Pope’s skin warms at the way your face lights up with surprise. He offers you a small smile and wave of his hand, and that’s all you need to walk the short distance to where he sits.

“Andrew,” you breathe, coming to stand next to where he sits. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Soleil,” he greets, a teasing edge to his tone. He almost lets your real name slip out, but thinks better of it at the last second. He isn’t sure why you trusted him enough to let him know your real name after only an hour together, but he gets the feeling that isn’t something that you tell just anyone.

“I didn’t expect to be back so soon, but…” He trails off momentarily, glancing around the crowded room. There’s too many people. He has to speak too loudly in order for you to hear him over all of the voices and loud music, and he doesn’t want to risk anyone overhearing. “Are you busy right now?”

You shake your head. “No. I just finished up a private room. I’ve already done my solo set for the night. I was just going to walk around, make conversation with some regulars. Why? Are you…wanting a room?”

Pope can’t help but think you sound a little hopeful. But maybe that’s wishful thinking on his part. You are doing your job, after all.

“Yeah, I am,” he says, standing up beside you. “If you have time.”

You nod with a smile that reaches your eyes. “Of course.”

He follows as you lead him down the hallway, straight to the exact room that the two of you occupied last night. As he does, a terrifying thought occurs: you might say no. You might get scared, and deny everything, and refuse to help. You might tell him to get lost, and he doesn’t know where the hell that would leave him. But as he walks into the room after you, he swallows that thought down, and focuses on what he does know: you want to be here even less than he does.

“I’m really glad to see you,” you say as you shut the door behind him. “And I’m not just saying that because you tipped me a thousand dollars. Thank you, by the way. That was very generous of you.”

Pope takes a seat on the couch, the exact same spot he sat twenty-four hours ago, though he feels significantly more nervous now than he did then. “No need to thank me,” he murmurs. “I really enjoyed talking to you.”

You take a seat beside him, relaxing against the couch. “Is that why you came back? To talk more?”

He nods. “It is. If that’s okay with you.”

“More than okay with me. Is there anything in particular that you’d like to talk about tonight, Andrew?”

He hesitates for a second. He spent half the drive here rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to you to ensure that this would go as smoothly as possible, but now that he’s sitting beside you, he has forgotten how to string two words together.

He clears his throat slightly. “Can I ask you something?”

Your eyebrows twitch in curiosity. “Sure.”

“If you could walk out of this place tonight and never come back, would you?”

A small laugh escapes you, and you instantly drop his gaze, looking down at your hands in your lap instead. “That’s a hell of a question. You know, most people that get me alone in this room just ask me if I have a boyfriend or what my favorite position is.”

Pope watches you for a moment. “Well, I’m not most people.”

You look back up, your lips pursed. “No,” you agree quietly. “You’re definitely not.” You pause just long enough to make Pope wonder if you’re going to say anything else at all. “Yeah. I would. What makes you ask?”

He exhales slowly, only mildly surprised by your honesty. “I heard what happened in the alley yesterday.”

You’re visibly taken aback, your body going rigid and your eyes going wide, and he can understand why. In the entire hour you spent together last night, he didn’t bring up the incident in the alley. You probably assumed he hadn’t been able to hear what Silas had said, or that he at least hadn’t thought anything of it, but now here he is, bringing it up unprompted.

“Oh,” you start, your voice unnaturally high, “that was just—”

He cuts you off by shaking his head. “I’m not asking you to explain anything to me,” says lowly. “But I know who Silas is. That’s why me and my brothers came here last night. We were supposed to come here, get information, and leave.”

You don’t move as you stare at him in silence, either too stunned or too scared to speak. He continues so you don’t have to.

“But then I met you. And now I can’t just pretend I didn’t see that.”

You study him for a long moment. “What kind of information?”

“Remember when I told you that I did time in prison?”

Your eyebrows scrunch together before realization blooms across your face a fraction of a second later. Instinctively, you change your position on the small sofa, putting more space between the two of you. “Jesus,” you hiss. “You were going to rob—”

You don’t finish your sentence, looking from Pope, to the door just a few feet away, to a security camera in the corner of the room.

“You’re lucky that thing doesn’t have audio,” you spit under your breath.

Pope holds back a laugh. “I know it doesn’t have audio. I know what I’m doing.” He pauses, then offers a small, almost shy smile. “Most of the time.”

“Oh, most of the time?”

Pope shrugs. “Most of the time.”

You sigh, running a hand down your face as you look around the room again.

“Look,” you whisper, “I don’t care what you and your brothers do to Silas, but I can’t get involved.”

Pope doesn’t respond right away. He was expecting you to say something along those lines. But you aren’t screaming at him to get out, or running away to find a security guard, so he still feels hope.

He murmurs your real name for the first time since you had first told him what it is last night. It causes your expression to soften the tiniest bit, a glimpse of vulnerability appearing in your eyes.

“I know that he’s got something over you. And I swear I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

You purse your lips as you stare at him, as if searching for any sign that he could be lying to you.

“I know you don’t know me,” Pope adds delicately. “I wouldn’t blame you for not trusting me. I’m just asking you to hear me out.”

Another beat of loaded silence. “Okay,” you say, barely audible. “But we can’t talk about this here. It’s too risky.” You nod towards the door. “I don’t get off until three.”

“That’s okay,” Pope says, and he hopes that his relief isn’t too evident in his tone. “I can wait.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

When you first noticed Andrew sitting at the bar, grinning as if just waiting for you to walk in the room, you would’ve assumed that would be the most surprising thing to happen to you tonight.

That assumption proved to be dead wrong, because five minutes later, he revealed that he’s planning to rob your boss.

(Correction: he’s planning to rob him, and knows that he’s a huge piece of shit who is blackmailing you).

The surprises don’t stop there, though. Next, you surprise yourself by inviting a practical stranger into your home.

Your self-preservation skills have always been lacking. That was evident the day that you willingly agreed to work for Silas to help pay off your dad’s debt instead of fleeing the state of California and never looking back.

But this might just break the record for most reckless and foolhardy thing you’ve ever done.

Andrew waits for you in the parking garage down the block from the club until you get off just after three o’clock in the morning. Your body is exhausted, but your mind has never been more awake as you drive back to your apartment with him tailing you in his truck.

Your thoughts reel with all of the ways that this could go disastrously wrong.

You do not actually know this man. You’ve spent less than a collective two hours with him. Your gut tells you that he’s being honest, but is it worth the risk? He’s a bank robber. A convicted felon, who apparently comes from a crime family. Is it possible that you could just be trading one Silas for another? Andrew claims he can help you, but how? And at what cost?

Moments after you arrive at your apartment, Andrew pulls into the parking spot directly next to yours and then follows you wordlessly to your unit.

You have every intention of telling him to make himself comfortable on your couch and offering him fresh coffee. It is well after three o’clock in the morning - most people who don’t work the nightshift would be asleep at this time. But as soon as your front door clicks shut, you suddenly forget all pleasantries.

“You said that you know he’s got something over me.” You stand before Andrew in your small kitchen, looking him dead in the eye. “How much do you know, exactly?”

He meets your gaze with an equally level stare. It isn’t harsh, but it is hard for you to read. You’re quickly learning that to be the norm with Andrew. Difficult to read.

“I know enough,” Andrew says calmly. “I know Silas is a loan shark. I know you’re working for him to pay back money that you didn’t borrow.”

You nod slowly, dropping your gaze to the floor as you lean against your kitchen counter. “And how do you think you can help me with that, exactly?” You glance back up. “Don’t get me wrong, I would love to believe you, but I just don’t see how you and your brothers robbing the guy magically frees me of him. I mean, if he were to find out that it was you, and that I’ve even talked you outside of the club, he would—”

“He wouldn’t find out,” Andrew cuts you off, voice even and low. “I would make sure of that.”

“How?” You take a step towards him without thinking, your hands clasped in front of you. “How would you make sure of that? If you know why I’m working for Silas, then I’m assuming you know about my father. It isn’t just my life on the line here, Andrew.”

His hazel eyes soften at that. “I do know about your father. I also know there’s a lot of people stuck in situations like you and your father, because of Silas. A lot of people who would all be better off if Silas…wasn’t around anymore.”

Your eyebrows lift halfway up your forehead. “Wasn’t around anymore?” You echo. As soon as they leave your lips, the implication becomes clear.

Wasn’t around anymore. Gone. Deleted. Erased.

Andrew doesn’t verbalize a response. He just watches you from where he stands an arm’s length away and waits for you to process what he’s telling you.

That he’s offering to kill Silas. Or have him killed. You don’t really know. There’s a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears that’s making it impossible to think clearly.

You finally manage to get two words out. “You’re serious.”

It isn’t posed as a question.

“I am,” Andrew says simply. “If you want me to be.”

You snort at that, because what the fuck are you supposed to say? “Yeah, off with his head!” and “oh no, please don’t hurt him!” somehow feel equally wrong.

You look to the floor again. And then around the room. To your houseplants that need watered, and then to last night’s dishes that still need to be put in the dishwasher. Anywhere but Andrew’s intense, unyielding honey colored stare that you could probably get lost in if it weren’t for the bizarre circumstances for which he is in your apartment right now.

Finally, you exhale. “I think…I want some coffee.” You turn to the espresso machine behind you, and then glance at Andrew over your shoulder. “What about you?”

He looks surprised for a split-second, then nods. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

Upon your invitation, Andrew takes a stiff seat on your couch while you use the few minutes that it takes you to brew and prepare the drinks to attempt to process what the fuck has transpired since the two of you entered your apartment.

It does little good. You still have just as many questions as you did on the drive home. Even more now. Andrew is offering to kill for you? Has he killed before? Was he really in prison for bank robbery? Or was it something else? Should you be trying to secretly dial 911 on your watch right now?

Probably. If you were smart. But you’re not smart. You’re desperate, and Andrew might just be offering you a way out on a silver platter.

Although it could come back to bite you in the ass, right now, you’re willing to be an open book. You meant what you had said to Andrew at the club tonight - you don’t care what he and his brothers do to Silas. Rob him, or worse…he deserves it. And after the hell he has put you, and your father, through these last three years, you have very little hesitation helping Silas get his karma.

“Hypothetically,” you start, sitting down on your small loveseat directly across the table from him. “Let’s say I agree to this…walk me through it. How would you and your brothers…go about this? What would you need from me? And what about…afterwards? What would I owe you?”

The questions pour out of you faster than you can stop them.

Andrew’s brows scrunch together. “You wouldn’t owe me anything,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’m not Silas. I just want to help you. And if you have any information that could potentially help us, then that would be great, but if not…I still want to do whatever I can to get you out of this mess.”

He says every word so sincerely that it makes you feel silly for even thinking otherwise.

Of course he isn’t Silas. You might not know Andrew very well, but you know that he isn’t Silas. Silas takes what he wants with zero regard for anyone but himself. Andrew has given you every opportunity to express discomfort, to change your mind, to tell him to fuck off. Even now, if you told him to get lost and never contact you again, you don’t doubt that he’d honor your wishes.

Andrew stares so heavy that you swear he can see right through you. His voice is low and steady when he speaks again. “You don’t deserve what Silas is doing to you. But he does deserve what’s coming to him.”

You don’t know if the next words out of your mouth mean that you’re crazy, or just desperate.

“What kind of information do you need?”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope didn’t want to leave you in Los Angeles, but he had to come back home to Oceanside to work out all of the details of the heist with his brothers.

He knows you’re capable of taking care of yourself. You’ve been doing it for years. You don’t need a man that you met two days ago playing bodyguard. But he’d be lying if he said that the thought of you working even one more shift at Solstice, or the thought of you being in close proximity to Silas, or the thought of a random sleazebag laying so much as a finger on you in that place doesn’t make his blood burn white-hot.

He takes comfort in knowing that after tonight, you only have to step foot into that place one more time. And that time, he will be there, too.

Still, he hates knowing that as he sits on his couch in Oceanside, you’re at the club in LA. Pope had suggested that you call out tonight, but you had shot that idea down quickly. You explained that you always work Sunday nights, and you didn’t want to risk drawing any negative attention to yourself before the heist that is now planned for this upcoming Friday night.

Currently, it is 3:46 in the morning, and Pope is wide awake, even though he shouldn’t be, and thinking of you, even though he probably shouldn’t be doing that, either. He wonders if you’ve made it home from work yet, and if your shift went okay or if Silas was there tonight…and he subconsciously grits his teeth at the thought of that.

He manages to hold out until 3:58 before he finds your name in the recently added section of his contacts and presses call.

You answer just after the first ring.

“Andrew,” Your voice pours from his speaker softly, slightly hoarse. “Is everything okay?”

Right away, he’s relieved at the lack of background noise. No music blasting and no drunk frat guys yelling over it. No car horns honking or sirens wailing. It’s safe to assume that you have made it home already.

“Everything’s fine,” he answers. “I just wanted to make sure you got home safely. See how your shift went.”

You exhale a hum of soft laughter. “Just walked through the door a few minutes ago. Work was busy. Really busy for a Sunday night. I’m glad it’s over. Almost.”

“Almost,” he agrees. “At least you’re off for the next few days. The next time you step foot in that place, it’ll be the last.”

There’s a brief pause before you speak. “As long as everything goes according to plan,” you murmur, and Pope can hear the nerves in your voice.

“It will,” he assures you. “Let us worry about that, alright? You just try to relax in the meantime.”

You snort. “Easier said than done.”

“Keep yourself busy so you don’t think about it too much,” Pope suggests lightly. “Do you have any plans this week?”

“Not really,” you grumble. “Los Angeles isn’t really my scene. I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for…” You trail off momentarily. You don’t have to finish the sentence. “Anyway. I go to work, I go home, and sometimes I go to the beach. That’s about it.”

“You like the beach?”

“I do,” you hum. “It’s one of the very few things I like about living here. My apartment is only about a twenty minute drive from Venice Beach. Well, really more like forty with all of the traffic…”

Pope is silent for a moment. During those few seconds of silence, he can hear waves crash against the shore just beyond the front door of the small beachfront house. If he were to step outside and walk mere yards, his feet would touch sand. He can glance out of the window in front of him and see moonlight dance across the water. There’s nothing separating him from the ocean but the walls of the house.

“I live right on the beach, you know,” Pope says, going for casual but probably failing. “The beach is my front yard.”

“Really?” You chirp. “God, that must be nice. I mean, you saw where I live in LA. Just about anywhere beats this shitty apartment, and the shitty traffic, and all of the endless noise, but living on the beach? I can only imagine how peaceful that is.”

There’s an idea forming in Pope’s mind, and he knows it’s irrational and naive, but he has already offered to kill for you after knowing you for one day, so how crazy could anything else really be?

“You ever been to Oceanside?”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Against your better judgment, later that day you drive to Oceanside with the address Andrew sent you typed into your GPS.

You almost turn around at least a dozen times.

You don’t want to turn around, but what little common sense you possess nearly convinces you to do so. What would you say if one of your coworkers told you that they have packed a bag and are going to stay with a mysterious man who booked a private room with them only forty-eight hours ago, tipped them a thousand dollars, came back the very next night, and revealed that he’s planning to both rob and kill your boss?

You would tell them that the next time you see them, it’s going to be on a missing person’s poster or a Dateline episode.

Yet here you are. Doing exactly that. Because for reasons you do not fully understand, Andrew makes you feel safe. Maybe you’re just so used to feeling unsafe that true safety has become a foreign concept to you. Maybe your judgment is clouded. But when he told you that he has a spare room and offered it to you for the days leading up to the heist, it hardly took any convincing for you to say yes.

Now, less than twelve hours later, with only a duffel bag in your passenger seat stuffed full of beach attire and toiletries, you’re driving to him.

Andrew had offered to come get you, too. And even though you ultimately insisted that you were fine with driving yourself to Oceanside, you can’t deny that the offer made your whole body feel irrationally warm and fuzzy - the fact that he’d be willing to make a third trip to Los Angeles in the last three days because you had made an off handed comment about your distaste for LA traffic.

You’re excited. Not only to get away from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles for a few days, but also to see Andrew again. This time not inside a private room at Solstice or in your tiny apartment at four o’clock in the morning. You’re eager to get a feel for who he really is outside of the club environment, to see how he is when he’s somewhere that he’s comfortable, to learn about the man who has done nothing but surprise you time and time again since you met him only days ago.

When your car’s GPS announces your arrival, you don’t have to question whether or not you’re at the right place. He’s waiting for you on the front porch.

Like every time that you have seen him so far, he wears a short sleeve button-up shirt and a grave expression that would make you question if he’s actually glad to see you if it weren’t for the fact that he wastes no time trotting down the porch steps to greet you at your car.

He opens your door for you before you have the chance.

“You weren’t exaggerating when you said that the beach is your front yard,” you laugh, grabbing your duffel bag from your passenger seat that Andrew immediately reaches to take from you. “If you were any closer, you’d be in the water.”

When you stand up, Andrew shuts your door behind you and then rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, his cheeks flushing slightly. It dawns on you that this is the first time that you’ve seen him in the daylight. Before now, you’ve only seen him in the neon fluorescents of the club and the low lighting of your apartment in the middle of the night. But now, in broad daylight without so much as a cloud in the sky, you feel like you’re really seeing him for the first time.

You already knew he has freckles, but now you could count every single one, if you wanted to. You knew that his eyes were hazel, but now you can see the tiny flecks of gold around his irises. And you thought that he was pretty the very first time you saw him in the alley, but you can’t help but think he’s even prettier in the sunlight.

“I may have said that to make you want to come,” he admits sheepishly. “But it wasn’t a lie.”

Your own face warms at the admission. “Well, clearly it worked. I came.”

Andrew’s mouth upturns slightly at the corners, his eyes crinkling around them. “Come on,” he nods towards the house. “I’ll show you around.”

The place is relatively small - a single story two bedroom, but in comparison to your studio apartment, it feels like a castle. And it’s clean. Spotless, actually. You hadn’t been expecting a pigsty by any means, but the exceptional tidiness is still a pleasant surprise. There’s not a decorative pillow out of place or so much as a dirty dish in the sink.

He carries your bag to the doorway of the first bedroom and lets you enter before him.

“This is the, uh…” Andrew trails off for a fraction of a second, searching for words, “This is the guest room. All yours while you’re here.”

You take in the appearance of the small room. Like the common areas of the house, it’s clean, but there’s certain characteristics that stand out to you. A pastel pink, floral comforter. A stack of children’s books on the dresser. A handful of small clothes hangers in an otherwise empty closet, and a ladder of pencil markings on the wall right beside it. At first, they look like random scratches in the paint, but as you take a step closer, you realize that they are height measurements. Each spaced a few inches apart, with dates scribbled next to each line. Some of the handwriting appears more feminine, whereas the more recent markings seem childlike.

You glance at Andrew over your shoulder, where he still stands in the doorway, watching you. “Do you…have children?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

His gaze shifts past you, to the pencil markings in the far corner of the room. “No, I don’t,” he answers, a hint of melancholy in the words. “This room was my niece’s, but she doesn’t live here anymore. I just…can’t bring myself to erase it.”

Judging by his tone and dejected expression, he doesn’t seem particularly eager to talk about the subject, so you don’t press it any further, instead locking the information away with everything else you’ve learned about him in the last few days.

His childhood nickname is Pope. He had a twin sister named Julia. He drinks his coffee black. He has a niece, and as of last summer, she was approximately 45 inches tall. He did time in prison for armed robbery, and he’s prepared to kill someone for a woman he barely knows.

You offer a small nod. “Well, it’s a really nice place. Thank you, again. For inviting me. You have no idea how glad I am to be away from LA, even for a few days.”

Andrew’s expression softens. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, voice calm in a way that you’re quickly growing to find very comforting. “I’m happy that you’re here.”

You plop down on the edge of the mattress and grin up at him. “So, what’s the plan for today? You gonna show me around Oceanside?”

“I was planning on it.” He leans against the doorframe, his thumbs in his pockets as he smirks at you. “We can do whatever you want. Go to the beach, the pier, just ride around. We do need to go to the grocery store at some point so I can grab some things for dinner.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “We can do whatever I want and you’re going to make me dinner? You’re quite the host, Andrew.”

He blushes at that, the apples of his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. The thought crosses your mind right then and there - you would never in a million years guess that he’s capable of doing what he plans to do later this week just by looking at him. This blushing, thoughtful man who has been nothing but respectful and considerate of you since the moment you met. He’s going to put a permanent end to the problem that has plagued you for years?

There’s more than one side to people, clearly. But that doesn’t bother you. Not in the slightest. In fact, you’re interested in getting to know every side of Andrew Cody. The soft-spoken version of him standing before you, and the version of him capable of the kind of violence you’ve only ever let yourself fantasize about.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Oceanside is - quite literally - a breath of fresh air compared to Los Angeles.

It isn’t exactly a small town, but it feels like one by comparison. There’s less people, less noise, less traffic, less smells. The ocean is five minutes away no matter where you go.

Los Angeles may be less than a two hour drive from Oceanside, but it feels like it’s worlds away. You feel like you can actually fucking breathe here.

By the end of your very first day here, you dread ever returning to LA. To Solstice (even for just one more shift). To your cramped, overpriced studio apartment that you’ve tried your hardest to make feel like home but never really has.

But here? Oceanside? Even just a few hours after your arrival, you can tell that this is a place that could easily start to feel like home to you. Partially due to the relaxed nature of the beach town, and partially due to the curly-haired man who is currently cooking you dinner as you watch from across the kitchen bar.

“Whatcha gonna make for dinner?” You ask as Andrew pulls into the grocery store parking lot.

He puts the truck in park and unbuckles his seatbelt before turning slightly to face you. “That depends entirely on what you’d like to eat.”

You had tried to insist that you were fine with whatever, but Andrew is quite convincing when he wants to be. He had refused to leave the grocery store until you told him what to make for dinner. Not wanting to be an inconvenience, or high maintenance, or too picky, you suggested the first relatively simple and inexpensive meal that you could think of on the spot.

Now, you sit across the counter from him, watching as he cooks fettuccine alfredo for the both of you.

As hard as you try not to let your eyes wander, you can’t stop yourself. Andrew seems oblivious, and if he notices he doesn’t say anything, but your eyes are drawn to his broad shoulders, thick arms, and bulky chest. His curls are wind-blown and skin sun-kissed from an afternoon spent walking on the beach near his house, making his freckles more visible than ever.

He catches you smirking at him as he’s plating up the food. A bashful grin appears on his face. “What is it?”

You shake your head with a small shrug. “Nothing. You’re just…not at all what I thought you’d be when we first met.”

Andrew’s eyebrows arch slightly. “You mean the kind of guy that normally books private rooms with you at the club?”

You snort a laugh. “Yeah, something like that.” You pause, grinning. “I mean, obviously most of them don’t recruit me to help them rob my boss…” Andrew chuckles lowly at that. “But they also don’t cook me Italian food and let me stay at their beach house.”

“What can I say?” Andrew slides your plate across the counter. “I’m full of surprises.”

You can’t disagree with that.

Andrew takes a seat beside you and the meal is eaten in companionable silence for the most part, giving your thoughts time to stray to all of the things that you have tried your hardest not to dwell on too much since you arrived here today.

You’ve tried not to think about what’s to come at the end of the week, and all of the ways that it could go disastrously wrong. As hard as you try to think positively, you can’t help but worry about someone getting hurt. Andrew, or one of his brothers, or a random dancer at the club who somehow gets caught in the crosshairs, or even yourself. Your brain conjures worst case scenarios, causing visions of anyone other than Silas dying to replay on a loop until you snap yourself out of it.

But with Andrew sitting next to you, it’s a little easier to silence those scary thoughts and replace them with better ones. Like maybe, just maybe, if this whole operation doesn’t go to shit, there could be more moments like this.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope isn’t particularly eager for you to meet his family, but he knows it’s bound to happen sooner or later. Especially if he hopes to maintain a regular presence in your life once this week is over.

He doesn’t expect you to want the same, but he does hope.

So, on your second day in Oceanside, he bites the bullet and drives you both to the family home after asking his brothers and nephew to meet there to go over everything for the heist a final time.

You assure him you don’t mind, but you’ve never met his family before. He’s slightly comforted by the fact that he never has to worry about you meeting Smurf, but there’s still Deran and Craig, who act like teenagers more than half the time.

“Look,” Pope stops you with a gentle hand on your arm before he reaches for the front door, “If they say anything inappropriate, or weird, just ignore them. They’re children. We’re just here to go over the plan and then we’ll leave, I promise.”

You exhale a laugh. “I can assure you that I’m used to inappropriate and weird, Andrew. They cannot possibly be any worse than the men that I have dealt with on a regular basis the last three years.”

He hesitates a moment, his hand still on your arm as he watches for any sign of reluctance, but you give none. Grudgingly, Pope opens the door and lets you enter before him.

Inside, there’s less noise than Pope expects, and it gives him the tiniest bit of hope that everyone will be on their best behavior. He leads you through the house, where the two of you find Craig, Deran, and Jay already gathered in the living room.

All three pairs of eyes immediately land on you as soon as you and Pope enter the room.

“Holy shit,” Craig laughs. “She actually exists.”

Deran snorts. “I told you she does.”

“Still,” Craig shrugs. “I didn’t believe that she would actually be willing to hear Pope out and not immediately run screaming to the cops.” He stands then, walking the short distance to where you stand beside Pope, extending a hand to you in offering. “Craig, by the way.”

“Ah,” you sigh, briefly shaking his hand. “The mastermind behind this operation, I hear.”

Craig winks, clicking his tongue. “You’ve heard correctly.”

Jay and Deran then introduce themselves, clarity blooming on your face as you recognize Deran from the brief encounter in the alley. You’re perfectly friendly, but the tension in your shoulders and the way that you clasp your hands in front of you doesn’t go unnoticed by Pope.

He can’t blame you for being nervous. You are in a room full of criminals, all of whom are strangers to you - himself included - to plot not only the financial but also physical demise of the man who has made your life hell for years.

Anyone sane would be nervous. But it speaks volume to Pope how much trust you’re putting in him (and how desperate you must be for any chance at freedom, no matter how risky it may be).

With a featherlight hand on the small of your back, Pope nods to an empty section on the couch for you to take a seat. He sits directly beside you, just close enough for the side of your thigh to brush against his.

Craig immediately launches into the logistics of the plan for Friday night. Jay is to disable all security cameras inside and around the perimeter of the club, and then waits with the getaway car. After the cameras have been disabled, Craig, Deran, and Pope will all enter through the basement. Once they are in the safe room, Pope is to signal to you through a discreet communication device that you’ll wear in your ear.

“…and then you’ll tell your creepy floor manager…”

“Gregory.”

“Gregory,” Craig repeats, “that you saw a customer open the basement door and go downstairs. But only if you know that Silas is distracted at the time. We don’t want Silas coming down before we make Gregory open the safe.”

“Right,” you nod. “So then Gregory opens the safe, Deran takes the money and leaves, you and Andrew make Gregory call for Silas to come downstairs, and then…?”

“And then Craig and I take care of the rest,” Pope answers simply. He doesn’t want you worrying about the specifics as to what happens once Silas enters the basement. The less you know at that point, the better. “Whatever you do, you stay upstairs. Finish your shift just like you would any other night. By the time you get off, it’ll all be finished.”

You’re silent for a moment, glancing around at each of the men in the room before you turn your head just enough to look Pope in the eyes. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do to help? Kinda feel like I’m not really pulling my weight here.”

“We’re sure,” Pope says before any of the others have a chance to speak up, his tone final, leaving no room for objection. “Between the information you’ve given us and what you’ll say to Gregory, you’ve done more than enough.”

You glance down to where your hands are interlocked in your lap. Then, in a smaller voice with a humorless laugh, “Enough for you to kill a man for me? To risk going back to prison?”

The question makes him forget that the two of you are in a room with three other men. He instinctively reaches out, placing a hand on top of both of yours. Your eyes dart down in surprise to where his hand rests on yours and a thick silence settles over the room before Pope slowly retracts his hand before answering you with absolute resolution.

“Yes,” he implores. “I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again. You don’t have to do anything to earn this. I’m offering. Because I want to.”

He wants to for you. Since the moment he first saw you in that alley and he stood and watched as Silas grabbed you by the arm, a part of him has wanted to ensure that Silas never touches you again. That desire has only grown stronger since meeting you, talking to you, and getting to know you these last few days. The only thing that could possibly stop him from sending Silas to an early grave is if you personally begged him not to, and even then, Pope would still want to with every fiber of his being.

You stare at Pope, pursing your lips, and he halfway expects you to argue. But he doesn’t drop your gaze, doesn’t even blink, and eventually you exhale a shaky breath.

“Let’s do this, then.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“You nervous about tomorrow?”

You’re hardly able to make out the words over the crashing of waves against the shore and the squawking of a seagull just a few yards away from where you and Andrew sit on the beach.

You turn your gaze away from the sun that has started to set over the Pacific Ocean to find that Andrew is already looking at you.

“Of course,” you admit with a breathy laugh. “Are you nervous?”

Andrew lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, looking back out to the water. “We’ve pulled off more complicated jobs than this before. Not too long ago we infiltrated a military base. A strip club is nothing compared to that.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, as they tend to do anytime you’re learning new information about the man sitting beside you. “A military base?” You echo in disbelief. “Jesus. How exactly did you guys even get into this kind of thing, anyway?”

Robbing banks. Offering to kill a man for a woman he’s only just met. And apparently, infiltrating military bases. That kind of thing. The kind of thing that should send you running in the opposite direction but for some reason makes you want to lean in closer.

Andrew shakes his head, a quick snort of laughter escaping him. “Our mother,” he answers. “She taught us everything we know. I’ve been doing this since Craig and Deran were still in diapers.”

“Jesus,” you mumble. You don’t know the exact age difference between Andrew and his brothers, but he can’t possibly be all that much older than them. He was just a kid. “And you…enjoy it?”

Andrew thinks about it for a moment, leaning back with his palms pressed into the sand. “I wouldn’t say that enjoy is the right word. It’s just all that I’ve ever known.”

You nod slowly, contemplating the words. This lifestyle is his baseline for normal. If you struggle to remember what life was like before you got dragged into working at Solstice only a few years ago, you can only imagine the complex feelings that come with being groomed into an entire lifetime of crime.

“Have you ever thought about what else you would do?” You ask hesitantly. “If you weren’t doing this?”

Again, he doesn’t answer right away. You watch as his eyes narrow in thought, his stare locked on the pink and orange horizon ahead of you. “I’ve thought about it,” he murmurs, a hint of restrained emotion in his tone. “Never for long enough to act on it, but…maybe I’d open a skatepark. Eventually settle down, start a family of my own.”

“Really?” You can’t hide the surprise from your voice. You aren’t quite sure why the answer surprises you as much as it does - you did literally just meet this man less than a week ago, but you didn’t exactly peg him to be the chasing toddlers, Pee-wee soccer game on a Saturday morning kind of guy. “You want to have kids?”

“Maybe one or two,” he shrugs. “I probably won’t, though. It’s just something I like to think about sometimes.” He pauses. “What about you? What are you gonna do when this is all over?”

That’s a question that you’ve been asking yourself for years. Up until now, it has only felt like a distant fantasy. Even now, you’re trying not to get your hopes up too high for fear that it won’t work out. That things will take a turn for the worst. That someone will get hurt, that Silas will somehow get away and find out what you’ve tried to do. Even with freedom almost close enough to touch, you won’t let yourself believe it’s yours until you’re actually holding it in your hand…and until you are, it’s difficult to imagine what life could possibly look like.

You exhale. “I’ll probably start by visiting my dad. I haven’t seen him in a while. I wanna let him know that me and him are gonna be okay. And then…” You trail off momentarily, “and then I’m gonna get the fuck out of LA. Maybe go back to school eventually,” you shrug. “I guess I haven’t let myself think about it too much either.”

Andrew hums in thought at the response. Then, he sits up straight, pulling his knees awkwardly to his chest and looking at you with the same serious expression that you’re no closer to being able to read than you were the night you first met him.

“You’re always welcome here. If you need a place to stay while you figure out what you wanna do.”

The offer warms you more than the evening California sun. Not only the words, but the way you can’t help but think he sounds nervous, and maybe a little hopeful, when he speaks them.

And because you don’t know how to express your gratitude in words, you place your head on his shoulder, instead. He tenses in surprise for a fraction of a second, then relaxes into the embrace, nuzzling the side of his cheek against the top of your head.

“I do like it here,” you hum. I like you, too, you think to yourself. “I might have to take you up on that.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“Cameras are officially offline. Soleil, if you can hear me, cough two times.”

Jay’s voice pours through the tiny communication device that Andrew had helped place in your ear only an hour ago. You’re able to make out Jay’s words, but they’re muffled, as the club is already extremely busy tonight - which you’re far more grateful for than you usually would be. Tonight, the more noise, the better. Boisterous laughs and obnoxiously loud music means that patrons and dancers are less likely to hear anything out of the ordinary.

As inconspicuously as possible, you raise your arm and cough twice into your elbow.

“Good,” Jay replies. “Everyone keep to the plan. Pope, let us know when you guys are in.”

The line then goes silent, leaving you to attempt to act calm, cool and collected for however long it takes Andrew, Craig and Deran to get into the basement and then the safe room without being caught.

You haven’t even been here for an hour yet, and you already feel the need to reapply deodorant due to the intense nervous sweats that you’re currently experiencing. You’ve already been to the bathroom twice because your stomach is so tied in knots that you are convinced you’re going to get sick.

Maybe you should have listened to Andrew and called out tonight. He had tried to assure that they would find a way to make everything work without you there, but you stubbornly insisted on helping.

What if your anxiety gets the best of you and you get sick on center stage tonight? What if someone notices how antsy you are? What if your earpiece falls out while dancing?

Oh, that’s just a hearing aid. I somehow went partially deaf in the last few days.

It doesn’t help that Silas is exceptionally irritable tonight, barking at every dancer and employee for every little thing. You spend the first part of the night maintaining as much distance between yourself and him as you possibly can while also keeping a careful eye on him. It’s sheer dumb luck that no one requests a private room with you during the first hour of the night so you’re able to monitor both Silas and Gregory from a reasonable distance while simultaneously conversing with customers.

And, if you were having any second thoughts about playing a part in Silas’ demise, those go out the window the minute that he approaches you that night.

You’re standing at the bar, waiting on some drinks for a table you have been entertaining, when he eases up beside you. Call it a sixth sense, but the way that your skin crawls at the sudden presence tells you it’s him before you even glance over.

“Enjoy your days off?” Silas asks, voice low enough for only you to hear. You cut your eyes in his direction to find him smirking at you, the look in his eyes making it clear that he isn’t just making friendly conversation.

“I did,” you answer shortly, eyeing the bartender to see where she’s at with the Jack and cokes. Not that it’s any of your concern, you bite back.

Silas hums, swirling the ice in his glass. “I’m glad to see you tonight, you know. I was starting to worry that maybe you skipped town.”

Your hands clutch the edge of the bar to steady yourself, your stomach sinking. He doesn’t know. There’s no way that he knows. How would he know?

“Am I not allowed to go out of town for a few days when I’m not working?” You snort, trying to play it off, hoping your horror isn’t displayed across your face. You don’t deny it, because if he’s bringing it up, then he already knows. You just don’t know how much he knows. “I have to run my vacation plans by you now?”

A low chuckle escapes him as he takes a slow sip of his drink. “What’s in Oceanside, anyway?”

Fucking hell.

Just as the last word leaves his lips, and the room around you seems to freeze, the bartender slides the tray of drinks across the counter to you. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to pick it up. You’re vaguely aware of Andrew whispering your name in your ear, his voice panicked, but you can’t respond yet.

“The ocean,” you spit, turning around and walking away with the drinks before Silas can say another word.

When you’re halfway across the room, Andrew’s voice pours through the communication device again.

“Are you okay? What the hell was that?”

You still don’t risk responding. You drop the drinks off at the table with exaggerated pleasantries and quickly excuse yourself before the men have a chance to drag you into whatever it is they’re now animatedly conversing about. A fleeting glance in the direction of the bar lets you know that Silas is now occupied by a customer, and only after confirming that his attention is no longer on you, do you take off in the direction of the employee bathroom and lock the door behind you.

“Andrew?” You hiss under your breath. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it,” Andrew answers right away. “How the hell does he know?”

“I have no idea,” you whisper, sitting down on the closed toilet. Now that you’re alone and can begin to process what the hell just happened, your heart is racing and your body is shaking and you’ll be lucky to walk back out of this room without collapsing. “I haven’t told anyone about my trip to Oceanside. He must have someone keeping tabs on me when I’m not here.”

The realization makes bile churn in your gut. He’s watching you. Even when you’re not here, he’s watching. He knows when you come and when you go, and he knows where you go. Who fucking knows how many times he’s had someone spying on you when you were just buying groceries or getting your nails done or—

“Breathe,” Andrew says, somehow able to detect your panic without even seeing you. “He’s just trying to scare you. He might know that you went to Oceanside, but he doesn’t know our plan. This doesn’t change anything, okay? We’re already in. We’re doing this. And you won’t have to worry about him anymore after tonight.”

You inhale, then exhale, then repeat, trying your hardest to convince yourself that what he’s saying is true. You know he believes it, and you trust that he wouldn’t lie to you, but right now the small amount of self-preservation that you possess is screaming at you to abandon ship.

But then you think of Andrew, in the basement, only one floor separating you from him. You think of all he’s risking by what he’ll do for you tonight. You think of your time spent together in Oceanside, and how you long for more, and how that isn’t a possibility unless you leave this bathroom and do what you came here to do.

One more deep breath. “Okay,” you exhale. “Okay, I’m okay.” It sounds like you’re trying to assure yourself as much as you are him.

“Good,” Andrew encourages softly. “We’re in the safe room now. No sign of anyone down here. I need you to get Gregory to come downstairs now, okay? Remember the plan?”

Even though he can’t see you, you nod. “I remember.”

Just in case someone is standing outside the door, you flush the toilet and turn the sink on momentarily for the sake of keeping up appearances as you take in your own appearance. Your makeup is slightly patchy from beads of sweat that have gathered on your forehead, but all things considered, you look normal enough.

You pause with your hand on the bathroom doorknob, taking one last, steadying breath before reentering the main floor of the club. A large group of men are huddled around center stage as another popular dancer performs her solo set, and sensuous music blasts loudly through the room.

Silas has moved from his seat at the bar, relocating to a far corner where he sits conversing with a table of regulars with his back to you. Good. And as for Gregory….

Gregory stands next to one of the newest dancers, who currently looks as if she’s being held hostage by whatever Gregory is saying to her.

Now or never, you suppose, forcing one foot in front of the other as you walk across the room.

“Hey, Angel,” you greet her with a cheerful voice and smile, hoping it sounds genuine. “There’s a guy at the bar asking for a private dance with you. I told him I’d send you over.”

Right away, she looks relieved to be freed from her conversation with Gregory. “Thanks,” she breathes before heading in the direction of the bar.

Gregory starts to walk off - knowing that you won’t engage in casual conversation with him like the newer hires who feel obligated to - when you speak up.

“Hey, I saw a guy trying to open the basement door just a minute ago,” you tell him, relieved when the words come out with just the right amount of faux concern. Gregory immediately looks in that general direction, beady eyes narrowing as he tries to find who you could be referring to.

“He was jiggling the handle,” you continue, hoping it prompts him in that direction.

“A guy?” He repeats. “What guy? What did he look like?”

You shrug. “Never seen him before. He was about your height, middle aged, short black hair.”

Gregory’s eyes dart between you and the hallway behind you. “Okay,” he huffs, taking a step away from you. “I’ll tell Silas—”

“I already told him,” you blurt without thinking. “He’s busy. He told me to tell you to check it out.”

To both your surprise and relief, he doesn’t question you further. He just huffs in annoyance, muttering something under his breath about having to do fucking everything around here and storms in the direction of the basement stairway.

For the briefest of moments, you almost feel bad for him. Then, you remember all of the times he has walked in on you and other dancers in the changing room, or tattled on you to Silas for not smiling enough, or stared directly at your tits with zero shame, and then your guilt disappears just as quickly as it had appeared.

You aren’t quite sure what Andrew and his brothers plan to do with Gregory. You didn’t ask, and you aren’t going to. You figured that Andrew would likely give you the same answer he has to the majority of questions you’ve asked over the last few days: the less you know, the better.

You do your best to appear subtle as you watch Gregory approach the door that leads to the basement of the club. He glances around, seemingly looking for the mystery man that you had made up a description of on the spot. When he sees no one that looks as you had described (because of course he doesn’t), he jiggles the handle to find it still locked. Your stomach sinks as you worry that Gregory will chalk that up to good enough and turn around to report to Silas, but then he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a set of keys, still visibly muttering under his breath and shaking his head.

You breathe an audible sigh of relief when he opens the door and he slips into the stairwell without drawing any attention from Silas, who still has his back to the entire incident on the other side of the room.

“He’s coming,” you murmur under your breath, “Gregory is coming downstairs now.”

There’s a quick whisper of confirmation, so fast and low that you aren’t even sure whose voice it was, and then the line goes silent. Your part of the job is over, and you’re left to wait. Wait until you see Silas walk to the stairs when Andrew makes Gregory call for him. Wait as you hope that he never walks back up those stairs. Wait until you hear from Andrew, wait until your shift is over.

And waiting might just be the hardest part of it all.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“I’m gonna ask you one more time to open this fucking safe.”

Like a rat after a piece of cheese, Gregory had walked right into the trap. He clearly had not actually expected anyone to be down here, because he walked right inside the safe room, muttering to himself about not getting paid enough, where Craig and Deran snuck up behind him, overpowering him within seconds. He didn’t even have a chance to yell before a handkerchief was crammed into his mouth.

Popes gotta hand it to Gregory, though. He fully expected the cowering, sniveling little shit to open the safe the very first time the three masked men demand he do so. But so far, he has yet to cave. Even with the barrel of Pope’s gun pressed to his temple.

He’s trembling, and whimpering, and he has definitely pissed himself, but he is also refusing to put the code in the fucking vault. He’s loyal to Silas, even if he’s nothing else, and that makes Pope feel the slightest bit better about what he plans to do with Gregory whenever they no longer have any use for him.

Pope and his brothers like to avoid casualties if at all possible. But after all you’ve told him about Gregory and now how stubborn he’s being? Pope has a hard time feeling bad.

“I don’t fucking have time for this,” Pope grunts, pulling the Glock away from Gregory’s forehead and instead aiming it towards the lower half of his body. He tries to shout, tries to protest, but the cloth crammed inside his mouth makes it all sound like muffled gibberish.

Pope doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, sending Gregory crumpling to the floor with a shot to the thigh that has him screeching around the gag; a high-pitched, animalistic sound. Upstairs, the music continues to blast, the bass vibrating through the floor. Even if Pope’s gun didn’t have a suppressor, he doubts anyone would have heard the shot over all the noise in the club.

Craig and Deran yank Gregory back upright despite his cries of pain. “The next shot won’t be to your leg. You think we’re bluffing?” Craig bellows. “You’re gonna find out if you don’t open that fucking safe right now.”

Gregory frantically nods. Craig and Deran haul him forward, and he raises his bound wrists to the safe’s keypad and begins typing with shaking hands. After a few seconds, the safe door clicks open. Deran pulls Gregory out of the way, allowing Pope to open the door.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Craig laughs in relief at the sight inside. “This has gotta be even more than I thought.”

It is a lot - too much for Pope to take an accurate guess as to exactly how much, but it has to be in the hundreds of thousands. He can’t get too excited yet, though. Not when Gregory here is bleeding through his pants and you’re still upstairs with Silas.

Pope and Craig make quick work of emptying the safe, shoving the stacks of cash into backpacks that Deran and a soon to be masked Gregory will wear out of here to where Jay awaits with the getaway car while Pope and Craig deal with Silas. But first…

“You got your phone on you?” Pope asks Gregory.

Gregory nods with an unintelligible noise of confirmation through the handkerchief still in his mouth.

“Good,” Pope lifts a hand to remove the gag, pausing before pulling it out. “I’m gonna take this out now. You scream, you die. Understand?”

Gregory nods, eyes wide with fear. Pope then yanks the cloth out of Gregory’s mouth, and he immediately begins to hyperventilate.

“Where’s your phone?” Craig demands.

“Back - back pocket,” Gregory pants.

Deran reaches into the back pocket of Gregory’s pants, retrieving the cell phone and tosses it to Pope. Pope holds the phone up to Gregory’s face, letting Face ID unlock the screen. He goes through Gregory's call history and quickly finds Silas’ name.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Pope says coolly, looking Gregory dead in the eye. “You’re going to give your boss upstairs a call. You’re gonna stay calm, and tell him that you need him to come down here right now. When he asks why, you tell him there’s an issue with the safe. If he tries to question you, you pretend you can’t hear him over the music and reiterate for him to come down here. Am I clear?”

Craig speaks up before Gregory has a chance to agree or disagree. “If you try to warn him, you’ll be bleeding from your other leg, too. Or worse. Got it?”

Gregory nods with a panicked sound of agreement, and Pope presses Silas’ name. He answers after the second ring, pop music pouring through the phone’s speaker.

“What?” Silas barks.

Gregory doesn’t speak right away. He opens his mouth like he’s going to, but then closes it, his eyes darting between Pope, Craig, and Deran. Pope wiggles the phone in his face, giving Gregory a look that dares him to test his luck.

“Hey,” he squeaks. “I - uh - I need you to come downstairs for a minute.”

“What?” Silas snaps. “Why? What are you doing downstairs right now?”

“I…I…uhm—” Gregory stutters, his voice unnaturally shrill and shaky. He looks between Pope and his brothers again in hesitation, unable to force the next words out. Deran nudges Gregory’s ribcage with his gun in a reminder of what’s at stake.

There’s one last, loaded second of silence before Gregory opens his mouth and seals his fate…and yours.

“Soleil told me she saw a man going to the basement, I’m sorry Silas, they made me do it—”

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

You watch Silas from across the room the moment that he raises his cell phone to his ear.

It could be someone else calling him. Maybe it isn’t Gregory, yet. But it only takes about ten seconds for any doubt to fade away, because Silas looks over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room until they lock with yours.

You try to look away, to play it off, to pretend you weren’t just watching him like a hawk, but it’s too late. He noticed. He definitely fucking noticed. And whatever was said to him during that short phone call, makes him stand up and head directly towards you.

“Why don’t we take a little walk?” Silas says, low enough for only you to hear. “There’s some things that we need to talk about.”

Your knees buckle and the room around you begins to spin. “I…have a private room in a few minutes. Can’t it wait?”

That’s a lie, but you’re trying to do whatever it takes to do what Andrew had asked of you. Stay upstairs.

“Nah, it can’t.” Silas glances around briefly before sliding a hand into his coat pocket. The movement looks innocent enough but then the unmistakable outline of a gun straining against the material catches your eye. You look back up, your blood running cold, and he’s smirking at you. “And I’m not asking.”

He doesn’t give you the chance to object before he grabs you by the arm and starts hauling you across the overcrowded dance floor, everyone too drunk and distracted to pay any mind to either of you.

“Where are we going?” You ask, trying to play dumb. You say the words loudly enough that Andrew, or anyone listening downstairs, will be able to hear.

He vibrates with low, chesty laughter. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

It takes every ounce of concentration just to put one foot in front of the other and keep yourself upright. Your thoughts are reeling with worst case scenarios. What will you find when you enter the basement? Did Andrew and the others get caught? Did Gregory have a gun on him? Is someone hurt? Once you walk down these stairs, will you ever walk back up?

Neither of you speak again until Silas opens the stairwell door, pushes you inside, and pulls it closed behind him.

“I’ve always known that you’re a flight risk,” Silas grumbles, steering you down the stairs with one hand gripping you by the shoulder and the barrel of his gun now pressed to the small of your back. You couldn’t escape even if you tried. “You really think I wouldn’t notice if you left town for four days? To fuck off to Oceanside?”

You don’t answer. His grip on your shoulder tightens enough that you’ll still feel the imprint of his hand hours later.

“The tracker that I put on your car sure came in handy,” he chuckles low, the sound sending chills down your spine. “Led me right to the Cody residence. I had to do a little digging after that, but imagine my surprise to learn that the Codys have quite the reputation.”

You reach the bottom of the stairs, and he shoves you up against the concrete wall and brings the gun to the side of your temple. You can’t stop the whimper that escapes your lips.

“I just didn’t think you would risk your dad’s life trying to pull some bullshit like this. Clearly I underestimated just how stupid and naive you really fuckin’ are.” He’s close enough that spit sprays across your face with nearly every word that he says.

“So this is what you are going to do if you want your sweet old daddy to live to see another day,” he murmurs, voice lethally calm in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand straight.

Your dad’s face the night Silas first showed up at his house to collect flashes through your mind. The night that would eventually butterfly effect into you standing right here, right now.

“We’re going to walk in there exactly like this.” He presses the gun harder against your temple for emphasis. “And you’re going to tell whoever is in that room to put my money back where they found it. After they’ve done that, you’re going to tell them to get the fuck out of here unless they want to clean your brains off of my floor. And then I’ll deal with you after.”

He pulls the gun away, and the small device in your left ear suddenly feels impossibly loud despite the silence on the other end.

You can only hope that Andrew has heard every word and knows what is coming.

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

The door to the safe room is wide open, and you see Gregory’s motionless body crumpled on the floor before you even step foot inside, a bullet wound dead-center of his forehead.

The second thing you notice is that Craig and Deran begin to lower their weapons as soon as you, and Silas directly behind you with his gun still aimed at your head, come into view.

The third, and most concerning thing? Andrew is nowhere to be seen.

After you get over the initial shock of realizing that Gregory is dead, presumably killed by one of the boys after saying whatever the hell he said that made it click in Silas’ head that you have very much played a part in all of this, the realization that you have no idea where Andrew is and that Craig and Deran are surrendering their weapons hits you like a brick.

You were so, so stupid to have ever thought this would work. To have actually believed that things wouldn’t go to shit, that everything would go according to plan, that this would end in your freedom. Now it’ll be a miracle if you and every member of the Cody family makes it out of this building alive.

Where the hell is Andrew?

He wouldn’t leave his brothers behind. He wouldn’t leave you behind. You’re sure enough of that. Not if there were any other way.

“Well?” Silas barks, pressing the muzzle of the gun into your temple. “Tell them.”

But your mouth has gone bone dry. Andrew. Andrew. Where is Andrew—

Craig and Deran exchange a look that lasts a mere second before Craig opens his mouth to speak. “Look, man, we don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Let her go and we’ll leave. Just take it easy.”

“Easy?” Silas repeats incredulously. “You conspire against me, break into my club, kill one of my employees…” He tips his head in the direction of Gregory’s lifeless body. “…and you want me to take it easy?”

Craig and Deran are both silent.

“Kick the bags over,” Silas sighs, his patience already wearing thin.

“Do what he asks, guys,” you manage to force out. “He’ll let you go. Just give back the money.”

Another second of hesitation, another glance between themselves, and then they nudge the backpacks across the floor.

Silas laughs quietly from behind you. “Smart choice.”

It’s then that you notice Craig’s eyes shift past Silas, the movement too quick and minute for Silas to even register as he starts to reach down for one of the backpacks.

Then all hell breaks loose, and the following thirty seconds feel like something out of a fever dream.

One second, Silas’ gun is pressed against your head, and the next, it’s flying across the room with a shot that goes right through the wall. Your body gets propelled forward by a blunt force from behind you, and you go tumbling to the floor with a sharp cry.

When you look up, there’s chaos all around you, but most importantly, there’s Andrew.

The door to the safe room, which had been wide open just seconds ago, is now nearly shut. He had been here the whole damn time, just waiting for the perfect moment to pop out and strike Silas from behind.

Andrew drives into him like a freight train, wrapping both arms around Silas’ torso and carrying him into a metal shelving unit. The entire thing rattles violently on impact, random boxes and loose paperwork falling from the shelves and scattering across the floor. Silas lets out a startled, animalistic grunt, but he recovers surprisingly fast for a man pushing sixty.

Then Craig and Deran jump in, and the four men crash together in an aggressive tangle of limbs and curses. It all happens so fast that it’s impossible to tell who throws which punch and whose blood is dripping onto the concrete.

All you know is that you’re the reason that they called Silas down here in the first place, and you see someone’s gun on the ground, no more than an arm’s length away from you.

Before you can give it a second thought, you grab the gun and force yourself to your feet.

Your hands are shaking so hard that it looks as if you have Parkinson’s disease, and you’re terrified to take the shot for fear that you’ll hit anyone other than Silas, but every horrible thing he has said and done in the last three years is suddenly replaying in your mind as your finger dances over the trigger and you know without a doubt that you have to do what you’re most scared to do.

You yell. A deep, guttural sound that tears through you, loud enough to get the attention of all four men in front of you. Deran, who’s positioned slightly in front of a beaten and bloodied Silas, instantly moves out of the way, giving you a clear shot.

You hear Andrew say your name, you see Silas start to attempt to lunge towards you, but you don’t let either of those things stop you from squeezing the trigger.

Time slows down. Despite the fact that the gunshot hadn’t been very loud thanks to the suppressor attached to it, there’s still a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears.

For only a fraction of a second, you wonder if you hit him at all. Then, your question is answered when dark crimson begins blooming across the fabric of his cream colored button-down, just over his heart.

Silas opens his mouth to speak, but only blood comes out, and then he falls forward, collapsing on the ground beside Gregory.

You’re still aiming the gun right where Silas had been standing with shaking hands when Andrew takes a tentative step towards you.

“I killed him,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I killed him.”

Andrew slowly and carefully peels your hands away from the gun and takes it from you. You’re still glued to the spot, both your mind and body in shock from what just happened. From what you just did.

You killed him. You killed Silas. You killed someone. Murdered them. And yes, they deserved it, but you still fucking pulled the trigger and shot them in the chest.

“No, you didn’t,” Andrew murmurs, giving Silas a kick to the shoulder with his foot. Silas lets out a weak groan that makes you instinctively jump back. “He’s still alive.” Then, before you can spiral any further, Andrew aims the gun directly at the man lying on the floor and fires it again, hitting Silas in the head.

He turns to face you, holstering the gun. “See? You didn’t kill him. I killed him.”

“So much for not shooting him in front of her,” Deran grumbles as he picks up one of the backpacks and slides it on. Him and Craig begin to move around the room, but you aren’t paying attention to what they are doing, because your eyes are locked on the body on the floor in front of you.

Bodies. Plural. Two of them. Silas, and Gregory. And blood. A lot of it.

Andrew steps in front of you, blocking your view of it all.

“We need to clean all of this up now,” Andrew tells you gently. He raises his hands as if he’s going to place them on your shoulders, but stops himself at the last second, his hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before dropping them back to his sides. “I need you to do one last thing for me, and then this will all be okay. Okay?”

His voice is steady and calm, but his hazel eyes are serious and pleading, like it’s taking every ounce of his willpower to maintain composure for your sake.

You give him a shaky nod to confirm that you heard him.

“I need you to go back upstairs. I need you to keep watch and make sure that no one tries to come down here, and warn us if they do.”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking. “What? No, no. I can’t go back up there. I can’t. I won’t be able to keep it together. I can’t pretend like—”

“You can,” Andrew interjects, voice firm. “It’s for your own safety, too. People will be suspicious if you disappear at the same time as Silas. You need an alibi. Go upstairs, show your face, book a private room or two, and pretend like everything is normal. Just for a few more hours.”

You swallow, inhaling and exhaling. What he says makes sense. All of the individual words make sense. But how the fuck are you supposed to walk back upstairs and act like everything is normal when you just killed a man?

Okay, Andrew technically killed him. But you still shot him in the lung. He would have eventually died from that alone even if Andrew hadn’t taken the gun from you and put a bullet in his brain.

“Just stay until the end of your shift to cover your own ass. Do you know if anyone noticed you come down here?”

“Uh—” you stutter, trying to remember everything that led up to this moment. “Uh, no. I don’t think so. The club’s really crowded tonight, everyone seemed busy and distracted.”

“Good,” Andrew nods. “You were never down here, okay? The cameras are offline, so you were never here.”

You nod, still unsure of how you’re going to will your legs to carry you back up those stairs, or how you’re going to keep the utter shock of what has transpired in this basement off of your face for the next few hours.

“What - what about you guys?” You ask him. “How are you going to get rid of all of this?”

Andrew shakes his head in dismissal. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. We’ll handle it. The bodies, the blood, the money, we’ll take care of all of it. Just go upstairs and keep an eye out for us.” He pauses, his eyes scanning your face. “You’ve trusted me so far, yeah? I just need you to trust me again for a few more hours.”

You have. You do. You don’t know if you trust yourself to not have a full blown panic attack in the middle of the club, but you do know that you trust Andrew.

You can’t quite bring yourself to verbally agree, but you nod.

Andrew takes a step closer and raises a tentative hand to your face, gently tilting your head to the side. “Earpiece is still in place,” he murmurs.

You expect him to pull away once he’s satisfied with his inspection, but he doesn’t. Instead, the soft pad of his thumb sweeps beneath your eye, wiping away a streak of smudged mascara. The touch is so tender that under different circumstances, you might have leaned into it. Might have closed the distance between you entirely. But right now, with blood still drying on the floor, all you can do is stand there and let him.

It gives you the much needed inspiration to get through the next few hours without completely falling apart, at least.

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

It takes every single last ounce of Pope’s self-restraint to not abandon Craig, Deran, and Jay to deal with the aftermath of the heist by themselves while he whisks you far the hell away from the city of Los Angeles in the middle of the night.

Truthfully, the only reason he doesn't do just that is because he doesn’t want it to come back to bite you in the ass.

He has to make sure everything is cleaned up. Everything. Every last drop of blood, every fingerprint, every strand of hair that could have fallen from your person to the floor of that safe room has to be eradicated before he feels comfortable leaving the club’s premises, and he sure as fuck doesn’t trust Craig or Deran to be as thorough as him. Deran lets his dish sponges get filthy and he doesn’t trust Craig to properly wash his own ass.

Finally, in the early hours of morning just before dawn, Pope can confidently say that the job is finished. Through the combined efforts of Craig, Deran, Jay, and himself, the safe room is cleaned spotless, the bodies of Silas and Gregory are disposed of, and the haul of cash makes it back to Oceanside.

Getting both bodies out wasn’t exactly easy, but Pope had planned for shit to go sideways. Jay was on standby in the getaway truck with an appliance dolly in case they were unable to retrieve the money from the safe while inside the club.

It was Craig’s idea, actually, to cram both bodies inside the safe and haul the entire thing offsite…to the middle of the fucking desert where all four men spent several hours digging a hole big enough for a six hundred pound safe.

No, things didn’t go according to plan, but they rarely do. It all proved to be worth it when the cash count ended up being just shy of half a million.

And if Pope’s share of more than a hundred grand wasn't enough to make the entire ordeal feel worthwhile, the relief on your face and the way you fling your arms around his neck when he shows up at your apartment later that day sure as hell does.

Maybe it’s a combination of everything that has happened in the last twelve hours and sleep deprivation, but it takes Pope a moment to register that you’re hugging him in your doorway. When he does, he wraps his arms around your torso and hugs you back, pulling you tight against his chest without a word.

“Sorry,” you breathe when you pull back, just far enough to look up at him. “I’m sorry, I…I’ve been so worried.”

He instantly feels guilty. He had sent you a singular text to let you know that they had left the city when they were on their way to the desert, but after that, he had been so preoccupied with disposing of Silas and Gregory’s corpses that he hadn’t provided you any further updates. He had been operating on autopilot, going through the motions of shoveling dirt, driving his brothers and nephew back to Oceanside, and then driving all the way back to Los Angeles after only a shower and two shots of espresso.

“No, I’m sorry,” Pope murmurs, reluctantly dropping his arms back down to his sides. “I should’ve texted, or called, I just…” He glances around to make sure that none of your neighbors are lingering around outside. You notice his hesitation and move to motion him into your apartment. He steps inside, only continuing once you pull the door closed behind him. “Just wanted to make sure everything was taken care of.”

“And?” You ask, biting your bottom lip in the way Pope has noticed that you tend to do when you are especially nervous about something. “Is it? Taken care of?” You add in a smaller voice.

Pope nods. “Yeah. Everything has been taken care of. There’s nothing that you need to worry about now. No one will ever find them.”

You audibly exhale in relief, your shoulders visibly relaxing as you lean against your kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. “Andrew, I…I don’t even know how to say thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me at all,” he says simply.

He’s told you already, but he’ll tell you again, he did this because he wanted to.

He saw you in that alleyway and knew you didn’t belong in that place. He saw you dance on that stage and knew that he had to talk to you. He had one conversation with you and knew that he would be willing to kill for you.

And he would do it all over again, even if he didn’t gain a penny from it all.

Which reminds him…

He pulls out a large, thick envelope tucked beneath the waistband of his jeans and holds it out to you. “Actually,” he clears his throat, “you can thank me by taking this.”

Your eyebrows scrunch together as you accept it from him. “What’s this?”

“It’s your cut.”

You pause before starting to open it. “My cut?”

“Yeah,” Pope shrugs. “Your cut from the money we pulled last night.”

You don’t even look inside before you’re trying to hand it back to him. “Andrew, no. I can’t take this. You killed a man - two men - for me, and then cleaned up the mess and dumped their bodies in the middle of the ocean—”

“Desert, actually,” he corrects softly, and your mouth snaps shut into a tight line, but he can tell by your eyes that you’re fighting a smirk.

“Still,” you implore. “You have done more than enough for me. Taking your money wouldn’t feel right. Not when you’ve already given me a second chance at life. That’s worth more than any amount of money ever could be, Andrew.”

God, he needs to go to sleep, because the last thing he should be thinking about right now is how much he likes to hear you call him by his name.

He hums a laugh, reluctantly accepting the envelope that you’re practically shoving against his chest, then takes a slow step towards you that leaves very little space between you. You’re slotted between him in front of you and your kitchen counter behind you, but you don’t appear the least bit put off by the tight space.

“Thought you said that you wanna get out of LA?” He murmurs. He reaches beside you, placing the envelope on the counter behind you. Then, instead of dropping his hand back to his side, it hovers for an awkward moment before falling to the edge of the counter, right next to your hip. He isn’t quite touching you, but if he moved his hand over a quarter of an inch, he would be. “Go back to school eventually? Start a new life?”

You’re smirking up at him now. “I did say that.”

He quirks a brow. “Then you’ll need money to do that.”

You’re silent for a moment, your eyes trailing over his face. You raise a tentative hand to his jaw, the soft pad of your thumb brushing a featherlight touch over a bruise that he had sustained in the brief but intense scuffle with Silas. Without thinking, he leans into the touch. The bruise is tender, but the feeling of your skin against his outweighs any discomfort.

“I thought you said that I’m always welcome at yours,” you hum. He opens his eyes to find you grinning slyly. It makes the back of his neck warm.

“You are,” he answers automatically. “Always. Is that…something you think you would want?”

You don’t answer with a yes, or a no, or even a nonchalant shrug. You just stare at him with that same soft, teasing expression as your eyes flicker between his eyes and his mouth, your hand still caressing his face.

There’s barely enough time for him to wonder if you’re thinking of doing what he has wanted but held back from doing since you pulled into his driveway in Oceanside before you lift onto your toes and press your lips to his.

His breath catches in his chest as your lips, tentative and impossibly soft, brush over his and every coherent thought leaves his mind at once. One moment, he’s standing in your kitchen trying to convince you to take sixty thousand dollars in cash, and the next he can’t remember how to breathe because the feel and smell and taste of you is overtaking his senses.

You linger just long enough for him to pull away if he wants to.

He does not. Of course he doesn’t.

His hand moves from the counter to your waist, and yours still resting on his jaw shifts to the back of his neck where your fingertips toy with the hair at the base of his skull. He leans down into the kiss, angling himself closer until there’s barely any space left between the two of you.

It’s soft, and hesitant, as if you’re both worried that if you move too fast, the moment will end all too soon. Warm lips move tenderly against his, your tongue sweeping lightly against his in permission that he eagerly grants.

It’s probably the last thing he should be thinking about in this particular moment, but he’s glad that he didn’t talk Craig out of his idea for a gentleman’s club based heist. Really, really fucking glad.

When you pull away, you release a small, breathless laugh that ghosts across his lips.

“Don’t worry,” you breathe, “that wasn’t me trying to say thank you or anything. I just wanted to do that.”

“Yeah?” He murmurs, brushing his lips over yours a final time. It isn’t quite a kiss, but it sends goosebumps down his spine nonetheless. “I take that as a yes, then? You’ll come to Oceanside with me?”

You nod, the tip of your nose nudging his. “I think Oceanside with you is exactly where I need to be.”

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡ three months later ｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

“Are you sure you can’t see anything?”

Your eyes are wide open, and all you see is pitch darkness. Andrew is apparently as meticulous at securing bandannas around a person’s forehead as he is everything else he does in life.

No surprise there.

“Honey, I’m positive,” you laugh, repeating yourself for the third time since you got home from class no more than five minutes ago. Andrew had been waiting to greet you, as he usually is, with a blindfold in hand. That part was unexpected, but you have quickly learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to Andrew. He never disappoints.

He had asked if you trust him (he knows that you do) and proceeded to secure the black cloth around your eyes before guiding you down the hallway to the spare room of yours and his new place, which he recently set up as a study room for you.

“Ready?” He murmurs, one hand on your lower back as the door creaks open.

You step into the room. “I don’t know. Am I?”

He chuckles softly, bringing his hands to where the cloth is tied behind your head and then pauses. “If you don’t like it, I’ll take it down.”

“Take it down?” You echo, brows scrunching beneath the fabric.

He answers by letting the cloth fall away from eyes.

What you see is the very last thing you expect.

Right in the very center of the room, directly in front of where you stand, is a dance pole. Damn near identical to the one you had in your Los Angeles apartment. The one you hadn’t bothered to bring with you to Oceanside, because you had been so eager to leave everything about your life there behind. Everything.

Or so you had thought, until very recently when you began to find yourself missing one, and only one, thing. Dancing.

Not dancing for money, not dancing for men, but just dancing. By yourself, for yourself.

You had mentioned it to Andrew in passing only yesterday, that you wish you had kept your dance pole when you packed your entire life into your car and happily drove from Los Angeles to Oceanside to be with him.

Now, not even a full twenty-four hours later, he has both acquired and installed one since you left for class this morning.

You don’t even realize that you’re just staring at the pole, wordlessly, until Andrew clears his throat.

“Like I said, I can take it back down. It isn’t a big deal.”

“What?” Your gaze snaps to him. “No, it’s not…it’s perfect. I was just thinking,” you murmur.

His eyebrows lift slightly. “What are you thinking about?”

Since you came to Oceanside three months ago, you and Andrew have taken things relatively slow in your relationship, aside from the obvious of living under the same roof.

Things started in such an unexpected and unconventional way, but once you got here, your newfound dynamic was able to settle with a sense of normalcy. You may have met in a strip club, killed your boss together, and had your first kiss all in a week’s time, but Andrew still took you out on a proper first date and has been nothing but patient with letting the relationship progress at a pace that you’re comfortable with - physically, mentally, and emotionally - while processing everything that you’ve been through in the last few years and starting your life over at the same time.

Never, in a million years, would you have expected such beauty to come from such trauma, but it did. Because of him, it did. He was the light waiting for you on the other side of the darkness.

You shrug, grinning softly. “About how much I love you.”

Andrew’s hazel eyes widen in surprise. It’s the first time you have said those three words aloud. It’s not the first time you have thought them, but it is the first time you have verbalized them.

After the initial shock fades from his face, it’s replaced with the grin that you’ve fallen in love with waking up to every morning. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance between you by taking your face in his hands and slotting his lips against yours. Your arms instinctively wrap around his thick torso, melting into his embrace as he kisses you in a way that is both familiar and takes your breath away.

He murmurs the next words out of his mouth against yours in between kisses, his voice low and sincere.

“I love you very much.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

thank you SOOOO much if you read to the end of this!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated and will make me love you forever.

your legs are wrapped around his waist, his arms cuddling you to him as he walks to his room. laying you on his cozy full sized bed; he’s been meaning to go up a size, but if he’s honest, he likes that you have to basically sleep on top of him when you sleep over. he places a palm on your belly, fingers sprawling against your torso as he catches his breath.

moving to sit up, you reach for him petulantly. but andrew shakes his head “n-no. no. wanna look at you. please-wanna… gotta see you first.” falling to his knees and kissing yours. he nuzzles into your thigh, calloused thumb rubbing against the soft, sensitive, untouched skin behind your calf and under your knee.

andrew inhales, having to stop his tongue from lulling out and drooling on you. kissing the center of your cotton panties, he licks over the fabric until his tongue burns with irritation. doesn’t bother him, never could.

after peeling your panties off you, taking his hands from off of the bedroom floor to aid you, he returns back to his knees. a sudden clap of skin reverberates, andrew yanking you closer to him— eye level to your weeping cunt.

his tender green eyes flicker across her, puffy and cute in the warm light of his house. andrew’s trying to steady his breathing, but he’s a bull in a china shop; traipsing through getting you naked while desperately fighting every instinct to tear you apart with his teeth.

you whine as his thumbs move to your lips, spreading you open for him & the cold, air conditioned air. andrew’s eyes shimmer, with tears or want, who knows? either way, he pouting, the tiniest pool of saliva forming on his inner lip. he squishes your lips together, an experimental pinch to put pressure on your clit.

“oh my- oh, andrew-” “she’s so pretty.. like her so much”

he’s entranced as he responds, sitting up on his knees in focus. he swirls his tongue in his mouth, breath still coming in hard as he watches you writhe. moving his right hand back to the floor, he pushes down on his cock, trying to mirror the earlier sensation he gave you. his left thumb moves to the hood of your cunt & his mouth fills with water again at the sight of your clit trembling.

“oh, hi, baby.” he whispers, more to her than you. pressing his palm down harder on his thick cock, andrew’s breathing turns shaky as he eyes you.

your hips buck up impatiently, the room feeling entirely too hot and personal. a sudden weight across your lower tummy stops you, “p-please. just a few more minutes, bun, okay?”

nodding, you lay back down, hands covering your eyes so you don’t cry– you’ve never wanted him this badly. he returns to your cunt, pressing his thumb up and down over the hood, moving the skin to hear you whine and watch your toes clench.

he sits back on his haunches, hands pressing your thighs to spread wider. you think that if he had stirrups he’d make you use them. but his hands are on his lap, just looking, eyes flickering back and forth, back and forth. he kisses your thighs, nuzzling his nose against them before speaking, almost to himself, “just love her so much. wanna stay here all the time.”

again his thumb pulls back the skin of your cunt, clit swollen and throbbing under his stare. from above, andrew rolls his tongue before dishing out a long glob of spit. he lets it glide down your clit, and you kick your legs in anticipation, subtly crying “andyyyy”

for a moment his eyes meet yours, a brief, romantic moment. he palms at himself, slack jawed as he watches your chest heave. but the moment ends very quickly once he catches sight of his bubbly saliva melting onto your pussy.

diving forward, he whines into you. andrew’s hands return to the floor, fists pushing down onto the hardwood to ground himself as his eyes flutter shut. swirling the glob of spit in his mouth, andrew circles your bud with his tongue— slurping it back up, just to pull back and spit on your cunt again. his pointer and middle finger framing & pulling you open as he wiggles his head side to side, drowning in you.

andrew breathes deeper, whining himself as his nose nuzzles deeper into your pubes. his face is pressed so tightly to you, there’s nowhere for you to move, really. in between long, thick stripes, he’s pulling back, again speaking to himself before diving right back in.

“oh my god. oh my- god, oh god.”

his right hand holds your ankle, teeth nipping at your lips before his tongue sloppily licks you from hole to clit.

wedging his face further into you, if even possible, you feel his tongue prod past your entrance– desperate, reaching motions.

it’s messy, a mix of andrew’s spit and your essence. his fingers move down to run over your manicured toes as he tilts his head to rest on your thigh, tongue never disconnecting once as he breaths through his nose.

the feeling of your foot clenching at his devotion sends him over the age. cumming untouched, andrew surges forward, a loud “fuck!” crawling out of his chest.

but he doesn’t stop, just keeps devouring you. slurping and gulping and taking breaths as he rubs his tongue raw amidst the squelching. moaning into you like he’s overstimulated.

“i-i love you. love your pretty pussy, oh- oh my god you’re so good, she’s so good.”

leaning back on his haunches, he thumbs at your clit as you thrash. his arm is planted across the pudgy flesh of your lil tummy as he speaks. figure 8s, red cheeks and a wet chin, he licks his lips.