No Life

You stand at the front door of the nicest house in the neighborhood with a racing heart. So far, everyone’s been kind when you’ve introduced yourself, but they all also warned you about the Codys, a mix of speaking highly of them and mentioning to take care of yourself around them. And this is their place. You’d brought some of your world famous baked goods to try to butter them up extra, but it doesn’t quell your worries much. With just a few days unpacking in the neighborhood, you’ve already heard raucous house parties and seen lots of expensive cars come and go.

A petite older woman, bright blonde hair and lots of jewelry adorning her thin orange coverup and white bikini, answers the door already midway through saying, “-so just come on in and- Oh! Sorry, I thought you were- Never mind, where are my manners?” She extends a hand and gives you a handshake that’s a lot firmer than you would’ve expected from someone so small and feminine. “I’m Janine, but everyone around here calls me Smurf.” Her eyes narrow slightly; there’s a sharpness in her hazels that hints at a quiet brilliance. “You’re our new neighbor, right?”

“Yep, just moved in last weekend.” You introduce yourself and offer up the tray of cookies. “I’ve been trying to meet everyone who lives around here; the whole neighborhood speaks very highly of you.”

“I highly doubt that,” she chuckles, taking the plate and giving you a one-armed hug followed by kisses on both cheeks. “My boys can get loud. They’re all here today; why don’t you come in and say hello? We’re having a little get-together; it’ll be good for you to know some faces.”

The way she says it, you can tell it’s not a question. You follow her into the house, listening as she points out pieces of art by local artists, photos of her kids, and all her special touches that make the swanky house feel homey.

“Grab something to eat; there’s plenty to drink in the fridge, too,” she says, gesturing to an extensive and colorful spread on the kitchen island. “They’re all out back still, but I’ll bring them in. Actually, why don’t you come on outside? Some sun would do you good. That’s probably why you moved to California anyway.”

Smurf’s made a full plate of food for you before you can even think, loading it up with fruits and cheeses. You take it and nod hesitantly. “Sure, okay. Thank you.”

Outside, the scene is total chaos. The sun is gorgeous, the sky is blue, and the pool is chock full of boys – men, actually – splashing at each other, dunking a basketball and rolling around together until it looks like one of them’s going to drown. There are girls on all the loungers, passing around cocktails and laughing along to loud music underneath pastel umbrellas. There’s a faint smell of weed, curled away by the breeze but definitely present.

“Boys!” Smurf claps loud enough to get their attention, her voice rising high and loud. “Come meet our new neighbor; she brought us these amazing cookies.”

The guys all haul themselves out of the pool, water dripping down tan toned bodies, and grab beers from different spots around the pool area before jogging back over. There’s five of them, one a decade or two younger than the rest. They look vaguely alike, all with shades of blondish or reddish hair and green or hazel eyes.

Smurf gestures to you and gives them a stern look. “Let’s all be polite and introduce ourselves.”

Each of the guys shakes your hand and gives their names, but you’re too overstimulated to catch all of them at once. You can tell they’re trying their damndest to behave themselves, but there are still a few sets of eyes raking over your body, not very well concealed in a light sundress.

The biggest one with the shoulder-length hair eyes you up the longest, his gaze definitely not neighborly. “How many people are you sharing that big old house with to afford the mortgage? Boyfriend? Roommates?”

“Ah, no, just me.” Your gaze drops to your feet and you offer up a bashful smile. “Inherited the place from my grandmother; she just passed last month.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, baby,” Smurf says, giving your arm a maternal squeeze. “Were the two of you close?”

You give her a grimace, keeping your tone light, not wanting to kill their party. “Actually, no, not at all. But I’m the only grandkid, so I guess it’s my responsibility. Beats having to pay rent.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” another one of them – this one sharper, not sharing any of the family features – chuckles, tilting his beer toward you. “What can I grab you to drink?”

Shyly, hoping your cheeks haven’t turned too pink from all the attention, you inform them, “I really appreciate the offer, but I have a class to get to and then work.”

“You’re in college?” The youngest one, who can’t be more than 18 or 19, perks up and asks, “What’s your major?”

His interest seems genuine, so you offer, “Nothing yet. I’m just picking up classes at the community college to get credits for now; I didn’t have the chance to go after high school. Might transfer to somewhere in LA or San Diego once I’m more settled. Probably business.”

He nods and smiles. “Cool.”

“Smart and cute.” Smurf asks, half-serious, “Any chance on god’s green earth that you’re single? I’ve got some eligible bachelors here who could use a braincell or two.” At your flaming cheeks, she gives you a pat on the back and laughs. “Don’t worry; they’re harmless.”

The leering one chuckles, “Speak for yourself.”

“She’s not your type,” the one who’s been silent the whole time adds. His voice is softer, harsher, his eyes moodier. When his gaze meet yours, he gives a small smirk. “Looks like she’s had a thought before.”

His brothers all snort at that. You wish you could come up with a witty reply, but there’s nothing. You’ve always been shy, great at warm, professional introductions and structured interactions but not so strong with the back-and-forth, the stuff where you’re supposed to joke and flirt and act normal.

Before you go, Smurf insists on packaging up some of the food for you to take home, pinches your cheek, and promises, “I’ll have one of the boys return your plate as soon as we can, okay? Thank you so much for stopping by; it’s great to meet you.”

The Cody family is always interested when a new neighbor moves in. It’s a rarity; they live, purposefully in an old, established neighborhood where everybody knows everybody – and everybody keeps quiet.

The moment you’re out the door, Smurf stalks back to the patio with her arms crossed. The boys have all grabbed cookies and made quick work of half the batch in no time. Sipping on a wine cooler, she herds them all to a corner and asks, “Baz, what do we know?”

“On the new girl?” Baz straightens up and gives her what he’s learned from a brief search to feel you out. “She’s a waitress over at Juniper’s, that ‘50s diner a few streets up. Not sure why she bothers working; looks like she inherited a small fortune from grandma.”

Smurf nods and inspects a cookie before digging into the buttery, brown sugary goodness herself. “Interesting.”

“Outside work, she takes two classes a week, volunteers at the library and the animal shelter, and has some boring hobbies.” He polishes off another chocolate chip and adds, “Bakes fucking cookies for neighbors, apparently. Not gonna be any trouble.”

“I want some more information before I decide on that.” Smurf searches her boys’ faces, making decisions while she thinks. “Pope, why don’t you go and keep an eye on her for a few days? Stop by the diner a couple times, go check out some books from the library, let me know what she gets up to. Nothing crazy.”

Deran snickers, “Sure you want him for ‘nothing crazy’?”

“Pope’s good with women,” she replies simply. “He’s not like the rest of you.”

“Hey!” Craig protests, “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Smurf narrows her eyes. “I don’t appreciate that tone.”

He purses his lips. “Sorry.”

“You had two – or was it three? – strippers in your bed this morning,” Baz cuts back. “Not sure the angel who helps illiterate children would like you very much.”

The whole time, Pope’s been quiet. He’s a little annoyed with this new assignment because it isn’t exactly interesting, but it could be worse. He doesn’t mind quiet or alone time and he definitely doesn’t mind pretty girls. So he grimaces and nods. “I’m on it.”

You show up to your shift already upset, running behind because of your shitbox car not starting, forcing you to walk, your yellow and white uniform wrinkled because you didn’t pull it from the dryer early enough. Your boss is, as always, grouchy when you show up only two minutes late, chewing you out while you put your things away in the back of house and fix your hair.

By the time you’re out in your section, there are tears stinging in your eyes from your manager’s harshness. He always knows just how to get under your skin, making pointed comments about your uniform that feel like criticisms of your body and your classes which are digs at your intelligence. You focus on the customers. At least it’s busy. In a kitschy diner this close to the shore, evenings are always packed. It keeps your mind occupied and the tips are good.

About three quarters through your shift, a single guy comes in, walks around the line out the door, and gets seated immediately by the hostess, in the corner by the window. She taps you on the shoulder and nods in his direction. “Boss says to take good care of him, got it?”

You nod, slapping up the order ticket. “What, is he a silicon valley bro or something?”

“Or something, definitely,” she confirms. “No idea, but I guess he’s some variety of important.”

“Alright.” You shrug and turn around. “Hope he tips well, then.”

You swish over to his table, hoping that the flouncy skirt and white apron still make you look cute even though they’re wrinkled. At the table, a man with auburn hair in a short-sleeve black button-down stares straight ahead, not looking at the menu or anything. You’re halfway through your ‘my name is blah blah blah’ speech when you stop in your tracks. “Oh, you’re one of my neighbors!”

He gives you a tight smile that reminds you of the one you put on when guys hit on you at bars. “Guilty.”

You try to give him a warmer one and laugh a little. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t remember your name. I know you just told me, like, six hours ago, but-”

“There was a lot going on,” he finishes for you. “I know my family can be…intense.”

You don’t mention that he strikes you as the most intense one, his brows always furrowed and his gazes heavy. For the first time, you notice that his large hands are calloused and nicked with pockmark scars and half-healed bruises. The hands of a boxer, maybe, or someone who does a lot of manual labor. Definitely not some silicon valley bro. Trying to stop yourself from staring, you clear your throat and reply, “No, don’t worry, I thought you were all nice.”

“Nice?” That gets an honest laugh out of him. “Haven’t heard that word used to describe any of us in a long time.”

“I doubt that; your mother’s an angel.” When he scoffs again, you clear your throat, “Anyway, ah, your name? I remember Baz and…Josh, maybe?”

“Josh is my nephew. Goes by J,” he says stiffly. “Brothers are Baz, Craig, Deran. And I’m, ah-” he swallows down the urge to say Pope; Smurf likes for them to use their real names with civilians “-I’m Andrew.”

“Andrew. Got it.” Your eyebrows pinch together like you’re committing it to memory. Then you pull your notepad and pen from that cute yellow uniform and ask, “Well, what can I get you, Andrew?”

He orders a black coffee and sips on it over an hour, scrolling through his phone, taking a few calls in hushed tones, and staring out the window watching people go by like it’s a novelty. Every fifteen or so minutes, in between checking on your other tables, you stop by him to make sure he doesn’t want anything else, even though he insists he doesn’t. At one point, he even takes out a book – Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – and reads it at lightning speed.

On your fourth stop by his table, toward the very end of your shift, you touch his bicep and tell him seriously, “You’ve gotta at least have a slice of the chocolate cream pie, Andrew. It’s so perfect with the coffee. On the house.”

He stares at your hand on his arm until you remove it, his expression a strange mix of confused and curious, like nobody’s touched him at all in ages. When you pull it back, he replies quietly, really quietly, “If you’ll split it with me.”

The sunlight of your smile could power the whole diner. “Yeah, that would be nice. Just let me close out my last table and I’ll come sit with you.”

Two minutes later, you’re untying your apron, taking off the matching cap, and sliding into the booth across from him with an oversized slice of pie, extra whipped cream, and two forks.

Andrew takes a forkful of the pie and closes his eyes when he eats the bite, really savoring it like it’s the first good thing he’s ever tasted. Then he watches you lick whipped cream from your lower lip, mesmerized by the action, unsure why his ears suddenly feel hot.

He has a list of information he needs to get for Smurf, but it’s all about how to package the questions. After a minute, he asks, “You always work this shift or am I just lucky?”

Is your schedule predictable? When are you home?

“I work evenings when I have afternoon classes,” you reply, thinking nothing of it. “Now that I have the house, I don’t need to make rent, so I’m keeping it to a few days per week. I’d be bored otherwise.”

Andrew takes mental notes on your answers. Self-sufficient, reliable, simple.

“That’s great. More time for your hobbies, passions,” he says absently. Then his eyes are serious again, tuned into you. “What do you get up to besides all that baking?”

Where can we find you outside of work? Do you have any useful skills? What sort of people do you hang around with?

“I've got a yard now, so I’m going to start gardening. I’m teaching myself to sew on my grandma’s old machine. Wow, that made me sound ancient.” You admit sheepishly, “I guess I can be kind of a homebody. I like to read, watch movies, do some crafts and things.”

“I’m the same way. Mom always said I have an old soul,” he chuckles.

“Really? You all seemed more like-”

“Partyers?” He shakes his head and laughs to himself. “More my brothers’ scene than mine.” Something about you makes him reply honestly instead of being cagey. “I try to read at least a book or two every month. It’s not much, but it keeps me sharp. Don’t even get me started on the NYT crossword.

You squeeze his forearm and grin; he’s really starting to like making you smile. “I love the crossword.”

“Smart girl.” At the touch of your hand, he shakes his head and gets back on track. “You like living alone or are you just putting up with it a while?”

Will there be strange men in the neighborhood? What’s your social life like?

You shrug and lean back in the booth, stretching your arms above your head and taking a deep breath. He watches the rise and fall of your chest. “It’s definitely better than having roommates. I was splitting a tiny place downtown with, like, five other girls before this. It’s really nice having my own bathroom – three of them, actually, which is kind of weird. It’ll be nice once I have a family, though, I guess.”

“Sounds like a dream,” he laughs. Then he says, “I’d love to have my own place again. Sharing a bathroom with a rotating cast of my baby brothers isn’t exactly my idea of perfection.”

Your eyebrows come together in the middle. “You don’t have your own place? Don’t work?”

He’s surprised that you don’t sound judgmental in the slightest; it’s not the kind of question girls usually ask with a neutral inflection in his experience. You’re genuinely curious. He gets the sense you would never judge someone for their life circumstances. Still, he’s quick to clarify, “I work. We all do. I know it looks like we’re just screwing around at Smurf’s place all the time, but we’ve got a family business.”

“That’s really cool. Working with your family, I mean.” You gesture for him to take the last bite of pie. “What do you all do?”

“Real estate,” he tells you, curt and quick. There’s a foreign part of him that wants to impress you. Wants you to know he’s got plenty of money, that he’s capable, that he’s strong. So he goes on, “I take care of more of the hands-on work. Renovations, inspections, repairs. I like fixing things. Pretty handy.”

“That explains your gnarly knuckles,” you tease. “Glad you brought it up first; I was morbidly curious. Didn’t want to assume you’re some thug before I knew better.”

Andrew’s never liked when girls tease him. But when you do it, there’s a sweetness to it, a sincerity. You aren’t making fun of him; you’re just…cute. He likes that. Why does he like that? He swallows hard, tries out a charming smile, and replies, “Nothing to worry about here. Just a family that cares about each other. It’s solid money if you make the right deals. Family’s been doing it long enough that we don’t take bad ones.”

For the first time, you pay attention to the oversized watch on his wrist. The soft wave in his hair. The thread count on his shirt. All the subtle signs of wealth you pick up on. Of course, the house isn’t exactly subtle, but Andrew seems to keep it quiet when it’s just him. You aren’t really interested in his family’s money, though, so you pivot back. “It’s great that you all get along enough to work together; god knows that would never work in my family. Is that why you live with her then? You just like being together?”

With a long sigh, he rubs the back of his neck. “Pretty much, yeah. Mom needs to have someone around and I’m the oldest.”

Your tender, honest smile worms its way into his brain, carving out a space he pretends doesn’t exist. “That’s so sweet.”

And then your manager’s tapping you on the shoulder – more like grabbing you – and informing you both, “Closing time.”

“Right, yeah. Sorry.” You turn back to Andrew and grimace. “I’ll grab your check. I believe you owe me a staggering seventy-nine cents for the single black coffee. With tip, I think that’ll get you up to a dollar if I’ve been good company.”

Andrew reaches into his pocket and hands a twenty to your manager without a word. Eyes still squarely on you, he says, “I’ll walk you out.”

Your manager rolls his eyes, not particularly caring, and heads up to the register to cash out for the night.

As you stand up, Andrew glances down at your worn-out sneakers. “You walked here?”

Half of the question – ‘Are you easy to keep track of?’ – is for the sake of his family, but the other half – ‘Are you safe?’ – is just for his own curiosity.

You sigh, wrapping your arms around yourself as you cross from the diner into the cool late-night air. “Didn’t have a choice. My car’s trash; wouldn’t start after I got back from class. Lucky I made it home without the thing blowing up.”

Andrew takes his keys from his pocket and flips them around his finger. “I’ll drive you home, then.”

You flush, thankful for lack of light outside. “I really appreciate the offer, but-”

“I’ll drive you home,” he repeats, stern this time. “It’s late; you don’t need to be walking out by yourself.”

There’s a protectiveness to his tone that convinces you he’s safe to trust. “Alright. Just this once, okay? I don’t like owing people.”

“Sure, no problem,” he lies. His mother would end him if she knew he’d let a girl – a neighbor, nonetheless – do something dangerous on his watch; if you ever need a ride, he’ll give you one. “You don’t owe me, though. We’re neighbors.” Andrew shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks you to the back of his parking lot to his car – his truck actually. His giant, almost militant, matte black truck. “Any idea what’s wrong with your car?”

“No clue; I don’t know about stuff like that. None of the lights are on or anything. Just old, I guess.”

Your heart thuds when Andrew follows you around to the passenger side of the truck, his hand going to your lower back. For a split second, your sense of danger spikes, a drip of adrenaline going into your bloodstream. But then he’s unlocking the door and opening it for you, offering up his hand to help you step up.

As you haul yourself into it, actually needing to put some of your weight on him, you mutter, “Jesus, this is a big truck.”

Before he closes the door to go around and drive you home, Andrew says simply, “It’s safe.”

you never had anyone take their time with you—never been praised, teased, or touched the way he plans to. and when he finds out just how untouched you really are?

he makes it his mission to teach you everything you didn’t know you needed.

this is not just a series — this is a world. this is out of body experience for morgue girl ( and the reader ). this is a life-altering. this is a soft cinematic universe built from spilt coffee, sterile fluorescents, and jack abbot's absurdly soft hands wrapped around someone who didn't think anyone would take care to notice. this is GOOD GIRL CONFESSIONS .

CHAPTER ONE — NINE ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ completed ❪ 18.9k words ❫ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ follows the reluctant tension-filled evolution of jack abbott and a quiet, anxious morgue tech. it begins with exhaustion, mutual annoyance, and an unfortunate first impression. it ends ( temporarily ) in confessions, broken rules, and hands brushing too long by the trauma bay sink and a single earth shattering kiss.

⋆.˚ CHAPTER ONE .' cold and predictable ⋆.˚ CHAPTER TWO .' cold storage ⋆.˚ CHAPTER THREE .' a cold shoulder

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FOUR .' too cold to touch ⋆.˚ CHAPTER FIVE .' cold cut ⋆.˚ CHAPTER SIX .' caught in the cold

⋆.˚ CHAPTER SEVEN .' cold hands ⋆.˚ CHAPTER EIGHT .' left out in the cold ⋆.˚ CHAPTER NINE .' let in from the cold

CHAPTER TEN — NINETEEN ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ ongoing ❪ tbd words ❫ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ follows post-confession. you’ve admitted too much. jack’s heard too much. and yet neither of you knows what to do with the silence that follows. you keep pretending. he keeps showing up. the hospital keeps getting hottee

⋆.˚ CHAPTER TEN .' heat source ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 001

⋆.˚ CHAPTER ELEVEN .' heat on contact ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 002

⋆.˚ CHAPTER TWELEVE .' after the heat ⋆.˚ CHAPTER THIRTEEN .' heat in your hands

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FOURTEEN .' the sound of heat ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 003

⋆.˚ CHAPTER FIFTEEN .' held in heat ⋆.˚ CHAPTER SIXTEEN .' heat flash ( coming soon )

⋆.˚ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN .' heat bitten ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 004

⋆.˚ CHAPTER EIGHTEEN .' heated words ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 005

⋆.˚ CHAPTER NINETEEN .' heat of the moment ( coming soon ) ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 006 ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 007 ˚₊‧ 𐙚 morgue notes - 008

˚₊‧ 𐙚 THE APPENDIX ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ NIGHT SHIFT — MORGUE NOTES

˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part one ˚₊‧ 𐙚 part two ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *part three ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames from jack ˚₊‧ 𐙚 *petnames for jack

layout inspo ||| dividers by @cafekitsune & @uzmacchiato * ✷ ⊹ * ˚  main masterlist ||| more jack abbot ||| inbox

* ✷ ⊹ * ˚  REQUEST FOR jack abbot x morgue tech!reader

Steve blinks at him, slow and rhythmically, before snorting. “What, like… at all?”

“Yeah, man. Like—”  Eddie waves a hand vaguely, the silver of his rings glinting as he moves. “How the fuck am I supposed to know what sounds are real and which ones are fake? It’s fucking Russian roulette.” The next reaction from Steve is immediate, no hesitation. Just a lazy, knowing smirk as he stretches his arms behind his head. “Huh... Well, once you know the difference, it becomes pretty obvious.” He pauses, just long enough to take a quick glance over Eddie’s face. “If you really need some pointers, I can ask my girlfriend if she wants to help you out.”

Eddie nearly comes crashing to the fucking floor.

Because fuck. He’s had a crush on you for, like, forever. Not that he’s ever admitted it out loud—not when Steve Harrington has a reputation for rearranging the faces of guys who so much as look at you wrong. Eddie has seen it happen: some poor asshole at a party, fingers skimming your ass as you passed, and bam—Steve’s fist in his jaw before anyone could blink. There’s even a rumour some idiot once stared a little too long at the way your lips wrapped around the neck of your beer bottle and then slurred, “Wanna spin my bottle?”

Word is, Steve dropped him in one hit. No warning. No theatrics. Just pure, primal instinct.

So yeah, Eddie’s kept his mouth shut.

But now? Now Steve is watching him with this lazy, half-lidded expression, like he hasn’t just detonated a goddamn bomb in Eddie’s head.

“You’re fucking with me.” Eddie pleads, his voice rough.

Steve just grins—slow, deliberate—his eyes dark with something Eddie can't name. “Nah, man. She’s actually really into that kinda stuff.” His voice drops, gravel scraping over each word, and Eddie’s stomach flips “And I’d do anything for her.” The air feels thick as Eddie’s pulse roars in his ears, his throat suddenly bone-dry. Is this a test? A trap? Christ. Harrington was going to be the death of him, and worse—Eddie knew he’d fucking thank him for it.

His fingers twitch at his sides. “...Yeah?”

Steve’s smile only widens, but his eyes soften. “Yeah.”

When Eddie shows up at your place the next night, he’s strung tight enough to power Hawkins twice over, his pulse hammering in his throat. He’s spent the last twenty-four hours convincing himself he’d imagined the whole conversation, that there was no way Steve Harrington just offered— 

And then you open the door.

Dressed in nothing but one of Steve’s old band tees, the fabric riding high on your thighs, you greet him with a smile that damn near stops his heart. “Hey, Eddie.”

His mouth goes dry. And before he can choke out a response, Steve is behind you, hands sliding possessively around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. And then—Jesus Christ.

The kiss Steve gives you isn’t just heated—it’s filthy. All tongue and teeth, your fingers twisting in his hair as he backs you against the doorframe, his hands already under your shirt like it’s a regular Tuesday afternoon.

Eddie’s knees nearly give out.

“Watch,” Steve murmurs against your lips when he finally breaks away, his gaze flicking to Eddie over your shoulder. His voice dark and commanding. “And pay attention.” 

Then, right there in the doorway, Steve pulls the shirt over your head—meticulously slow, like he wants Eddie to memorise every second. And, well—Eddie does.

He memorises the way your breath hitches when Steve’s fingers brush over your ribs, the way you arch into his touch, the soft, real sounds spilling from your lips as Steve’s mouth finds the top of your breasts.

Eddie’s throat protests as he swallows, fingers twitching at his sides like he can’t decide whether to bolt or drop to his knees.

Steve notices—of course he does—and his lips curl into something dangerously close to a challenge. “You just going to stand there, Munson?” His hands slide down your hips, squeezing just hard enough to make you softly gasp. “Thought you wanted to learn.” Eddie manages to get control over his brain just long enough to answer, “I—Yeah. Fuck. Yeah. I do.”

Steve hums, pleased, and spins you around to face Eddie fully, his palm splayed possessively over your stomach. “Then get over here.”

It’s not a request.

Eddie moves like a man in a trance, close enough now to feel the heat of your skin, to catch the intoxicating scent of your perfume. His gaze darts between your face and Steve’s fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over your collarbone.

“First lesson,” Steve murmurs, leaning in to nip at your earlobe.  “Don’t just touch. Listen.”  His free hand reaches out, grabbing Eddie’s wrist and dragging it toward you. “Feel how she reacts.”

Eddie’s fingertips brush your waist—hesitant at first, then firmer when you shiver under his touch. His breath hitches as you lean into him, lashes fluttering when his thumb grazes the delicate curve of your ribs.

“Good.”  Steve’s voice is low, eyes locked on Eddie’s every twitch. “Now kiss her.”

Eddie’s head jerks up. “What?”

Steve’s grin is all teeth. “Unless you don’t—”

“No, I—fuck.” He surges forward, crashing his mouth against yours like a man starved. It’s messy and desperate, and he barely gets a taste before Steve yanks you back by the waist, eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.

“Jesus Christ. Not like that.”

Eddie stumbles after you as Steve kicks the door shut behind them. “It’s like you were raised by wolves.”

Eddie opens his mouth to protest—then snaps it shut. Because Steve’s right. He’s a wreck.

“What are you waiting for, a written invitation?”  Steve’s voice is rough with impatience. “Kiss her again.”

Eddie hesitates—just for a second—before lust wins the war. This time, when his lips find yours, it’s still hungry, but it’s also aware, his movements more controlled. For a heartbeat, he’s terrified Steve will deem him unworthy of you altogether and kick him back to the curb—until you moan into it, until your fists twist in his shirt and drag him closer.

Steve groans in approval against your shoulder. “That’s it,” he rasps, pressing you forward just enough that Eddie can feel your heartbeat against his chest. “Now slow down. Make her want it.”

Eddie whimpers, but obeys, pulling back just enough to tease your lower lip between his teeth before licking into your mouth like you’re water and he’s been dying of thirst.

The sound you make—the soft, wanting whine—it's the hottest thing he’s ever heard. Steve pulls you back again, but this time, there’s satisfaction in his grin. “See?”  His thumb swipes over your kiss-swollen lips, smug. “She likes it when you take your time.”

Steve doesn’t let go of you—not really. Even as he nudges you toward the couch, his palm stays glued to the small of your back, steering you like he owns every inch of space you move through. Eddie doesn’t need to be told to follow; his pulse hammers in his throat, fingers flexing like he’s already imagining the weight of you beneath them.

“Sit.” Steve’s order cracks through the air, and Eddie drops onto an armchair like his strings have been cut.

You don’t get the chance to join him. Steve catches your wrist, yanking you back against his chest instead. His mouth brushes your ear, voice a low, possessive hum: “Nah, sweetheart. You’re staying right here.” His fingers trail down your arm before guiding your hand to Eddie’s jaw. “Let him earn it.”

Eddie’s breath stutters. Christ. Up close, you’re devastating. The way your eyes shimmer with pure lust, the way your lips part—just slightly—when Steve’s fingers skim over the lace of your bra. The syrupy moan you let out when he pinches your nipple over it, just enough to make your back arch—

“See that?”  Steve’s voice is rough against your ear. “She gets loud when she’s turned on. You just have to know how to listen.” Eddie nods, swallowing hard. His hands hover over your hips like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve under his touch. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, Munson. You’re not going to break her.” He grabs Eddie’s wrist, pressing his palm flat against your stomach. “Feel how warm she is? How fucking desperate?”

Eddie’s fingers twitch. He can feel it—the rapid rise and fall of your breath, the way your skin burns under his touch.

“Now”, Steve murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder, “show me what you’ve learned.”

Eddie doesn’t need to be told twice.

This time, when he kisses you, it’s relaxed—calculated. He licks into your mouth like he’s savouring it, one hand sliding up your ribs while the other tangles in your hair. And when you moan, when your hips jerk forward like you just can’t help it, Eddie groans against your lips like he’s just discovered fucking religion.

Steve watches, eyes dark with approval. “Better,” he rasps. Then, with a smirk: “Get on your knees.”

Eddie freezes, and Steve arches a brow,“got a problem?”

“No—fuck, no.”  Eddie’s already sliding to the floor, knees hitting the carpet with a thud. His hands find your thighs, gripping just tight enough to feel the muscle tense under his fingers.

Steve’s smirk widens. “Good.”

The praise goes straight to Eddie’s dick.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp—and God, Eddie’s never been so hard in his life.

Steve’s voice is a murmur as he trails a path down your throat, bruises already blooming under his mouth. “Now, make her beg.”

Eddie’s breathing is ragged as he looks up at you—fuck, the way your pupils are blown wide, the way your chest rises with every shaky inhale. Steve’s fingers are still tangled in your hair, his thumb brushing a stray strand behind your ear with a tenderness that feels domestic. Your eyes meet Eddie’s just before they flutter shut, and it’s all the permission he needs. His mouth finds the inside of your knee first, lips dragging slowly and hot up your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. Steve hums, tracing your ribs and sliding your bra strap down your shoulder. His palm cups your breast as it spills free, kneading with a lazy possessiveness that has your hips jerking forward—but Eddie holds you steady, determined. 

His tongue traces past the waistband of your panties like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you, and when his eyes flick up to Steve, all he finds is lust, raw and unfiltered. So Eddie hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls, dragging it down your legs as he kisses a trail after it, reverent even in his hunger. His fingers work you with surprising precision, his gaze desperate for approval—and when he curls them just right, you gasp, arching into his touch with a moan loud enough to make Steve’s smirk falter. He wasn’t expecting that.

The slip in Steve’s control sends a thrill through Eddie, and he murmurs against your thigh, voice rough: “You sound so fucking sweet—bet you taste even better.”  Steve’s grip tightens on your hip, hard enough to bruise, but you don’t seem to mind.

He’d meant to teach. Now, he’s learning.

And the way you’re unravelling under Eddie’s touch stirs something awake inside of him. Eddie’s got a musician’s dexterity, his fingers able to coax sinful melodies from you with every twist. When you whimper Eddie’s name, Steve’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t stop him. Just watches with a gaze darker than the midnight sky itself as Eddie’s breath ghosts over you, your thighs trembling. “Please—”

The word barely leaves your lips before Eddie adds another finger, crooking them until your thighs squeeze around his wrist. He groans against your skin, resting his forehead against your leg as the vibration tears another broken sound from your throat. He fucks you with his fingers—slow and deep, then fast and relentless, like he can’t decide whether to savour you or ruin you.

Eddie, drunk on your praise, dares to glance up at Steve with a smirk. Steve’s nostrils flare, but instead of shutting him down, he drags a thumb over your cheek and growls, “You gonna cum for him?” You can’t even answer. Your back arches, toes curling, and Eddie drinks it in like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. The moment you shatter, he loses it. He’s not sure what destroys him more—the way you choke out his name, begging him not to stop, or the filthy, approving rumble of Steve’s voice as he speaks, “Good girl.”

Eddie finds himself at an impasse, torn between begging for more and staying silent as the two of you decide his fate. His fingers twitch where they grip your thighs, his breath ragged, his entire body coiled tight with anticipation—and fear. Steve detaches himself from nipping at your collarbone when Eddie wavers, his movements faltering. A reprimand flashes in Steve’s darkened gaze, sharp enough to make Eddie shudder again. “Didn’t you hear her, Munson?”  Steve’s voice is a low, warning growl. “She told you not to stop.”

But Eddie freezes. The reality of where he is—what he’s doing—hits him like a freight train. He has no idea how to continue.

But Steve doesn’t tolerate hesitation. His hand fists in Eddie’s hair, yanking him forward with a rough, “Stop thinking.”

Eddie obeys like a man possessed, and the moment his tongue drags over you, his whole body jerks—holy shit. You taste even better than he could’ve dared to dream. Sweet, addictive, and the way you gasp when he flicks his tongue over your clit?  He’s ruined. Forever.

Drunk on you—on the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way you’re so wet it’s coating your thighs—he laps at you like his life depends on it. Steve watches with drowsy satisfaction, his palm sliding possessively up your stomach to cup your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple just to hear you whimper for him again.

“Listen to how she sounds when you do it right,” Steve murmurs, voice thick with contentment. “Isn’t it the most beautiful sound in the world?” He doesn’t wait for Eddie to answer. Instead, he tilts your jaw toward him, locking you in a searing kiss. You moan into Steve’s mouth as Eddie continues, his tongue relentless, his own desperate noises vibrating against you. Steve chuckles darkly when Eddie whimpers, his cock straining against his jeans just from tasting you. He hasn’t even touched himself, but he’s so close he’s shaking.

“Are you going to cum just from this, Munson?” Steve drags him off you by his hair, grinning at the dazed, wrecked look on Eddie’s face. “Fuck, look at him, darling. He’s a mess.” Eddie’s lips are slick, his chest heaving, his pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. Steve doesn’t give him a chance to recover. He pushes Eddie back into the armchair, his grip firm, dominant. Then he guides you onto the couch with a smirk.

“You did good,” he tells Eddie, voice dripping with condescension. “Now let me show you great.”

Steve doesn’t waste time. In one smooth motion, he hooks his hands under your knees, spreading you wide—putting you on display—before dragging you to the edge of the couch. His gaze locks onto Eddie’s, making sure he’s watching as he leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, a shudder running through you at the sensation. “See how she shivers?” Steve murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, laced with something Eddie can only describe as devotion. “It’s because she knows what’s coming—” Then he devours you. 

Unlike Eddie’s frantic, eager strokes, Steve’s tongue moves with precision—deliberate, decisive licks that have you arching off the couch within seconds. He teases you, circling your clit until you’re gasping, then he pulls back with a cruel smirk.

“Steve—” you whine, fingers scrambling at his hair. “Patience, sweetheart,” he muses—before sucking your clit between his lips, hard. Your cry echoes through the room, and Eddie’s hands clench into fists, his hips jerking helplessly as you overwhelm his senses without even touching him. Steve doesn’t let up; he works you with his mouth until your thighs tremble, until your moans grow longer and heavy, until you’re right there—, and he pulls away.

“No, no, baby, please—” you beg, but Steve just clicks his tongue, amused, sliding two fingers into you without warning. “Look at her, Munson,” he orders, curling his fingers just right, making you sob beneath him. “This is how you give her what she deserves.” His thrusts are ruthless, his palm grinding against your clit with every movement. You’re a writhing, whimpering mess, your nails digging into Steve’s shoulders as he fucks you on his fingers, his eyes locked onto Eddie’s the entire time.

“She’s close,” Steve taunts—he doesn’t even need to look at you to know, too busy watching the way Eddie’s jaw clenches.  “You want to see what happens when she comes on my hand?” Eddie can’t even speak. He just nods, frantic. Steve smiles wickedly and makes do with the response. 

He crooks his fingers again, pressing deeper, and you don’t just shatter—you explode. Your back bows like you’re possessed, broken screams tearing from your throat as you squirt, and Eddie swears he’s seeing stars. Your hand finds Steve’s bicep, clinging desperately, like you’re afraid he’ll stop. Eddie can’t look away; he doesn’t dare blink—if he misses a single second of this, he’ll never forgive himself.

Steve works you through it, drawing out every last spasm until tears streak your face, until you’re oversensitive, trying to squirm away. Only then does he finally relent, licking his fingers with a satisfied hum before brushing featherlight kisses up to your neck. The moment you feel his proximity, you meet him in a kiss—not heated like before, but purposeful, delicate, like Steve is guiding you back to reality with it. He doesn’t rush you; he just lets your fingers weave through his hair until your breathing steadies. Then, he speaks again. “That”, he says, “is how it’s done.” He meets Eddie’s stunned gaze. “You shouldn’t even be thinking about getting your dick wet until she’s clenching around nothing.”

Eddie’s so hard it hurts. His cock throbs against his jeans, neglected and aching, precum soaking the fabric. He’s never been this turned on in his life—and the worst part? Steve knows it. The bastard smirks, dragging a thumb over your lower lip. You suck it in eagerly, tongue swirling, before he pulls away and stands. It’s a fucking performance. Steve undoes his belt like he’s savouring the way Eddie’s eyes cling to his hands, the leather slipping free with a final, damning shush. You whimper, still boneless from your orgasm, but your eyes flutter open when Steve’s palm slides up your thigh, squeezing. “Please, Steve?” you breathe, and his grin turns feral. “Not yet, love.” He glances at Eddie, whose throat bobs under the weight of his stare. “Munson hasn’t earned it yet.”

Eddie’s stomach drops. Fuck. He’s dripping in his pants, his hips twitching like a fucking teenager, and Steve’s going to make him wait?  But then— 

Steve grips Eddie’s chin, forcing his gaze up. “You want her?” he asks, voice rough. Eddie nods, greedy. “Then prove you can take care of her.” And just like that, Steve shoves him onto the couch with you. “Do it like I showed you.”

For a heartbeat, Eddie can only stare—at the way your breath hitches when he touches you, at the way your eyes lock on Steve, who’s sprawled in the armchair like it’s a fucking throne, lazily stroking his cock. Your lips part, and Eddie swears he sees your mouth water—fuck, it’s obscene. His hands tremble as he touches you—really touches you—this time. His mouth finds your thigh, kissing up the sensitive skin, trying to mimic the way Steve had worshipped you earlier. But when his tongue drags over you, your breath catches—wrong—and Steve’s low chuckle cuts through the room like a knife.

“Christ, Munson,” Steve sighs, his grip tightening around his cock. “You’re thinking too hard.”

Eddie grits his teeth. He is. He’s thinking about the way Steve had made you scream, the way your back arched off the couch like you were trying to fuse into him. He’s thinking about the fact that Steve’s watching, lazily stroking himself while Eddie fumbles like a virgin.

And the nail in the coffin? You’re watching Steve too. Your teeth sink into your lower lip, eyes heavy with desire—but not for Eddie.

“Fuck,” Eddie rasps, pulling back. His voice is wrecked.“I can’t—I don’t—” Steve leans forward, fingertips ghosting over your throat as you keen toward him. “You can,” he growls. “Stop trying to perform. Just feel her.”

Eddie’s breath comes in sharp bursts. This time, when his mouth finds your cunt, he doesn’t think. He listens. To the way your breath catches when he licks a slow, experimental stripe. To the way your hips jerk when he sucks just there. And when your fingers fist in his hair—finally—it’s not to guide him, but to hold on.

“There,” Steve murmurs, voice thick with approval. “Now you’re getting it.” Eddie moans against you, the vibration pulling a whimper from your throat. Fuck. He’s dizzy with it—the taste of you, the sounds you’re making, the way Steve’s gaze burns into him like a brand.

But then Steve stands. Eddie barely has time to register the loss before Steve’s dragging him up by the collar, spinning him around to face you—really face you. Your lips are swollen, your chest heaving, your thighs slick with Steve’s work.

"Look at her," Steve growls, his voice a dark scrape against Eddie’s ear. "Don’t just glance—really look."

And Eddie looks. He sees the damp flush between your breasts, the way your hips lift like you’re already chasing it, the way your pupils blow wide when Steve’s thumb swipes over your bottom lip. "She’s not yours," Steve breathes, dragging his teeth over Eddie’s earlobe. "But fuck, look how bad she wants you to try."

Eddie’s pulse races. Then Steve steps back, gesturing like a king permitting a subject to kneel. "Go on. Make her forget my fucking name."

So he closes his eyes, trying to drown out the noise in his head, to sync himself with the thrum of your heartbeat beneath him, to dissolve into every breath you take. He wants to belong here, in this moment, where Steve’s approval hangs heavy in the air and your pleasure is the only thing that matters—success. A satisfied hum from Steve when Eddie finally finds the right rhythm, a broken moan from your lips. But your eyes—your eyes stay locked on Steve, even as Eddie’s mouth works you over.  It’s still him you want. Hunger battles with pride in Eddie’s chest. He hates how badly he craves this—how much he needs Steve’s approval—but god, he longs to pull those sounds from you himself, to unravel you with nothing but his touch. And so he moves like a man possessed, single-minded in his mission to play you like an instrument, to pluck every string until you snap.

Your taste is intoxicating, something he’s already addicted to, something he’s not sure he can live without anymore. Your eyes scrunch shut as pleasure blooms, so lost in it that you don’t even notice Steve speeding up his strokes, his grip tight on his cock. Eddie gets close—so close he can practically taste your climax—but you linger on the edge, just out of reach. He’s aware he’s missing something, some final piece to send you over, but he can’t find it. Then your eyes flicker open again, searching for Steve’s gaze like it’s the only thing that can save you. And Eddie knows—he’s pushed his luck too far. Steve’s patience snaps—not with his pleasure, but with Eddie’s failure to give you yours. Next thing he knows, he’s being dragged back, the warmth of you ripped away too soon. Steve looms over him, a predator in human skin, annoyance rolling off him in waves. “If you want to get a chance to fuck her,” Steve growls, voice dripping with challenge, “you’re going to have to do better than that.” 

Eddie’s brain becomes the mental equivalent of a dropped Wi-Fi signal—because did Steve just imply—?

Every touch, every taste Steve has allowed him, Eddie has devoured with insatiable hunger. But now it hits him—this is more than just a demonstration. Steve might actually let him fuck you. Or he would have. Now, Eddie isn’t sure he’ll ever get the opportunity again. A sharp, breathy cry from you yanks him from his thoughts. Steve has already turned you over, guiding you onto your hands and knees, one foot perched on the armrest behind you like a damn king claiming his treasure. Eddie is so close to your face now, your slick still glistening on his chin as you blink up at him, dazed. Steve teases your entrance with his cock, just enough to have you pushing back, begging for it. And for one glorious, heart-stopping moment—you look at Eddie.

Not at back at Steve.

At him.

Your gaze is pure, primal desperation—like he’s the one you need. Steve drives into you in one brutal thrust, and your eyes screw shut in ecstasy. You sob Steve’s name, but your eyes flicker back open as you you look at him.

“Baby, please—” And it dawns on him—you are begging Steve, but not for Steve. No, you’re begging for permission, your gaze locked onto Eddie like he’s the only thing anchoring you to earth. He doesn’t know what you’re asking for, but Christ, he already knows he wants it just as much. 

Steve, of course, does understand. He drags his cock into you agonisingly slow, pressing tender kisses along your spine even as his voice comes out harsh. “You think he deserves it, honey?” You whine, desperate, but Steve doesn’t need more than that. He leans over you, his thrusts deliberate, sinful. “How could I ever say no to you?”

And fuck, Eddie gets it now—gets why Steve turns possessive, gets why you love it. He’s watching the two of you move like a single entity, Steve’s hips rolling into you with a precision that rewrites Eddie’s entire understanding of sex. And the real tragedy? He’s pretty sure you’re only getting started. Your fingers fist in Eddie’s collar, yanking him down hard. His breath stutters as your lips take him in, hot and needy, and he doesn’t think—just reacts, his hands tangling in your hair as Steve’s thrusts rock you forward, forcing Eddie deeper into your mouth. You moan around him, the vibrations nearly undoing him right there, but then your hand tugs at his belt loop like it’s personally offended you, and Eddie’s thoughts fry into static. What do you want? He glances at Steve for answers, but the bastard just laughs, driving into you harder like he’s savouring Eddie’s confusion.

And God help him, Eddie looks. It’s downright pornographic. Steve’s cock glistens as he pulls out, your body clinging to him like it never wants to let go, and every time he sinks back in, you clench, a broken noise tearing from your throat.

As Eddie freezes, you take matters into your own hands, undoing Eddie’s belt with ruthless efficiency. The zipper’s barely down before his jeans pool at his knees. He looks at Steve again—helpless—but Steve just shakes his head, smirking. “Jesus, Munson. Keep up.”

Your fingers brush the straining outline of his cock through his boxers, and his hips jerk. Your mouth finds the spot beneath his ear, teeth scraping, and—fuck—it nearly sends him over the edge right then. You’re not gentle. You know exactly what you want. In seconds, his dick is in your hand, your grip perfect, and the first stroke has him grinding his teeth so hard his jaw hurts. He wants to keep his eyes open—to watch, to devour every detail of every second—but his body betrays him. A shudder wracks through him, his lashes fluttering helplessly before his head falls back, lost to the crushing wave of ecstasy."

“Fuck—!”

Steve’s voice cuts through the haze, dark with amusement. “That’s it, sweetheart. Show him how good you can be.” His hand tangles in your hair—not guiding, just holding—like he wants Eddie to see he’s the one in control. That every gasp you make, every shudder Eddie can’t suppress, is because Steve orchestrated it.

“Bet he’s never felt anything like you.” Eddie’s thighs tremble, his cock twitching against your tongue. He’s close, too close, and Steve knows it—fuck, he’s enjoying it. “Look at him,” Steve murmurs, dragging his cock out of you just to slam back in, punching a moan from your lips.  “Already shaking for you.  Bet he wishes it was him inside instead.” His thumb swipes over your clit, and you whimper, your rhythm on Eddie faltering. “But he’s got to earn that, doesn’t he?”

Earn it? Eddie’s vision blurs at the edges. He’d shamelessly beg if it meant—Then your tongue swirls over the head of his cock, and he chokes, almost falling forward into you.

“Steady,” Steve warns, though his voice is anything but calm. “You cum before she does, and I’ll make you watch while I fuck her twice as hard.”

Eddie’s groan is nothing short of pure agony. Steve fucks you more slowly then—cruel, like he’s savouring Eddie’s torment—dragging his cock almost all the way out before sinking back in, his grip on your hair tightening just enough to make your eyes water. But your dedication doesn’t waver; if anything, it burns hotter. “Shit—”  Eddie’s hips jerk involuntarily, but you swallow him deeper, humming around the salt-bitter heat of him. His fingers scramble at the cushions, knuckles white. “Jesus, sweetheart, where the hell did you learn—?”

Steve’s laugh is a dark, knowing thing against your neck. His hands slide up your thighs, spreading you wider as he presses inside, slow, letting you feel every fucking inch. “She’s full of surprises,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear. “But you’re not going to last long enough to find out, are you?”

Eddie’s groan disintegrates, the way you swirl your tongue around him, the slick pressure of your throat—it’s nothing like the groupies who’d thrown themselves at Corroded Coffin. This is ruination. This is worship. Your mouth works him with practiced greed, and Eddie’s vision blurs.

“Fuck, I’m not—I can’t—” 

“Yes. You can.” Steve’s voice doesn’t leave room for argument—this isn’t a suggestion; it’s a command. His hand moves from your scalp to your nipple, pinching just shy of pain until you whine around Eddie’s cock. His other hand slips between your legs, circling your clit with filthy precision. “You going to cum for us, sweetheart?” he rasps. You nod frantically, lips stretched lewdly around Eddie. “Good. Let him see.” You break with a cry, muffled around Eddie’s cock, and Steve growls as your body clenches around him. “That’s it,” he grits out, hips snapping harder, “that’s my girl—” Eddie’s spellbound.

 Steve fucks you through it, your tears smearing Eddie’s thighs. His breath comes in punched-out gasps, cock twitching against your tongue—

Steve loses control first. A guttural groan tears from his throat as he spills inside you, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

Eddie’s hips stutter when you whimper, oversensitive, as Steve grinds into you one last time—claiming you like he wants to brand the feeling into your skin. And then— “Fuck!”  Eddie’s back arches, his cock jerking as you pull off with a slick pop, begging Steve for mercy. He comes untouched, frustration and relief searing through him as he gasps your name like a prayer. Steve laughs, low and satisfied. Eddie’s too wrecked to care, chest heaving—until Steve’s next words send him tumbling straight back into want.

“Let me know if you’ve got any requests for the next lesson.”

You looked radiant, a picture-perfect idea of a pretty girl. You moved fluidly between the coffee pot, the cabinet, and the sink, like you could perform the motions with your eyes closed. You twinkled while you walked, delicate gold rings on your fingers, earrings catching the light as your head turned towards the window. Like you were made of something that came from space. You looked more tired than usual, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual.

The kitchen at Doc’s was always loud, so Andrew didn’t look up from his drink when shouting began. He had come in early, while the sun was still rising, after a sleepless night spent in his mom’s kitchen listening to his brothers plan a heist. Andrew hadn’t really paid attention to them, too focused on re-running the route from Smurf’s to the diner in his mind—a drive he could make in his sleep.

The line cook at Doc’s was an asshole. That was the first thing he’d noticed after pulling off the main road into the nearly empty parking lot. Andrew had stumbled in, bloody under his jacket. A deep gash, halfheartedly bandaged days before, ached beneath his clothes. He almost collapsed into the corner booth.

Johnny had been yelling then, too. But that time, he was behind the bar countertop, following you around as you tried to tidy up. “I don’t need to be babysitting you,” he scowled, getting in your way constantly. “First it’s the fuckin’ tickets, then it’s the drinks, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t have much in that pretty head of yours, doll, but I didn’t realise you were honest-to-god fucking stupid.” He grabbed you at the scalp, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, and gave your head a shake. “Or were you too busy whoring yourself out tonight to remember you got a fuckin’ job to do?” His hand lingered, like he was unsure of what to do with it.

“Baby-” That word had snapped Andrew right out of it. He’d been dazed for days, since he’d got nicked right near his ribs and had lost so much blood he’d been tanner in prison. The harsh words hadn’t fazed him, he was ashamed to admit, but hearing you turn and address the man so sweetly, like he hadn’t just called you a slut in front of the empty dining room.

“No, no,” He snatched a white coffee cup out of your hands. “I get it. My big girl’s gotta do her big girl job. Right, honey? You think you’re something special ‘cause old Ron said you got a nice smile?” He slammed the mug down so hard that Andrew heard it break. You jumped about half a foot in the air and seemingly went into fight or flight. You’d scampered away, pulling the bar top up where it turned into a gate to come move around the dining room. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.” He’d called out your name, and Andrew had committed it to memory right then and there.

“I’m working, Johnny,” you’d turned around then, in a huff. Chest rising and falling, Andrew tried not to focus on the movement of your breathing. “Doing my job, like you told me.”

Johnny watched you wipe down a table and shove the chairs in haphazardly. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Now you wanna fucking work. Remember that flashing your tits’ll only get you out of paying rent so many times, did you?”

“Hey!”

Pope hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t planned on drawing attention. He hated watching you be diminished by your boss and wanted to intervene. But he felt dizzy, and you looked like the kind of girl who’d rather no one witness her shame, as twisted as that was.

Both of your heads snapped to him. Johnny’s angry, yours petrified, and Andrew felt like maybe he had made things worse for you.

Pope knew he couldn’t go in too aggressively; you were already shaking your head at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t make a scene.

“Can I order or what?” he said gruffly, pressing his hand to his side as he slumped into the booth.

He watched Johnny grip you by the arm, hiss something in your ear, and then push you toward him. You looked more shaken than hurt, embarrassed that he had seen it than sad it had happened.

With how sweet you had been to Johnny, he’d expected you to be kind of meek. Andrew had seen your type before. Small-town girl moves to her closest approximation of a big city. Too poor for San Diego, but dreams big enough to get as close as possible. Got saddled at a dead-end food service job with an ass for a boss. Didn’t need Pope white knighting for you when he just knew your boss was going to yell at you the second he left.

Instead, you came right up to him, locking your gaze with his. Like it had never even happened. “You know what you want?” You flashed him a smile, pen already poised to write down his order.

“Uh,” Pope hadn’t even glanced at the laminated menu on the table.

You snorted, covering your mouth with your notepad. “All that tough guy stuff, you didn’t even know what you wanted?” Andrew had been suffering blood loss for at least two full days by that point, but your laugh made him feel like he was floating. “How about some coffee, huh?”

He heard the kitchen door slam behind Johnny. You didn’t even look behind to where he’d stormed out. Didn’t even flinch.

“Ignore him,” you said softly, unbothered. “He’s a little bitch. Smiled at a customer too long, made him jealous.” You grinned like it was a joke—like his words were just a harmless flaw.

Andrew looked up at you. There was a red mark on your arm where Johnny had grabbed you. “So what’re you doing now then?”

You laughed again, brushing your fingertips against the arm he had resting on the table. “If you pick coffee, then I can make it right here for you, no kitchen required.”

That had sounded pretty good to him, so Andrew nodded. You beamed down at him, shoving the notepad in the front pocket of your apron. “Now, I don’t know what you heard from him.” You had jabbed your chin towards the pass to the kitchen, heat lamps basking the wall in warm golden glow. It didn’t hold a candle to you. “But I promise not to flash my tits at you.” You nabbed the menu off the table and turned back to step behind the bar countertop. “I won’t stop you from looking up my skirt, though.”

Andrew had laughed so hard he felt like he popped one of his shitty stitches.

It became routine after that. Whenever he had to pull an all-nighter, he’d stop by Doc’s and come get a cup of shitty coffee and a dose of lovely girl.

Johnny hated Pope, but you said that was normal with customers, telling him not to get a big head. Yet Johnny kept taking Pope’s money and letting him sit in the corner booth for hours. Pope always tipped big; the money was bloody, but better in your pocket than his.

He told himself that’s why he kept coming back. He wanted to help you out. You were a sweet girl. That was it.

The dining room was no longer deserted like it had been that morning. There were a few other waitresses and a few other chefs bustling around. You and Johnny seemed to always be there, though. Pope had already waved off two teenage girls who tried to take his order.

"You think you’re better than this place?”

He couldn’t hear your muffled reply, but he heard the way Johnny laughed.

“Nah,” Johnny got louder, voice deeper. “Some fucking clown tells you you’re too pretty to be holed up here and suddenly you’re too good for me?” There was the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the diner. The other patrons all looked up, some nervously, some annoyed. “You think he likes you? Sweet little girl, always so pretty for him, huh? Letting him ogle you like that? What do you think is gonna happen, sugar? He’ll take you somewhere nice, pull you out of this shithole?”

He still couldn’t hear you, ears straining to make out words over the noise. Baby - being nice - love you.

“You know exactly how this is gonna shake down, don’t you?” Johnny lowered his voice just slightly. “He’ll fuck you, then he’ll run, and you’ll be left here asking me for a ride to work. You know that, right? I know you got nothing but rocks up there, but you can see that, surely?”

Pope couldn’t even make out your voice that time, but he figured you’d replied when Johnny laughed, roaring and cocky. “Oh, no, baby. Don’t you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me. You know exactly why I’m mad. You like me mad. You drop your fucking panties for any guy who walks in the door, and I’m meant to act like I don’t see it? No, baby, I’m not the bad guy. You do this shit on purpose. You push, and you push, and one of these days you’re gonna forget just how good you have it.”

Andrew already fucking hated Johnny, but the afternoon you’d sheepishly admitted Johnny wasn’t just your boss—he was your longtime boyfriend—made Pope’s blood boil so much that he’d almost crushed that fucking coffee cup in his hand.

“Yeah, my girl doesn’t need reminding who’s good to her, does she? Where’s your fucking attitude now, huh?” More murmurs, you sounded upset now, not soothing. “Yeah, not so fucking tough anymore. You think that fucking loser’s gonna save you-?”

Andrew heard your voice - don’t - and then dead silence. He thought for a sickening moment that Johnny had kissed you to shut you up, and that he was going to have to think about that on the drive home instead of how you’d traced the knuckle of one of his hands.

Then, you emerged. Head ducked, straight for his booth. He sat up straighter. Your chest was shaking, and this time, he didn’t have to stop himself from looking; his eyes were glued to your face.

He said your name softly, reaching a hand for you. You stopped short. “Can I get a ride?”

Your eyes were red, tears streaking thick black tracks down your cheeks. There was a mark on your collarbone. Pope was up in an instant. “I’ll fucking kill him-”

“He just grabbed me, I want to go home-”

“Just grabbed you?” He scoffed. You were both talking quietly, voices low to avoid the breakfast rush from feeding on your insides. “I’m going to fucking kill-”

“Andrew,” you snapped, “I want to go. Can I get a ride or not?”

Pope had driven you home a few times in the six months he’d been frequenting the diner. Sometimes you and Johnny would fight, and Johnny would take off without you, leaving you stranded and sheepish as you stood by the corner booth, looking like you wished the earth would swallow you.

But he’d never seen you leave without Johnny. This was new.

He handed you the fifty in his hands - the piece of pie he’d been waiting on plus tip (he wasn’t gonna let that asshole take it), and you didn’t argue, just shoving it in the pocket of your apron. You never accepted his money without a fight, usually, but that time you took it, stalking off towards where Andrew had parked his car.

“You wanna go to your place?” Andrew would never have asked, have given you any inkling you were welcome at his house, if you hadn’t looked so upset. He didn’t want you anywhere the fuck near his family - especially Smurf. She had no idea he’d been coming there three times a week for almost six months. It wasn’t any of her fucking business. Still, he wasn’t going to let his mom sink her claws into you the way she had with Julia. To maim. Not to cage, like with him.

But Andrew also knew that Johnny owned your apartment building. That was how you’d met him, apparently. At first, it had been kind of fun, you’d admitted to him one night the slight Johnny had hurled at you hadn’t been without merit. “Sometimes I couldn’t make rent that month, so I’d just have to… You know.” Pope felt like he was going to be sick. “It made me feel special, like I was in on something the other people weren’t. Then one time we had a fight and he wouldn’t get someone to fix my AC.”

Pope was going to fucking kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could think of that would stop him. He’d fantasise about the ways on the drive home some mornings, imagining the life draining out of Johnny’s eyes the way Pope had watched the life drain out of yours. Maybe he’d take a knife to him, watch his blood soak the concrete. He had a gun; he could use that. Or maybe Pope could just drag him out to the half-alley where Doc’s dumpsters were and beat the shit out of him until he was unrecognisable.

Those were second only to the other fantasies he’d have. The ones where you would find out, devastated by your boyfriend’s death, and turn to him for comfort. The ones where you’d kiss him and tell him he saved you. The ones so vivid he’d have to pull off the road and deal with it, lest he go and meet up for a job with a boner.

All of them involved your fucking boyfriend six feet under, and Pope getting the chance to show you how much better he could treat you.

Sometimes you chatted, airily telling him stories about funny customer interactions you’d had, or about something silly you’d seen on your phone. Sometimes you stayed silent. Most of the time, if Pope was driving you somewhere, it was because you and Johnny had gotten into a fight and he’d left you stranded.

“I’m gonna need to ask for your number,” you’d joked one night, standing in front of the open passenger door, bent at the waist to shove your head back in the car. “That way I can come and bug you whenever.”

Andrew would’ve handed it over without hesitation, but you’d giggled and shut the door, flouncing back up to the staircase leading to your apartment on the second floor. That afternoon, Johnny had taken your elevator pass, so Andrew dropped you off around the back. Your apartment building felt more like a motel: your front door was external, the apartment hallway served as an entryway, and a patio. He watched you bound up the stairs with the energy of someone who hadn’t worked the night shift, hauling yourself up on the railing and flashing him a beaming smile as you reached your door.

Now, you sat in silence. When Andrew pulled into the back lot of your place, you sat there, seatbelt buckled behind your back—which made Andrew nervous, but he was in no position to ask you to obey the laws of the road. “Do you want to come in?”

The closest Andrew had come to being inside your house was when he’d walked you to your door one night when it was raining. “Johnny…?”

You shook your head, still not looking at him. Your gaze was locked on your lap. That summer had been unbearable, so you’d opted for skirts rather than pants. You wore really pretty outfits a lot of the time, even if they were hidden under your apron. Floral sleeveless tops that showed off your collarbones and made him feel like a fucking teenager, practically salivating at the sight. Skirts that ended at mid-thigh, oftentimes shorter than the apron you wore tied around your waist. Your thighs were on display, and Pope had been very tastefully looking at them - you couldn’t ask him not to look, that wasn’t fair.

“He’s pulling a double,” you said, “Can’t flake out on it either, Doc’s is going under.”

That wasn’t necessarily surprising to Pope. Doc’s had a few die-hard patrons, people that he’d see multiple times a week or month. Other than that, it was usually empty. Which is why the line cook seemingly felt no shame in bullying his girlfriend in the middle of the dining room on a weekly basis.

Part of Pope felt bitter. Good. That asshole deserved it. Maybe they’d knock the building down and turn it into a Whole Foods or some shit. But most of him was thinking about you. Doc’s was your only source of income, and most of your money you got from his tips. Would you still see him if the diner closed?

He followed you up the stairs, standing guard beside you as you rifled through your bag for your keys. That was how Andrew felt about himself a lot of the time when it came to you. A guard dog. Someone to protect you, whether it was from Johnny or Smurf or guys who called you ‘darlin’ and got too close to your face at work. Not necessarily someone to keep around, but someone useful.

Your apartment looked exactly like Pope thought it would from the glimpses he caught through the windows (and the listing he’d found online) (your boyfriend had your apartment listed at all times, ready to strike if you pissed him off too bad) (Pope hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he kept it in the back of his mind always).

There were little touches that weren’t included in the estate photos he’d found online. The tack-on wallpaper you had up in the kitchen, the soft blankets you’d tossed over the couch.

“Sorry for the mess,” you sounded upset, but you had been since the diner. Pope didn’t want to think about it being his fault. What really worried him was the palpable sense of tension, as if there were too many words left unsaid hanging in the air. Pope looked back over at you, mouth open to tell you not to worry about it, but was interrupted by the look on your face. Eyebrow raised, eyes still red-rimmed from the incident in the diner, mouth curled downward. “No, stop. You’re gonna say it’s cute, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s gross, sorry. I didn’t think I’d have company today.” You seem to be in waitress mode even at home, straightening things and moving to put dishes in the sink. Pope caught sight of a dirty laundry basket and almost got lightheaded.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” You asked, kicking the laundry basket into another room and shutting the door with your elbow. Pope couldn't shake off a sense of impending crisis; each of your movements was more hurried than usual, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

Pope hovered awkwardly in the living room, scraping his eyes over as much of your stuff as he could. Your chipped mugs, the 90s girl-group poster covering water-damaged walls. Your things were clearly well-loved and well-worn, but seldom maintained. You took good care of your things out of love, but not enough to stop them from breaking. Enough to keep them useful. Pope wondered if his usefulness would run out. “Is the coffee better here?”

You snorted, untying your apron and dumping it on the sofa. “I won’t spit in it?” You offer like it’s some sort of consolation prize.

Pope couldn’t stop the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Why not?”

He wanted to ask him what exactly had gone down in the kitchen, talk to you about it, tell you to dump him, do a billion things to you. There was the small problem of you finding out how much of a fucking loser he felt about you.

“Sit,” you said softly. He sat. He watched you mill around, both cleaning the kitchen and making him a cup of coffee in the same motions. When you handed him the cup, he looked up at you. It was well and truly mid-morning by that point, and the sun was filtering through the kitchen windows and hitting your face.

“You okay?” He finally asked. He didn’t want to overstep; he also felt like it wouldn’t be appreciated. Pope wanted to be something, not just another asshole who took control of your life. You’d been in a rough spot when you’d met Johnny. Pope didn’t want to be another Johnny. So, he kept his mind firmly on the task at hand and not on the fact that your bedroom was on the other side of that wall.

You looked at him, and Pope felt his stomach fall. He’d never seen you look like this before. “I want you to kill him.”

It was a burst of anger, uncharacteristic of his sweet girl. Pope couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he still felt like he’d blinked and missed you already.

“Wha-”

You rolled your eyes, kicking off your sneakers and curling up on the sofa near him. He could smell your perfume. He was going insane —you were too close—far too close for how well-behaved he was trying to be. Too far away to do the things he was trying not to think about doing.

“I’m not stupid, Andrew,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I know who you are. I know what you do. I know your whole schtick.”

Hearing someone call his family’s incredibly lucrative and prolific crime empire a ‘schtick’ kind of snapped him out of it. “You…?”

“Like, two weeks after the first time you came in, I went to a party and someone asked if I was Pope’s girl.”

Fuck. Fuck. He’d wanted to keep you all from it. From Smurf, from the rest of his family. From Pope.

When he was with you, he didn’t have to be Pope. He didn’t have to be whatever the fuck he was, whatever people called him. Didn’t have to worry about the fucking drugs, or the heists, or all the people he’d murdered at the behest of his mom.

Being asked to take care of someone wasn’t an uncommon thing for him.

You seemed to register the worry on his face, scooching closer on your small sofa. Pope felt dizzy. “I said yes,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I don’t know why. I just wanted him to leave me alone, and when you were brought up, he seemed to think twice about fucking with me. It was nice.”

Your earlier words played back in his head, about how it had been with Johnny at the beginning. Like being in on something that no one else was.

Andrew said your name, low and mournful, like it might be the last time.

“I’ve heard stuff,” you rushed, needing to get your point across before he cut you off and walked out of your life forever. “Stuff about the Codys- you guys. About you, Andrew. Pope. I had a little trouble picturing you as him. You’re always so nice to me, I couldn’t imagine you doing something like that.”

Good. Andrew hoped to god it stayed that way. You were the one good thing he had ever let himself have, and he barely even fucking had you. Still, it had all managed to catch up to him.

“But then I thought about it.” Your voice was quiet. If Pope strained, he could hear voices behind him, on the other side of the wall. “And I thought about it. And I kept thinking about it every time I saw you. I can’t get it out of my head.”

Pope felt his eyes sting. He was not going to cry in front of you. He’d sooner run out the door and ghost you.

“Please say something.” It was clear you had expected him to be much further on board faster than he had been.

He just sat there for a moment. Every second that went by, every tick of the clock on the mantle, every drip of the kitchen sink Johnny refused to look at, every blink of Pope’s eyes, felt like they got longer and longer between them.

Pope had an issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill Johnny - Pope would’ve done so already if he had known you wouldn’t grieve his death like he had believed you would. But he didn’t want to be the guy you leant too heavily on and grew to resent.

"You want me to kill him?"

He’d expected you to look surprised, to tell him you hadn’t really wanted to take him up on the offer or whatever. Instead, your eyes sparkled as you nodded.

"I want him to die, Andrew."  You said it so gravely, so seriously, he had no choice but to believe you. Unless you’d become an informant, which, knowing his luck, was not out of the question. “You’re a good man. You deserve to do it. I can forgive you for it.”

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

Doc’s was going under, and you’d been looking for another job. Looked at maybe going back to school. You’d been in your third year of college when you met Johnny. That was a lifetime ago.

If Johnny died, the building would be bought by Mr Carlton, the older man who owned all of the first floor and almost all of the second floor. Rent would be a little higher, but you wouldn’t have a boyfriend who could decide he wasn’t going to give you shifts while you were on your period, because if you couldn’t give him what he wanted, then why should you get what you want?

A steady source of income, maybe a future, control over your life again. Johnny had to fucking go.

And who deserved to do it more than Andrew? Sweet, sarcastic, charming, respectful, Andrew. He’d never overstepped, never once given you the ‘you deserve better’ spiel. Never once made you feel like he pitied you or judged you. Knew his place. His good behaviour deserved to be rewarded.

And so, you made a plan. He’d suggested planning it out to give you more time to chicken out, as he somewhat believed you would.

Johnny would be going out of town the month following, for a whole ten days. That meant there were ten days which nobody would notice his disappearance. Pope planned it all, how he would do it, where he would dump him, and the excuse he would give his brothers.

Baz had pulled him aside and asked if he’d gotten a girl, but Pope had stayed silent, stewing bitterly. It wasn’t out of any real interest in his life; it was out of selfishness. He’d noticed how long it had been since he’d caught Pope looking at Cath.

You quit Doc’s and started working at a coffee shop closer to your place. The hours were consistent, the pay was regular. You didn’t even care that your coworkers weren’t very nice, and you weren’t making as much in individual tips. You wanted something concrete.

You and Pope started “dating.” You suggested it as a reason you guys had been hanging out so much: if one of your neighbours squealed. All that involved was letting Andrew drive you home, letting him call you ‘baby’ in earshot of your coworkers, and letting him keep his hand on the back of your thigh for just a little too long.

Pope was paying your rent — something that annoyed you, but you couldn’t stop. Johnny had threatened to evict you when you and he split, done in a screaming match at Doc’s, surrounded by as many people as you could swing. It needed to be public and final. You’d almost been rendered homeless, but Pope had offered to reach up and spend more than the heightened rent Johnny had started enforcing. Andrew knew Johnny knew he wasn’t going to get more rent out of anybody than some sucker who wanted to fuck Johnny’s ex-girlfriend.

He spent the entire month leading up to it with his family. Made himself as available to them as he could. Told you not to call him while he was at Smurf’s, told you so softly and so sweetly they’d rip your fucking throat out that you had no choice but to listen. He forced himself into so many situations that, when the day came, they were honestly grateful for a reprieve. Nobody would be calling him that week.

Johnny was smoking a cigarette when Pope got him. Sharp and fast, a quick slash to the side under the ribs, grabbed by the hair. Kicked on the back of the knees and shoved to the ground. Some of it had been overkill. The grip Andrew had kept on Johnny’s greasy hair, almost ripping it out from how forceful he was. Zip ties to the wrists, enough shoved in the mouth that even when Johnny realised it was Pope and started yelling, only muffled groans could be heard. Nobody had been in the parking lot of Johnny’s - Pope had planned as much, but seeing it work out felt vindicating.

Not as vindicating as watching Johnny bleed out all over the tarp Pope had lined his trunk with for the occasion. His hands, the hands that had touched you in all the wrong places, were almost completely severed at the wrists. Johnny’s fingerprints would be burned off, and his teeth would be knocked out, but he wanted to wait until the bastard was dead for that part. Not to spare him the pain, but because he wanted to take his time on it without having to listen to that miserable fuck whine the entire time.

He was still alive when Pope pulled into your apartment. You’d been at work all morning and had just gotten home (Pope still felt guilty about making you take the bus, even though his car had been in use at your request). That way, when the coroners eventually examined him, if they found him too quickly, they’d get a time of death you were both well and truly accounted for.

He’d hoped he’d catch sight of one of your neighbours on the way in, had spent the past month stopping to chat to each and every one of them, so they wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary if he did it on his way up to you. The staircase, the patio, and even the parking lot were all dead.

So, he pulled out his keys and made a big show of dropping his keyring and clattering about with it before unlocking the door. “Baby?”

You were in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, looking radiantly at him. More dream than girl, Pope could’ve sworn you glowed. “Andrew,” you beamed at him, speaking a little louder than necessary. Not unnatural. “How’s Lena?”

He’d offered to take his niece out for the morning, which kept her away from Baz and gave Pope some time with her. Made for a really good alibi if someone asked him where he’d been that morning. He’d felt kind of gross for dragging the poor girl into it, but his desire to see her had won over.

“She was good,” Pope shut the front door, dropping his stuff in. “We went to the beach, got ice cream, had some lunch. She says hi.”

Lena absolutely did not say hi. Pope hadn’t let a single thing about you slip, even to her. But he liked to think that if she did know who you were, she would’ve said hi.

Pope discarded his jacket on the hook by the door. You didn’t keep your space particularly tidy, but since he’d started coming over, you had made more of an effort. Clearing room for him to keep his things, jacket on the hook, shoes on the rack, keys in the bowl. It felt so painfully domestic that Pope could almost pretend this whole thing was real.

After that first time in your place, Pope had been struck by just how much of the apartment felt like you. It wasn’t overly decorated, you didn’t make enough money to have one of those Pinterest board apartments Andrew knew you were secretly obsessed with.

But there was nothing in this apartment, even the first time he’d been inside, that indicated you had a boyfriend. At least... There hadn’t been before.

Now, Pope’s stuff was everywhere. His dishes in your sink, post-its on your fridge reminding you of when he was working or telling him when you were. One of his jackets over the back of your sofa. He was one step away from keeping a damn toothbrush in the cup with yours.

You came close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and stretching yourself up so your mouth was right beside his ear. “Did you do it?”

Pope’s hands were pressed to your back, one of them lingering where the hem of your shirt sat, inches away from slipping his palm to lay against your bare skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. You squeezed him. “He’s in the car. I’ll hang out here for a while, then I’ll go dump him.”

He hadn’t told you where he’d been planning on taking Johnny. You hadn’t asked. You didn’t need to know where he was lying, just that he was rotting. That you’d never have to feel his hands on you again.

“No one saw me,” he said. He felt you frown against his neck. The two of you had been hoping at least one of your neighbours would catch sight of him organically. The building's walls were thin; you could hear people on both sides of you.

“Shit,” he felt you exhale. “We need someone to be able to validate that you’re here.”

He let his hands shift, rubbing the skin of your back gently through your top. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin with a featherlight touch. You didn’t move away.

The two of you stood there for a moment under the guise of thinking. There was the faint clatter of a dish being bumped into through the wall, followed by a muttered curse word.

“Maybe they could hear us doing something?” He suggested. “Like, we could talk really loud?”

You pulled back enough to see his face, but not so much that he had to let go. “What would they hear?” you asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of your lips up.

The silence hung low in the air, filling the space and shoving the two of you closer together. You were wearing a pretty blouse and a denim skirt, straight from a morning at the coffee shop. Pope didn’t want to be the one to suggest it.

“Andy…” Your voice was soft in tone but loud enough in volume that he was pretty sure that your neighbours could hear. You’d never called him that before. Your hands moved from resting behind his neck to caressing his jaw with your thumbs.

“Hi, baby,” the words ghosted your face, barely audible. Your face split out in a grin.

“Wanna see my bedroom?”

Andrew had seen your bedroom before, but he had never been inside. He’d only ever caught glimpses when you came in or out, or through the cracked door, or on the online listing.

Your bedsheets had little daisies on them. They felt soft under his fingertips. Your duvet was bunched up towards the head of your bed. You’d shoved him inside, giggling at the absurdity as his knees hit the back of your bed.

“Okay, wait.” You bent over, desperately trying to at least half-make your bed while he was sitting on it. You weren’t actually going to fuck him, you just needed to make the neighbours think he was giving you a good time. Well, it didn’t have to be good, but it would hurt his ego a little if he couldn’t fake fuck you well.

Then, you sat down on the rumpled duvet beside him, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Okay, wait,” you said again. “Alright…”

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before finally you let out a noise. A soft, barely-there, contented sigh.

Pope laughed.

You reached over and hit him. “Sorry, asshole, I’ve never tried to make my neighbours think I’m having sex before,” you hissed. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to take you seriously despite the situation. Andrew shifted so his legs weren’t hanging off the side of your bed, shuffling towards the head. “You do it.”

“I…” he tried. This was ridiculous. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his back pressed to the headboard.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, Andy,” you let out an exaggerated groan, snickering at him. Your voice stayed monotone, “Please, for me?”

You crawled closer to him, coming to sit right beside him.

Pope thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He had you right there, so close to him he could smell the rosemary oil you insisted helped your hair grow. So close he could count your eyelashes if he could keep his eyes off your hands, dragging through the duvet to extend towards him.

He let out a groan, and you smiled self-satisfiedly. “Yeah?” you goaded. “You like that, Andy?”

Your voice was thick with wanting. Pope let out another noise, heat rushing to his neck. You were putting on a show, and not even for his benefit. A whine ripped itself from his chest, and the humiliation filled the cavity it left. Here he was, acting like a fucking virgin sitting with a pretty girl on her bed.

You still had that goddamn smile on your face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. You were still moving closer, and Andrew felt frozen. He was trying so so hard, trying to behave, to not move you closer and grab any part of the expanse of skin you were seemingly haunting him by. He was trying to behave, and there you were, so close to him.

You were still giggling, even as you hauled yourself up and locked your legs on either side of his thighs. Pope’s hands were raised, hovering above your waist, not sure about the whole touching thing now that you were literally situated in his lap.

You opened your mouth, pushing a palm flat against the wall and letting out a slightly louder moan, looking him right in the eye.

Yep, definitely hell. You were settled in his lap, whining his name, gaze boring into his. He had to start thinking about geometry or baseball or something to distract himself from the fact that you were positioned right over his cock while wearing a skirt.

He was able to start on autopilot, matching your volume, throwing in a “baby” or a whine of your name every so often. He just had to keep a clear head for however long you decided sex with him would take and then wait so he could go jerk off and dump your boyfriend’s corpse. In that order.

You had one hand on his shoulder, one hand on the wall, still completely giddy from the venture. You seemed to be having a nice time, not burdened by the same hellish circumstance that he had found himself trapped in. Even more so when you shifted your hips slightly and had his cock twitch at the contact.

He felt you tense up and prepared for the anger. A slap, a spit, insults hurled. Something at least.

He couldn’t look up at your face, but unfortunately, your tits were the other closest things to his eyes. Instead, his head was turned to stare at the floral wallpaper, looking as far from your face as his head would physically turn.

“Andrew?” You whispered. He was shaking under your hands. He felt your hand move from his shoulder up his jaw, fingernails raking up his skin. You grabbed at his chin, pulling his face back up so he had to look at you. “Hey.”

This would be the last time he ever touched you, so he let his hands finally find purchase on your waist. “I’m so, fuck- I’m sorry. You can just ignore it; it’ll go away. I’m so fucking sorry, it’s not because of you.”

You pouted. “It’s not?” You rolled your hips, and Andrew felt his chest constrict. “That’s a shame.” You were moving consistently by that point, and he couldn’t figure out when you’d gotten such a mean streak.

“Fuck-” his head fell forward, forehead resting on your shoulder. “Baby, I-” he was interrupted by a whine yanked from his throat by the feeling of you grinding down on his crotch. “You… you gotta stop.”

“You want me to?” You asked innocently, pausing your movements.

Andrew lifted his head off your shoulder to look up at your face. You had never seen anyone look at you with such reverence.

Pope knew the good, moral thing to do was yes, to get you off his lap and then throw your boyfriend’s body in the ocean. What he chose to do was to lift his hips up to provide some of the friction you’d stopped giving him. “No,” he admitted. “Fuck- no. Please don’t.”

His face was still in your hand, and you gripped his chin, tipping his head back slightly. You ducked your head slowly, moving to press your mouth to his. Pope’s hands were roaming on your back, one of them finally slipping under the soft cotton of your blouse. Pope kissed like he talked, waiting for you to make the first move, but once you had, he cut himself loose. It wasn’t necessarily a good kiss; it was sloppy, mostly open-mouthed, and involved a lot of your mouth swallowing his moans.

But your brain seemed to reset, whether it was the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips or the feeling of his erection pressing between your legs. The noises he was making, directly from his mouth to yours, were sending a buzzing feeling between your thighs.

You rolled your hips, he thrust up to meet you, and the friction set loose a high whimper that seemed to spur him on.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling off where he’d taken your bottom lip between his teeth. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”

He was embarrassingly close from the feeling of you grinding on him through his clothes. His hand squeezed your side, his entire body tense from the effort he was putting in to keep him from embarrassing himself. You let out a whine at the sudden move, and that had been his final straw.

Without warning, Pope wrapped a strong arm over your back and flipped you over so he was above you. You squealed at the impact, landing on your back, and the sound travelled straight to his cock. “Andrew-”

He kissed you again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw and rub soothing circles into your scalp. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Your legs fell apart for him to come move between them and press his chest to yours. Andrew took his free hand and stroked the back of your thigh, holding it up against his hip. “Oh, look at you.” He pulled up to take a good look at your face. Face flushed, pupils blown, and that stupid fucking smirk on your face.

The hand on your thigh loosened its grip and travelled upwards until it found its way underneath your skirt. As his palm made the connection with your damp underwear, you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. “Andrew,” you shuddered against his touch.

“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice low. You nodded, tilting your head up to try to capture his lips against yours again. “Yeah? Come on then, baby. Use your words.”

Your cheeks burned, more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Please, Andy…” That wasn’t enough for him; the most he did was press the heel of his palm firmer against your panties. “Want you to touch me,” you grumbled. Andrew knew you were miffed at not getting what you wanted without having to do what he wanted you to. You liked that he was so desperate for you, liked how he’d been hard under your touch without him even really touching you.

He pushed your panties to the side to run a finger through your folds. You whined, pushing your hips up at the brush of your clit against the pad of his finger. “Andrew,” you whimpered. He stayed by the nerve, pressing two of his fingers flat and rubbing small circles. He spent a few minutes switching up pace and pressure until he found one that you seemed to really enjoy.

Your moans went straight to his cock, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that when you were so warm, so wet; all other rational thought went straight out the window. “Fuck, pretty girl. Hear how fuckin’ wet you are?” He kissed the side of your mouth and moved his hand off your jaw to press it against your hand. The back of your palm pushed up against your pillow, clutched tightly in his, anchoring him there to you. He moved away from your clit and ignored the pained whimper you pressed into his cheek, instead moving his fingers to slip them inside.

You gasped at the intrusion, your free hand clawing at his back. “Fuck, Andy,” your moans were high-pitched and breathy, unlike the deep and fake noises you’d been forcing out for the benefit of the neighbours.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he groaned into your neck. You were so tight, even just around his fingers. He wanted to pay more attention to your clit, but the feeling of your hand in his was too tempting to give up. Instead, he pressed his index and middle fingers inside while brushing the nerve with his thumb. It was uncoordinated, fast, and desperate, but you were whining into his ear, clenching the back of his shirt in your free fist, and squeezing his fingers so tight he could feel precome pooling in his boxers.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “How am I meant to fit in here, baby?” He cooed, crooking his fingers up to press against your spongy center with the tips of his fingers and causing you to throw your head back, open-mouthed.

Pope felt you clench around him. “Wanted this so bad,” you admitted, pulling him closer to kiss him. It was so sloppy, half your words were said directly into his open mouth. “For- fuck- months, Andrew. I k-keep thinking about you,” you bucked up into him. “Johnny would always get angry because he said you wanted to fuck me-”

“Did,” Andrew grunted, fucking you with his fingers as far in as they could go, stretching you out. He hadn’t been joking before; there was no way he’d fit. “Do.”

You ignored him, still babbling on. “And I never believed him, but I really, really hoped he was right.”

Andrew pulled his fingers out of you again, but this time you didn’t whimper. He’d been talking a big game while he was on top of you. You wanted your sweetheart back. Stopping only to shove your panties down your legs and kick them off onto the floor, you wrestled yourself back on his lap. At the feeling of your bare core against his erection, Pope groaned again. “Fuck, baby, you felt so good, so wet for me. Was that all for me?” You nodded. “Fucking bastard, has no idea what he’s giving up, does he?”

Pope did not want you back on his lap because he was pretty sure that if you started riding him again, he’d come in his pants.

You seemed pretty gleeful at the concept of that happening, though, leaning down to attach your lips to his neck. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where your bare core met the swell of his cock. “Andrew,” you rasped, “feels so good.”

His hips stuttered, hands on the backs of your bare thighs, debating whether to move up to your ass or down to your pussy. “Baby,” he groaned. “Say you want me.”

Andrew wasn’t a virgin. He’d had girlfriends, the occasional hookup. He had never been so achingly hard in his life, and you hadn’t even really touched his cock yet.

“You want me to want you?” You cooed. “Yeah, baby? I want you,” you husked, directly into his fear. “Want you so bad, Andrew.”

He tossed his head back, hitting the wall behind your headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good.” his hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, trying to find something to keep him from busting already.

“Yeah?” you encouraged.

Andrew nodded against your mouth, eyes rolled back in his head. “Yeah, fuck, baby. You look so pretty,” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes. You could feel yourself soaking his pants, his erection catching on your clit, and sending your head fuzzy. “So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”

You reached for his belt buckle at that, desperate to satiate the pulsing between your legs. He made no move to help you, watching through blown pupils as you undid his pants and shoved them down as far as you could with him sitting down. You’d been able to see the wet patch on his dark jeans, and you’d assumed it had been made up of entirely your arousal, evidence of how much you needed him. But seeing the dark stain of precome pooled by his erection, you realised he needed you just as much.

“Andrew,” you breathed, lusting and listless. “Can I touch you, please?”

Andrew groaned like he was in pain, nodding and nudging his face up to kiss your cheeks. “Please, baby. I’d take anything, anything you wanna do.”

You liked how he wasn’t trying to pretend he didn't want this as much as you did. You waned him so badly you ached, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction his fingers had provided. “Yeah?” He nodded. “Can you open up for me?”

Andrew opened his mouth, eyeing you as you leaned over his face and let a droplet of your spit land on his tongue. Eyes rolling back, he closed his mouth and savoured it, and that was when you decided to take the opportunity to reach into his underwear.

He was bigger than you’d expected from how unassuming he was. Andrew was a big guy, with arms so huge you wanted him to wrap them around your neck until you saw stars. But he wasn’t super tall, so you’d figured he’d gotten so jacked in prison. He hung heavily over the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched when he felt you wrap your impossibly soft hand around him. Now that you had him where you wanted him, everything else seemed to be in the way. His shirt was ripped from his head, the buttons of your blouse undone by shaking fingers. Andrew let his head drop forward to mouth at your covered chest, hand palming the cup of your bra on the other side.

You’d intended to tease him a little, maybe pay back the favour of his fingers, but after less than a full stroke, he was whining at you. “Please,” he gasped out, stopping his task of soaking through your bra with his spit. “I need to be inside you.” Your name slipped from his lips so desperately that you felt your walls flutter.

You reached up to cup his jaw again, keeping the pad of your thumb pressed to his chin and pushing two of your fingers against his lips. He let you in immediately, moaning around your digits and maintaining sweltering eye contact as your other hand brushed his slit with your thumb. An especially loud groan brought you back to where you were, what the goal had been.

“That’s it, baby,” you cooed. “Let the whole building hear how much you want me.”

Once your fingers were well and truly lubricated, you reached back down to touch his cock. “Fuck,” he let out. “You fucking tease-” he was being louder as you’d requested, but only just. He wanted people to hear, sure, but this wasn’t some type of performance.

Pope was desperately running through topics in his head - counting sheep, trying to do basic addition - anything to distract himself from the feeling of your hand running along the vein he had on the underside of his cock.

“Are you gonna fit?” You asked him, lifting yourself up to discard your skirt. Pope took the opportunity of you being out of his lap to shove his jeans down his legs, leaving himself completely bare in front of you. All you had left was your bra, and he’d be perfectly content to keep mouthing at the fabric, but you discarded that, too.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” he sighed, moving to lay you down once again against your pillows. “I’ll fit.” He brought his thumb down to brush your clit again. Your wetness was pooling between your folds, about to start leaking down onto your bed. He actually wasn’t sure, despite how turned on you were, if he would fit. He was above average, but not by much. But the way you’d clamped down around his fingers made Pope feel like maybe Johnny hadn’t been giving you very much to work with. The two of you had been together for like six years, he was pretty sure. “You were fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?”

You nodded.

He ran his fingers down your glistening folds, collecting your juices in his hand. Andrew had half a mind to bring them to his mouth, but he wanted the first time to be straight from the source. Instead, he let you take them in your mouth, mirroring what he’d done to you. You circled one of his thick fingers with your tongue, and he knew immediately he’d made a mistake, cock jumping at the feeling. He wanted to see you with your pretty lips wrapped around him.

Despite the slick mess between your thighs, his wet fingers were able to find purchase on your clit. “See how much I want you, Andy?” you moaned, and he knew the fucking neighbours heard the groan that pushed from his chest.

The head of his cock brushed your clit, and both of you whined into the open air. You pulsed under his touch, wanting and sensitive.

He took his hand away from your clit just long enough to take hold of his cock and guide it to catch on your entrance.

You look up at him, writhing and needy, and he ducks down to kiss you. “Fucking dreamt of this,” he admits. “Every time I’d watch you leave with him, I’d imagine pulling you away, making you feel so fucking good you forget every name that isn’t mine.”

His mind drifted back ever so slightly to the almost-corpse shoved in his trunk. The two of you had been plenty loud; the whole building had probably heard. Andrew wondered if Johnny could.

“Need you so bad,” you whispered. One leg wrapped around his waist, one bent at the knee on your side, looking up at him. “So fucking bad, Andrew,” you arched your back to bring your face closer to his, and he complied, kissing you roughly as he nudged his hips forward.

He felt you tense up, reaching down to rub distractedly at your clit with one hand and your jaw with the other. “Shit,” he hissed. “You okay?”

You nodded emphatically.

Once the tip was in, he stopped, letting himself stretch you out enough that every movement doesn’t catch a vein or ridge against your walls. You were squeezing him like he owed you money, and he had to put a lot of effort into holding himself up to watch your face.

Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, eyes half closed. Half whimpers were coming out through your mouth, one after the other, cutting off the one before. “Baby,” he cajoled. “You gotta talk to me.”

It took you a second, too overwhelmed with the stretch and the fact that Andrew Cody was in your bed, and the man you thought would be ruining your life forever was probably dead. And maybe you were dead and this was heaven, not that you’d ever be sent there after what you made him do. “So good, Andrew,” you reassured him, bringing a hand up to clench his auburn curls. “You can go more in.”

He took the opportunity to slide in further, revelling in each gasp you let out as part of his head caught on a ridge inside your pussy. “Oh my fucking god,” he grunted against your neck, certain he’d never been sucked in as completely as your cunt was doing, and he was only halfway in.

You were breathing so heavily, and Andrew kept pulling away to check on you, that by the time he bottomed out, the thick tip of his cock brushing your warm center, both of you were almost embarrassingly close.

“Fuck, pretty girl, can I move?”

You nodded. He tried to kiss you but got taken over by a full-body shudder at the feeling of pulling out, missing, and instead burying his forehead in your shoulder. The sound was downright filthy, filling your bedroom with a wet slap of his thighs kissing yours.

“Feels so good, Andrew,” you moaned, breath stuttering as he pushed  back in. The thrusts were slow at first, trying to give you both something to stay grounded in. But you were so tight, and you were talking to him so sweetly, and when he pushed forward, you’d clench, and his chest would brush against your nipples, and he felt so pent up he was going to explode.

“Baby…” your name tumbled from his lips, begging and rough, out of breath. “‘M all yours. All yours, my pretty girl. Could do anything you wanted to me. Let you spit on me again.”

You could tell he was borderline asking for it at that point, so you shoved his head back down to connect to your lips, trying to collect as much spit as you could get in there. He swallowed it dutifully, along with a moan of your name.

He was on the brink, as he had been since he’d heard that first sigh from your mouth. He was grabbing at the flesh of your thighs, trying to claw desperately at something that wasn’t your fucking wall. With how hard he was squeezing, he’d probably put a hole in it and come face to face with your neighbours in their kitchen.

“Andrew,” you mewled.  “Need… fuck… need you-”

“Right here?” He flicked your clit. “‘M sorry, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

He could feel himself getting there, and with the amount he’d been staving it off, he knew his climax wasn’t going to be soft.

Pope started playing with your clit, trying his best to replicate the rhythm that had gotten you so worked up at the beginning. You groaned, reaching blindly for him. “That’s it, right there.”

Andrew could feel you clenching around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering in time with his thrusts. “Fuck, you feel too good.” He kissed you. “Too fucking good, baby. So fuckin’ pretty for me, hey?” He was slurring his words, completely drunk on the feeling of you taking all of him inside.

“Andy-” the gasp was stilted, your fingernails gripping into his biceps. He was pretty sure you could cut him open with your nails, and he wouldn’t feel it, all of his senses completely attached to how fucking good you felt all spread out for him.

“You close?” He asked, more smug than he had any right to be, given how near he was to finishing. You nodded, and he kissed you. Kissed you. Kissed you. Each time, he got a little more lightheaded, and each time, you let out one of those soft sighs that made his arms shake.

“What do you need?”

You directed him, moving so you were half on your side, your leg anchored at his hip, whining as he hit a new spot inside of you. It was hard to find any part to lock on to with the mess between your legs, but he was still rubbing your clit. “Come on, baby. Show me how much you want me. Need to see it.”

You took his hand back in yours, mouth missing his lips as your orgasm hit you. Pope knew the second you came around him that he didn’t have long, but he tried to draw it out of you as long as possible, fucking you through it. “That’s my girl.” The feeling was white hot and dizzying, and for a second - though you’d never tell him this, smug bastard - all you could think of was Andrew.

You lay there, letting him fuck you, squeezing his hand and his dick. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that good, still rubbing your poor sensitive clit until you brought a hand up to swat him away. “Please, Andy,” you murmured, spare hand threading through his hair. “Please.”

“Where-” his thrusts were sloppy, barely able to string a single sentence together. “Where do you want me?”

He felt an aftershock rip through you as he hit your sweet spot, your voice sounding woozy and hot. “Inside.”

He stuttered. “In-”

“Want you inside,” you assured him. “Please? Want you so bad, Andrew- baby.” You whimpered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Want to be yours.”

He leaned heavily into you, putting his body weight on the thigh you had clamped around his hips. He groaned your name, “Want me inside? Fuck, want to be all full of me?” The idea of that alone was enough to have him spilling inside of you, breathing you in from his spot on your neck. The sheer force of his orgasm causing him to spill down your thighs as he pushed forward one last time.

He stayed there for a while before leaving with a soft kiss to go to your bathroom. He ran a washcloth under some warm water and returned to find you right where he’d left you. You and Andrew had never discussed whether you were on the pill or not - he had to assume you were, but as he wiped your sticky thighs down gently, he couldn’t help the way his chest constricted at the sight of him leaking out of you.

You, for all your charms while he’d been fucking you silly, had fallen into a blissed-out state of rest, watching him. “You going?”

His stomach did a flip. “Yeah, baby,” he finished with the washcloth, making a note to dump it in the laundry on his way out. Once he found his clothes. You sat up on your elbows, curling your legs inward so you were less spread out, and Andrew knew without you saying it that you wanted him to kiss you. “I gotta go to work.”

You nodded, beaming at him. “Hurry back.”

He discarded the washcloth and redressed himself, you going to pee and shrugging on a t-shirt and a clean pair of panties, meeting him back by the front door. You reached up to hug him again like you had when he’d arrived, this time placing a firm kiss on the side of his mouth. “You’ll come back?”

Andrew kissed the inside of your elbow, your arm resting on his shoulder, from where it was wrapped around your neck. He kissed a trail right up to your mouth, eyes blazing into yours. “I’ll be a few hours.”

Andrew wasn’t sure if you really wanted him back that quickly. He would usually spend an afternoon here and there sitting on your sofa or at your kitchen table, the two of you talking softly. He had only been coming over to establish a pattern of behaviour.

Though he reasoned it would be odd to break the pattern right along with your ex-boyfriend’s untimely demise.

When he pulled back into the parking space in your lot reserved for your apartment several hours later and smelling like bleach, he still hadn’t been sure if you wanted him there. He’d bought a bouquet of flowers from a roadside stall on a whim, and he felt stupid unlocking your door with them.

Your face was stern and somewhat abrasive, yet there was a soft spunk he couldn’t help but fall into. The black makeup on your lashes blurred slightly, reminding him of Kara’s many drunken appearances. Your eyes glowed a soft white, helping them break up the opaque darkness of the alley. It was unusual but alluring.

“I’m sorry, miss, do you need help?” he asked, gently taking his cape from your hands. You raised your brows at the name, leaning against the wall with a smirk.

“Oh wow, you’re just as polite as she says,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s cute.”

He couldn’t hide the blush that spread across his cheekbones and up his temples. His hands fidgeted at his side, glancing down to give himself a chance to reel his nerves in. He couldn’t decide if you were a threat or not, but your mention of Kara led him to believe you were safe.

“So… you’re Ka-el?” you asked, your eyes roaming over his frame. 

“No, no…” he debated giving you his name, but given your relation to his cousin, there was a high likelihood she’d already told you all his secrets in a drunken state. “I’m—”

“I know, I know, you’re ‘Clark Kent, ’” you said with a soft roll of the eyes. He ducked his head, averting your gaze. The strong glow of your eyes burned through him, leaving him weak in the knees. Did you have some powers he wasn’t aware of? He’d never felt this way.

“You look ridiculous, what is with your family and these suits?” you asked, stepping forward and poking at his side and the bright yellow belt. He went to stutter, a response dying on his tongue. You couldn’t help but bite your lip. As annoyed as you were with his presence, you couldn’t deny he was gorgeous. “You stick out like crazy. Are you trying to get killed?”

“Well, I—” he started, but you pushed past him.

“Listen, whatever you think you’re here to do, it’s not needed,” you said. Clark watched as your hands moved with passion, the words falling from your lips with a slick layer of sass. “I can handle this just fine, starboy.”

You move past him, your body briefly brushing against his. Perhaps you were feeling flirty, or maybe it really was him, but you definitely swayed your hips into him as you moved. Before you could get too far, his large hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back, probably a bit too eagerly. You spun back, stumbling a bit and catching your fall on his chest. A slew of mumbled and shy apologies slipped from his lips as he let you go. 

“Look, she asked me to come, what’s going on?” he asked, leaning in as his voice lowered. 

Your eyes rolled once again, something Clark couldn’t seem to understand why he found so enthralling. His eyes fell lower, taking in your appearance. Your clothes were little to say the least, maybe that’s what he should have expected when he came to an intergalactic night club. You wore a green dress, shiny and made of a stiff plastic-like material. Most of the sides were cut out, showing your soft skin underneath. He tried to ignore the strong urge to skim his hands over the exposed areas where the fabric left you vulnerable. The skirt was short, met just below the hem with tall boots. He didn’t miss the belt slug on your hips with gadgets he couldn’t begin to understand; the strap over the boots on your thigh held a gun as well. He knew he should stop staring; it wasn’t polite, and his Ma would’ve scolded him if she were there. But something about the way you brushed against him and moved your hips made him wonder if you wanted him to look.

A frustrated sigh fell from your lips, snapping his attention back to you. 

“We were just having fun, you know, drinks are cheap on Mors…I mean, the people are a little crazy but…” You stumbled on your words, your eyes squinting and face scrunching as you tried to recount the events of the night. Something about his commanding yet sweet demeanor left you feeling immature as you told on yourself. His towering stature didn’t exactly help. “...Kara wanted more drink credits, we were out, and she thought it would be easy to hustle some locals.”

Clark threw his head back with an exhausted sigh. Of course, his cousin would pick the planet with not-so-hospitable people and decide to swindle them. 

“They figured out what she was doing… 10 credits in,” you said, sheepishly shrugging as you spoke, fidgeting with the blaster strapped to your thigh. “They roughed her up a bit and took her to the back. She’s too drunk to even know what’s going on…they threw me out.”

His arms rested crossed over his chest, looking down at you as he processed the situation. This wasn’t exactly how he wanted to spend the evening. But looking at the face you gave him, he had a feeling you really would appreciate the help— you just weren’t the type to admit it.

“Okay, we can get her out,” he said, stepping closer. “Without making it worse.”

He didn’t miss the smirk on your face at his words.

ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃

You picked the lock, slipping in through the small back door. You did your best to wedge the Kryptonian in behind you, helping him duck his 6’4” frame through the narrow walkway. The music in the club blared out through speakers, shaking the walls and Clark’s ears. It was times like these he wished he didn’t have advanced hearing. To say he was out of his element would be an understatement. The tall man weaved through the crowd, trying his best to follow you while not attracting too much attention. If the primary colored suit wasn’t doing it, his bashful demeanor did. 

Through the moving crowd of bodies, he watched as you led. Despite the situation, you continued to sway to the music; your hips dipped and your back arched as you moved to the rhythm. Clark gnawed at the inside of his cheek, doing his best to remain polite and keep his gaze up. 

He tried his best to follow, but he couldn’t exactly keep up. Your constant dancing helped you weave through the crowd; as one person swayed left, you dipped right, gliding through the masses like water. He couldn’t say the same for himself as he slowly nudged his way through with the occasional ‘pardon’ or ‘excuse me’. By the time he finally reached the back of the club, you weren’t there. 

He spotted you at the edge of the bar, trying to grab a shot with some of the locals who hadn’t yet recognized you. As inconspicuously as he could, he strode over to you. His hand wrapped around your arm, leaning over you and taking the shot from your hand, and placing it on the counter.

“Really?” he said, as he gently dragged you to the back.

“Oh, come on, I haven’t had a drink in like 2 hours….it would help loosen me up,” you said, your eyes raking over him in a deliberately noticeable fashion. “You could use one too.”

You looked up at him, your eyes doe-like. Clark could feel his heart pounding against his chest as he watched you. Maybe it was the red sun, but he couldn’t help but feel like he was being taunted around you. Like his body was begging him to acknowledge you.

“Let’s just get Kara and go,” he said.

ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃

You led him to the back door that you had watched the group take Kara to. You were unsure of how many there were, maybe three men and two women? It was no situation Kara couldn’t handle on her own, sober that is. When intoxicated, the woman had a habit of finding fun in dangerous situations.

You crouched by the door, the dark area of the back hiding you from any attention. You felt Clark’s large form behind you, squatting but still leering over you. Despite his attempt to make himself smaller, he still engulfed you. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the soft puffs of air from his nose on your hair.

“Oh, wanna get a little closer?” you asked, tilting your head up to him. You smirked, catching that returning blush as you focused back on the door. “What now?”

Clark’s eyes narrowed, that familiar greenish hue washing over his sight as his x-ray vision activated. Through the door, he could see Kara. His cousin sat on the floor in the center of the room with thick sheet metal bent around her, keeping her restrained. Two men stood in her face and shouted while the other man and two women waited along the wall, their hands on blasters similar to mine. Despite everything, Kara still snickered and laughed as the men shouted. Figures.

“There are five of them, but she’s in there,” he said, turning to meet your eyes.

“Are they armed?” you asked. Clark nodded, looking back at the door. Your hand moved for the blaster on your thigh. “Great.”

Before you could pull it, Clark’s calloused hand stopped you, resting overtop of yours. You stared at the sight, his hand dwarfing yours, so much so that his fingers brushed along your exposed thigh. You bit your lip, looking to meet his eyes. 

“No weapons, we won’t need them,” he said. You scoffed, slowly pulling your hand back.

“You really like to take the fun outta this, huh?” you asked.

Clark didn’t respond, instead leaning over you to the lock at the door. You watched as his large hand snapped the locked handle with ease. He was up before you could realize the effect his strength had on you.

Clark didn’t respond, instead leaning over you to the lock at the door. You watched as his large hand snapped the locked handle with ease. He was up before you could realize the effect his strength had on you.

The door slammed open, busting off the seams, and Clark pushed his way through the door. The men stormed him, immediately trying to hold him back. They were on the floor in seconds as Clark barely had to lift a finger to keep them off. If you weren’t so focused on getting your friend out, it would be amusing— maybe even hot. 

You raced past the two women, driving under the chaos to reach Kara. When one grabbed your leg and yanked you to the ground, you pulled your blaster quickly. With brute force, you swung the weapon and smacked the woman on the head, sending her flying off you. You pulled yourself up quickly, dusting off your dress. You could free Clark’s eyes on you; when you looked, he had an exasperated expression that bore into you.

“What?” you asked, strapping the blaster back to your leg. “I didn’t fire it.”

You raced to Kara, trying to get her to focus. You could hear her commentary from the side throughout the fight. She wouldn’t stop her little quips, even as you attempted to pull the metal off of her.

“Dude, they were sooo stupid,” she said, her voice dramatically slurred. You tried to ignore her as you pulled at the sheet metal. 

“Can’t you just break out of this?” you asked in frustration.

“Yeah, but this was fun,” you tried not to snap, biting your cheek to stay cool. 

You could feel Clark looming behind you. Without a word, he gently moved you back, taking hold of the metal and effortlessly unwrapping your friend. Once freed, she looked around to see the group that had attacked her all laid out on the ground. She fell back, kicking her legs and giggling.

“Oh, what a night!” she said.

“Kara, what the hell? You called your cousin?” You asked, standing back up and leaning over her. “I had this handled.”

“Please, you totally didn’t,” she said, dragging out her words. Your anger took over, your fists clenched as you walked away, leaving Clark to handle her. You lingered by the door, watching as he attempted to throw her over his shoulder, despite her poking and kicking.

You led the group out, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Clark stayed close behind as you moved. Your spacecraft was parked just a few minutes' walk away from the club. Once out, you couldn’t wait to get them home and out of your hair for the night.

Halfway through the club, you heard the shouting—the buzz of the club silenced by the threat that hung in the air. Clark’salready moving to shield you by the time you’re surrounded. With the full force of the night club now turned on you, the smell of cheap intergalactic booze and the foreshadowing of bloodshed turn your blood cold. You have got to stop letting Kara plan the night out.

One of the men rushes you, but Clark turns to block you; however, you slip from under his arm before he can stop you. It takes him back just how quickly you disarm and knock the wind from the man. As soon as the fight starts, you finish it before taking on another opponent. 

“Get her to the craft, I got this!” you shout, ducking your head before jamming your elbow into another patron. Clark’sfeet stutter, pushing his way through people, all the while struggling to keep his cousin in place as she cackles at the scene.

“No, I’m not—” he starts.

“I’ll be right behind you, go!”

Against his better judgment, something gnawing away at him tells him to trust you. He’s moving for the exit, pushing and kicking his way through. He can hear your grunts and cursing just behind him, biting his lip to keep from turning to watch. By the time he reaches the door, he gives in, turning to see you aren’t behind him. Something new bubbles inside him, a protectiveness he didn’t expect to feel for this woman he just met by the dumpster of a seedy alien club. 

You’re up on the bar, smashing through masses of arms that attempt to detain you. He’s unsure where you got a metal pipe from, but he’s not opposed as he watches you slash your way out. The music continues to spill out of the speakers, lighting the scene ablaze. 

“This is NOT how I wanted this night to go!” he heard you shout, sending a hard kick into the chest of the bartender. Clark couldn’t help the wince he let out at the sight of the man flying back into the bottles and cups.

Outside the building, he tucks Kara into a dark corner, shielded from the fight. It was times like these that he resented her childishness. He drops her off with a firm ‘stay put, to which she flips him off before settling into her spot. 

He’s back into the fray before you even noticed he was gone. Having cleared a path out, he races to get you.

“Hey! Let’s go!” he shouts, fending off the few patrons that come his way. 

With a smirk, you swing your pipe hard into the man coming up behind you, letting it fall from your grip with him. You turn back to Clark, motioning for him to cover his ears. The smile on your face grows at his confused look. Reluctantly, his hands move to shield his ears.

The room shook, the vibrations of your screaming echoing off the walls and piercing through the music. It was visceral and seared through the clubbers, causing men to drop to their knees in pain. Through the scene, Clark could see you. Your hands gripped the edge of the bar as your face scrunched up in the act. Your eyes were blown wide, the white glow he’d found himself falling into earlier now taking over and radiating with the high-pitched screech you released. The mirrored walls and decor along the room cracked, shards of glass flying from their fixed place and spilling out along the floor. It was captivating watching you, the way you so easily rendered the room powerless.

By the time you were done, the fight was over. Those who had tried to detain you were now on the floor, pawing at their ears to try to get a bearing on their surroundings. Slowly lowering his hands, Clark looked up at you as you rose from your knees. Maybe you didn’t need his help after all.

You raced down the bar, jumping over hands that tried to pull you back. You jump from the high top, landing in the arms of the Kryptonian you’d only briefly become acquainted with. His hands didn’t waver in their grip as they held you, tucking you under his arm as he slipped out the back where he came. He didn’t miss the way you cursed the bar on the way out.

ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃

The ride back to Earth was silent for the most part. Once you’d reached your ship, Kara crashed in the back. The night of violence and liquor finally took over, rendering the terror that brought this mess to you silent. The wheel of the craft was tight in your grasp, your hands clenching and unclenching as you steered the group home. 

Clark sat beside you, his large frame barely fitting inside the small passenger seat. Music spilled out from his phone, filling the silence with some hyperpop playlist he didn’t know. As soon as you settled, you pulled Kara’s phone from her bag, playing something to lower the mood and keep you from tweaking out on the group. Soft plush keychains dangled from the wheel, bouncing off each other as you steered.

It wasn’t the first time Kara went too far, making a situation go from reckless fun to straight-up havoc. You didn’t even get to feel a buzz before she started her schemes. It was exhausting and frankly inconsiderate. But what could you say? She was your best friend. You had her back, even if it meant working with her annoyingly polite and insanely hot cousin.

Wait, no, you didn’t say that.

Clark’s eyes lingered on you as you flew the ship. The curve of your lips and bob of your head as you mumbled along to the electronic tunes. His eyes drifted to where one knee was hugged to your chest, your foot resting on the seat. He pushed his thoughts about how unsafe the position seemed in favor of glancing at how your skirt rose along your thigh. The high blush on his cheek reprimanded him, averting his gaze in favor of returning to your face. That was his favorite sight, anyway.

“So, why didn’t you do that earlier?” Clark asked. He didn’t have to say it; you knew he meant your powers.

“I just wanted the night to stay calm…for once,” you said, biting your lip. “I honestly didn’t think it would get that far. That I would have to.”

You turned to glance back at Kara. Her large army jacket wrapped around her, cocooning her body as she slumped horizontally in the seat. Her soft snoring still managed to slip through the shield of her hood.

“She goes too far sometimes,” Clark took note of your face. For the first time that night, there was no sarcasm or laced sass or quip of the brow. Just sincerity and concern from his cousin, someone you may know even better than him.

“I’m glad she has you,” he said, leaning forward in his seat.

You scoff at his words with a quick laugh, the quiet vulnerability of the moment quickly becoming too much for you. Certainly too much for a night you hoped to get blackout and maybe even laid. Instead, you sat in your ship, your best friend knocked out in the back with her cousin sitting in the front, making any effort he could to get to know you, too sober and far too annoyed for a chat.

“Oh, please, her first thought was to call you,” you said, that familiar sass returning. “You, Ka-el, Superman…”

He lowered his gaze as you spoke, a small smile creeping up onto his lips.

“It was a funny sight though, seeing you in there.” You couldn’t help but giggle at the memory, sweet and kind Clark Kent doing his best not to seem out of place in a nightclub on the other side of the galaxy. “You are too innocent for your own good.”

Clark couldn’t hide how his face scrunched, perhaps in confusion or denial, but honestly, there was some truth to your words. 

“I-I… I’m not innocent, okay—” he started, his hands moving in protest.

“Come on, you looked like a fish outta water.” Despite your taunting, Clark’s stomach dropped at the sight of your smile. Earnest and genuine, with a hint of secrecy that made him wonder if it was rare.

It was addictive, 

Pulling him down like kryptonite and making his knees waver.

“Besides, your blush gives you away,” you said.

“I…I don’t blush,” Clark tried to deny it, but even as he spoke, he could feel the heat rising high on his cheekbones and up to the tips of his ears.

“You’re doing it right now!” Your giggle lit him on fire, making him squirm in his seat. “Every time you caught a glance at my skirt, it was like you didn’t know how to act.”

oh. so you did notice.

The ride was uneventful, and soft banter fell between the two of you. Your quips blended with his kind and perky attitude. His presence seemed to calm your spirit, turning what was a disaster into perhaps just a bump in the road. 

Where was Kara hiding him all this time?

ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃

Once through the atmosphere, Clark guided you to the fortress. The cold of the air slipped through the ship and bit at your skin. This wasn’t your planet, wasn’t your sun. Clark noticed the glowing white of your eyes dim slightly as you landed the ship on the sheets of ice. 

Awoken by the jostling of the craft, Kara stumbled from her seat. Her groans immediately shifted the mood, reminding you of why you were sitting next to Superman in the first place.

“fuck….” Her voice was hoarse and whiny. “Dude, it’s so bright.”

Kara staggered up behind you, her arms wrapping around you as she rested her chin on your head. Clark didn’t miss the way her eyes darted between the two of you, a smug look on her face.

“You look so stupid when you’re crushing,” she said, her words still slurred from the alcohol.

“Kara, go inside,” he said, his frustration finally bubbling over. His tone didn’t show it, still soft and, if anything, a little embarrassed. You wondered if the man even had it in him to be mean.

With a roll of her eyes, she pressed a kiss to her fingers before slapping your arm and slipping down the stairs, ‘Later bbs!' faintly heard as she headed for the fortress.

You sat in silence, staring at the Kryptonian beside you who refused to meet your eyes. Charming and sweet was never your type; the kinds of people you seemed to attract always had a danger to them that left you feeling reckless. But with the large man next to you, an intoxicating feeling left you desperate to see what he would be like if given the chance.

You rose from your seat, moving to stand before him. Resting back on the console behind you, your eyes traced over his body; the way the blue suit hugged him just right, how his hands wrung softly in his lap. 

“Crush, huh?” you asked, raising your brow.

“Kara, she’s drunk…” he said, his tongue poking at the side of his mouth as he tried to remain composed. His eyes were level with your naval. The dip of your hips as they met the band of your skirt, the curve of your thighs where straps and leather covered them, the sliver of skin between boot and skirt— it took everything in him to remain polite.

“That’s too bad.” his eyes darted up at your words. “You’re hot, in a sweet, naive kinda way.”

You pushed yourself off the dashboard, moving to fill the space between his open thighs. You glanced down at his hands, as if telling him to let go. 

With a thick swallow, Clark gently traced his fingers along your thigh. The pads of his fingertips were coarse, brushing against the soft skin you let him feel. When they reached the hem of your skirt, you leaned into the touch, your hands moving to his forearms. As if searching for permission, you bent your knees and moved forward. His hands came to grip your hips as you slid into his lap.  You straddled his large thighs, your body flush against his in the small seat of the ship. His hands slid along your body, moving up from your hips to your waist in a way that made you wonder if he was teasing you or just so inexperienced that he wanted to savor the feeling. Your grip on his arms moved to gently rest along his neck. This close, you could see the bright blue of his eyes, digging into you and making you flutter between your thighs.

Testing the waters, you lowered yourself, grinding softly along the lower part of his abdomen. His grip tightened on your waist involuntarily, pushing you down further as he bucked his hips. The soft gasp that left his lips made you giddy. The blush burning on his cheeks just made it worse. 

“Sorry…” he said through short breaths. You leaned in, ducking your head to meet his eyes.

“Don’t be, starboy.” You moved your hands to hold his jaw, guiding his gaze back to you.

The soft nod you gave set him off. It was like a damn break, his hands moved with a purpose, slipping up your skirt and pooling it around your hips. He moved in, capturing your lips as you gasped, swallowing your surprise as he worked. It wasn’t what you imagined the man would give you; it was desperate and needy. 

Your hands slid up the nape of his neck, tangling into his curls, and tugged softly. He whimpered against your lips, grinding up into you as you pulled. You bit softly at his plush lower lip, pulling him back to you for more. Your hips ground against him, searching for friction between your legs as he held you tight. His strong hands held you down, pushing you further into him. 

He pulled back, resting his forehead against yours. You felt his hands move, one resting along the back of your neck and holding you steady against him, the other slipping between your thighs and under your panties. You gasped as his fingers found your clit, delicately rubbing as he warmed up. His smile was too sweet, making the dark spot on your underwear worse as he worked.

His fingers quickened, the soft touches turning rough as his thumb swirled along the bundle of nerves. The coil in your stomach tightened as your breaths became quick and desperate. Leaning forward, you buried your face in the crook of his neck. His hand held you firm, fisting your hair.

His fingers moved, feeling the slick between your legs and teasing your entrance. With a quick nod from you, he slipped a finger in quickly to be followed by another. His hand was fast, pounding into you in a way you never felt before. His fingers curved at just the right angle, tickling that delicate spot you never could reach on your own.

As his hand fucked you, you gasped into his shoulder. His other hand held you still, keeping you against him as he took care of you.

“shh… you had a long night, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice darker than usual. “Lemme help you feel good.”

Clark couldn’t hold back his smile as you clenched at his words. His hips bucked again, and that gave you an idea.

His hand kept moving, but you pushed yourself up, still gasping. He leaned in close, pulling you in for another kiss. His fingers worked faster, causing you to freeze against him, the pleasure overwhelming. Your gasps were broken and stuttered. 

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he said, kissing along your temple.

With a shaking hand, you moved to palm him through the suit. His fingers stilled for a moment, reeling from the touch. As you worked him over, he picked back up his pace.

His whimpers were everything you needed, moving you closer to the edge. Your other hand tugged at his hair as you rubbed him faster. It was almost like a race to see who could get the other to finish first.

Clark refused to lose.

His hand at the back of your neck moved quickly, pulling your free hand from his hair and pinning it behind your back. You fell forward into his chest, moaning as his fingers became rougher and more determined. His suit muffled your whimpers as he brought you closer to the edge.

“Oh, I know, it’s a lot, isn’t…” his voice was ever sweet, with the slightest hint of mocking as if to get back at your attitude throughout the night. It only made that coil in your stomach tighter.

“C-Clark..” you felt yourself coming undone. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his thumb pressing harder on your clit. Your hand continued to work, despite any attempt to get him to finish first. But it was a battle you were going to lose.

“Come on, pretty girl.” his hand released your arm, moving to cup your face and hold your gaze to his. “I wanna see you, smile for me.”

You couldn’t think as his hand brought you over the edge. Your body seized, eyes crossing as the pleasure washed over you. You tightened on his fingers, whimpering as he refused to slow his movements.

“There you go, you look so beautiful,” he said. His smile only made it worse, the overstimulation on your clit causing you to see stars. He held you still, making you take it. “So, beautiful.”

He eventually let up, pulling his hand back and letting up on your pussy. His hands moved back to your hips, grinding up softly into you. Your hand, now shaky, continued its work, feeling him tremble through the suit. His cock twitched below your hand, his arms tight and grip bruising along your soft skin.

Still reeling from your high, you leaned in and wrapped your arm around his neck, watching as he came undone below you. Your hand tightened, pressing harder as he came. His body twitched beneath you, his head falling back into the seat. Your lips curled, and you pressed kisses underneath his jaw as he finished; his gasps filling the heavy air.

You didn’t need to look down to see the dark spot blooming on the red shorts. His face burned with blush, your favorite. Gently, you let your hands cup his face, guiding his dizzy eyes back to you.

His hands groped lazily along your ass, finally resting under your skirt at your hips. When he finally came out of it and met your gaze, he couldn’t hide the fucked out smile on his face.

You smirked, brushing back that stray loose curl on his forehead, “Maybe tonight wasn’t a total bust.”

—