Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
1971. Running from a past you're desperate to forget, you find yourself waitressing in the pits of LA's seedy underbelly. When you're offered a gig at Oceanside Videos, making 'adult' films, it feels almost too good to be true.
Maybe it is.
Pope is the first person you meet from that world - one of the biggest names in porn, and completely and utterly elusive. Except to you he seems like an open book. He's kind, thoughtful, and makes you feel alive in ways you thought were no longer possible.
But how can you possibly fall in love in an industry that runs on you both having sex with other people?
warnings: 18+, mdni! this is the most explicit fic i have ever written, minors absolutely do not interact. it also deals with some sensitive and upsetting themes related to the porn industry - if you'd like more specific warnings, please reach out! graphic sex (mostly with pope, but she makes videos with other men too), including unprotected pinv, cunnilingus, blowjobs, use of sex toys, issues with safe-words while filming (not by pope), rough and non-consensual scenes played out in the context of making a porno, domestic violence (not by pope), graphic violence described outwith the domestic violence context, drug use by multiple characters, discussions of overdose, suicidal ideation, age gap (early 20s/mid thirties), time-accurate biases towards sexuality+women, smurf is creepier than canon and micromanages her sons doing porn, pic below is just for vibes and reader is not described w/c: 7.1k
one // two // three
main masterlist // pope masterlist
The revelation that Smurf is Andrew’s mother hits you like a ton of bricks. It comes about a few days after you shoot your first video, when you’re floating in the pool while he tends to the flowerbeds that decorate his backyard. You’re still crashing at his place, even though the five-hundred dollars in your pocket could get you into a studio downtown.
He’d argued that you should save your money so that you can put a deposit down, rather than rent.
No point in giving those scumbag landlords all your cash, he’d said. ‘Sides, I like the company up here.
You certainly had no problem staying in the nicest house you’ve ever seen. Pope had even spoken to Smurf, and asked to get your first film bumped up, all so that the paycheck would hit your account sooner after he got you fired.
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.
“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.
Viv the way the smile dropped from my face, don’t play with my emotions like this PLEASE! Also the ENDING??? I thought it was gonna be Smurf! My stomach literally dropped, like I feel so sick right now , this is gonna be me until part 3:
Pope, on a roadtrip, fluff,with humor and possessiveness trope-you're so golden ☀️ style
I feel like I just ordered a sandwich off the menu
🤣😂
love your stuff!
Hi new reader! This was a great order! I had so much fun with this!!
if we’re talking body, you got a perfect one so put it on me (talking body by tove lo)
Pope hadn’t even touched the beer he’d ordered, he was too busy watching you. Half enamoured, half territorial, Pope’s eyes never lost sight of you spinning around the dance floor. It wasn’t really a dance floor, just some open space next to the ancient jukebox shoved in the corner of the roadside bar.
After a long day of travel, you’d begged Pope to stop at the roadside bar for some skeptical food and stiff drinks before settling in for the night at the motel down the road. Pope had relented almost instantly, he loved you too much to ever say no to you, and had pulled into the parking lot of the bar without a word of protest.
After two drinks you kicked the jukebox to life and spun around to the old rock classic that spilled from the speakers. You swung your hips and tipped your head back and let the music flow through you. Pope loved watching you like this, so free and unbothered by everyone around you. And you knew you could be so carefree thanks to the watchful eye of your boyfriend who’d make sure you were safe at all times.
Like now, Pope was perched on his barstool, scanning the bar for men who might approach you. Surprisingly, he was interrupted by a woman who approached him, boldly touching his bicep as she batted her eyelashes.
“Hi handsome, can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m not interested.” Pope said, shifting his arm away from the woman’s dancing fingertips.
“Are you sure? I-AH!” The woman yelped in pain as you grabbed a fistful of her hair in a vice and yanked her head back.
“Are you dumb? He said he’s not interested. That means no.” You snarled into the woman’s ear. The woman whimpered, her eyes darting around in a panic as you held her in the spot by her head. You let go and slid in front of her to become a physical barrier between her and Pope. The woman rubbed the back of her head as she used her other arm to hold onto the bar for stability. You leaned back possessively into Pope, his knees already spread to create a spot for you as your back rested against his broad chest.
“If you even look his way again, I’ll break that pretty smile of yours.” You threatened, your tone even and clear. Popes arm snuck around your waist, pinning you to him, which to others might look like Pope was just showing off that you two were a couple but you knew it was his silent way of holding you back. It wasn’t because he wanted to control you, he’d let you beat that woman up if that’s what you wanted, but he was worried about an assault charge.
Thankfully the woman ran off and you smiled triumphantly at her retreat. You spun around in Popes hold, giddy at your successful defending of what was yours, as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Popes hand settled low on your back, pulling you closer.
“You’re going to get us in trouble.” Pope said, his eyes locked on your lips, betraying how much he enjoyed how you were just as territorial as him.
“That’s why you like me.” You replied before pulling him in for a kiss that showed everyone at the bar who Pope belonged to..
Happy one year!! Could I get Pope Cody, camping, fluff, love at first sight and first kiss/time/ date? And can I specify that it’s a summer camp??
Love your work!!
anon idk if you wanted me to write young pope at a summer camp but i went in a slightly different direction, hope that's okay!
You'd been enamored with Andrew Cody the moment you met him.
He'd driven several hours to bring his niece Lena to this summer camp and when the young girl got cold feet about being so far from home and you'd mentioned that there was an opening for a parent chaperone, Andrew had immediately offered to stay so Lena could have someone familiar nearby. Andrew knew it was important for Lena to branch out and make new friends and have fun memories at this summer camp so offering to stay had been a no brainer if it meant Lena felt better about staying. It also meant that if she really hated it, Andrew could pack her up quickly and get her home asap.
Thankfully, Lena loved camp. As the week stretched on, she spent less and less time by her uncles side and more time with the other kids. As Lenas cabin counsellor you'd gotten the opportunity to watch her interact with her uncle and you saw just how much this stoic man cared for this little girl. Every interaction you saw or experienced had your heart beating a little harder for him and stirred up butterflies in your stomach.
You also got to see how good he was with the other kids. Every morning he helped Lena brush and braid her hair and he quickly amassed a line of kids who waited for their turn to have their hair done by him. When the kids went swimming they flocked to him to have him toss them into the air and into the lake. During the canoe trip one of the canoes capsized and he easily plucked a panicking boy from the water and lifted him into his boat. You'd been sharing the canoe with Andrew and had watched him reassure the boy that he was safe and okay before you even had a chance to check in.
At the nightly bonfires, Andrew always helped the kids with roasting their marshmallows and was quick to help you shut down the ghost stories the older kids tried telling which were freaking out the younger campers. You and Andrew had been a solid unit through the whole month, running programs and looking after the kids. As Lena drifted further from her uncle, you found yourself floating closer into his orbit. He got you coffee in the mornings and did any hard labour chores so you didn't have to and always sat with you at meals. The two of you also talked at night under the stars while the kids slept.
On the last night of camp you found Andrew standing at the end of the dock. He was staring up at the stars, his eyes tracing over the constellations you'd taught him. He turned to you when you approached and he looked so beautiful in the soft moonlight you could have cried. The two of you talked like you had every night about nothing and everything but the weight of parting ways tomorrow hung heavy between you.
As the night got late you both knew you'd have to go to bed to have enough energy to handle the craziness of tomorrow so you walked down the dock towards the cabins. As the dock ended you felt the sudden urgency to make your feelings known before it was too late. You caught Andrews hand and pulled him to face you and surged up onto your toes to kiss him before you lost your nerve. You'd caught him by surprise but to your ecstatic relief he leaned in after a moment, kissing you back as his hands rose to slide over your back and pull you closer. Your arms twisted around his neck as you turned your head and kissed him again.
Quiet little giggles had the two of you pulling apart and squinting into the darkness at the large oak tree near the dock. Andrew called out Lenas name in the sternest tone he could manage and suddenly a whole cabins worth of little girls shuffled sheepishly out from behind the tree, their faces bright with barely contained smiles. Your mouth dropped open at the audacity of the girls to sneak out of the cabin and spy on you and Andrew but before you could scold anyone Lena ran up and hugged your legs while smiling up at her uncle.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
sometimes, pope worries he'll forget how he met you.
he knows he blacks out sometimes. can't handle a wave of emotion and wakes up in a hospital bed, his nephew somewhere sweet talking the doctors into letting him leave early. but that's changed, with you, with the coconut smell of your shampoo in his nose and your snorting laugh into his shoulder and the way you see the world so vividly, he wonders if you're looking at two different planets.
but he won't forget, he swears. how could he, when he went to his usual skateboard park, the one where the locals know not to bother him, at 6am and found you, of all people. scribbling away in a notebook, legs dangling off the half pipe, nodding along to some song muttered under your breath.
he needs his routine. he likes his routine. and his routine does not include viewers to his skateboarding, that back-and-forth motion soothing his mind every time.
but for some reason, he skated anyways. he answered your cheery 'good morning' with a grunt, instead of a warning that this was his space. he nodded when you told him you like to come here before work to journal. he shook his head when you offered to move. he let you buy him a coffee in apology for taking over his space, and he watched you grin when he said you weren't a bother.
and now, he watches you sleep when he can't. watches your lashes fan against your skin, your chest contract in and out in the moonlight. knows the scent of the skin at the crease of your thigh, knows the sound of your sniffle at the end of a nature documentary when a lionness reunites with her cubs, knows you hate your job but love your manager, knows you don't like to hear the details of his own jobs. knows you're more precious than any jewelry to be fenced, any plans that lead to uncrackable safes.
knows there are some things, some people, you just can't forget.
the way john would be sooo obsessed with his pregnant wife. thinking about all the hovering, the manhandling, the spoiling. thinking about the way he won’t stop touching you, needing to always feel the soft pudge of your body under his roughened palms.
john needs to hold, to touch, to remind himself that this is real. that you are real. he’s always dreamt of this; doesn’t matter if he’s way past his prime, he’s always dreamt of settling down and building a family. so when you came into his life—a putrid mistake; you’d begged him to choose someone else—all he could think of is how you’d look so good cradled in the belly of his home and fat with his baby. the thought was an addictive fever so he made it real, forged it from bloodied hands, and look at you two now, huh? this is as real as it gets; as good as it goes.
thinking about the hunger; the way he cinches at his desires and smothers them so that he won’t bother you with them. thinking about you begging him to, anyway. thinking about the concession—john strips at his cock with fast strokes, his eyes heavy as they stare into your fluttering ones. “yer fat with my baby, peanut. christ above, look at y’—did y’really think that i could hold back?”
thinking about the way he makes you lick him clean, his body breaking out in goosebumps with every of your kittenish licks. thinking about the kiss, soon after, and how it’s so messy and needy and delicious.
thinking about the way john begs you to use him—“go on, baby. take what y’ need from me.”
pope who you find sitting at the edge of your bed, watching you sleep. pope who comes to you in the middle of the night, torso naked and flushed, skin smelling like freshly cut grass and gunpowder, a man you somehow know hasn't even thought of cheating. pope who lays stiff as stone while you climb all over him, nuzzling into the nape of his neck that has never been touched kindly.
pope who stopped going to the beach after lena was taken. pope who lets you take him by the hand to hear the waves at midnight, something you would have been too afraid to do before the guard dog at your side.
andrew who has never been taught kindness or love or anything sweet without poison. andrew who treats you with the same carefulness he uses to clean his gun, aware that he plays too rough and can break things without realizing.
andrew who finally gets sleep for the first time in days, cuddled up in your arms. andrew, who stops hearing ghosts.
Lately, you’ve been thinking about having a baby.
Or: the fertility clinic au
Part 1
masterlist
It must be the mother of all quarter-life crises for you to be as torn up about this as you are.
(‘Mother of all’—what an apt phrase for a time like this.)
Two of your friends have babies and suddenly it’s all you can think about. Chubby cheeks and wrinkly fingers; diaper bags stuffed to the brim and shrill baby screams piercing through the house.
You try to help them out as best you can in those first few months, coming over with dinner wrapped in foil and snacks in Tupperware for the exhausted parents, offering to help run errands or tidy up the place while they try to catch up on sleep. The picture perfect friend.
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—
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Maekar Targaryen’s Very Reasonable Safety Measures
Maekar Targaryen x wife!reader
Word cont: 2.4k
Summary:
The floors are dangerous. The terrace is dangerous. The wind is dangerous. The servants are incompetent. The children are too loud.
According to Maekar Targaryen, the only safe place for his pregnant wife is buried under a mountain of pillows.
English is not my first language!
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
The council chamber of Summerhall was cool, but the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a sword. Maekar Targaryen stood at the table, both hands braced against the surface, fixing his steward with a stare sharp enough to make it seem as though the man had just confessed to treason. His stern face, framed by pale Targaryen hair, revealed no emotion beyond a deep, nearly permanent irritation.
“Repeat that,” Maekar demanded, his voice like two stones grinding together.
“My prince… I only noted that purchasing another twenty soft featherbeds from Myr and summoning yet another maester from the Citadel might be… a slight excess,” the steward stammered, nervously adjusting his collar. “With all due respect, the princess has already given birth six times. Your elder children are healthy. The princess knows perfectly well how to care for herself in this condition, and the household-
Maekar straightened slowly, and the knights present in the chamber suddenly became very interested in the tips of their boots. When the prince took on that posture, a wise man looked for the nearest shield. He was not his brother. He did not soften situations with a smile or a diplomatic word.
“The household,” Maekar began, taking one step closer, each footfall striking the stone floor like a warning, “is made up of a band of careless idiots. My wife carries our seventh child beneath her heart. The fact that the previous six times did not end in tragedy is not due to chance, the whim of the Seven, or, gods forbid, your competence.”
The steward swallowed audibly, not daring to interrupt.
“It is due to this,” Maekar continued, slamming his fist into the table hard enough to make the heavy brass inkwells jump, “that I personally eliminate every potential danger. If I say the stone floors in the family wing are to be covered with three layers of thick carpeting by dusk, then they will be. If there is still so much traffic and noise in the corridors that my wife cannot have a moment of peace, I will personally see to it that you and your men seek new employment at the Wall. No one there will complain of too many luxuries. Have I made myself clear enough?”
A chorus of panicked nods was the only answer given in the chamber.
Maekar did not dignify them with another glance. He pushed back the heavy chair, adjusted the collar of his outer robes, and strode toward the door with quick, decisive steps.
Officially, the council was over.
Unofficially, the clock in his mind had already counted far too many minutes since he had last seen you sitting safely in your chair. The entire castle, with its drafts, sharp-edged furniture, and clumsy servants, seemed to him in that moment like one vast field of hidden traps.
When you finally managed to rise from bed, you found your chambers in the midst of a revolution-one Maekar would, without blinking, have called “the implementation of safety measures.” Every rug runner, even the smallest, had vanished from the floors so you could not so much as think about slipping on one. The heavy carved chair you loved so much had been moved away from the window and buried beneath so many cushions it resembled the nest of some enormous bird.
The room was unbearably stuffy. The heavy, stagnant air of Summerhall made every breath feel like a challenge. You sighed, resting a hand atop your very advanced belly, and started toward the terrace doors to get even a mouthful of fresh air.
You did not even manage to touch the handle.
The door flew open with force, and Maekar himself appeared in the doorway. His severe face hardened instantly at the sight of you. In a few swift steps, he blocked your path like the walls of the Red Keep.
“Where are you going?” he growled, his deep voice vibrating through the stifling room. “The air outside is too damp. Sit.”
“Maekar, for the love of the gods, it feels like a forge in here,” you answered, setting your free hand on your hip and looking at him with a mixture of irritation and amusement. “I only want to step out onto the terrace. Get some air. I’ll be fine.”
“No,” he cut in shortly, crossing his arms over his chest and not moving an inch. “The wind from the hills is treacherous at this hour. You will not risk it.”
You took one step forward, lifting your chin high to meet those ever-stern violet eyes.
“My dear husband,” you began softly, but with emphasis, patting your belly pointedly. “This is our seventh child. Nothing went wrong the previous six times. You truly need to rest and let me breathe.”
Maekar did not even blink. His face remained deathly serious as he leaned slightly toward you, radiating that unshakable, stern certainty of his.
“My love,” he said, his voice carrying absolute, almost immovable gravity, “there is a direct correlation between my actions when you are with child and the fact that we have six healthy children. Do not question success.”
You froze for a moment.
Then a loud, helpless laugh burst from your lips.
“Are you serious?” you laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Are you truly trying to convince me that all of this paranoia is simply a well-considered plan?”
“It is not paranoia. It is caution,” he muttered, but in that same moment his gaze softened by the smallest degree. Before you could protest, his strong hands settled on your shoulders, and with remarkable care for him, he began steering you back toward the safe nest of pillows. “Now sit.”
Once Maekar had made certain you were seated comfortably and had no immediate plans to storm the terrace doors, he stepped out into the corridor, closing the heavy door quietly behind him. He had not taken even three steps when he heard hurried, muffled little footsteps and a distinctive shuffling sound.
Daella appeared around the corner, holding the hand of one-year-old Rhae, who was still taking rather unsteady, wobbling steps. Just behind them walked five-year-old Aegon. At the sight of his father, little Aegon immediately slowed, though his large violet eyes still shone with curiosity. In his hand, he clutched a hastily gathered bouquet of slightly crushed marigolds from the garden.
Maekar stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at them with his traditional stern expression. The children, however, did not flinch. They knew that look too well. To them, their father was not a monster, but rather an exceedingly grumpy commander whose moods simply had to be endured.
“Where are you going?” Maekar asked, his voice quiet but carrying like an order.
“To Mother,” Daella replied matter-of-factly. “I brought her fresh figs from the kitchens so she won’t be hungry.”
“And flowers!” Aegon leaned forward, waving the crushed stems. “Rhae wanted to come too!”
Maekar looked at the bouquet, then at the figs, and finally at little Rhae, who had just let go of her sister’s hand and, with a soft, delighted squeal, toddled straight toward his legs, grabbing the hem of his robes. He frowned so deeply his brows nearly became one line, but he immediately crouched so the little girl would not lose her balance.
“Your shoes.” he observed grimly, though his large hand guarded the one-year-old with incredible gentleness. “They click against the stone. And you, Rhae, stomp louder than all of them. I told the steward clearly that this corridor was to be quiet. Your mother must rest. If you wish to go in, you will walk on your toes. Like scouts. Not a single sound.”
Daella gave her father a faint, amused look, then obediently lifted her heels.
“Yes, Father.” she whispered.
Maekar turned his stern gaze on his son.
“And you, young man.” he muttered to Aegon. “You watch your sister. No running around the chamber. No jumping on the bed. You give her the flowers, sit on the stool, and behave as befits a prince. Understood?”
The boy nodded vigorously, almost saluting with his little hand.
Maekar lifted one-year-old Rhae onto one arm-making sure her small hands did not dirty his robes-and opened the door for the little troop with his other hand. He let them in, then entered right behind them, shutting the room away from the rest of the world.
As soon as the heavy door closed behind Maekar, the room immediately felt brighter. Daella, faithful to the promise she had made her father, walked on her toes, though her ear-to-ear grin entirely ruined her “scout-like” seriousness. Aegon hurried straight toward your chaise, holding the crushed marigolds as if they were the greatest treasure in the world, while little Rhae, still carried on Maekar’s arm, reached her chubby hands toward you.
“Did he terrorize you in the corridor again?” you asked with a smile, opening your arms as Maekar, with extraordinary care, set the one-year-old girl on the bed beside you.
“He told us to walk like scouts,” Aegon whispered conspiratorially, climbing onto the stool and placing the flowers in your lap. “Mommy, are you really going to burst because of the seventh baby? Because Father looks like he’s about to burst himself.”
Daella snorted with laughter, setting the bowl of fresh figs on the bedside table.
“Aegon, stop talking nonsense.” his older sister scolded, then came closer and kissed your cheek gently. “Father is just in one of his moods again. The castle steward nearly fainted when he ordered the floors torn up so thicker carpets could be laid down.”
You laughed softly, tucking little Rhae against your side. She immediately became fascinated by the tassels on your coverlet, babbling happily under her breath. You adjusted the crumpled marigold stems Aegon had brought and glanced toward the wall, where Maekar stood near the window. He watched all of you in silence, arms crossed over his chest, but there was the slightest softening at the corners of his eyes.
“Your father simply… cares about us very much” you said gently, stroking Aegon’s white hair. “But I promise, my darling, everything is all right. Nothing is going to happen to me.”
“That’s good,” Aegon muttered, reaching for one of the figs, which Daella immediately swatted his fingers away from. “Because when Father gets nervous, even the knights in the castle are afraid to breathe too loudly.”
You spent the next hour with them, listening to Daella talk about her lessons and Aegon complain that one-year-old Rhae had ruined his favorite toy. In that warm, safe nest of pillows, surrounded by your children, you could almost forget for a while about the fear that paralyzed your husband so completely.
When the sun finally began to set, Daella-as befitted an elder sister-gathered her siblings. She led sleepy Aegon away and lifted half-asleep Rhae into her arms, promising they would bring you more flowers in the morning. They slipped out quietly, leaving you and Maekar alone in the chamber.
The silence that followed slowly thickened with the approaching night, and your stern guardian finally pushed away from the wall and came closer to the bed.
Late night brought Summerhall the relief it had been waiting for. The heat had finally eased, giving way to a cooler breeze that gently stirred the heavy curtains in the bedchamber. The candles burned low, casting long, trembling shadows across the walls.
You sat on the bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, listening to Maekar’s steady breathing as he moved around the room. He had already removed his heavy outer garments, setting aside his belt and family signet. He wore only a simple, loose linen tunic now. Without all the layers of expensive fabric and harsh tailoring, he seemed strangely… human. Though still powerful and broad-shouldered, in the half-dark he looked simply like a man who was deathly tired.
He approached the bed with astonishing quiet. Despite his size, he could move soundlessly when he wished to. He sat on the edge of the mattress, which dipped beneath his weight.
For a long while, he said nothing.
He simply looked at you, the faint glow of the last candle reflected in his violet eyes. At last, he reached out one great, scarred hand and, with hesitation-almost reverence-laid it on your belly. Beneath his warmth, you felt the seventh child move faintly, as though answering its father’s touch.
Maekar flinched slightly, and that rare, almost painful grimace of tenderness appeared on his stern face-the one he never showed anyone else.
“You’re still awake.” he murmured, and his voice carried none of the rough command he had used in the corridor. It was low, raspy, and filled with exhaustion.
“I was waiting for you.” you answered softly, placing your hand over his fingers. “You spent the entire day running through the castle and terrorizing the servants. I thought you might at least stop at night.”
Maekar exhaled loudly through his nose, which was probably his version of a sigh. He moved his hand higher, stroking the taut skin of your belly with his thumb. Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder as if he had finally allowed himself to set down the weight he had been carrying all day.
“I cannot.” he whispered against the fabric of your nightgown. “When I lead men into battle, every movement has purpose. I know the strength of my arms. I know how long a shield wall will hold and when the enemy will break. Everything depends on my command. But here?”
He lifted his head to look into your eyes, and in his gaze was such deep, grim fear that it stole the breath from your chest.
“Here, my anger is useless. I could take the head of anyone who looked at you wrongly, but I cannot stop a fever or ill fate. Even if I placed guards at every step and covered all of Westeros in carpets, in the end my orders mean nothing against nature.”
His hand left your belly and moved to your cheek, his rough fingers impossibly gentle.
“You have survived six births, and every time, I feel as though I stand alone before an entire army without a sword in my hand. You are the one thing holding me together, (Y/N). If anything went wrong this seventh time… if you were gone… there would be nothing left to gather. Only ashes. So yes, I will be a tyrant to the servants. I will growl at every lord in this castle. But you and this child will live.”
You smiled faintly, drawing his head closer and threading your fingers through his pale hair. Maekar muttered something unintelligible, but in the end, he lay down beside you, one hand still resting on your belly like a guard unwilling to leave his post before dawn.
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
Thank you so much for reading 🤍
I had so much fun writing Maekar’s version of “being calm.”
Apparently, for him, that means threatening to send people to the Wall, treating terraces like enemy territory, and making sure his pregnant wife is surrounded by enough pillows to survive a siege.
But beneath all of that, I really wanted this story to be about fear — the kind Maekar cannot command away, fight away, or frighten into obedience. He is a man who knows what to do on a battlefield, but when it comes to the woman he loves, all that strength suddenly has nowhere to go.
So he becomes impossible. Overbearing. Terrifying. Ridiculous.
And completely, hopelessly devoted.
Thank you for reading this little piece of Maekar domestic chaos 🤍
i want food truck simon slinging some hot, shit food that tastes crazy good when you're hammered. smokes cigarettes and wears his big ass boots. sweating and grunting; terrible customer service.
fucks the cute health inspector when she rolls up with a disgusted face and bad attitude. makes fun of her cute clothes after he's rolled down the service window, got her propped up against a wedge of a wall, his nasty mouth up against her neck and his hard prick fat in her fancy cunt.
he fails the inspection, but gets her number. fucks her stupid and cooks in her kitchen instead. still smokes.
thinking about garrick and reader on a gruellingly long stakeout, stuck in a cramped bachelor apartment where a queen mattress is tucked into the only space a bed could go, with a thin cotton sheet as a separator when someone needs to catch a few zzz's while the other camps out.
there's an ac unit that blasts somewhat cool air over the dining room where all the gear and notes are stored. so many bottles of water. shitty, carb-heavy snacks, nothing fresh unless it crosses someone's mind (it doesn't). when ghost and soap come by on occasion, the toilet's never flushed properly. garrick's a decent roommate; not the best, but not the worst. usually remembers to close the lid and shut the fridge and offers you the best shifts unless you're bitchy.
and you are bitchy. it's the job, but fuck me, trailing these dead end leads in their shit apartments, watching through night vision goggles that hurt your scalp and make you sweat buckets is fucking brutal work. you scrap at each other like cats, claws never fully extended, but scrapping at the nearest thing. better than bringing it home to your boyfriend, who hates when you're on stakeouts. gets jealous easily. you tell him you sit in parked cars and try not to piss yourself for hours.
but, it turns out, he had reason.
garrick starts getting antsy. must be the heat, the tedium, the proximity — give it any sort of origin you want — but there hasn't been a better way to pass the time than getting railed at the dining room table while garrick forces your chin to table, eyes locked on the window to make sure you don't miss any movements from the target's apartment, your body bent over the shiny laquered wood, your pussy squeezing its tight fist around his thick cock. he's mean to your tits, scratches at them when he wants, knows it'll fade by the time you go back home. your pants are never yanked down further than your knees, just enough to find the hole he wants, and smear his dripping cock all over your ass, your crack, your lower back, until he slides down just so, into your pussy. likes to mark you up with it. pisses you off and makes you cranky as fuck when he does it; you gotta stand in the bathroom on the edge of the tub, twisting this way and that with a wet rag, wiping the evidence off your skin before it dries.
when the target suddenly moves, something out of the ordinary that a street unit's got coverage on, garrick bullies you onto the mattress and fucks you so hard that when dispatch trills through, he has to answer for you — she's in the toilets — as his thick, pearling cum leaks out of you onto the fucked up bedsheet. the look on his face when you stare at it, fucked-dumb and pissed off all in one, has him rolling you onto your side, legs still tangled in pants, so he can make you squirt with his two middle fingers curled up inside your cunt until you have to muffle your growling screams into the yellowed pillow.
"fuckin' sick of me, yet?" he grins as you use a spare t-shirt of his as a cum rag right before you chuck it at his head. "'m fuckin' proper sick of you."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
thinking about teasing ghost all day, making suggestive jokes in every meeting, walking way too close every time you go past him, finding any excuse to set a hand on his arm or shoulder.
and he’s really trying to stay unfazed, he knows you’re doing it just to get under his skin, probably a stupid bet with the two sergeants that send him knowing looks whenever you walk by.
that is until late afternoon, when everyone’s responsibilities are done for the day and all that’s left to do is wait for supper while playing some poker in the rec room.
you get there and despite all the available chairs, you sit on his lap, happily announcing you’re a team now. you make sure to place your ass right on the half-chub he’s been sporting all day due to your actions, hiding your triumphant grin behind your cards. the whole time you insist on being the one to pick new ones and pushing forward your shared chips, making sure to rock back-and-forth against his more than evident bulge.
no one says anything when ghost suddenly slams the cards down, nor when he grunts a strained “word with you, runt” before he’s tugging you up and out of the room.
that’s how you end up here, folded up in half, knees pressed to your chest and held down by the bulk of ghost’s weight. tears stream down your cheeks, a bit of drool catching on the corner of your lip as you barely have time to recover from the third orgasm he’s pulled from you just with his mouth and fingers.
“this what you wanted?” he asks with a scoff, sliding his cock against you, just so you feel how hard and fucking big he is. “this what you’ve been begging for all day, isn’t it?”
your head falls against the pillows, back arching as much as it can while he pins you down, when he pushes into you. he’s so thick and so big and hard- it feels like your hole is being stretched thin, like you’ll just be spit in half.
“Simon!”
It makes him laugh, the fact that only now, all brainless and fucked out, do you actually use his name. Perhaps the fact that you’re cumming again just from the stretch also amuses him, pushing a little further in despite the way your walls clench around him.
“ ‘s too much,” you whimper, words slurred and thick, your tongue feeling heavy and like it’s covered in molasses. “w-wait… d-don’t— holy fuck! don’t move yet.”
“move?” yet another scoff leaves him, and he adjusts over you, guiding one of your hands down and between your bodies, wrapping it around his base and showing you everything he hasn’t pushed in yet. “we’re not even halfway in, runt.”
Pornstar!Simon who’s been told he can’t fuck you anymore because the way you sound when he’s inside you makes every other costar you’ve had in the past look bad.
The Director pulling him aside with the footage still looping on the monitor, voice low, telling him it was obvious your moans dripping out wet and broken were real in a way you’ve never given the cameras before, obvious now that every gasp and whimper you’d faked with the others was thin and breathy and hollow compared to this and your former costars were bound to complain.
Said it made the lads before him look like they couldn’t even get you properly wet, let alone fuck the sense out of you. Said pairing you with Ghost again was asking for trouble. Too risky. Too fuckin’ real.
Swinging the monitor around to show Ghost the way he had angled his hips so the camera caught his cock stretching your silky cunt half an hour before, thick enough that your walls flutter around him without any acting, slick spilling out around the base every time he bottomed out.
Your fingers scrabbling along the bed every time he ground himself down, too fucked out to really run from the pleasure the way you wanted to, body shaking brain reduced to static goo.
You having a hard time remembering the scripted words you were given, eyes rolling in your sockets, little whimpers and moans punched out “hn-hn-hn-“ every time his hips met yours and the head of his cock kissed your cervix.
Ghost cooing down at you when you miss your cue for the third time, hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other kept your thigh shoved wide, voiced amused when he asks “wha’s amatter? Cat got your tongue, dove?”
Ruined any possibility of you answering when he fucked you deep, making your cunt visibly pulse around him on the monitor, arousal drooling down his balls.
You tried. You really did. You mouth opened, some broken attempt at the first word, but it dissolved into another punched out moan the second he angled just right, letting the camera see the way your eyes rolled in their sockets.
His thumb stroking once over your clit, almost gentle, almost fond. “Tha’s it,” he murmured, “take it. Fuckin’ take it.”
Another missed cue. Another low, rough chuckle. He didn’t really give you room to think. Just kept you pinned and full and dripping while the cameras roled and the script stayed forgotten on the floor somewhere behind the lights.
The director was still talking but Ghost wasn’t listening, instead, just reached over and rewound the tape instead. Watched the part where you tried to speak again. Watched the way your body gave out for him and only him. Watched his own hand on the screen, thumb stroking your clit.
He hit play once more. Let it loop. Thumb hovering over the button, already deciding he didn’t give a fuck what the director had to say about it, he was gonna fuck you again no matter what.
welcome to the tornado zone🌪️ @oceantornadoo - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
