my name is Rue. I write a lot of fics, mostly reader insert but occasionally I put an OC into the mix. I'm 30 years old, a first generation immigrant, and neurodivergent.
rules ->
minors dni. this blog is intended for an adult audience only. ageless or blank blogs may be blocked.
this blog is queer friendly, anti-bigotry. I don't engage in discourse.
I crosspost my fics to ao3, linked above. I do not consent to my work being reposted or fed into generative ai.
my askbox is always open for chatting or fic requests! I often reblog prompt lists so please feel free to send me one!
recent fics ->
"Be Louder" (Brett Richards)
"Stay Quiet" (Brett Richards)
"Seeing Double" (Grant Reilly x Reader x Jack Abbot)
For the entirety of your relationship, you've known that Andrew is a sub leaning switch. He doesn't do dominance. Not really. The closest he gets to it is occasionally telling you what to do.
You're happy with your sex life, but there's something about when he submits fully to you that you can't get enough of.
Andrew's bigger than you, in terms of muscle mass. Taller. Stronger. Imposing in his quiet, intense gazing way.
You'd struggled with your self esteem before him. But there's something deeply empowering about having him begging and pleading for you.
He's laying sideways on your big, comfortable bed, head in your lap as you play idly with his auburn curls.
His moans and whimpers are muffled by your nipple in his mouth, the soft skin of your breast as he sucks and licks at you.
The slight stubble he's growing feels nice against your sensitive skin, but you don't focus on your own arousal.
You've been edging him for the better part of an hour, the hand that isn't knitted into his curls wrapped around his thick, throbbing cock.
More than once, you've gotten him right there, right to the edge, and then stopped, lightly squeezing his shaft to prevent him from being able to cum.
Some men - most men - would take advantage of the sort of strength he has, flip you over and stuff you full of cock.
Not Andrew. Not even when you think you wouldn't mind if he did. Instead he lays there for you, sprawled out, freckled cheeks and equally freckled chest a little flushed as he whines, pulls away from your breast to look up at you with pleading eyes.
You look down at him; at the way he's left your nipples puffy and reddened from the way he's been desperately suckling on them.
"Aww, you're being so good for me, Andrew. Do you wanna cum?"
You coo at him; watch the way his hazel eyes darken with need.
"Please, I'll finish fast-" he begs you, raspy voice strained slightly with arousal.
You pout and hum, make a cute little show out of pretending to think about it, slowly, torturously, sliding your hand down the thick shaft of his cock, until you reach his balls, gently massaging them and making him whimper again.
God, he sounds so cute when he's all pent up like this. So desperate. You think that maybe letting go like this is good for him. Heals some part of him that wants to be kind and gentle and soft, instead of the razor sharp weapon that his family has honed him into.
Your hand glides back up the underside of his cock, fingertips tracing the thick vein that you can feel pulsing.
"Okay," you concede, as if you were actually considering anything but giving in. Whilst it's fun to edge him, to make him whimper and beg and try to buck his hips up, you love him too much to actually torment him for too long.
"Y-yeah?" He breathes, as if surprised by your agreement.
You wrap your fingers around him again; fuck, you love his cock, love the length and girth and the way he uses it. The thought has your pussy drooling, but you refuse to lose focus.
Once you've made him cum all over your hand and his toned abdomen, then you can ask him to eat you out. But in the meantime, you're in control.
"'s okay, honey," you tell him, give him long, languid strokes, building up to it, "I'm gonna let you cum this time. Gonna let you cum properly."
His cockhead is dripping precum, fat beads of it dripping down his shaft and coating your fingers, making it easier for you to stroke him.
"Mmmffff-" he whines, turns his head and tucks the closest nipple to his mouth back between his lips, dragging his teeth lightly over it before sucking gently, making you inhale softly.
Andrew knows you love this, knows how fucking sensitive your tits are, could spend hours just lying here in your lap, alternating between which nipple he laves attention over.
He flicks his tongue over the pebbled peak as you speed up the pace of your hand around his cock, making him react with a sound that's almost akin to a mewl.
"Oh, fuck, that's it," you gasp as he drags his teeth over your nipple again, pulls off with a lewd, wet pop as he ruts his hips up against your hand, "you've been so good for me, honey, go ahead, go ahead and cum for me-"
The moan Andrew gives you is obscene. Drawn out, desperate, his hips bucking wildly, thigh twitching as he cums, coats your hand and his abdomen in ropes and ropes of his spend.
He comes down slowly, shaking slightly from the intense high you've given him, the rush of adrenaline and endorphins.
"Holy shit," he breathes, sits up and runs his hand through his curls, then eyes you, sitting back on your knees with your thighs slightly spread.
Even in his dazed state, he can see how dripping wet you are.
"Mm, you did so good for me," you praise, "now, you gonna be kind to me and clean up the mess you made?"
Andrew doesn't need to be told twice. Gently, he pushes you backwards, settles himself between your thighs, uncaring for now about the mess he's made of himself, too eager to devour your soaked cunt.
After all. He likes being good for you.
written by andrew-codys 2026 / do not feed into AI.
For the entirety of your relationship, you've known that Andrew is a sub leaning switch. He doesn't do dominance. Not really. The closest he gets to it is occasionally telling you what to do.
You're happy with your sex life, but there's something about when he submits fully to you that you can't get enough of.
Andrew's bigger than you, in terms of muscle mass. Taller. Stronger. Imposing in his quiet, intense gazing way.
You'd struggled with your self esteem before him. But there's something deeply empowering about having him begging and pleading for you.
He's laying sideways on your big, comfortable bed, head in your lap as you play idly with his auburn curls.
His moans and whimpers are muffled by your nipple in his mouth, the soft skin of your breast as he sucks and licks at you.
The slight stubble he's growing feels nice against your sensitive skin, but you don't focus on your own arousal.
You've been edging him for the better part of an hour, the hand that isn't knitted into his curls wrapped around his thick, throbbing cock.
More than once, you've gotten him right there, right to the edge, and then stopped, lightly squeezing his shaft to prevent him from being able to cum.
Some men - most men - would take advantage of the sort of strength he has, flip you over and stuff you full of cock.
Not Andrew. Not even when you think you wouldn't mind if he did. Instead he lays there for you, sprawled out, freckled cheeks and equally freckled chest a little flushed as he whines, pulls away from your breast to look up at you with pleading eyes.
You look down at him; at the way he's left your nipples puffy and reddened from the way he's been desperately suckling on them.
"Aww, you're being so good for me, Andrew. Do you wanna cum?"
You coo at him; watch the way his hazel eyes darken with need.
"Please, I'll finish fast-" he begs you, raspy voice strained slightly with arousal.
You pout and hum, make a cute little show out of pretending to think about it, slowly, torturously, sliding your hand down the thick shaft of his cock, until you reach his balls, gently massaging them and making him whimper again.
God, he sounds so cute when he's all pent up like this. So desperate. You think that maybe letting go like this is good for him. Heals some part of him that wants to be kind and gentle and soft, instead of the razor sharp weapon that his family has honed him into.
Your hand glides back up the underside of his cock, fingertips tracing the thick vein that you can feel pulsing.
"Okay," you concede, as if you were actually considering anything but giving in. Whilst it's fun to edge him, to make him whimper and beg and try to buck his hips up, you love him too much to actually torment him for too long.
"Y-yeah?" He breathes, as if surprised by your agreement.
You wrap your fingers around him again; fuck, you love his cock, love the length and girth and the way he uses it. The thought has your pussy drooling, but you refuse to lose focus.
Once you've made him cum all over your hand and his toned abdomen, then you can ask him to eat you out. But in the meantime, you're in control.
"'s okay, honey," you tell him, give him long, languid strokes, building up to it, "I'm gonna let you cum this time. Gonna let you cum properly."
His cockhead is dripping precum, fat beads of it dripping down his shaft and coating your fingers, making it easier for you to stroke him.
"Mmmffff-" he whines, turns his head and tucks the closest nipple to his mouth back between his lips, dragging his teeth lightly over it before sucking gently, making you inhale softly.
Andrew knows you love this, knows how fucking sensitive your tits are, could spend hours just lying here in your lap, alternating between which nipple he laves attention over.
He flicks his tongue over the pebbled peak as you speed up the pace of your hand around his cock, making him react with a sound that's almost akin to a mewl.
"Oh, fuck, that's it," you gasp as he drags his teeth over your nipple again, pulls off with a lewd, wet pop as he ruts his hips up against your hand, "you've been so good for me, honey, go ahead, go ahead and cum for me-"
The moan Andrew gives you is obscene. Drawn out, desperate, his hips bucking wildly, thigh twitching as he cums, coats your hand and his abdomen in ropes and ropes of his spend.
He comes down slowly, shaking slightly from the intense high you've given him, the rush of adrenaline and endorphins.
"Holy shit," he breathes, sits up and runs his hand through his curls, then eyes you, sitting back on your knees with your thighs slightly spread.
Even in his dazed state, he can see how dripping wet you are.
"Mm, you did so good for me," you praise, "now, you gonna be kind to me and clean up the mess you made?"
Andrew doesn't need to be told twice. Gently, he pushes you backwards, settles himself between your thighs, uncaring for now about the mess he's made of himself, too eager to devour your soaked cunt.
After all. He likes being good for you.
written by andrew-codys 2026 / do not feed into AI.
0: Height
1: Virgin?
2: Shoe size
3: Do you smoke?
4: Do you drink?
5: Do you take drugs?
6: Age you get mistaken for
7: Have tattoos?
8: Want any tattoos?
9: Got any piercings?
10: Want any piercings?
11: Best friend?
12: Relationship status
13: Biggest turn ons
14: Biggest turn offs
15: Favorite movie
16: I’ll love you if
17: Someone you miss
18: Most traumatic experience
19: A fact about your personality
20: What I hate most about myself
21: What I love most about myself
22: What I want to be when I get older
23: My relationship with my sibling(s)
24: My relationship with my parent(s)
25: My idea of a perfect date
26: My biggest pet peeves
27: A description of the girl/boy I like
28: A description of the person I dislike the most
29: A reason I’ve lied to a friend
30: What I hate the most about work/school
31: What your last text message says
32: What words upset me the most
33: What words make me feel the best about myself
34: What I find attractive in women
35: What I find attractive in men
36: Where I would like to live
37: One of my insecurities
38: My childhood career choice
39: My favorite ice cream flavor
40: Who wish I could be
41: Where I want to be right now
42: The last thing I ate
43: Sexiest person that comes to my mind immediately
44: A random fact about anything
summary . . . craig is the only cody you pay any mind to at the club. that is, until he’s paying you eight grand to sleep with his brother who’s been out of prison for less than a week.
pairing . . . andrew ‘pope’ cody x stripper!fem!reader
warnings . . . low-self esteem from reader, reading saying they want to die at some point (kys), ig it can be seen as sex work, stripper, half-naked reader at almost all times, weird roleplay, reader sometimes being judgmental but can you blame her, smut 18+only, oral sex, he’s bad for a moment but he gets better, p in v, no condom please wrap it before you tap it, uhm angstyyyyyyyyyyy
word count . . . 10.9k (it was longer too but i had to cut some parts >_<)
an . . . i haven’t written full-fledged work like this in literally YEARS and i definitely forgot how to so grammarly was my best friend 😫 regardless, im very proud of this! smut isn’t my forte but i had so much fun getting out of my comfort zone! please don’t hesitate to comment or voice your thoughts in reblogs! while i do it for the love of the game and not just attention, it still feels nice to be appreciated haha! thank you bbs
part 2, IT’S (NEVER) OVER
You get used to living in sadness. After years of torment and abuse, it’s hard not to live in it. You want self-respect. You want to look at yourself in the mirror and decide that today is the day you finally respect yourself.
But it’s hard when the person looking at you is full of glitter, wearing nothing but a thin string on your chest and a thong so far up your ass you can’t help but want to pick it. But you can’t, not when Geronimo told you it looked unattractive to the customers of his lovely establishment.
After an incident on the pole, you can’t dance. So, with a small limp in the huge pumps, you have to serve. It’s not as much as shaking your ass on stage. But it’ll do, at least, until your bills can no longer be covered.
It’s not like you miss being on stage, either. You always have a nervous sinking pit in your stomach at the idea of exposing parts of yourself that your mother told you were meant to be shared with the man you love. She was also a conservative drunk, though, so the stacks of bills at the end of the night made you forget about it. Until it was time for bed, and tears fell, and you prayed to a god you’re not sure you believe in.
The music is pounding all around the club. Tabitha is dancing now, her turn for the next twenty minutes. Usually, you’d be next; instead, you’re walking back and forth from the bar to the customers who are dropping far too much money for a few ass shakes. But, hey, you’re the one shaking ass, so you can’t exactly judge, can you?
“Another Bloody Mary!” You order from Fatima, the gothic woman, her eyebrows furrowing.
She snorts out a laugh, “Who the fuck orders Blood Marys at a strip club?”
You laugh loudly, nose scrunching in disgust at the drink. “The same type of men who get a chub from watching our feet as we pass on by.”
The cackle she lets out makes you grin, proud to have amused her. You place the drinks onto your platter and turn. You look out at the scene ahead of you. Men. Men. Men. Only men. All watching your coworkers with those dark eyes they always carry. It's scary, genuinely scary. They know they have the upper hand here. They know that they can reach out and touch without any repercussions. Mostly because Geronimo would take their side, but also because they’re men. They always take what they want. It will never be any other way so you’ve decided to give in.
You don't get much longer to take it in, because Geronimo is walking over to you. Staying to talk with him will ruin your mood, and you're still on the clock for five more hours; it's best not to poke the bear. You hear him call your name as you walk past him and call over your shoulder, “Can't talk. Too busy hustling. Making you those big bucks you love!”
You only get to see a second of his disgusting mug before deciding to forget. Forgetting, it's all you can do. Plastering that disgustingly sweet smile on you for this place, you turn back to the couple of weirdos who ordered said Bloody Marys to begin with. “Here you go,” and just like that, your confidence has to shine through again. Your posture is straighter, boobs out, strutting in those too-big pumps. “Now, if y’all need anything,” your finger runs across the man’s chest. “Anything at all, you ask for me. No other pretty girl.”
The man and his friends laugh haughtily. His hand lands on your hip, pulling you into him. You laugh prettily at the way he shoves a few bills into your panties. “Got it, sexy.” You want to throw up. You finger-wave them and turn your back to them, your face immediately falling. But it doesn’t last very long, because soon enough, strong arms wrap around your waist. A squeal leaves you, not from fear, but shock.
You immediately know who it is. Geronimo lets the men at the club get away with a lot, but nothing so blatant. Only one man would do this. You laugh when a pair of lips meet your neck, “Craig! Off!” You smack at his buff arms with one arm, the other carrying the empty tray.
It’s almost sad how well you know this man. He’s here every single Friday, Saturday, and on occasion, Sunday. Not sad for you. For him. He’s such a depraved freak; he has nothing better to do with his time than snort coke and motorboat the women here for fifty bucks. Not you, though. Not since the first and only time you allowed him a little over a year ago. It was too weird. Now, he never even offers to throw money at you in such ways. Only tips you when you serve him, and at times, his brothers. Today is one of those times, apparently.
You look over Craig’s shoulders, immediately spotting two more familiar faces. “Baz. Deran.” You greet politely as the two nod their heads at you, eyes scouring the club for their favorite girls. But the faces behind Craig don’t end there. There’s a smaller guy. Smaller in height, definitely not body mass. You glance at Craig and back at the little guy. Little guy. That’s what you've decided on.
You give everyone names for your mind and your mind only. Craig was originally ‘Hippie’ because of his long hair and beard. Baz was ‘Cheater’ because of the wife he had waiting for him at home. Deran was ‘Wanderer’ because he always looked like he was dissociating when he was with his girl. And now, Little Guy.
“And who’s this?” Immediately, you’re on the prowl for tips, circling Little Guy, looking him up and down, checking him out. He’s not as big as Craig is, but most men here aren’t. He’s got muscles, that much is clear— only when you look at him from certain angles—a sleeper build, you take notice.
“This right here,” Craig’s arm is grabbing you, pulling you into him as if staking some claim on you, as Little Guy looks you up and down now. But his eyes immediately leave you, continuing to scope the place out. How odd, most men can’t take their eyes away from your body. The bob in Little Guy’s throat tells you it’s not because he doesn’t want to look at you, he’s nervous. And this amuses you. No man who walks in here is ever nervous. Not even the first-timers. “Is my big brother. Pope.”
You hum, surprised by this. “Big brother?” You voice aloud, Deran snorting a laugh beside Baz, who seems to have not found his girl yet, distracted by the task. What surprises you is the way Little Guy actually looks upset by your words. Not defensive, like most men are about their height, but upset. “I mean no offense, Pope,” your tone is saccharine, as is the smile on your face. “Craig is just really old in my opinion, and you don’t look older than him.” You make a jab at Craig that has him laughing loudly, in a way that screams he’s coked up.
“Alright, alright, Hipster.” You try for a giggle that isn't awkward, but you fail. You lightly smack his arms, and he does as you told him, releasing you. “Want me to walk you to your table, or do you need my help with that too?” You joke with Craig.
Craig, graceful as ever on coke, clumsily bows to you. “May we have the honor of you leading us?”
A scoff of a laugh leaves you, eyes trailing back over to Little Guy. He’s still scoping out the place, as if something or someone were to come out and pounce on him. Not that they wouldn’t, the girls here can be ruthless and cutthroat about their money, and new men means more money.
He’s got freckles all over his face—no doubt from countless days under the sun in Oceanside. Most men in Oceanside have sun-touched skin like so, but paired with his buzzcut and a stoic, bordering on psychopathic, look, it’s different. You can’t put your finger on it, but it’s there, and it’s glaringly obvious to you.
A nudge from your side pulls you out of your analysis of Little Guy. You look up at Craig with furrowed eyebrows, confused by this sudden need for attention. It’s not that odd, seeing as he always needs female attention, but he doesn’t grab it with a nudge, only with his huge hands. His eyes trail to Pope, nodding at him for you. He seems to be overestimating your connection because you can’t read what he’s saying at all. He huffs, annoyed by your lack of understanding. He leans over to whisper to you, “Sleep with him.”
His words catch you completely off guard. You sputter out a laugh, taking a step back from him. But you wince when you step wrong, ankle throbbing. “Fuck, fuck…” You hiss, and you grab onto the nearest thing. Or, person. It’s Little Guy.
He acts as if your touch burns him, pulling away with wide eyes. His sudden pull away makes you stumble some more. Craig catches you quickly, glaring at his brother. “The fuck is your issue?”
You shake your head, balancing yourself on Craig. “It’s fine, Craig, I jumped him.” Once you’re on your feet, you look over at Little Guy. And the guilty expression on his face makes your breath catch. “I’m sorry, Pope.” You apologize. Usually, your apologies to the men in this place are insincere, or they don’t get any at all. “I hurt my ankle while dancing last week, and I stepped on it wrong. Panicked and grabbed the closest person. I didn’t mean to bombard you.”
He’s looking at the floor, hands nervously rubbing at his blue jeans. He shakes his head, refusing to look at you. “It’s fine.” His voice is rough. An intense drawl that makes your skin bump and fingers clench and unclench, needing something , but you can’t figure out what.
You lead the brothers to their usual table. Your pumps are too tall for you to grab the heavy chairs, so Baz does it for you, filling up the table. “Alright, your usuals?” You ask as they all sit. Even as you ask your typical question, you can’t completely look away from Pope, glancing at him repeatedly, desperate to keep your eyes on him. To analyze him, of course, nothing else. You barely met the guy, so you can’t say it’s anything more than that. He's just so damn odd. His back won't touch the chair, and he’s sitting so stiff because of it, hands fidgeting on his knees. Weird. So fucking weird.
But Craig shakes his head, grabbing your arm and pulling you onto his lap. You laugh, not disgusted by this for once. If it were any other man, you’d curse and hit. But it’s Craig. And he’s handsy, but he’s innocent. He whistles over to Iggy, ushering the blonde to take their orders. Baz and Deran, now with their women, order their usual with your coworker. But your attention is on Craig, arm around him as he whispers into your ear. “He just got out.”
Your eyebrows furrow, glancing at Pope again. He still won’t let his back touch the seat. You don’t blame him. Some fucked up crap has happened there. Some form of OCD, you deduce. You people watch so much that you’ve given yourselves a degree in psychiatry. You can tell when a man is depressed, or anxious, when their confidence is low, when they’re manic, even when they’re doubting their sexuality. It’s hard not to. They’re so easy. “Like,” you whisper to Craig, turning back. “From his house?”
He laughs, shaking his head, “No,” the way you two are seated seems intimate. His hands are on your thighs, feeling you up. Oddly, it’s not sexual; he needs something to do with his hands when he’s this high. “Prison.”
Your eyes widen, eyes searching Craig’s face, looking for the joke. You don't find it. You glance back over at Pope, and he's still being weird. It’s all making more and more sense as Craig tells you more, “was in three years. Was supposed to be six but got off on good behavior. Honey, he needs to get laid.”
You huff, unamused. “And what’s that got to do with me?”
He gives you a bored expression, “you’re hot. Got ass for days. Good tits. Not the biggest I’ve seen—“ he winces when you pinch his nipple through his shirt. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”
But you’re glaring at him, upset by what he’s asking of you. “I’m a stripper, not a hooker.”
“A thousand.”
“What?” You pull your face from his. “I just said—“
“Three.” It certainly grabs your attention, but not enough to bite.
“Craig, I'm not sleeping with your brother for money!” You hiss into his ear.
He pauses and sighs, “You’re gonna milk me dry here. And not the good kind. Fine, eight.”
As pathetic as it is, that certainly catches your attention. Eight grand. Eight thousand dollars. Eyebrows furrowed, “Why? Why are you…” you trail off momentarily before coming back to earth, “can’t you find an actual hooker on some corner? Probably worth a hundred bucks.”
He scoffs as if your words are utterly ridiculous. “He’s my brother. I’m not letting him get crabs. You’re clean. Nice. You’d treat him well.”
You snort, “I’m nice? Have you met me?” You’re many, many things. Outside of work, sure, you’re nice. You don’t donate money, but when you’re not debating killing yourself, you’re at the local church, helping with the food bank. But that’s barely a drop in the countless bad things you do, so you don’t count it. At work? Definitely not nice. Fake nice, sure, you can fake it. But at some point, that facade starts to fade. Luckily, most of the men drawn to you are into being degraded. And it’s easy to degrade a man.
“Oh, no, you’re a straight-up bitch.” He hums, not minding when you smack his chest. “But you’d be good for him. C’mon. Do it for the community, or he’ll be out on the prowl.” You look back over at Pope, his back still not touching the seat.
You turn back to Craig with an amused smile, “he looks harmless.”
He raises an eyebrow at you, “Yeah, right, harmless. As harmless as a fucking landmine. Step on him wrong and he’ll explode. You doin’ it?”
You should say no. Just earlier, you were upset about the lack of respect you have for yourself working this type of job. But you also need the money. Eight thousand is a lot of goddamn money. Enough that you won’t have to worry about coming in for at least a week and a half. You would finally be able to rest your ankle enough to get back up on stage.
“You got it on you?” You ask, a nervous undercurrent to your voice. You’re not a virgin by any means, but up until this point in your depressing career, you took pride in the fact that you never took anyone’s money for sex. It’s offered to you countless times. And Geronimo tells you all not to take it, but that look in his eye tells you he’s not serious, only do it on your own time. He doesn’t want to get busted for a brothel and lose the building; it’s clear that’s always been his only concern.
He shakes his head, “nah. Not right now. I do have it, though.” And there go your plans. You scoff, making a move to climb off of him, but his hands tighten around you, pulling you back down. “I have it. I promise I do.” You huff, fingers unconsciously curling into his head of hair, yanking.
“I’ll kill you if you don’t.” Granted, you don’t mean it. You don’t have any means to do such a thing, nor have the stomach for it. You would find a way to get payback, though. You glance at Pope, who’s still uncomfortable in his chair. You turn back to Craig, “Is he bad at sex?”
He laughs, “How the fuck am I supposed to know?”
You huff at his laugh, glaring at him. You grab his chin, making him look at you. “You promise you’ll pay me?”
As seriously as he can manage, incredibly coked up, he nods. “Yes. Promise. Have I ever let you down?”
“A few times.” You confirm.
He rolls his eyes at you, “whatever. I mean about money. I always got you.” And he’s right. He always pays his tabs, always tips you and the other girls hefty sums. There are lots of stingy men around here, but Craig isn’t one of them.
“I suppose you don’t want him to know I was paid?”
He shrugs, “don’t care. Or…” he mulls it over for a few seconds, “nah, don’t tell him. Up his confidence.”
Still tall on his lap, you turn to look over at Pope again. Your eyes widen slightly to find that his eyes are already on you. He either doesn't seem to realize you’ve caught him or he doesn’t care because his eyes don’t leave yours. You wonder if he was confident before prison, if his years of being untouched by a woman just caught up to him, or if he was always so stoic.
He’s a handsome man, you can’t deny that. But he’s handsome in a way that most women who overlook him are into pretty boys. He’s a grown man. The few lines on his face tell you he’s got years on him, but not too many. He’s just the right age. He’s tan, not as much as a lot of the surfers you see in Oceanside, but it’s there, and it’s clear that Little Guy’s first few days out of prison were spent in the sun. Or maybe he’s naturally tan, but you can’t tell quite yet.
Regardless of that, you don’t believe you’d hate sex with him. He’s not hideous. Not your cup of tea by any means, but definitely not hideous. And you’re certain he won’t last long, but you’re getting eight thousand for it, so you really don’t care if he cums while sliding inside of you.
You pat Craig’s thigh a few times before sliding off and strutting over to sit beside Pope. The seat beneath your thighs is freezing, despite the heat of the bodies around you. You cross your leg over the other, his eyes looking down at your bare legs before looking away and back up at you. “So,” you lean your elbow on the table, chin in your hand, as you grin easily at him. “Why haven’t I seen you before?” You act as if you don't know about his prison time.
His eyes dart over to his brothers and back to you. He doesn't respond. Not for a few seconds. He’s thinking, as if he needs to go over what he wants to say before muttering it out. And then— “you work here.” It’s awkward, out of place.
And for the first time all night, your smile is genuine. Your lips tilt, amused. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Now it's your turn to mull over what to say next. You can't just pounce on him. Or maybe you can, you haven’t decided yet. “Going on two years now.” You explain.
He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t show that he’s actively listening to you, as most would with a single shake. You almost think he’s ignoring you until he speaks, “been away. ‘S why you haven’t seen me. And I don't…” he clears his throat awkwardly. “Don’t like these places.”
You raise a single eyebrow at this. A Cody man doesn’t like strip clubs? It’s a shock to you. All of the Cody sons are regulars here. Except for Deran, who only tags along with Craig on random occasions. Even Baz, who’s supposed to be a family man is here too often.
“Why’s that?” You question. He doesn’t answer, instead, his eyes keep flickering around the club. When you realize you won’t get a response, you decide to change tactics. A few days of relaxation sounded nice, but you couldn’t dance around him. Not when you just wanted this over with, even if he’s the first man to ever make you softer around the edges, in fear of scaring him away.
You’re standing up from the chair, hand pushed out to him, waiting for him to take hold of it. He eyes your hands, the long acrylic nails with intricate designs on them, slowly back up to your face. His back is pressed against the chair for the first time that night, looking up at you with confused and darting eyes. “Come on,” you snake your hand slightly, bracelets jingling. “Let’s go.”
It takes him a few more seconds, but eventually, he puts his hand in yours, and he’s up on his feet. You’re taller than him in your pumps, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You can feel his brother's eyes on both of you as you lead him through the crowd.
There's not really a spot where you can have sex with the man without cameras, but you figured he wouldn’t mind Geronimo’s beat-up couch in his office. To get there, though, you need to walk through the dressing room. It’s big, with lockers on the walls and typical wooden, glossed-over benches. There are vanities everywhere, big mirrors with lightbulbs around for better views of your makeup and checking how you look between sets.
You look over your shoulder and at him, and you have to look away to hide your smile at the way he sniffed the air and grimaced at the smell of pure aerosol and different perfumes mixing.
You’re surprised to hear him speak first, “This is where you change into…” You turn to face him, catching his eyes as his eyes flicker over your half-nude body. “That.”
For the first time since starting this job, you feel naked. Which, you very much are. Always are when you step foot into the stuffy club. But the way Little Guy was looking at you? It makes your stomach churn. It makes you feel judged. You know you always are. Most of the men here always look disgusted by the end of the night. As if they can’t believe who they spent time with over the past few hours. But you don’t let it get to you—you got what you needed: money. That’s all that matters.
But Pope isn’t giving you money. Craig is. And he’s not here watching you with an intensely awkward look. If Craig ever looked at you the way Pope is, you’d smack the guy, shove past him. But it looks cute on Pope. Chin slightly tilted down, eyebrows furrowed. He looks like he's struggling to push something out, and you realize it’s his words. He can’t push his words out, at least not in a way that he wants.
“You read people well.” He speaks when you don’t.
The truth of his words makes you nod, pushed out of your trance. “I do.” You two are standing in the middle of the changing room now, not making a move. “Perk from the job.” You add.
A pause.
You speak again, and at the same time, he does. “I don’t—“
“He’s paying you, right?” His words make you still, unsure how to handle the situation. You don’t exactly care for his feelings, or you tell yourself you don’t. And yet, you’re hesitant to confirm.
When you don’t see anger in his eyes, you decide you’re safe to speak again. “That a bad thing?”
A slow blink and then, “depends. Do you do this a lot? Sleep with the patrons?”
The snort of a laugh you release is completely unattractive, and you regret it, but only for a split second. You don’t need to care if he thinks you’re attractive. Men will fuck anything, right? “No. I don’t. Do you?”
For the first time, you see amusement in his dark and serious eyes. “Do I sleep with the patrons? Can’t say that I have.”
The roll of your eyes can’t hide your smile, “no, silly. Do you sleep with strangers often?”
His answer is instant, a shake of his head and— “no. I haven't…” he swallows. “Haven’t been with anyone in three years.”
You hum, letting his words sit. Three years is a long time. You figure it was his prison stint. But he doesn’t know that you know, so you refrain from asking if anything happened there. “Are you trying to warn me that you won’t last long?” You tease.
He huffs out a small laugh, “Yes. Not sure I know what an erection feels like anymore.”
You’re pleasantly surprised by his honesty. Seeing as he was awkward and stoic not even five minutes ago. “Well, then tell me about your last erection.”
He looks at you like you’ve grown another head, eyes wide before he relaxes them. “What?”
You shrug, “What was it like? Your last erection. I’m assuming it was during sex, right?”
His nod is a bit jerky as he replies. “Yes.”
“Okay…” You watch him. You can not watch him. “Tell me about it. With who? How hard did you come? In bed? Against a counter? Was it raw? Did you—“
“Are you always this vulgar?” He interrupts.
You laugh—a real laugh. “Pope, we’re in the middle of a changing room in a strip club with nothing but floss covering my nipples. And this isn’t even my worst outfit.”
His smile is tight-lipped, looking to the side. “Yeah… guess so.” He peeks back up at you. “He payin’ you a lot?”
“Enough.” You confirm.
He’s wearing that look again, the one that yells he can’t spit out the correct words. But you know why he’s shy about this.
“You want to roleplay the last time you had sex.” It’s almost comical how wide his eyes get. You shrug again, “told you, I read people well, a perk of the job.”
He releases the nervous breath he had been holding in. “You seem close to Craig.”
You scrunch your nose softly, shaking your head. “Not really. We only see each other here.”
“But he’s around often?”
“Pathetically.”
He agrees with a nod. “Last time I had sex was with Catherine.” He speaks her name like you’re supposed to know who she is.
“Heigl?” You joke.
It flies over his head. “No, Belen.”
“Right…” your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Anway… tell me about it.”
He seems ashamed as he thinks back on it, and this only piques your curiosity. “Let’s sit.” You open Geronimo’s office door and let him inside. It’s a typical office. A desk, a computer, stacks of paper in thick manila folders. There's art on the walls of dogs playing card games, corny Godfather quotes, and a bear head hanging from your boss's hunting. You ignore it as you lock the door behind you and take a seat on the battered couch beside Pope. “Tell me about it.” You urge.
He clears his throat, legs spread open on the couch. Not by choice, you notice. “We were drunk.” He begins. “It was… stupid. To her. Meant nothing.”
You’re leaning your arm on the couch, eyes stuck on him as he speaks. It almost breaks your heart to see that hurt expression on him. “You wanted it to mean something.” You add.
“It did.” His words sound defensive as he spews them. He's not your first upset customer, though, so it doesn’t faze you. “It meant something.”
To you, you want to tell him. But you bite your tongue. “Okay, it meant something.” You validate him. “What else?”
“That’s all.”
But you’re eyeing him. He’s not telling the whole truth. It’s easy to see. To you, at least. “You ever been told you’re a bad liar?”
“No.” His tone is sincere.
“Well, you are.” You huff. “There’s more. Tell me. Who is Catherine?”
He’s quiet again. That same tense look. He can’t find his words. Not for a few more moments. “Baz’s wife.”
Your head tilts, gathering your thoughts. Baz’s wife. Baz is his brother. Catherine is Baz’s wife. It clicks. “Damn.” You sigh, shaking your head. “Geez, Pope.”
He glares at you, but you don’t find any real heat in it. “Thought strippers weren’t supposed to judge.”
You give him a bored expression, “That’s a fake rule.”
“You think I’m gross.” He almost sounds hurt.
You scoff, “I don’t care what you do, Pope.” A pause. “Only a little. Not from the sex… that’s really the woman you want?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “More than anything.”
You almost gasp in shock, but you rein it in. “Geez, Pope.” You repeat. “You’re fucked.”
The hum of the overhead light fills the quiet room. You’re letting him sit in his truth for a few minutes, playing with a loose thread on the couch.
“You want me to pretend to be Catherine?” Your voice cuts the silence.
With a shaky breath, he nods, “Yes.”
You feel disgusting. You really try not to judge, but it feels wrong. His brother is just outside, having his own fun with one of your coworkers. You have your own moral compass about cheating. The bartenders laughed when you told them as such. You’re a stripper, and half of your clients are married. It’s the one hope you let yourself cling to, that you happen to get the unmarried ones. There are never rings. Never ties to the outside world. Not even a tan. You’re a good person. You’re not a cheater. You’re a good person.
You’re a good person.
And yet—
You take his hand and lead him over to the only space on Geronimo’s office wall. You press your back into it. He’s standing a few steps away from you, so you grab his hand again and pull him into you. His breathing is labored, not against your cheek. His hands are fidgeting, unsure where to place them. You grab them again and press them to your cheeks. “We can’t, Pope.” Your voice cracks. “Baz, he… he’ll… I can’t hurt him.”
His breath hitches. His eyes are darting across your face, like he can’t believe this is really happening. “He won’t…” he licks his lips, mouth dry from his nerves. “He won’t know.” His hands on your face tighten, ghosting his lips over yours.
“He will,” you furrow your eyebrows, and your face twists up in fake guilt. “Pope, he will.”
“Won’t.” His teeth nip at your bottom lip. “Can I kiss you?” You wonder if he truly asked Catherine’s permission.
You jerk out a small nod, and his lips immediately press to yours. Despite the ferocity of the placement, the kiss is soft. Deep. You don't sleep with patrons, but you have shared a few kisses with them. Nothing extravagantly deep or emotional. Mostly sloppy and open-mouthed ones that always end up with their tongue down your throat.
Pope Cody is a damn good kisser. His hands are still on your cheeks, pulling you into him. While he does so, your hands fidget with the buttons to his shirt, needing to undo them. But you can’t grip them, not with the way his tongue is lapping at yours.
Your brain is mush. The kiss is wet but not in a sloppy way, warm and desperate but full of a type of yearning you’ve never felt. It feels as if he’s trying to fuse you two into one. Or really, he’s trying to fuse himself and your Catherine act into one. It’s almost romantic.
He didn't tell you he got to his knees for her, so you’re shocked when he pulls his lips from yours and kisses down your jaw, to your neck, the dip between your breasts, and to your mound.
The thong you’re wearing is tugged off with his shaky hands, falling to your ankles. It’s helping that you’re wearing pumps so tall, he sits at your cunt perfectly. But the position you’re in is uncomfortable. And so is the pace. His face is smushed into your cunt, lapping and sucking at it wildly, not actually hitting anything.
He notices. The small whimpers you’re releasing are practiced and completely fake. And he notices. He pulls away from you, confused. “Are you not enjoying this?”
You’re caught off-guard, and you figure you’re not playing the role correctly. Catherine must have loved this. “I am! Just as good as—“
He cuts you off, “not Catherine… you.”
Now you’re really confused. “Uhm…” you think it’s a trick, as if testing whether you’d break out of his fantasy, so he can find a way to revoke that money from you. “I enjoy what you do.”
Granted, you met him for the first time just forty minutes ago, so saying you've never seen him this angry before seems redundant. He's angry. Really angry. He's getting up off his knees, taking a step back from you. “You hate this.” He utters it like a cold, hard fact.
“N-no!” You need to salvage this quickly. You’re telling yourself it’s for your money. The eight grand that will sit so prettily in your bank account. But the embarrassment and anger in him are what’s pushing you to make this right. And you hate that it is. “Pope, listen to me, I really, really liked the kiss—“
He interrupts again. “But not the pussy eating?” He’s watching you, waiting for your answer.
With an awkward voice, you decide to speak the truth. “No…” and you hate that his shoulder slumps even slightly. “It’s not a bad thing! You have the potential! You have the passion for it, the one most men don’t have. You can’t just slobber away at it and hope for the best.”
That surprisingly calms him down. He pauses, lets your words sink in, and he nods. “Okay… okay…” a pause. “Show me.”
He’s full of surprises, and you’re not sure what to do with them. You were certain this would go one way. He’d search for his release and his only. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy you chose to be with was selfish, and it wouldn’t be the last. But he wants to learn.
“O-okay.” You hate the way your words falter. You clear your throat, trying to gather yourself. “First things first, I need to be comfortable. Back to the wall isn’t my favorite.”
“Okay.” He’s on it. It’s his first time in this office, and he’s ushering you onto the couch. You can’t think straight. This was supposed to be his freaky roleplay about his sister-in-law, not a pussy eating lesson.
Now, you’re sitting back on the couch, legs spread open for him. You’ve been laid bare like this plenty of times. You’re not a prude by any means. You can’t be with a job like this. But his eyes on your bare cunt make you anxiously bite your bottom lip. He’s not looking up at you, eyes fixated on your legs. “I know this feels good,” his finger ghosts your sensitive bundle of nerves.
You shiver, “Jesus, Pope.” You scold the guy with a glare. “Just… fuck, I don’t know how to teach anyone this.”
He huffs, finally looking at you from his spot on the floor, “You’re the one who said I’m terrible at this.”
You defend yourself, “I did not.” You huff, trying to sit up, but he grabs your thighs, pulling you back down and into him.
“Sit still,” he presses soft kisses to your inner thighs, making you tense up. “I’ll just do what I usually do. I’ll… I’ll slow it down.”
You try to sit up again, but he pulls you back, “fuck, Pope. This is supposed to be for you, not—“ your breath stutters when he presses a sloppy kiss to your clit, hands gripping onto the cushions beneath you.
And he's true to his word. He isn’t devouring as he had been before. He’s savoring you. He’s licking up every slick drop off of you, desperately searching for more.
“Wait… fuck…” You’re not sure what it is you're asking for, but you don’t want this to stop. And he knows it. Before you can think, he’s dragging you further into him, pushing your legs to his shoulders, one of his arms hooking to your waist, locking you in place. And not once does he stop his ministrations.
Your thighs are shaking. Your mind is racing. You swear you can feel your heartbeat in your clit as he’s ravishing you. He doesn’t go all in like before. It’s clear he forgets himself at times, though, and slows down, pulling at your clit, lips puckered and sucking you into his mouth, releasing to press soft kisses to your wet folds. You gasp when he slips a single finger inside of you. Your spasming hole now has something to grip onto, and it only adds to your mewls.
He’s lapping from your sopping hole up to your clit in fat stripes. “Pope… I… I can’t… wait… fuck.” He slips a second finger in, slowly pumping in and out of you. You’re about to warn him, tell him you’re teetering to the edge, but you don’t get the chance to. He curls his fingers once, and your orgasm crashes over you.
Stuttered moans leave your lips, head thrown back in the throes of pure pleasure. He lets you ride out your orgasm, softer with his tongue. When he deduces that you’re overstimulated, he pulls his face away, arm slipping out from under you, placing his hands on your bare thighs. He doesn’t make a move to get up.
Breathing labored, your chest rising and falling, you sit up enough to get a better look at him. Your eyebrows furrow as you catch him looking down at the floor. “Are… are you okay?” You ask, concerned about whatever this reaction is.
His hands squeeze down on your thighs, flesh stinging slightly. “Yeah…” is his only response.
You sit up straighter, legs closing as you do so. “Are you, like, overwhelmed or something?”
“No, just stop talking.” He doesn’t let you go, hands still on you. He’s shaking, his hands tightening and untightening repeatedly.
“Okay, now I'm really worried—“
“I just need to calm down.” He sneers at you. He’s not angry, he’s embarrassed. And he turns sheepish as he mumbles the next part, “got too excited. Don’t want to… release yet.”
It takes a second for your brain to catch up to his words. And then, you’re laughing. “Crap. Crap. Sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I promise!” You’re a giggling mess, trying to get yourself together. “Fuck, I just… I’ve never heard that.”
He huffs, annoyed by your laughter. “You’re laughing because I liked eating you out.” He glares at you. “Most women would like that, right?”
You manage to catch your breath, the grin unable to leave your face, “didn’t say I don't like it.” But he's pouty and you like it. “Fine, fine, sorry. It was good.” You reach over to grab a tissue to clean his fingers. “We can keep roleplaying your sister-in-law.”
He snarls, but you still don’t take it seriously. “Don’t call her that. Makes it weird.”
You have to hold yourself back from telling him that it is weird already. To be fantasizing about your brother's wife is an odd thing. To have had sex with your brother's wife is an odd thing. They have a child together, from what you’ve gathered through being around Craig. But that’s your own moral compass. Which you know you should lighten as you’re about to have more sex with this unknown man for eight thousand. You’re not exactly the spokesperson for morality.
You scoot closer to him, letting him kneel between your legs. And the switch is back on.
“Should’ve been you, Pope.” You can hear his breath hitch. Your fingers run through his very short head of hair at the back of his head. You’re pressing soft kisses to his jaw. “Should’ve picked you.”
And he’s jumping right into it too, eyes shut tight. To hide the fact that the woman he’s with right now isn’t the one he wants. It makes you wonder if love is that great. You’ve never felt it. Not romantically, at least. Barely even familial or with friends. To be so hung up on a person who will never love you back sounds draining. And embarrassing. You find yourself wishing you could cure him of this ailment.
Your lips meet his once more. And this time, you’re in control. Your lips push against his, his hands sliding up your bare thighs to your waist, gripping onto you. “Pope…” you pull your lips from his for a moment, but he chases after you, meeting once more. Your hands reach down to his jeans, the cold metal of his button twisting between your fingers as you undo them.
The groan that leaves him vibrates against you as you pull his jeans and boxers down simultaneously. Without breaking the heavy kiss, he slowly gets up onto the couch, lying you on your back against the battered and scratchy couch. It’s small, the two of you barely able to fit, but you’re making it work.
He’s hovering over you now. You pull your lips from his, placing your hand over his mouth to stop him from chasing after you again. His hands are on the sides of your head, eyes wide with lust before he closes them again. To keep the fantasy going.
Your hand is shaking slightly as you reach down between you two. The moan he draws out when gripping his hard and warm cock is filthy. You’ve never been with a vocal man before. His hips are twitching desperately already, and you know for certain now that he won’t last long at all.
You easily guide his cock to your entrance, letting just the tip of him notch inside of you. Your eyebrows twist, a small gasp leaving you with the sense of the slight intrusion. You haven’t even so much as glanced down to see what he looks like. You can’t care for that right now. Not when his eyes are shut tight over you, eyebrows pinched, and small noises are leaving him. You’re too focused on his face. Deducing by the twitch of his nose, what he’s feeling, and how you can keep making it good for him. It's all about him.
“Push in, Pope…” your arms are wrapped around his neck, whispering seductively into his ear.
You didn’t have to tell him twice. His moan is loud, hitching at the end as he bottoms out inside of you. “Fuck.”
Fuck is right. He fills you perfectly. He’s not huge, you’ve had some abnormally big dick, but you didn’t enjoy it as it was more painful than anything else. You don’t believe size matters either; it’s what you do with it that's important. But ninety percent of the small dick losers you’ve been with don’t know what to do with it, or the big ones. You almost snort out a laugh at the thought of this being a Goldilocks story, only your filthy version.
Your soft hands trail down his back and to his ass, pushing him into you, as if your small touch could help him grind deeper into you. “Shit… Pope…” your breathing is labored as he fucks into you. The couch is shaking with every thrust, and his face is burrowing into you.
You almost forget you’re roleplaying for a moment, and in the haze of your pleasure, you speak again, “knew you’d…” he punches a moan out of you as he thrusts harder. “Knew you’d fit me perfectly. Meant for me, Pope. Never wanted him. Only you.”
And this spurs him on. His thrusts are becoming erratic, his moans are louder and vibrating at your neck. Shakily, his voice warns, “I’m gon— I’m gonna—“
You don’t let him finish. Instead, you whisper, “I love you, Pope.”
And he shatters. His moan is loud, hips locking yours down as he pushes and pushes deep inside of you. The warmth of his cum fills you. Your pulse is racing, blocking out the way his moaning turned into full whimpers, sounding distant.
He’s out of breath as he lays his limp body against yours, hot against your neck. He’s sweating, small dribbles of it collecting at his temple. He moves his head from your neck, your eyes widening as he leans his forehead against yours, his nose nudging against yours. His eyes are still shut, and the flutter in your stomach from his move is gone. This is still roleplaying, but you’re embarrassed.
Embarrassed that you forgot about the role-playing for even a flicker of a second. Embarrassed that you focused so much on him. Embarrassed that you’ve accepted this deal with his brother. Embarrassed that you let yourself fall to the level your coworkers are at, always taking money for sex. And still you continue to embarrass yourself.
“I pick you, Pope.” You’re pressing chaste yet sweet pecks to his lips. He’s not fighting you, falling into your lips when the kisses get longer and heavier.
His breath hitches, just like you knew it would. He pulls his lips from yours, “Say it again.”
You oblige, “I pick you, Pope.” For a second, it sounds like he's crying, and you sit up, sliding out from under him. You eye him carefully, worried, “Are you okay?”
He clambers back as well, the two of you sitting naked on the couch. The office smells of old cigarette buds and now a tinge of sweat from their rump in the stuffy office.
The energy is tense. Like it’s dawning on you both what you just did, he’s back to what seems his normal way of acting, awkward, but that undercurrent of toughness.
“Was it…” You clear your throat, nervous. “Was it accurate to… to her?” You ask like a project waiting to be graded. And you’re worried. Worried that the response will be bad.
“No.” It’s blunt. And you don’t know him well, or at all, actually, but you know it’s just who he is. He’s blunt. Unsure of how to speak, maybe it’s just with women, you’ll never know. After this, you don’t plan on interacting with him again. You’ll even go as far as to ignore Craig if you need to.
“Sorry.” You’re scolding yourself. Sorry? What do you have to apologize for? You did nothing wrong. You don’t know his sister-in-law. You don’t know what she looks like, how she talks, how she acts, how she treats him. And yet, his answer is eating you up alive. What could you have done better? How could you be more like the woman he’s in love with?
More silence.
“She wouldn’t say what you did.”
His words pique your interest. You want to be careful with your words, but there’s no way around it: “If she’s not into you, then why’d she sleep with you?”
He shrugs, “We were drunk. I was nervous for my… job. She and Baz got into an argument. It just happened.”
“Sex doesn’t just happen, Pope.” You reach over for your thin top and put it back on, which doesn’t do much but hide the pecks of your nipples. “She must feel something for you.”
He huffs, “Yeah, disgust.”
You slip your matching thin panties on as well. He’s still sitting naked on the couch. You don't point it out. Instead, you plop back down onto your seat. You reach over to Geronimo’s desk, grabbing one of the joints that he confiscated from your coworker a few days ago. It’s a bit stale, but you light it anyway using his cheap lighter on the desk. You cough when you inhale, and there are bouts of smoke puffing out with every breath. You hold it out to Pope, and he shakes his head.
You shrug and say, “suit yourself.” You turn your body fully to him. “Let me guess. Catherine was your childhood best friend, who you always loved, but she picked your brother.”
He doesn’t try denying it. He nods, “Yeah.”
Another hit, “fuck. Sounds terrible.”
He doesn’t respond. So you keep going. “Have you tried moving on?”
“No.” His response may come off as blunt, but the look he’s giving you tells you he’s being sarcastic.
“Geez,” you lightly smack his chest, eyebrows furrowing further as he looks from your hand and back to your face. “Just saying, a way to get over someone is to get under another, right?”
He laughs. It’s small, but it’s a laugh. And you smile at the sight, “I just did that.”
You laugh as well, nodding. “Yeah… guess so.” Playfully, you ask, “So, after sleeping with me, how much closer to getting over her are you?”
He’s quiet for a moment, as if actually mulling it over. “I was five percent over her. I’m now seven.”
You cackle, feeling a tad smug. “I bumped you up two whole numbers? That’s amazing. Maybe we should sleep together more. Get you to at least a solid seventy.”
A scoff, “You wish.”
And a part of you does.
—
A week and a half of pure relaxation comes. Craig scrounged up the money a day later, said his brothers were pissed they had to chip in, but they ended up understanding. It ticks you off that they believe their older brother can’t pull women.
Geronimo was pissed for a minute, but he got past it. Still, it doesn’t stop him from texting you every hour of the day to pick up a shift; he even adds “please,” which is completely unlike him. You don’t bother responding, you leave his messages on read every time.
And despite needing to rest, you decide now is the right time to go to the grocery store. Out of all the chores you have to do to function like a normal adult, this is the worst one. It drags on, and there are far too many people.
You’re pushing the rickety cart around, with nothing but a bag of carrots and a bottle of ranch so far. The choices are overwhelming you. Why are there so many types of breads?
“Almost didn’t recognize you with all those clothes on.” The familiar voice of Craig fills your ears. You turn slowly, scared to make contact with him. But it’s too late.
“Haha.” You voice dryly, fully turning to him. He’s right. This is the most clothing he’s ever seen on you. Usually, you’re in slutty skirts or thongs, matching bras that show too much. But that’s part of the gig, and you’re not going against what pays for your lifestyle. “What are you doing here? Let me guess, the sketchy guy at the deli is your plug?”
He snorts out a laugh, running his hand through his long, brown hair. It’s greasy, as usual when he’s been on binges. “No, my plug is a hot babe.”
You grimace, feeling gross at his words. “Ew. Also, this is really weird. Maybe we should stick to only seeing each other at the club.” You voice, hoping he understands. But he’s Craig.
He blows a raspberry, waving his hand at you. “Nah. You’re like my sister.”
“Oh, god, ew no!” You laugh, nose scrunched up in disgust. “I’ve given you countless lap dances, Craig. That’s not fucking sisterly!”
He scoffs, placing his big hand on your hip and pulling you into him. “Fine, you’re like my sexy step-sister.”
“Ew, Craig!” You’re laughing, pushing at his chest when he leans down to press kisses to your neck. “That’s just as bad!”
“It ain’t.” He’s still trying as you giggle and try to push him away.
“Why are there so many goddamn flavors of Oreos? Did the obesity rate in children go up while I was gone?” That voice gets you. It completely stops you in your step, letting Craig fall into you. You can’t see his face with Craig over you like this, and you’re glad for it. Only for a moment because you’re shoving him off of you, desperate to look at Pope.
He’s holding four packs of Oreos when you turn to him, watching you with that same intense look. “P-Pope. Hi.” You greet, trying your best to act nonchalant. You feel like you’re failing, and the weird glance Craig gives you solidifies it.
Instead of greeting you, he holds the packets of cookies out to you. “Which one do you think tastes best?”
You’re taken aback by the question, glancing at the options. “Uhm… the original?” Your look turns from confusion to a grin at the soft, ghost of a pout that falls to his lips as he glances back to the cookies.
He hums, “I thought so too. But she’s six. She must like these, right?” He holds out the rainbow cookies. “It’s Rainbow Sherbert.”
You shrug softly, “don’t even know what sherbert is. Or why it’s a rainbow.”
Craig places cash against Pope’s chest. “Just buy ‘em all. Gotta talk to her.” He tries to shoo his brother away from the two of you.
You can tell by the look in Pope’s eyes that he doesn’t like the command. And the delusional part of you wants to believe it’s because he wants to talk to you and he doesn’t want to leave you alone with Craig. But it’s too wishful thinking for you. “Fine.” He mutters, pocketing the cash.
But before he can leave, you jump up, pushing your cart. “I’m done too. I’ll go with you.”
“But we need to t—“
“No time!” You interrupt Craig, content when Pope slows down enough for you to catch up to him. The taller guy is left behind as the two of you head to the registers. “So…” you clear your throat, unsure of what to say. You know you want to say something. You feel like a lost puppy following along after him. You know you look pathetic, or you at least feel it, yet you can’t let this go.
“What else do six-year-olds like?” He asks.
You’re not sure how to answer. You’re not around kids often. You’re not even sure if you like them, your opinion is yet to be formed. “Barbies?”
His nose scrunches slightly as if the idea of buying a doll pains him. “She’s not white.”
You let out a loud cackle, completely taken aback by his words. “What the fuck are you on about?”
He eyes you as if you're the out-of-pocket one here. “Barbies are notoriously white. Lena isn't white.” He adds.
“Okay, woke king.” You joke. You nod at your cart, “Put the cookies in. I'm taking you to a world of diversity.”
He does as told and puts down the four packets of cookies. The cart is loud as you take him down to the toy aisle. There are far too many as you take him to the dolls specifically, rows upon rows of them, all in different shapes, colors, and sizes. You grab a specific doctor doll with brown skin and hand it over to him.
“Heard Craig say something about Catherine being a ‘crazy Latina’.” You hum. “Pretty good influence to have a Latina doctor as a doll, right? Get Lena to reach for the stars.” You grab another with the same skin tone. “Or she’s an Olympic gold medalist. Is she sporty?”
You're still going through the dolls as he answers, “Don't know.” You glance at him at the somber tone of his voice. “Catherine doesn't like leaving her alone with me.”
You pause. “Okay… is there a reason for that?”
He scoffs. Offended. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Geez. Chill out. I'm not accusing you of anything. It's just a question.” you defend.
“It sounded accusatory.”
“Or maybe I’m just trying to get to know you.” You huff, irritated by the interaction.
“Well, don’t.”
“Well, I want to.” You argue.
“Why? Because we had sex once?” His words make your blood run cold.
The easy smile is easily replaced with a sneer. You’re hurt. You don’t have a right to be hurt, or that’s what you’re telling yourself. You don’t know him. You met him once, and you were paid to have sex with him that same day. And you feel foolish for thinking it could be otherwise. “Right. Bye. Have fun with the kid that’ll never be yours.” You don’t even bother taking the cart, grabbing your bag, and walking away from him. Limping away, actually, and it only makes you feel more pathetic.
—
Work is still the same when you show up two weeks later—the same desperate men, the same skimpy outfits, and the same annoying boss.
“I know, Gero—” but he keeps interrupting you, still going on his spiel about treating his patrons with respect. “Gero, stop. C’mon, let me talk!” But he won’t stop.
“You have enraptured one of my customers!” His Russian accent is thick, and he is always trying to use words that he has no inkling of what they mean.
“I’ve done what?”
“A customer is mad at you!” He snarls. “Old man comes here and asks of you day to day!”
You huff, shaking your head at the man. “Old man? Gero, you’re not making any sense!”
“He old! He mad! He looks like—“ and he tries to mock what you assume is how the old and angry man looks. But he looks constipated. “He angry!”
“I didn’t anger anyone! Gero, stop overreacting!”
“You are fired!”
You roll your eyes, finishing up your lipstick when you turn back to the mirror. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, fat man.”
“You fired!” You get up from your chair, ignoring him as he walks after you. Your ankle is feeling much better after the two-week break, so you’re no longer serving but back on the stage. And today is the most embarrassing day of all. You and the girls here begged and begged him not to do this. He didn’t listen, and now you’re all dressed up. It’s costume night. There are white mouse ears on your head, a white two-piece that leaves very little to the imagination, and giant white pumps. Definitely the worst you’ve ever worn. “Are you listen to me?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” You huff as you leave the employees’ section and enter the main venue. Before going on stage, you have to walk around and speak to the men, find one to fixate on and get them to toss all their savings your way. It’s just the way the club runs.
Suddenly, his big and sweaty hand is stopping you in your step. “Angry man.” He nods to the entrance of the club.
Your eyebrows are furrowed in both confusion and annoyance as he pushes you behind him as if we were to protect you from said angry man. “Gero, your hands are so fucking swe—“ you freeze at the sight of Pope with his hands in his pocket and searching the club. “That’s the angry man?”
Geronimo nods, “yes, I tell you! You do not listen to me, stupid girl!”
You pull your arm from Geronimo’s, eyes on Pope still. You can’t tear your eyes from him. Even in his stiff button-up and jeans that are too tight, he looks good, too damn good. “It’s fine. He’s not angry. He just looks like he is. I’ll talk to him. Make sure you don’t have any angry customers.”
You don’t get to hear what it is that Geronimo says because you’re walking away from him and towards Pope. You’re a few feet away from him when his eyes finally find you. And you see the amusement flashing in him as he eyes your clothing. “Shut up.” You huff, crossing your arms. “Why have you been asking for me?”
But he doesn’t answer, “what the fuck are you wearing?”
You hope your glare is lethal as you direct it to him, “I’m a mouse.”
“I can see that.” He snorts an awkward laugh. “Why?”
You motion to the room, where all your coworkers are dressed in different costumes. Slutty versions, of course. “It’s costume night.”
“And you decided on a mouse.”
“Was gonna be a button because I’m cute as a button but I couldn’t find a costume. Cute as a mouse is just as g— no, what are you doing here?”
His lips pursed, hands still in his front pockets. “I’m here so you can apologize to me.”
Your scoff is loud and completely bewildered, a few eyes flickering to you both. “Excuse me? I have nothing to apologize for, you short excuse of a man.”
He laughs, loud, shoulders shaking. “Short? That’s the best you can come up with?” But he doesn’t hear your rebuttal. “You have rooms here, right?”
You scoff, “they’re booked up.”
And just your luck, Geronimo is walking over to the two of you. It’s clear he’s the boss, with the hideous suit he’s wearing paired with the most obnoxious gold jewelry. “How much is a room?”
Geronimo glances at you, sees your stiff stance and you’re not sure if he’s trying to make more money or he’s genuinely worried for you but he speaks, “a grand an hour.” You almost hum in content at the high price. Usually, a room is a few hundred for the night, and the renter must include a tip to the girls. Never a grand.
He’s handing a card over to Geronimo. And the older and fat man betrays your trust as he mutters, “room five. Is all yours, lovely couple.”
You’re sitting stiff at the edge of the couch in the small room. He’s sitting on the other edge, watching you. But you’re not looking in his direction. You can’t. Not when you can see the hard-on at the crotch of his jeans. It’s been quiet and awkward for the past ten minutes, neither of you saying a single word.
Your foot is impatiently bouncing and before you know it, he’s scooting up to you, placing his hand on your knee. “Relax.”
You pull away from him with humph, “no. You relax.” You hiss back like a petulant child.
“I am relaxed.” He hums for a moment. “I spoke to my brother.”
A glance at him and quickly away because you’ll give in if you keep your eyes on him. “I don’t care.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs. “I told him about you. And how I can’t get you out of my head.” And now, your head is spinning. But you still refuse to speak or look at him. “He said it’s because you were my first after three years. That I was too pent up.”
You can’t say anything. You can’t look at him.
So he keeps going, “I tried. With another woman. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t. You were all I was thinking about.”
You scoff, his words infuriating you. You don’t think it’s romantic. You can’t even believe he’s telling you he’s been with another woman in just those two weeks. “You were thinking about me pretending to be Catherine, so, really, you were thinking about Catherine.”
His hand shakily takes a hold of your chin. “Yeah… maybe. I asked her to roleplay too. It wasn’t the same.” And this makes you pause. Really, really pause.
He does only want you so you can keep pretending to be Catherine, the woman he truly wants and loves. Not because it’s you. Not because you’ve made him laugh, not because you’ve listened to him, not because it was his first time in a long while, and not because you helped him. None of that matters to him.
“So… you want me to keep pretending to be Catherine and have sex with you?” You ask shakily as his lips ghost yours.
He nods, nose nudging against yours. “Yes.” His breath is warm as it dances against you. “That’s what I want.”
You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to bash his fucking head in.
You don’t want to let this go. Because for the first time in your long, pathetic, and miserable goddamn life, you feel something. Even if it’s fleeting. Even if it’s only in your head, it’s yours.
You press your lips to his, letting his hand run into your head of hair. After a moment, you pull from him and nod. “Okay...”
You get used to living in sadness. After years of torment and abuse, it’s hard not to live in it. You want self-respect. You want to look at yourself in the mirror and decide that today is the day you finally respect yourself.
But it’s hard when you’re letting Pope moan Catherine in your ear as he fucks you in the rented room.
the 3 rules of enjoying Any fandom are 1. follow everyone who you find funny 2. block everyone who you find annoying 3. when you like someone's art tell them
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him a week again after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better than you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he'd loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
