welcome to the tornado zone🌪️

You get the sense he still feels guilty for that, with the way he’s so eager to please. After you’d finished filming, he’d cooked you dinner to celebrate. It’s probably the single nicest evening you’ve ever had in your entire life - perched on the counter and drinking red wine, while Andrew bustled around you, pausing occasionally to peck your lips.

It’s funny. Ever since your first kiss on camera, it’s like a dam has been broken - you’re greeted with a kiss, pulled onto his lap for kisses, put to bed with a kiss. You figure this must just be the lifestyle. That people in porn must get closer than normal colleagues, to the point where sometimes it feels like you’re in a relationship.

Except for one thing.

You and Andrew haven’t fucked since filming. Whenever you’d expect the breathless kissing to progress to actual sex, one of you will always find an excuse to pull back. Whether it’s flipping a record, or making sure the pancakes don’t burn, there’s always a reason to extract yourself before you get in too deep.

On his end, you wonder if he likes to save it for the camera - make sure the chemistry isn’t wasted on the privacy of his own bedroom.

On your end, you simply like spending time with him in a non-sexual capacity, as much as you like the sex. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt so listened to, from anybody, much less a man.

But Andrew never raises his voice, or dismisses anything that comes out of your mouth.

He’s quiet, yes, but whenever he does speak, it’s always with more intention than you’ve ever heard. When he says things, he means them. Well and truly.

He’s nothing like Jim.

Even in instances where it would be sexual with anyone else, he never pushes you. When you’re sitting between his legs in the giant tub in his ensuite, suds covering your shoulders and your nose pressed into Andrew’s neck, he’s content to just kiss and talk.

If he wasn’t so affectionate, you’d worry he wasn’t attracted to you.

Whatever it is, you’ll cross that bridge when you come to it.

Right now, you're just enjoying his company. And trying not to be immensely disturbed at the fact that his mother has watched you have sex with him.

Twice.

“Kid, we have the same last name,” He's pointed out.

“I didn't know that!” You protest. “I've only been calling you Pope or Andy - there were no last names involved.”

“Weren't you wondering why all my brothers are in porn?”

He makes a good point. You've been so caught up in Pope over the last few weeks that you haven't given anything much thought.

Where your brain was once filled with concerns about money, and Jim, and everything in between - now you can focus on music and film, and where you'd like Pope to take you next in LA.

“Thought it was like a genetic thing, I don't know,” You shrug, resting your chin on the edge of the pool as you look up at him through batted eyelashes. “Don't you think that's a little strange?”

He shrugs. “It's just the way it's always been - she likes the business run a certain way.”

The thought makes your skin crawl.

Your own parents aren’t exactly anything to brag about, but you can’t imagine either of them ever sinking to such lows. Your heart aches a little for Andrew. If this is what Smurf is like when her sons are grown and able to think for themselves, what was she like when they were kids?

Scrunching your nose, you try to imagine him as a child. A toddler, and then slightly older. Always with the same mop of curls - a less guarded expression in his earlier years. More joy in his life.

You wonder if he’s always been this solemn, or if life made him that way.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice snaps you out of your daze, and you glance up to see him shifting nervously on the lounger, and you realise that he’s worried. Worried you’re going to call him a freak because of his mother’s actions, or that you’re going to look at him differently.

Maybe he’s worried you’ll leave.

You hate yourself for liking the idea. That he needs you. Wants you around. You can’t imagine he’s this hospitable to other co-workers, but this might just be the Cody way. Flatter girls into signing their lives away.

“Was just thinking about you as a baby,” You hum. “How cute you must have been.”

Immediately, his cheeks are reddening, and he lets out a small scoff. “Wasn’t cute.”

“Oh, I’m sure you were.”

He leans forward a little, chin resting on his palm, and you take the opportunity to splash water up at him. “Minx.”

Your smile just widens. “You gonna do something about it?”

When he reaches for the buttons on his shirt, you know you’ve won. Clothing is discarded, and suddenly, the Hollywood sign is the second most impressive sight before your eyes. He deliberately cannonballs, trying to soak you with as much water as possible. Letting out a shriek, you reach out for the green tiles at the edge of the pool to keep you upright.

It doesn’t matter, because as soon as he surfaces, Andrew’s arms are wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the planes of his abs, hard against the soft of your stomach, and bite your lip.

It’s not fair, how somebody so kind and lovely also gets to be the most attractive man you’ve ever seen in your life. If Andrew is lacking in any area, you haven’t found it yet.

His nose brushes against yours, and you find yourself chasing the movement until your lips meet his.

It’s needy on both ends - your hands immediately tangling in his hair, his grip tightening on you. He’s all too easy to get lost in, and you don’t even register him walking you backwards towards the shallow edge of the pool, and the bench that stretches across.

A blink and a twist, and suddenly you're braced across his lap, head dipped to kiss him.

His hands are almost hesitant at first.

“It's okay, Andy,” You breathe. “You can touch me however you want.”

You know him well enough by now that it's not going to lead to sex, but he does allow his hands to drop a little lower, kneading at the flesh of your ass. You gasp, the sound immediately swallowed by his lips as you arch into each movement.

“Pope? You here?”

Like teenagers caught in the back of their parents’ truck, the two of you leap apart, as a man pushes through the gate into the backyard. You’ve never met him, but you know immediately from the smattering of family photos in the house that this is Deran, Pope’s youngest brother. His favourite too, from the looks of things, after his twin.

“Oh, shit - didn’t know you had company.”

“S’fine,” Pope shakes his head, but he moves away from you a little anyway. “What’s up, man?”

“My engine’s busted - thought you could take a look while I go see a friend down the road.” Deran’s eyes drift towards you, and he nods. “You’re Smurf’s new hire, right? What was it… Bambi?”

“Not by birth… but yeah,” You smile. “It’s nice to meet you - Pope talks about you a lot.”

A glance at Pope and you can see his ears already reddening, while Deran just laughs. “Wish I could say the same, but I’ve hardly seen him the past month. Figure you must be why.”

You think back to first meeting Andrew up at Oceanside Headquarters. You really haven’t been apart much since then. You grocery shop together, you cook together, you shower together - with anybody else you’d feel it was co-dependent. With Andrew something about it feels right.

“Never thought I’d see the day, really,” Deran continues, and you can see Pope tense a little, as if scared of what’s about to come out of his mouth. “He’s not normally so great with the women, y’know?”

“Der-”

“I mean, obviously he’s good at sex. Duh. But girls don’t really tend to dig the whole intense stalker type-”

“Enough,” Pope groans, but Deran pays no mind.

“S’working for you, though, so I guess he’s finally met his match.”

You have to bite back a laugh as the two brothers bicker, hanging back as they head out to the driveway. It’s nice seeing Pope interact with someone who isn’t Smurf. The way he moans and groans at Deran’s teasing, but can’t quite banish the smile from his face entirely.

Brotherhood looks good on him.

Deran never ends up making it to that friend’s house. Instead, he stays for dinner, and gets so drunk on red wine that he starts spilling every embarrassing thing that Andrew’s ever done in his life. Then he drinks two more bottles and promptly passes out in the guest bedroom that’s officially ‘yours’.

It’s yours in all but name.

Pope had made it clear that there were zero strings attached to the roommate situation. That he absolutely didn’t want to pressure you, or make you feel like you had to do anything.

You’d stayed in your own room for approximately an hour before knocking on his door.

He was still awake - unsurprising given his sleeping patterns, or lack thereof.

“Care for some company?” You’d murmured, fingers twisting the silk of your nightgown nervously. Were it not for Pope’s generosity, you’d be sleeping in the same pyjamas you’ve had since you left Texas all those years ago.

His arm is raised immediately, allowing you to slip under the cover and tuck yourself into his side. The waterbed shifts under your weight, pushing you further towards him. “Can’t sleep?”

“Never been that good at it,” He mumbles, chin tilted down towards you.

“Maybe that’s because you’re sleeping on a fucking mattress filled with water - you’ll do your back in before you turn forty.”

“That your way of calling me old?” His fingers dig into your side, tickling lightly, and you squeal.

“Well, if the shoe fits… old man,” You grin.

“Oh, you’re in for it now, honey.”

“Looks like you’re stuck with me tonight,” he comments, closing the door to the guest room behind him. You can still hear Deran’s snores through the oak door. You choose not to comment on the fact that there are multiple other bedrooms in the house, and simply slip your arm through Pope’s, and let him lead you to that godforsaken waterbed.

*****

The cool metal of the gun in his dresser hasn’t touched Pope’s temple in over two months now.

Pope feels a little silly attributing it all to you, but he’s not sure there’s anything else in this city that’s worth one second of eye contact with you. It’s beyond ridiculous - he’s known you for all of two months. Most people would consider you basically strangers. And yet, Pope’s never felt like this before in his life.

So wanted.

So understood.

So needed.

He tells himself that he was never serious about killing himself - easy to do with hindsight. But your presence has clouded it all. Given him rose-coloured glasses that cover up the worst of sins.

The morning sun cuts through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the living room, baking the orange velvet sofa and casting sharp shadows across the stone fireplace. Outside, the valley stretches out under a layer of golden smog, but up here, tucked into the hills, the air smells like chlorine and an expensive French perfume he bought for you last week.

Pope stands by the wood-grained stereo console, a silk robe loosely tied at his waist, flipping through a stack of vinyl. Two months ago, this house was a mausoleum. A place for sleeping and pondering every single decision in his life that’s led him down this path.

The snub-nosed revolver in his dresser drawer used to feel like the only logical conclusion to a house this empty.

You pad out of the kitchen barefoot, wearing nothing but one of his oversized linen shirts, unbuttoned halfway down. You set two glasses of orange juice on the low teak coffee table, right next to a glossy industry trade magazine with your face on the cover. A recent development, after your overnight fame.

With the success of the first film, Smurf immediately optioned two more for you both.

One in which he's playing your teacher, offering you some extra credit for a better grade. The other one Smurf branded as a dominatrix flick. Definitely a little out of both of your comfort zones, but Pope would be lying if he said the leather didn't turn him on a little.

However fake, the idea of you telling him what to do, and how to act, had him aching for you all day.

The gossip rags are already trying to figure out who you are - where you came from, and why Pope Cody is breaking career-long rules for you. He keeps an eye on them, occasionally feeding them a couple of misdirects when they start to get close to the truth.

An anonymous tip arrives to tell them that you have a brother living in North Carolina who wants to talk about your new career.

Or your father is a small-town preacher and rural Louisiana, and you’ve been disowned by your entire family.

Whatever the lie, it throws them off the trail for a week or two while they follow it up.

As of yet, they haven’t even been able to crack your real name yet. You’re simply Bambi, in the way that he used to be Pope, before the Cody name became infamous.

Other than that one shoot, you haven’t said a word to anybody. Pope doesn’t want to lecture you, or try to control you, but he hopes it stays that way. Last thing you need is your ex finding you somehow.

It’s taken you a while to open up to him about Jim. He’s no stranger to deep dark secrets himself, and he’d figured you’d come to him when you were ready. That time came after a panic attack on Hollywood Boulevard when a man with shaggy brown hair had passed you both.

Turns out, your ex is a real piece of shit.

Pope has half a mind to try and track him down, put you at ease once and for all. If it wouldn’t take him away from you, he thinks he might.

In return, he’d opened up about Julia - for the first time since she left.

How he worries about her, even though she’s always been more than capable. That he doesn’t like the hippie scene up in San Francisco, in case she falls in with the wrong crowd.

That she’s smart, but easily swayed.

Pope’s never been a huge talker, but it all comes pouring out with you.

"The director called about the Malibu shoot next week," You say, leaning against the back of the sofa, watching him. "The pay would be enough for a deposit on that apartment in West Hollywood."

Pope stops shuffling the records. His back stiffens slightly under the silk. He doesn't look around, but his hand hovers over the turntable. The thought of this house returning to its default state - just him, the canyon wind, and the cold metal in his bedroom - makes his chest tighten.

At Smurf’s behest, he’s taken you to look at a couple of places - he knows that she doesn’t approve of you both shacking up together.

Apparently, everyone else is allowed to mix business and pleasure except him.

"No rush," he says, his voice low and gravelly. He finally turns, his eyes locking onto yours. "The traffic down there is miserable anyway. Stay here. The drive to the studio is easier.”

You let out a soft, knowing laugh, stepping around the couch until you’re standing right in front of him. You reach up, your fingers tracing the gold cross resting against his chest, sliding slowly down to the tie of his robe. “Sap.”

You pull back the fabric a little, allowing your hands to drop down to his abdomen, following the outline of each muscle ridge. His eyes flutter closed as he tries to focus on the sensations, the way your nails lightly rake against his skin.

“Take me out dancing tonight?”

Your voice is quiet, but Pope’s tuned to its exact frequency - he’s sure he could hear you at a whisper in the loudest of rooms.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

*****

Pope settles into the role of bodyguard easily. Nobody asks him to - least of all you - but he can't help it.

Now that the first movie is out, and a success of epic proportions, he's noticed that people recognise you on the street now.

The shift started the night your name hit the marquee at the Pussycat Theatre on Santa Monica Boulevard. Now, you’re a bona fide star, and one half of the porn industry’s current favourite couple.

When you walk into Chasen’s or the louder, sweatier clubs off the Strip, Andrew constantly positions himself exactly half a step behind your left shoulder wherever you go. He doesn't ask for permission, and you never tell him to back off.

Even if he wasn’t here with you, he doesn’t think he’d be able to keep his eyes off of you.

You’re wearing a new gown - courtesy of a tailor on Rodeo Drive. One of the few things you haven’t let Pope pay for, you had wanted it to be a surprise. The turquoise silk shimmers against your skin, catching the light every time you move.

The neckline wraps around your throat, leaving your shoulders bare, and when you turn, the whole of your back is on display under the sparkling of the disco ball. The slit sits high on your thigh, leaving Pope’s throat dry each time he looks at you.

You’re moving to the rhythm before you even reach the edge of the floor, your hips swaying under the strobe lights, looking back at Pope with an inviting tilt of your head.

“I need a drink before I can dance, sweetheart,” He replies, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles.

“Well, you know where to find me when you’re sufficiently drunk,” You grin back.

Pope stands near the perimeter, a Scotch in hand, his dark eyes tracking the room. He hates the dance floor. He hates the heat of it, the unpredictability of a hundred moving bodies, and the way the flashing lights mess with his peripheral vision. He’s a man who likes his back against a solid wall and his hands free.

Pope watches the room like a hawk over a canyon. He filters the stares instantly. There are the married men in leisure suits, their eyes darting from their wives' faces to your legs before guilt clouds their features. They shouldn’t recognise you. They would never embarrass themselves by approaching.

There are young guys trying to look older than they are, elbows on the bar, whispering to each other because they're too nervous to approach. A producer he recognises from one of the studios, all gold chains and expensive cologne, lingering a little too long with his drink halfway to his mouth.

Also not a concern.

The group in the corner, however. Pope is keeping a close eye on them. There are three of them, each sleazier and more oiled up than the last. They also all appear to have companions, but it hasn’t stopped the leader from eyeing you up like you’re a meal at Musso and Frank’s.

His fingers tighten almost absently around the glass.

You, meanwhile, haven't noticed a thing.

You're laughing with a group near the centre of the floor, head tipped back, one hand wrapped around another girl’s as she spins you beneath the lights.

A song passes, and Pope is just about to join you when the guy starts to move, cutting across the floor. He doesn't hesitate. He sets his glass down on a passing waitress's tray without looking and steps into the fray.

He cuts through the crowd like a knife through water, his broad shoulders easily parting the dancing bodies. Just as the guy with the greased hair reaches out a hand to tap your shoulder, Pope slides smoothly into the space between you.

He doesn't look at the guy - doesn't give him the satisfaction of eye contact. Instead, Pope fixes his gaze entirely on you. He doesn't dance the way the younger crowd does; his movements are minimal, a slow, heavy sway of his hips that keeps him anchored right in your personal space.

"You just couldn't stay still, could you?" he grumbles, though his voice is thick, completely devoid of real anger. He’s not going to let a few creeps deprive you of your fun.

“Nice of you to join me,” is your only response as you turn your front round towards him. You slide your hands up his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid thud of his heartbeat under the dark silk shirt. You lean your weight fully against him, your hips rolling slowly against his to the thick drag of the bass.

Pope lets out a low, ragged breath against your ear. His reservations about the crowded room completely dissolve, and the world shrinks down to the two of you. His hands shift from your waist, one sliding down to cup the curve of your hip, anchoring you hard against him, while the other trails up your spine. His calloused fingers tangle directly into the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back.

"You're driving me crazy," he mutters, his voice a rough growl almost entirely drowned out by the music.

He doesn't wait for an answer. He leans down and catches your mouth with his.

The kiss is heavy, wet, and utterly possessive, tasting of the Scotch on his tongue. If you were anywhere else in the world, it would be an obscene display of affection. In Los Angeles? You’re no different to all the other dreamers and fame-fuckers.

As each song passes, you both grow closer on the dance floor, before finally it’s too much to bear.

“Let’s get out of here,” You urge, Pope grabbing your hand before the words fully leave your mouth.

The midnight air on Sunset Boulevard hits you both like a splash of cold water, though it does nothing to cool the slick heat on your skin. Pope keeps his arm wrapped tightly around your waist as he guides you toward the dark curb, his stride long and purposeful.

As Pope digs the keys out of his pocket, you lean against the passenger door of the Mustang, looking at him through the amber tint of your sunglasses. His eyes dart down to your mouth, his jaw clamped tight with the effort of restraint.

Then he unlocks the door, and the mood snaps.

As you slide into the plush leather interior, the immediate, heavy hunger evaporates, replaced by a sudden stillness. Pope gets behind the wheel, but he doesn't reach for you. He doesn't turn the key right away either. He just sits there in the dim dashboard light, his hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

“Why don’t we have sex outside of work?” You finally ask, lip between your teeth as you stare at your lap. “Is it… is it something that I’m doing? Because you kiss me, a-and let me sleep in your bed, and I just don’t know-”

When he finally releases the steering wheel, his hand hovers in the empty space between the seats before dropping onto your thigh, fingers tapping lightly.

"It's not you," he says quietly. "Jesus, it's not you at all. Don't ever think that.”

You shake your head, suddenly feeling ridiculous. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

“S’not your fault - it’s a reasonable thing to ask,” He insists, rubbing at his neck. "I spend all day performing a script. Then the cameras stop, and I have to figure out how to act like a normal human being again. If we go home and have sex right now, and I just... rush into it? I'm terrified I'll go on autopilot. I'm terrified I'll treat you like work. I don’t ever want it to feel like that with you.”

Without realising, a tear leaks down your cheek, and Andrew catches it with his thumb.

“Sometimes I feel such a physical want for you that it terrifies me,” he continues. “I just… I don’t know how to navigate this. I don’t want to fuck it all up.”

“Oh, Andrew,” You murmur, reaching out to cup his cheek. “You could never.”

He lets out a humourless snort. If only you knew the myriad of ways in which Andrew has the capacity to screw things up. “I’m not exactly a catch.”

You hum slightly. “Mhm, agree to disagree. Because from my angle, you took me in, showed me the ropes, and have been protecting me for the last six weeks. Any girl would be lucky to have you. I don’t know how this thing works either, but I want to figure it out. With you. And if that means no sex outside of work, then so be it. I’d much rather your company than your body.”

You swallow. It’s clear he’s not fully convinced by your words. Trying another tactic, you speak again. “Take me up to Griffith?”

He shifts the Mustang into drive and pulls away from the neon glare of the Strip. Instead of turning toward the winding roads of Laurel Canyon, he steers the heavy car east, toward the dark, rising shadow of the Hollywood Hills.

You reach for the radio, flipping it on to the first station you find. A guitar wafts through the speakers, and you allow yourself to settle into Pope’s side.

Childhood living is easy to do

The things you wanted I bought them for you

Graceless lady you know who I am

You know I can't let you slide through my hands

“Oh man, I fucking love this song,” You hum quietly, eyes closing, as you focus on the wind whipping against your skin. You miss the way Pope glances over at you, expression fond. You look like a born-and-bred Angelino now - like your parents’ parents were called West during the Great Depression by the promise of the American Dream, and have lived here ever since.

You haven’t even changed all that much.

Sure, you wear nicer clothes now. A couple bought with your own money, but most of it on Andrew’s dime.

He doesn’t mind.

He has more money than he could spend in a lifetime, and he likes taking you shopping. He likes watching you try on mini-dress after mini-dress, pairing with shawls and shoes before sheepishly picking out just one. Despite his insistence that he knows you’re not using him for money, you still obviously have a complex about it.

It takes considerable convincing before you end up leaving with bags and bags full. One time you joked about Andrew having his own complex - something along the lines of him getting off on being a sugar daddy. He shrugged you off at the time, but he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t some truth to it.

He’s always liked providing.

For his mom as a teenager, before Oceanside Videos was even a thought in Smurf Cody’s mind. He used to steal from local stores, just to put food on the table. When she was too coked out to function, or off with another one of her boyfriends.

He could go without food, but he didn’t like seeing Julia, or Deran, or Craig go hungry.

There had been a while, when the twins were nineteen, and they’d tried to make it on their own. Pope did most of the providing on that front, too. Julia, while desperate to escape from Smurf’s clutches, was ultimately more interested in drugs and partying than trying to build a life for themselves.

They were back in LA after a particularly nasty incident in the Haight-Ashbury area of San Francisco - Julia had gotten on the wrong side of a group of bikers, and they’d had to hightail it out of there, before she incurred the wrath of their leader.

Now, she’s back living there, and Pope has no idea what kind of life she’s living.

After her last experiences in San Francisco - and the recent happenings with Charles Manson and his crew, he’s perfectly happy to stay in his heavily fortified mansion. It’s one of his justifications for the gun by his bedside.

He’s a complex guy.

One day, he wants to blow his brains out, and the next, he needs the pistol to protect himself from any hippie freaks.

Over the years, he’s had various girlfriends living in the house, though none for more than a few months.

The sex issue has always been the final nail in the coffin. They think he’s too intense, or too moody, and when he won’t even put out, there’s no point to staying.

The house and glamour keeps them going for a few months, and then they move on.

Until you.

Wild horses couldn't drag me away

Wild, wild horses, couldn't drag me away

“You know - everybody said they peaked with Let It Bleed, and that they were gonna sell out in the seventies, but I think Sticky Fingers is their best yet.”

Pope’s not sure who everybody is in this scenario, but he nods anyway. If he’s being honest, he does think that Let It Bleed is their magnum opus, but he’s not about to disagree with you.

The drive up to Griffith Park is silent and cool. The windows are rolled down, letting the scent of eucalyptus and dry brush fill the front seat, washing away the smell of the club's smoky aroma. Pope drives with one hand on the wheel and the other tracing patterns onto your skin.

I watched you suffer a dull aching pain

Now you decided to show me the same

No sweeping exits or offstage lines

Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind

Up here, high above the glowing grid of Los Angeles, he pulls into an empty scenic overlook beside the Observatory. The city below twinkles gently, a complete juxtaposition from the chaos that’s probably erupting on Hollywood and Sunset right now.

Pope turns off the engine, leaving only the faint ticking of the cooling radiator. He shifts in his seat to face you, draping his arm casually over the back of your headrest, his fingers just lightly brushing the ends of your hair. There’s no rush anymore.

“I think you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Definitely not true.”

You look out across the plains of the Observatory - Pope has brought you up here once before, but it was full of tourists, trying desperately to pose like James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause. Tonight, it’s just the two of you.

When the clubs and bars are open, nobody cares for the Hills.

I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie

I have my freedom but I don't have much time

Faith has been broken, tears must be cried

Let's do some living after we die

“I don’t think wild horses could drag me away from this moment,” You mumble, almost absentmindedly. “Not sure anything could.”

When Pope swallows, he’s more than a little bothered when he finds a lump in his throat.

You’re still tipsy, and Pope’s not convinced you’ll remember everything tomorrow morning, but it feels like the most intimate thing you possibly could have said.

"You're a terrible drunk," he says, though there’s no bite to it. His voice is barely a whisper, thick and rough around the edges. "Saying shit like that when you won't even remember it.”

“M’not drunk,” You insist. “Not enough that I don’t know what I’m sayin’.”

He doesn’t argue, but the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. "Yeah?" he murmurs, his thumb dropping to trace the curve of your bottom lip. Instinctively, your lips part and you press a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb. "We'll see how much you back up that mouth when the sun comes up."

You let out an indignant huff, leaning heavily into his touch. The room is spinning just a fraction, the warm weight of the tequila still thrumming under your skin, but there’s nowhere you’d rather be. "Don't play with me, sweet girl," he whispers. "I might just hold you to that.”

*****

“What's up with the two of you, man? You fuckin’ her off-screen?” Baz asks, arms folded. Having missed the past few family dinners due to commitments with you, Pope finally acquiesced to Smurf’s incessant invitations.

He didn’t bring you, because he knew exactly what this was going to be.

Pope realises how much it's going to sound like a lie when he denies, but he shakes his head anyway. They already know you're living with him - his brothers wouldn't be able to fathom the idea of spending so much time with somebody and not being intimate like that. “We're just…”

He trails off, unsure if there’s a word that can properly encapsulate what you and Pope have become to one another over the past three months. Co-workers isn’t right. Lovers gets closer, but it still doesn’t quite get it. The two of you aren’t sleeping together - you will when the time is right.

Somehow, whatever the two of you are feels so much deeper than everything.

“I like her. That’s it.” He finally finishes weakly.

“You like her?” Baz replies, almost a mocking tone. “What are you - twelve?”

“Shut up,” Andrew growls. The last thing he wants is to get into this in front of Smurf. He’s already suspicious about her intentions with you - as much as he hates it, his relationship with you is only going to cause harm down the line.

“You can’t be monogamous in porn. It’s an oxymoron. The girl takes dick for a living on camera, and you’re sitting over there writing her poetry in your head?”

Pope’s jaw tightens so hard a muscle leaps in his cheek. He keeps his eyes fixed on the condensation pooling at the base of Baz's glass, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans so nobody can see them curling into fists.

“It’s not like that,” Pope mutters, his voice dropping an octave, thick and dangerous. The kind of tone that makes most people drop their train of thought. Baz, however, keeps barrelling onwards.

“Then what is it?” Baz pushes, dropping the smirk, his eyes narrowing as he tries to read the unreadable mask of his brother's face. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re missing jobs, you’re skipping dinners with Smurf, and you’re playing with a girl you claim you aren't even laying pipe in. If you aren't fucking her off-screen, and she’s going to be fucking other guys on screen, what the hell are you doing? You’re running guard dog for a chick who belongs to the studio.”

Pope’s chair scrapes loudly against the linoleum as he stands - in a split second, he crosses the kitchen, stopping inches from Baz’s face. "Say it again," He breathes, his voice barely a rasp, his pupils completely blown out. "Say one more word about her.”

Baz doesn't back down, stepping off the counter to square his shoulders, though his hand tightens instinctively around his glass. "I'm just telling you the truth, man. You're losing your head over a fucking whor-”

Before the word can leave Baz's mouth, Pope lunges, his hand gripping the collar of his shirt, slamming him hard against the wooden cabinets.

“Boys!”

Both Baz and Pope freeze as Smurf appears in the doorway to the kitchen, wine glass in her hand. "Andrew. Let him go," she says softly, walking over to place a delicate, manicured hand on Pope’s trembling arm. "Right now."

Pope’s breathing is ragged, his gaze boring into Baz’s smirking face for three agonising seconds before he tears his hands away. He shoves past Smurf, the front door slamming so hard behind him that the glass panes vibrate in their frames.

Baz exhales a heavy breath, his fingers smoothing down the wrinkled denim of his collar where Pope had pinned him. He looks over at Smurf, his brow furrowing as he watches her calmly wipe a stray splatter of marinara sauce off the tiled counter. “What are we gonna do about this?”

“What do you mean, baby?”

“I mean, Pope is even more fucked in the head than usual. He’s in love with her.”

“Oh, Baz,” she coos, her voice like velvet. “Andrew doesn’t know the first thing about love. He’s a boy who found a shiny new toy, that’s all.”

“It’s not just a toy, Smurf,” Baz says, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a low hiss. “He’s playing house, and he’s not even sleeping with her off-camera. It’s psychological. He’s putting a contract girl on a pedestal.”

Smurf’s eyes narrow, the warmth evaporating from her face. “Andrew doesn’t put anyone above me. He knows who he is, even if he’s lost his way right now.”

“She’s dangerous,” Baz insists. “And he’ll absolutely lose his shit when she has to film with other people.”

“Maybe that’s just what we need,” Smurf hums. “Give them a taster of how things are going to be from now on. I’m sure Craig would appreciate some fresh meat. I did tell him I’d find a girl for some of the more… intense bondage scenes.”

****

You’re barely awake when Pope dips his head to press a kiss to your cheek. “M’just going to pick up one of Craig’s bikes that needs fixed up, okay? Should be back within the hour.”

You hum in acknowledgment so that he knows you can hear him, but bury your face further into the silk of his pillow. “Too early,” You mumble.

“I know, sweet girl - you just go back to sleep, and we can stay in and lounge the rest of the day. Don't let the fire go out," he murmurs, his voice a rough, gravelly rasp that sends a pleasant shiver straight down your spine. "I'll bring back those pastries you like from the bakery on the corner."

You offer a weak, blind swat at his shoulder in response, your eyelids too heavy to even consider cracking open. "You're bribing me."

"Is it working?"

"Yes," you sigh, already drifting back under the surface of sleep as his weight lifts from the edge of the waterbed. The bed feels instantly colder without him, but the promise of a quiet day is enough keep you content until his return.

You hear the rhythmic sounds of his morning routine: the low rustle of him pulling on a clean shirt, the metallic jingle of his keys being lifted from the dresser, and the quiet thud of his boots on the hardwood. Right as his footsteps start to quieten, as he walks towards the front door, you call out again. “Andy?”

“Yeah?”

“Kiss ‘fore you go.”

He lets out a chuckle as he steps back into the bedroom, dropping down to your level. His lips are soft against your skin, his thumb brushing over your jawline to tilt your head up just enough to catch your lips in a slow, sleepy kiss. “See you soon. Oh, and I forgot to tell you - Maria is bringing the groceries up in a bit. She’s got her own key, so don't jump if you hear the front door. Just stay in bed. She knows the drill."

You mumble something that sounds vaguely like an agreement, shifting until you're completely buried beneath the heavy quilt. The front door clicks shut, the deadbolt turning from the outside, and you hear the faint sounds of Andrew’s truck starting.

An hour drifts by in a hazy, warm blur of half-dreams and the smell of Pope’s cologne lingering on the sheets.

The sudden, sharp rap of knuckles against wood shatters the silence.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You blink against the bright sun filtering through the blinds as you throw off the duvet. You figure Maria must have her hands too full with paper bags to reach into her purse for the key. You pull on a pair of Pope’s boxers and reach for a shirt, before padding across the hardwood floor into the living room.

"Coming!" you call out, twisting the lock and pulling the heavy wood door inward.

The words die in your throat.

It isn't Maria. Standing on the doormat, aviators tucked into the pocket of his faded denim vest and a cigarette burning down between his fingers, is Jim.

taglist (pope cody)

You never thought it’d hit you like this until it does. Baby fever à la max. Even the word ‘fever’ undersells it—the feeling that overtakes you is like a blazing inferno, burning away every other want or desire apart from the one currently tearing you asunder. 

It’s all you can think about from that point on. Babies, babies, babies. The milky smell of their heads, the flexible cartilage of their noses, their pudgy, wrinkly yawns and soft sighs. You make excuses to visit, offering to babysit whenever they look like they could use a night out, your agenda so transparent that anyone with eyes could see it. 

All you can think when you look at them is that your life has been looking a lot like a house of cards these days: all style and no substance. 

They get in your head, alright. That ominous they; not a specific person or group, just a nebulous, widespread opinion permeating far too many corners of your world. All that fearmongering about babymaking windows and that talk of rapidly vanishing fecundity—your eyes nearly bulge out of your head when you come across a TikTok of a thirty-six year old calling her eggs geriatric—and by the end of it, you swear you can hear your biological clock booming between your ears, one swinging gong after another. 

You’re able to keep the beast at bay for a bit by tricking yourself into thinking that it’s just in your head. Just one of those things. You’re getting older—of course at some point you’d start to worry about the things you never got a chance to do. FOMO. Regrets blooming into full-blown crises. It’s only natural that it would start to get to you eventually. 

Trying to convince yourself of that is not enough to shake the damn urgency from your blood though. You’re like a dog with a bone, too many late nights spent scrolling through parenting forums and conception tips, neither of which are of much use to you as a childless, partnerless person not currently trying for a baby. What does it matter to you if smoking reduces your chances of getting pregnant by forty percent? You don’t even smoke. 

You might actually want to have a baby though. Mindblowing after all this time, to think that maybe it wasn’t just a fleeting fancy. 

Mindblowing, then abruptly terrifying. 

Your present situation is a bit dire. It’s been several years since you last had a partner, none you ever would’ve ever considered having a baby with. Absurd—worse than absurd even. And despite everything, despite the self-imposed countdown ticking away in your head and the stress causing your spine to curl in a half-inch more every single day, you are, thankfully, not desperate enough to reach out to any of them. 

So you try. For a short period of time, you make a real, concerted effort to find a partner, going on three dates in a week, each more appalling than the last. It’s the last one that breaks you, your date not only unbearably dismissive to the waitstaff but also entirely uninterested in discussing anything about your life, completely preoccupied with recounting the minutiae of his own life story. 

A swing and a miss. You made an effort at least, put yourself out there. Tried to do things the old-fashioned way. 

It’s the twenty-first century though, for goodness’ sakes; there are more ways to start a family than just the tried-and-true method. 

And that’s how you wind up here, at a fertility clinic on a Tuesday afternoon, PTO plugged into your work calendar with a secretive little “Appointment” reason left for being out of office. It’s no office-busybody’s business though. They don’t need to know about the increasingly debilitating need to have a baby that’s been overtaking you these past few months. 

It would clear a lot of things up, but it still isn’t anyone’s business.

The waiting room is a simple, unadorned roost of a room, the walls lined with plastic eggshell-like chairs for all the eggs soon to be hatched. An oddly sterile space for the purpose it serves. It would be a little uncomfortable if it weren’t like every other waiting room in existence, minus any snivelling sick people.

There are other people besides you. Or rather, there were people. People that have already come and gone, not quite so anxious as to turn up an hour early for their two o’clock appointment, their stomachs grumbling from skipping lunch. 

And so after the third couple goes in for their appointment with the specialist, you’re left on your own for a bit until a new person walks in. 

A man this time, all by his lonesome. 

And boy is he a specimen so fine that you can’t help but hope that he’s come to make a deposit. If they let you pick your donor based on build and gait alone, you think you’d have your man right here. You can barely drag your eyes away from him, glued to the rounded muscle of his back, gliding over the curve of his shoulders and up the thick of his neck.

After a brief conversation with the receptionist to check in, he drums his fingers across the counter and takes a seat on one of the little egg chairs along the wall facing yours. 

Where he then proceeds to lift his head and lock eyes with you. 

In retrospect, you wish you could describe it as a magical moment, but in reality, you just freeze in place, embarrassed at being caught staring. He’s a decently handsome enough man to be good fodder for any later self-care. Square-jawed and bearded.

Good hairline for his age, which you don’t want to take a crack at guessing, but if you had to, it would have to be somewhere around his mid-forties. Maybe late. But it touches him in just the right way, evident in the lines on his forehead and the pull of the skin around his eyes, his beard just ever so slightly flecked with the barest hints of grey. 

The writing on the threadbare shirt he has on, almost hidden beneath the plaid shirt layered over it, is barely legible after countless washes. You can almost see straight through it. If you pinched the fabric between your fingers, you think your nails would poke right through. You could rip it right off him, get a better look at the dense pecs that you can just barely make out through his shirt.

You swallow, that thought catching you off guard. 

Despite your own embarrassment, his gaze holds steady. Some people aren’t born with shame as a built-in foghorn. Some people look out into the world and genuinely believe it is theirs to conquer, raised on a diet of self-confidence and boldness, free-range audacity. 

He’s bold enough, in fact, to rise to his feet and cross to the other side of the waiting room, taking a seat right beside you. He sits down beside you like you're old friends, like there's nothing strange about a man sitting beside a veritable stranger in a completely empty room.

It’s such a bold move that you don’t even know what to say at first, head turned towards him in the chair next to you now with some dumb expression on your face, gobsmacked.

“Can I help you?” you hear yourself ask, years of socialization coming to the rescue. Thank god the gears start turning in your head after that brief second of bewilderment. 

“Not at all.” And what a voice too, as if his looks weren’t enough. All unintentional deep-chested purr, leonine English rumbling out of the depths of him, Northern accent to top it off. “Just thought I might introduce myself. Be polite, seeing as how we’re both here for the same reason.”

Unless he ran ahead of a wife still on her way up the elevator, you don’t think that’s the case. You glance around him just to double check the door. “Are we?”

“Maybe a pick-up instead of a drop-off in your case,” he concedes, a droll little note curled up in his voice. “But that’s not so different when the end result’s the same.”

You swallow and force an awkward smile, ignoring the way your heart speeds up. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, nice to meet you, um, circumstances aside.” You hold out a hand, which he doesn’t hesitate to take.

“Nothing wrong with the circumstances, but pleasure to meet you too, love.”

His palm feels huge around yours, a warm, firm grip that only yields a few moments later when you have to make an effort to pull your hand away, holding on for the fleetingest of seconds, long enough for a spark of anxiety to shoot through your chest. 

You hope that’s the end of it when he finally lets go of your hand. Not because you don’t want to chat up an incredibly attractive stranger, but because you couldn’t imagine the timing being worse. 

He, however, seems to have no qualms with carrying on. “Has it taken yet or are you shopping for donors today?”

It’s a horribly invasive question, but you answer it anyway, all buttoned-up and ginger. “Um. No, I’m just here for a consultation. There’ll probably be a lot of paperwork before, um…before we get started.”

“A lot of nonsense for something I reckon we could get done a lot easier together.”

It doesn’t register until it does. Then you just have to look at him and blink, confused. 

“Excuse me?” you ask. 

He cocks an eyebrow. “I haven’t got this wrong, have I? You said you’re here for a baby?”

“Uh, yes, that’s—that’s what I just said.”

“And I’m here to help someone like you have a baby. Seems like we’d be making both of our lives easier if we just skipped all the red tape and saved you the expense.”

“‘Save me the expense’?” you repeat, stunned. 

“Won’t cost anything the natural way.”

You know what he’s insinuating, but you can’t believe it. You actually can’t believe that this man—a stranger, handsome as he might be, good-looking as he might be, husband-envy-inspiring as he might be—would openly proposition you in the waiting room of a fertility clinic. Offer to get you pregnant ‘the natural way’, as if it were a cold drink on a hot day. A side of fries with your order. 

“I—I’m sorry, but that’s incredibly inappropriate,” you eventually wheeze out. 

That gets a laugh out of him, one of those amused huffs that erupts out of him like a bear flicking a bee off its snout. “Can’t be cagey about this sort of thing, love. You have to be direct when you want to get things done.”

“You do know we’re in public, right?”

“I’d be happy to take this somewhere private.”

The heat under your cheeks might actually result in a physical burn. “I…think I’m going to find somewhere else to sit.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that, love, I’m gonna head out anyway.” A satisfied smile tugs at his mouth. “I think I got what I actually came for.”

Your frown deepens. “You haven’t even been called in yet.”

“Not what I meant.”

Before you can ask what he means, he shifts in his seat, leaning closer to you for just a second, but long enough for your heart to suddenly go wild and your pupils to go big as dinner plates. 

“Here,” he grunts, lifting a hip to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, flicking it open and plucking out a business card. He flips your hand over and puts it down on your palm. “That’s my number. When you’re done here, give me a call. I’m sure we can come up with something better than this.”

He taps the card in your hand with a finger. It ricochets through you, the tap rippling up your arm and chest, nearly rocking you back in your seat. Everything he does must be punctuated with the same echoing weight. 

He nods to you on his way out, a secretive smile on his lips, just the barest hint of a lift that you might’ve missed had you not been staring at his face. All you can do is stare though, still absolutely floored, practically speechless as you watch him leave. 

And then you’re alone again, in an entirely different headspace than when you first sat down. 

“John Price?” the receptionist calls out from behind the desk suddenly, but with the man gone, there’s no one else in the waiting room apart from you. “Mr. John Price?”

You blink, stun-locked. You can’t have been the reason he decided to back out of his appointment at the last minute. He must’ve decided to bail at the last minute before throwing a Hail Mary in an attempt to get laid. 

That has to be it. He wouldn’t leave because of a brief interaction with you. 

The waiting room feels a lot emptier without him now that he’s gone, as if by being made aware of his presence, everything has been indelibly altered. Changed. Slightly less interesting somehow.

You hover somewhere between bewilderment and affront until a flicker of giddiness steals in. Tamp that back down. He's gone, and with him the impossible audacity of what just came out of his mouth. You stare at the door that he just disappeared through, lips parting around a reply you'll never get to deliver, then let out a sharp, disbelieving scoff. The gall. 

And yet, despite yourself, you can't quite smother the giddiness bubbling low in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers curl around the business card in your hand. 

Eventually it’s your turn. You almost miss the sound of your own name until a lady in purple scrubs repeats it, sending you shooting to your feet. You follow her as she leads you down a hall and towards an open office just as clean and spartan as the waiting room. All there is in her office is a desk, a bookshelf, and a mobile ultrasound machine. Practically empty for all intents and purposes.

Ok lady, you think, sitting down across from her, what’s it gonna take to put a baby in me?

“Four thousand dollars,” she says matter-of-factly, the earlier part of your conversation long forgotten after hearing the price. 

That just about knocks all the wind out of you. “Oh,” you bleat, the prospect of ever getting pregnant suddenly a sad and distant dream.

“Per cycle,” she further clarifies, much to your dismay, sliding a couple pamphlets your way. “We’re always hopeful that it’ll take on the first cycle, but we typically see about three to four cycles of IUI before conception occurs.” 

IUI—intrauterine insemination. The sperm they have to shove up inside you to just and knock you up. At four thousand dollars a pop. 

“There’s no…first time discount?”

“Excuse me?”

“Like the, um…like the home buyer’s loan.”

She seems vaguely apologetic when she shakes her head at least, though that doesn’t really ease the sting. “No, unfortunately. Most of our customers are first time parents, so—”

It wouldn’t make much business sense. “Yeah, no, I get it.”

You do your best to pay attention to the rest of the conversation and ask the right questions, but the sticker shock makes it hard to focus. At some point, the consultation must end because she sends you off with a folder full of pamphlets and QR codes to scan, and a follow-up appointment booked two weeks out for a blood test and a pelvic ultrasound.

No music on the drive home, just silence to let the events of the day marinate. 

You know it’s likely just this clinic. It’s not like there aren’t other, probably cheaper clinics. But it’s the principle of the matter, the one factor that you hadn’t considered in this whole endeavour—you’d assumed, obviously, that raising a child in and of itself wouldn’t be cheap, but you hadn't even contemplated that the run-up to actually getting pregnant might be so cost prohibitive. 

If you even get pregnant. You exhale in a rush, the thought hitting you like a sledgehammer. God, you might not even get pregnant. You might go through the whole treatment, waste thousands of dollars, and go half-crazy begging the universe to let you get knocked up, and it might not even take. 

Dinner is a glass of white wine and burrito straight from the freezer, in no mood to cook or clean even a single dish. You should be cutting down on your alcohol consumption in anticipation of fertility treatments, but that’ll be a task for a later, less devastated you. You’ll rinse the hot sauce off your plate when you’re done eating and leave it in the sink for tomorrow morning. 

It’s not how you wanted the day to end. You were hoping to come home invigorated and inspired, already prepping for the next steps in the process. Instead it feels like you’ve taken a massive step back. 

Occasionally you like to look up flights to other countries just to imagine what it might be like to get away from your life for a bit, but the ticket price always brings you back down to reality. 

This isn’t like that though; this isn’t some temporary flight of fancy or some pie in the sky that you’ll spend decades chasing down in your dreams, hoping for just a single bite or even just a whiff. This is something you actually, genuinely want. A baby. Something you can take with you into the future, something you can build your life around.

There’s got to be another way. 

It’s a physical weight in your front pocket. You can feel it now, burning a hole in your hip. When you pull it out, the name John Price is printed on the card in a crisp, typewriter font, his phone number and occupation printed in the same sized font just beneath it. 

You stare at the card long enough for your eyes to go dry. Blink. Breathe out, reluctance giving way to acceptance, as tentative as it might be. It certainly wouldn’t be the strangest thing to ever happen. A fun night with a good-looking man, with the added benefit of getting a baby out of it, no strings attached. Not the most irresponsible decision anyone has ever made. Some people join the army, after all. 

A shiver runs up your spine when you remember the way he worded it though. Sweat on your upper lip that you have to lick off, the salt sinking into the ridges of your tongue. You don’t think he meant turkey basters and plastic cups by getting it done ‘the natural way’. You saw the way he looked at you.  

You could do it for a baby. Let him—and here, you have to squeeze your eyes shut and cover them with your fists—let him do what he has to do to get you pregnant. Cut out the middle man and just let him fit the heavy weight of his body over yours and pry your legs apart to let him sink between your—