#enjoy?

Being a stripper at a club s1 Pope secretly visits when his annoying brothers don't know where the hell he's at. he just got out of prison, all pent up and lonely and pissed and you're just about the prettiest thing he's ever seen.

He meets you on the off-chance when Baz takes him out for a drink to a place he calls "fun", already skeptical of the idea from the moment he's told of their impromptu evening plans and up to the last second until you come on stage.

The place is hanging on the very edge of seedy, with some bullshit punny name out front that flickers from a dying neon sign (Seriously, what kinda name is The Midnight Ballerina?), carpets with stains Pope would rather not think about and furniture that's definitely serviceable but has clearly seen better days. the music's loud enough that it makes a muscle in Pope's jaw tick and somehow this might be the only place in Southern California that bypassed no inside-smoking laws, but beer is beer and if Pope has any chance of being roped back into family jobs, acting nice (-ish) to Baz is the only way to do it.

Andrew's listening to his brother lay out a potential job, something about a winery upstate they could hit and have Gia re-sell the goods from, when the music hushes just enough for the dj's voice to be heard over the chatter of sad, lonely men who didn't have anything better to do on a Friday night. He announces you with the kind of sleazeball tone Pope has heard hundreds of times from his once fellow inmates as something low and seductive starts playing.

"Let's all give it up for Cupid!"

Whatever the hell Baz is going on about is forgotten the second you step on stage and take to the pole, Andrew's eyes dragging across every inch of your basically naked body, eating you up.

You're gorgeous, devastatingly so, all soft curves and shiny, glitter flecked skin that makes you glow like a disco ball under the spotlights while you gyrate around the pole to the beat. Coiffed curls bounce around you as you twirl mid air, the bedazzled scrap you call a bikini shining when you extend off the pole and towards the men clamoring near the low stage to give you your well-earned tips. Poor Pope looks like he's having a revelation, watching you giggle and bend chest forward towards a patron, eyes slowly blinking as you wink and stuff what must be 150 bucks at your hip, right under the band of your pretty, pink thong.

He's gawking like a fucking dumbass, hasn't even touched his beer that's been getting warm in his hand. Baz laughs and leans in to talk to him while his eyes track your body's sensual swaying with a familiarity Pope realizes he doesn't appreciate. "She's hot, right? Insane ass." Baz snickers and nudges Andrew shoulder to shoulder. "You want a dance? She's usually my girl but I can share if you back me up later."

Right, right. This dumbass job that Craig and Deran both didn't wanna do. Pope just grunts, gaze stuck on the string of your thong that just got sucked between your admittedly great ass cheeks.

===

You bounce over right after your set, having spotted Baz a mile away. The fucker was annoying but his wallet more than made up for all the fake smiles and flattery when he tipped you benjamins on benjamins whenever he visited.

"You're not even gonna say hi? Rude." You purr, voice all over the top saccharine as you lean over the back of his chair, your fingers trailing over his biceps while you try not to cringe at the scent of Dior Sauvage overhwelming your senses. Baz perks up immediately at your attention, desperate for it. For the sake of your sanity, you mostly ignore whatever he's saying and pepper in a few "mhmms" and "oh, really?"'s that keep him going while you focus on the man sat right opposite.

Broad shouldered, auburn curls and pouty lips. The stranger's chiseled cheeks are pink as he mean mugs you in a way that should be terrifying but instead comes off as somewhat endearing. If only because his pretty downturned eyes keep flicking between your own pair and the floor. You offer a smile. His flush creeps up to his ears. Oh dear.

"Cupid, this is Pope," Baz's voice makes its unwelcome return as he fishes through his wallet and smirks up at you. "He, uh, was wondering if you'd like to show him a good time. Your style."

===

The next thing Andrew knows is that Baz sneaked off with another girl and you're in his lap, lush and smelling like vanilla, sitting pretty and toying with the button to his shirt collar. "You're really not gonna talk to me, sweetheart?" You pout and rest your head on his shoulder, long lashes fluttering all coy. "Not even a hi?"

"Hi," He squeaks out, giving more mouse than scary. The leather of the chair creaks under the pressure of his fingers as he tries to will his hard-on away before you've even started dancing. There's no fucking way you don't feel his fat bulge digging into your ass, but he'll give you props for acting like nothing's happening.

He won't give you props for grabbing his hand and putting it on your thick thigh, though. Especially when you make his hand squeeze.

"Is Pope your real name?" You try again, full body weight leaning on him in an effort to loosen him up. He's cute, Mr. Frowny, much cuter than his sleazeball brother who tries to cop a feel every time. In fact Pope has barely touched you at all. Hell, you'd think he wasn't enjoying your company one bit if he wasn't currently hard as a rock under you. And you hadn't even properly started yet.

He shakes his head, lower lip caught between his teeth. "Name's Andrew," Pope whines. You giggle again (A sound he's quickly learning that he likes) and kiss the edge of his clean shaven jaw. "Would you like a dance, Andrew?"

Pope wouldn't say he's experienced in this sort of thing, but he's been to a couple strip clubs before and has had his fair share of lap dances throughout the years.

What you've been doing is far from a fucking lap dance. You're outright grinding on him. Thankfully partially hidden by the dim club lighting, your ass is pressed flush to the sizeable bulge between his thighs as you move your hips in a perfect circle that has him melting into his seat. More whimpers fall from his mouth when you turn to mount his lap again, your hips continuing in torturous circles over his clothed weeping cock while you touch him all over like you owned him.

Long, sparkly acryclics trail down his buzzed scalp and make him shiver, your other hand bracing on his chest to give you the leverage you need to return the slow, hesitant grinding of his hips with your own downward thrusts. You've been trailing kisses up his neck and jaw, avoiding his lips that pucker in anticipation despite the fact that he doesn't know you and that you were paid to do this. You laugh when he whimpers, amused by his pathetic need for your glossy lips.

"Honey you gotta touch me," You sigh sweetly before pushing his hands on your hips again. Sweet thing is hesitant but clearly not made of stone, and soon enough he's feeling up your sides to cup at your breasts. Pope watches, entranced, as your softness spills from the space between his fingers with every slow squeeze of his rough hands, his breath hitching when he brushes your perky nipples and you moan his name in return. "Jus' like that, baby. You havin' fun?"

Oh, he's having fun. In between mumbles of "s'this o-okay?" and curses under his breath, Andrew is having what might be a fucking epiphany.

You've got his face half buried in your glittery tits, now outright hopping on his clothed cock as you mewl his name in his burning ears. "God you feel huge- Andy- Oh- don't stop, baby-" Your panties are doing nothing to keep your accumulating slickness from wetting his pants as you grind your hips against the seam, Pope pawing at you like an animal in heat. His hands roam your thighs, your ass, your back, groping just anywhere he can reach as his chest gets hot with excitement and his balls draw up tight with every swipe of your scorching cunt.

"Yeah? Good?" He gasps out when he feels your thighs start trembling, hot flashes rushing down his belly. "Fuck you-re pretty- gorgeous-" Beautiful even. Your smile is already heavenly, but when he pulls back just in time to see your O face, he thinks it might just fucking kill him.

Shit.

His cock swells and throbs in his jeans moments before he's creaming his pants, Pope's hushed gasps of pleasure accompanied by you moaning long and low in his ear as your own orgasm hits. Your hips bucking against each other's while you ride out your respective highs, chests pressed flush while heaving for breath. It's a miracle he wasn't thrown out, even more that you've just given him a happy ending for no reason. Although from the dazed smile on your face, Andrew thinks you might just like him.

Ilya and shane zonked out napping on the couch tangled up in each other, it’s post training and its storming outside, a freezing crappy weather winter day. They’d had showers, eaten in tired silence, and dragged their exhausted bodies to the couch after in sweats with damp hair and the plush blanket stolen off their bed. They are tangled up, bodies warm and heavy, the only light coming from the grey clouded sky making the colours of the room muted, like the haze of an early morning.

Shane wakes up first, a soft sound in the back of his throat and scrunch of his nose as he floats back into consciousness. He flexes his fingers and licks his lips before blinking one eye half open. Ilya is a hot heavy weight on him, his curls are pressed to Shane’s mouth and tickling under his nose. Shane tilts his chin to look down over Ilya over him, the blanket a mess around their hips. Shane drags his hand down the length of Ilya’s handsome back, finds the hem of his jumper and shoves his hand up under it, greedy to touch skin.

She refused to be.

Rumi stood in front of her, flushed with irritation, all sharp words and righteous energy, like she hadn’t been raised in silk and expectation. Like she was not exactly what Mira hated.

A princess.

Mira leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, smirk lazy and mean. “Oh, fuck off, Princess. You probably haven’t even kissed anyone before.”

Rumi froze.

It was subtle. Anyone else might have missed it.

Mira did not.

There it was. That flicker. That flush creeping higher up her neck. That hesitation.

And something in Mira’s chest, traitorous and annoying, whispered:

Pretty.

Mira crushed it immediately.

Rumi stepped forward, eyes blazing. “That’s none of your business.”

Mira laughed, sharp and delighted, and jabbed a finger into Rumi’s chest. “Hah. I bet you don’t even know how.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“Then prove it.”

That was the moment.

That exact, stupid, irreversible moment.

Because Rumi’s hand fisted in the front of Mira’s shirt and pulled.

And suddenly Mira was sitting on the edge of the bed, and Rumi was on her lap.

Close.

Too close.

Mira’s breath caught, but she did not pull away. She would not give her that.

Rumi did not hesitate this time.

She kissed her.

It was not soft. It was not practiced. It was not anything like the composed, proper image she tried so hard to maintain.

It was messy.

Frustrated.

Desperate.

And Mira kissed back.

A quiet sound slipped out of her, something low and surprised, as Rumi shifted closer, like she was trying to prove a point with her entire body. Their argument didn’t disappear. It changed. Turned into something hotter, something that sparked and burned instead of snapped.

Mira broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, their foreheads almost touching, eyes locking.

Then Mira laughed, breathless, and tugged her own shirt up and over her head like she had something to prove too.

Rumi followed immediately, hands clumsy and determined, lips chasing Mira’s again like she could not stand the distance.

Cold fingers against warm skin.

A shiver down Mira’s spine.

“Fuck, Princess.”

The door opened.

Silence hit like a brick.

Mira blinked.

Rumi went rigid.

Celine stood in the doorway, hand still on the handle, eyes taking in the scene with slow, mounting disbelief.

Behind her, another girl, dark hair, freckles, bright, curious eyes, leaned slightly to the side to see better.

“Oh,” the girl said, clearly delighted. “Wow.”

Rumi scrambled off Mira like she had been burned. “I- it’s not what it looks like.” Her face a deep, unforgiving red.

Mira, still catching her breath, dragged her shirt back on with zero urgency, eyes flicking between Celine’s pinched expression and the new girl’s barely contained excitement.

Celine pinched the bridge of her nose. “I leave for one hour.”

The new girl stepped fully into the room, grinning like she had just walked into her favorite show mid-drama. “Hi. I’m Zoey. Are you guys always like this, or did I just get lucky?”

Mira huffed a laugh despite herself, leaning back on her hands. That accent… very American.

Rumi looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor.

And Mira could not stop the small, satisfied smile tugging at her mouth.

“Guess you’re the third hunter,” she said, eyes glinting. “Hope you like chaos.”

Zoey’s grin widened.

Hello~

hgsn + text posts