welcome to the tornado zone🌪️

You wanted to get up to finally rinse.

To feel like a person again.

But his calloused hand came down flat on your hip the moment you moved, before your knee had even cleared his leg.

"Where?" is all he managed, voice wrecked and low and gravelly with sleep, the word barely fully formed on his tongue.

"I'm disgusting," you complained, a whisper.

"Mm." His thumb moved across the jut of your hipbone, finding crust of himself there. His eyes hadn't opened yet. The corner of his mouth had, though, dragging up at one side. "Yeah… y'are."

"I'm glad you're happy with yourself," you huffed sleepily.

His hand kept going, palm dragging down over your hip and around the back of your bent thigh, and then up again into the real mess of you, fingers finding where you were still half-open and swollen from last night, slipping through the sticky wet, the pad of his middle finger circling your sensitive entrance. It was too much and not enough at once — the drag of him over flesh that hadn't settled, a wince folding straight into something hotter, your hips pushing into his hand.

He made a sound; pleased, throaty, his brows pulling in for a second.

"Look at that," he murmured against your temple. "Bet you don' even wan' it cleaned up, do you?"

"Shut up," you half-heartedly murmured.

"Mm-mm," he protested.

Then he rolled, the whole heavy heat of him coming over you in one move, knee shoving your thighs apart before you'd even agreed to anything, and the air between your bodies went humid and ripe, his chest sticking to yours, the dense hair on it dragging over your tender nipples. And your body answered him — thighs falling open the rest of the way, some primal part of you glad of his weight, glad to be pinned under it, glad he was solid and here and breathing on you. He braced up on a forearm and looked down at you, cyan eyes cracked open and bloodshot, lashes still gummed together. He looked like hell. But so did you, you were sure, and he was staring down like you were the best thing he'd ever seen.

He spat into his own hand without breaking from your eyes, crude, and reached down between you to slick his cock with it. You spread more open for him, your hands coming up to his back where sweat was gathered at the base of his spine.

He sank all the way in on the first stroke, stretching your sore walls, an obscene wet crackle of air pushing out to make room for him, Your whole body remembered him in one shoved open rush. He dropped his forehead to the side of your neck and let out a long breath through his nose.

"Four months," he rasped, almost to himself, the syllables coming apart as they fell. "Four months this was the only thing in my fuckin' head." Then, against your mouth, the gravel coming back into it, his throbbing cock bumping your cervix, your nails scrabbling over his sweaty skin for purchase: "That's it, dove. You can take it. You can take it, look at you, you've had worse than this off me."

You could hear his grin.

"Since last night?" you managed to get out. "Or— generally?"

A huff against your lips, almost a laugh, his hips not stopping. "Both."

He fucked you like he hadn't slept it off at all, like four months of going without you had only stored it up, his cock dragging thick and deep through the wreckage he'd already made of you. Every push of it pressed the sweat-slick of his furry belly against your clit so you got it both ways at once, inside and out, until your spine wanted to leave your body.

He talked the whole time — clipped, half-swallowed, filth pouring out of him like silver.

"Feel that," he asked. "That's last night still in you, that is. Didn't go anywhere." His teeth caught your jaw, dragged, overgrown beard scratching at your skin. "Gonna add some more to it." A deep grind of his hips that pushed the breath out of you. "Was lying there, every night, in the dark thinking about this. You under me, made a mess of, soaked through and still begging for more. Had to think about something else quick or I'd've embarrassed myself." His mouth is in your ear, hot and foul. "Four months of that. And now here you are. Wetter than the inside of my own head."

"John— you're so—," you couldn't get anything else out before he'd angled up and a moan tore out of you instead.

"Gross? Annoying?" he offered, hips snapping now, the bed knocking the wall, his hand slipping between you and the mattress to cant your cunt to his liking. "Yeah. And yet you're clenched down on me like you've never been happier. Funny, that."

It built faster than it had any right to. You'd stopped being able to do anything but hold on — one hand fisted in the wet sheet, the other clamped to the flexing muscle of his ass, your heels skidding down his back for purchase that wasn't there, every thrust knocking another broken little sound loose from a throat you no longer had any say over. And when you came you spasmed around him with your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders and your mouth open on a noise you'd have been embarrassed by if your brain hadn't been simmered down and reduced to nothing. He cursed and pushed his face into your throat and licked the salt off it, tongue flat against the tendon, groaning into your flesh as you fluttered and squeezed and dragged him over the edge with you.

He spilled deep with a groan you're not sure you've ever heard from him before, and then stayed there. Heavy. Crushing. His heart going hard against your chest, his breath sawing at your collarbone. Neither of you moved — both of you a single disgusting glued-together animal. Roadkill, maybe.

Underneath the slowing wreck of your own pulse, the feeling you'd been fending off since he walked through the front door finally claimed you — he was home. Your throat went tight, and you turned your face into his damp hair so he wouldn't catch the sound that squeezed out of it.

He exhaled a warm gust against your throat, then he dragged his lips to the corner of yours and kissed you — sloppy, tasting of sleep and salt and the both of you mixed past telling each other apart.

You had flipped open the app to check his reviews while you stood in line behind a bunch of workers from the nearby businesses.

buddy needs an attitude check. good food though.

told me to fuck off then gave me the best burger i've ever had. will be back!

absolutely horrible service!!! he's lucky he only charges $5 or else he'd be OUT OF BUSINESS!!

You think there's no way a man like him cares about reviews in the first place. You internally practice your order — literally just 'burger with cheese and extra pickles with fries, please' — as you get closer. Tap at your phone nervously, watching how his looming body fills the order window. He leans over the window frame to hear properly, tilts his right ear down to the customer; his left ear doesn't seem to work as well. When he leans like that, his big tattooed arms press against the counter behind. He bites on his lower lip in concentration when he's listening, eyebrows drawn down tight. He can somehow ignore everyone else around him to focus just on the single person ahead of him at a time.

The two workers in front of you are next up to order and yapping about a job when a third, then fourth buddy call over to them, then melt themselves into the line like they were there all along. You were already on a tight lunch, adding two more orders ahead of yours is going to eat up your time.

It's petty, but you sigh loudly and pointedly.

One of them turns around, uses his height to look down at you disgustedly, and says, "Fuckin' relax."

"Excuse me?" You scoff, heat itching across your face and chest instantly. You glance behind you, but everyone's either glancing down into their phones or chatting with buddies.

"You fuckin' heard me."

"Oi." The voice is like a sudden clap of thunder over your house in the night, startling your whole body awake in a single crack. Your head snaps up, eyes wide, to see the man's arms punched fist-down on the countertop like a silverback, dark flat eyes fixed on the men ahead of you. "Get the fuck outta here."

"C'mon, man," one of them pleads. "S'just a joke."

You have only ever seen the look on the man's face on television before. A predator baring its teeth, dead-still like a stone dropped flat into a stagnant pond. A shudder runs through you as you stare at the men, who're all squawking complaints and fussing like babies.

He whistles so sharply, you press your hands to your ears and wince.

"Don't make me come out there."

You start to drift away, the heat washing over you too intensely to withstand. You don't want to order or be here. You just want to slink back to your car, drive to work around the corner, and grab something from the vending machine to tide you over until the day's done. You're not cut out for confrontation like this, a soft thing that can't take the heat.

"You. C'mere."

Everyone left in line is staring at you, open-mouthed. You want to disappear into the steam of today's heat, evaporate until you're a puff of something that melts away without notice.

His eyes on you. You couldn't possibly prepare yourself for it. Worse than the sun. He chucks his chin to the side, his eyes sliding slowly to tell you to walk around back. You move with shaky, locked-up knees, avoiding everyone's stares, head down. It feels like being sent to the principal's office. Shame and hot frying nerves soak your skin as you slink around the side of the fixed truck, eyes frantically assessing the environment. Dumpster. Broken-down boxes. The typical detritus, you imagine.

And a short set of stairs leading up to the back of the food truck, a door hanging wide open.

"All out f' the day. Fuck off til tomorrow." You hear the man bark, then there's a loud metallic shuttling sound, and when you glance behind you, the tail-end of the line are all throwing their hands up or groaning in frustration, starting to walk off.

Then, the man appears in the doorway and you suddenly think of Leatherface in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre: the bulk of him, the dirty apron knotted at his thick waist, his stomach fat plumped over it, and the eyes that don't move when they land on you.

You hesitate at the bottom of the steps, looking up at him.

"Up y'get." Like a child attempting stairs for the first time.

There's no railing to trail a hand over. You knot your hands on the cross-body bag strap in front of you, wringing it as you step up one by one. The heat is foggy in here, thick and weighty.

"They givin' you trouble?" He walks over to the far end of the truck interior where you can see fryer baskets and crooked stacks of take-out containers. No order notes at all. Must be all in that big head. It's so much darker in here with the order window shuttered closed.

"No…why'd you close up?"

There's a shrug across his hefty, rounded shoulders. His white t-shirt is filthy, the collar ringed with yellowed sweat stains, dried and fresh, long scoops of sweat darkening from his armpits to where his pecs must rest, a unique pattern set-in. The lack of light doesn't give you much of his face, but it's scarred and heavyset, a strong set of mouth and brows.

"How d'ya take it?"

"Pardon?"

"Pardon," he smirks down at the fryer, his body moving smoothly through the motions of pressing a fresh meat patty on the flat-top griddle. The meat steams up toward his serious face.

Why are you here?

"Just…whatever is fine."

You try to find the smallest corner you can occupy in here, unobtrusive. You don't know if he wants you to watch him, but you do anyway. His large arms, full sleeve tattoos curling up into his t-shirt, working diligently on flipping and pressing the patty. A little stack of onions on top, cooked together for a few seconds to melt them together a bit. Bun slathered with whatever he uses here. Melted cheese on top of the meat, over the fried onion. A dribble of liquid down the side of the bun as he delicately places each topping on top. Wrapped into burger paper. Fries pulled from the basket, shaken, salted and something else. Scooped hot and stiff into a take-out container.

He uses a steel-toed boot to pull out a stool that's pushed under the corner counter. Tips his chin up at you. "Sit. Eat."

You tell him your name as you stumble onto the tall, tippy stool, pulling your wide-legged dress pants up. He just grunts in response. "Simon."

Okayyy.

He turns his back and starts to put the little compact kitchen to rights, clanging around. With nothing left to do but eat your burger and fries, you dig in. Tentatively at first, self-conscious sitting here as some strange guest that somehow earned scary food truck guy's full attention and his preferential treatment. Sweat slides down from your neck to spine to ass under your thin office top. You take small bites until the relief of a good lunch melts over your taste buds. It's everything a burger should be: crispy, crunchy, melty, packed with flavour. Nothing fancy or stupid ingredients complicating it. You sigh a little, then jam a few of the hot fries in with a bite of meat. They're spiced with something you can't quite name, and when he finally looks back at you, there's a determinedly puzzled look on your face.

"Summat wrong." Should be a question mark at the end of his words, but no.

"No!" You realize you're hunched like crazy over your container, back molded in a c-shape, and spring back up. "It's so good. I was just wondering what you used on the fries, that's all."

A coarse grunt. Dishes slipped into hot soapy water.

"Turmeric." He mangles the word. "Lawry's." Better.

You savour a fry, trying to parse those out. "State secrets, eh."

"Not tellin' you everythin'. Nosy."

A laugh of surprise huffs out of you. "Oh, I wasn't ask—"

"Just fuckin' with you, bird." He might as well reach out an arm and shake the stool beneath you for how off-centre you makes you.

You let out a puff of nervous laughter. None of the reviews said he pulled me into his food truck and force fed me, so you were shit out of luck on what to do. How to act.

"Cute watchin' you eat all prim." He leans against a stainless steel countertop, some damp raggedy dishcloth folded into the fat of his crossed arms. "Makes me wonder what else you do proper."

Your mouth falls open, a round of tart pickle plopping squarely on your lap. Before you can gather up wits and senses not fizzled out by the heat in the truck and Simon's presence, he advances on you, pulling the shadows of the space with him. His huge arms prop up on either side of the corner counters, triangulating you right inside. Up close, you can see the beaded sweat at his hairline. Behind his ears. Where it's tracked down inside the t-shirt. You wonder what his armpits look like; if the hair there is pressed with moisture and a morning application of antiperspirant. His fingers strum on the stainless steel calmly. Deciding what to do.

Stupidly, you stare up into his eyes. Stupidly, you think of telling him that his eyes look like onions that have been caramelized on a stove for hours.

"You like my food?" Leaning on the muscles of his arms, playing with you, coming down a little to your height.

"Y-yeah," you laugh.

"Like watching you eat it."

The pickle round is soaking through the thigh of your pants. You're going to go back to work smelling like pickle juice and grease and fries. You shift on the stool anxiously.

"Gonna give me a kiss me then?" An old stitch near his lip pulls the corner of his mouth, but it widens further with a smirk. Dark tea-brown eyes flashing.

Your world shrunk down to a claustrophobic corner of a sweating food truck, wedged in by a man three times your size, feeling like you've just surfaced from a pool only to find yourself still underwater. "What?"

Closer, he smells like cigarettes. Coffee. Sweat has your top and pants plastered to your entire backside. It's breaking out on your upper lip. Your breath has shallowed out to thin short pants.

"I'll let you. For bein' so sweet an' cute."

Let you? Let you kiss him?! His audacity won't strike you until much later, unfortunately. Oxygen is low. Heat is swamping.

"Oh."

"C'mon then."

He lowers himself, arms still propped up and out on either side of you, until he's flush with your face. Lets you snap your mouth closed and hover forward on the stool precariously until your lips have pressed firmly over his.

"S'nice. Were I still in Year 6." You pull back and his eyes are nearly electric, how alive he looks, mouth tugged up.

In grade 6, you were a compulsive liar at your new school, desperate to make friends. You bragged that your dad was famous because he travelled all the time for work at a pop company and that was why you had to live with your cousins. You were bug-eyed and scrawny with a huge gap between your teeth. You certainly weren't being kissed like this, or at all. Simon seems like the kid who understood what all the bases meant and showed the other kids porno mags in the forest. Those boys frightened you.

Still do.

Suddenly, he cranks up to his full height. Arms down to his side. Boots wedging the stool in place, big pillar-like thighs covered by a nasty apron pressing into your kneecaps.

You are going to be late back to work.

His hands surprise you by drawing up your neck, setting loose a big shiver that you can't hide, and cupping you there. Large hands, damp with soapy water or grease or something else altogether. His thumbs make little circles on your jawline as he manipulates your face to tilt up toward him, and you realize then, with crystalline and unnerving certainty, you have never been kissed properly before this moment.

His fingertips curl around the tops of your ears, bumping over the flatbacks of your piercings, rounding out the cartilage and bone under his mapping.

Kisses that made you smile, kisses that melted into foreplay or sex, goodbye kisses with no eye contact. Lots in between.

But a kiss that demands nothing else of you except your eyes on the other person, watching them begin to dismantle you.

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.

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