callsign-cacti

Shawn Hatosy and Supriya Ganesh could ruin me 22

[callsign-cacti]

Masterlist

*Indicates 18+

Top Gun Maverick

Jake "Hangman" Seresin

You’ve Been Mean, Ignoring Her Like That!*

(im)Patiently Waiting*

Bob Floyd

(im)Patiently Waiting*

Javy "Coyote Machado

You’ve Been Mean, Ignoring Her Like That!*

Everybody Wants Some!

(Walt Finnegan)

What’s the Consensus*

Okay, Its Bed Time

Bet On It: Part One, Part Two

Outer Range

Rhett Abbott

Someone to Love Me: Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Drabbles

Wildflowers

[oxalaia-quilombensis]

pushing the limits

idk where this came from or what happened here but uh enjoy a 3k world "drabble" that got way more nasty than I expected

this was inspired by this ask and god I love you so much @quandoquires. in my head im calling this mad scientist!jack lol.

I don't usually put warnings on these shorter works but since this is basically a fic and I think this one probably deserves a few, here you go: dubcon (they're in an established relationship but there is no explicit consent for sex or really anything he does), vaginal fisting, major overstimulation, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, oral f!receiving, sex toys, references to tying reader up

18+

Jack Abbot was dangerously curious.

He was a very smart man. Obviously. He was smart enough to get through med school at John Hopkin’s (top of his class, mind you) and to secure himself a job as an attending at the best trauma center in Pennsylvania. Smart enough to survive war.

He was also an inquisitive man. He liked to learn, he liked to study, and nothing was worse to him than not getting an answer. His name was on more research papers than he could count on both hands, and most of those were from back when he was just a student. 

But the things he did to you would never end up in a research paper or in some article in a medical journal. Jack was sure if you’d let him, he could find some institution willing to publish his findings. Although, the only willing party would probably be PornHub or a similar site.

Established medical journals would likely not be all that interested in his experiments on the limits of female pleasure. Not to mention, his sample size was way too small to provide him with any valuable empirical data when it came to the rest of the population. 

But Jack wasn’t interested in the rest of the population. He only wanted to study you. And boy did he.

He didn’t always plan out his experiments. Sometimes, he saw an opportunity and he took it.

Like the time he finally got you to try yoga with him. 

He’d been content so far to let you sit on the couch and ogle him as he made his way through his routine. He always asked before he began if you wanted to join and you always said no, settling in on the same spot on the couch, coffee mug in hand, entirely focused on his form bathed in late afternoon sunlight shining through the massive windows. It wasn’t exactly relaxing for him, but he thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of your eyes raking over his naked body as he stretched and loosened his muscles before a long shift. 

And every time he’d get halfway through his routine and say “you should join me.” And every time you would say “I am very happy to sit here and watch.” It became a routine of its own the two of you would engage in every day. 

Except today, a day you both have off, he’s got you naked in your shared living room. When he’d asked you to join, you’d surprisingly said yes.

“Some of the nurses were talking about how yoga helps them focus before a shift,” you’d shrugged when Jack had raised an eyebrow, almost taken aback that you’d actually said yes when he’d extended the invitation. “I figured I’d give it a try and let you show me how to do it.”

You’d protested a bit when he’d insisted you get naked, too, but you’d complied.

“It’s more relaxing this way,” he’d said, his voice slipping into the deep, rasping register you regularly told him was downright slutty. “Let the sun warm your skin. Sink into the feeling.”

So you’d acquiesced, allowing him to guide you into pose after pose. You’d considered yourself a rather fit person, being familiar with other types of exercise and the nonstop rush of the ED, but you were sweating and trembling slightly after an hour of Jack manipulating you into positions your muscles were painfully unfamiliar with.

“One more, baby,” Jack was back behind you, his large hands settling on your waist. You let him bend you over, guiding you into downward dog.

Jack had been shamelessly half hard the entire time. How could he not be when he had you naked and sweating and oh so pliant beneath his hands? He’d been careful to keep from letting you feel his cock too much, though. There was no way he was going to squander the opportunity to bend and move you around to his heart's content. Not to mention, he truly did want you to start doing yoga with him. It would probably do you good before a shift.

But there was no shift today and Jack had you bent over before him, palms on the floor, ass in the air, and your legs straight and pressed together. He let his eyes rake over you, focusing in on the gleam of wetness coating your folds. He had a clear, uninterrupted view of the most intimate parts of you and it was getting to him. Very quickly, his cock had filled out, tip pressing against his lower stomach as he stared. He wondered just how long he could make you hold this pose.

“Jack,” you called out. He could see you adjusting the position of your feet slightly, fighting against the fatigue he knew you were feeling.

“Keep your back straight.”

Instead of doing the logical thing and walking around to your side, Jack instead stepped so he was almost straddling your legs. Your tensed thighs were between his and his hips and erection made contact with your ass when he lent over you slightly to place his palm squarely on your back.

“Hold it,” he felt a bit evil as he ground against you, feeling the slick that was seeping out of you coat the underside of his shaft.

“Jack, what-”

“Shh,” he kept one hand on your back as the other grasped his length, guiding it to where you were already dripping. He pushed in slowly until his hips hit your ass. “I want you to hold that position until I’m done, ok?”

Other times, Jack approached his experiments with a rough outline. He didn’t have every detail planned out, but he had an idea of what he wanted to test.

Like when he’d overheard you and your friend in the living room while he had banished himself to the bedroom so you could have some girl time. He hadn’t intentionally meant to eavesdrop, he’d only been planning to come grab some water from the kitchen, but he couldn’t help himself.

“-like all of? Seriously?” 

“All of it. All five fingers.”

Jack couldn’t see you or your friend from where he stood hidden by the hallway. What he could hear was how shocked and appalled you sounded.

“There’s no way that felt good,” your voice was followed by the clink of your wine glass against the wood of the coffee table.

“Oh it definitely did,” your friend was laughing. 

“I cannot believe you let your boyfriend stick his entire hand in your pussy.”

Oh. 

Jack was getting an idea. He wondered how you’d take it if he did that. How well you’d stretch around him, how you’d sound when he pushed you farther than ever before. Maybe you’d whine and cry and beg for mercy. He wondered how it would feel when you came around his hand.

So Jack put together a loose plan, and he put it into action one night a week or so later after he’d already made you cum on his tongue and two of his fingers.

Your head was thrown back against the pillows, chest rising and falling rapidly as you came down from your orgasm. Jack still had his fingers buried in you, but his mouth had moved, pressing lazy kisses to the soft skin on the inside of your thigh. You didn’t push him away, though, allowing his still fingers to stay put, so he took that as his green light.

Carefully, he withdrew, only to add a third finger as he pushed back in. You whimpered, eyes still closed and head still resting on the pillows, but your hips jerked towards him. That spurred him on further.

He kept his movements slow, knowing he’d really need to work you up to it. With his tongue moving back to draw barely there circles around your clit, he began to spread his fingers wide within you. They alternated stretching against your walls and brushing over your g-spot with every thrust.

“Jack, fuck!” You were writhing against the sheets again, hips bucking into him, one hand tangled in his curls.

“Just a little more, baby,” Jack barely lifted his mouth from you to mutter the words. Before you could question him, his lips sealed over your clit, sucking and using his tongue to stroke it while his fingers pulled out, only to slide right back in, his pinkie joining them.

You were breathing hard now, still not clued in to his objective and too lost in the pleasure to notice exactly why you felt so full.

Jack was in awe. He didn’t dare take his mouth off you, wanting to make sure you were still feeling good while he stretched you, but his cock was throbbing at the thought of seeing just how well you took him. And you really were doing so good. Your walls parted for him like you were born to take all of him and you were dripping down his wrist. Jack really needed to invest in some waterproof sheets.

He took a little more time with four fingers than with three. The stretch of his thumb and his knuckles would be the biggest thing you’d taken by far and he wanted it to be painfree.

But he couldn’t let you cum until his whole hand was in you. If he let you cum now, the overstimulation might make it too painful. You’d also probably realize exactly what he was doing and he really wanted to see you take it all before your rational brain caught up to the horny part.

When all four fingers met no resistance and you were clenching around them and begging him for something he couldn’t make out through your babbling, he decided now was the time. He kept his movements slow and gentle, cooing and shushing you when you cried as he pulled out. The tips of fingers, literally dripping with you, came together and then they were pushing in.

You parted for him so beautifully. He wished he could watch, but his tongue had doubled down, curling around your clit mercilessly. His fingers met no resistance until the knuckle of his thumb.

“Jack?” Your voice was breathy, gasping for air. “What are you- ohhh!”

Your voice broke as he applied more pressure, pushing until your entrance gave into him and his hand slid in up to his wrist. The very tips of his fingers brushed against your cervix while his knuckles, by virtue of not having anywhere else to go, pressed into your g-spot hard.

The orgasm he’d been holding you back from exploded, and Jack watched with hungry eyes as your entire body convulsed. Your eyes rolled back, your mouth dropped open, and tears fell from your eyes. And he held you there, right at the peak of it. His tongue didn’t slow and he rocked his hand back and forth, stroking every inch of you.

To make it even better, Jack was rewarded for his efforts by you squirting. The fluid exploded out of you, soaking the bottom of his face and his forearm. His own eyes rolled back and his hips ground against the bed as he tasted you. The rhythmic clenching of your walls around his hand had him longing for that same feeling around his cock.

Finally, when you were sobbing and boneless, Jack relented. His head lifted away and slowly and tenderly, he pulled out. With wide eyes, he watched as you clenched around nothing once his hand was free. The sight of your stretched out little hole was almost enough for him to come in his pants. He wanted desperately to fuck you, but he wasn’t even. That was probably too much for your poor little fucked out body. So he settled for jerking himself off until the streams of his release were painting your folds white and dripping down to join the mess you’d made of the sheets already.

He was still kneeling between your legs, softly petting your inner thighs as he finally told you what he’d done and why. Your jaw had dropped and you’d called him insane, but he could see how your eyes focused on his hands, how you swallowed hard, and shifted against the mattress and he knew he’d have to do this again. Soon. 

When Jack put his mind to it and constructed a concrete plan, he was damn near lethal. He liked a little bit of chaos in his life, but when it came to you, he really preferred everything to go smoothly. And the best way to ensure that was to make sure he had a step by step plan.

And for testing his newest hypothesis, he was well and truly prepared. A towel laying under your bottom half, a few formerly chilled water bottles that had long since warmed up, your favorite vibrator pressed between your legs, a dildo sitting unused on the comforter, and a notebook with four tally marks already written down.

“Jack!” 

You were shaking, your breathing ragged and fast. Jack watched happily as he kept the vibrator pressed to your clit, not giving you any reprieve. 

See, Jack was all too aware that one of his biggest shortcomings as a man was his refractory period. And at his age, it was even worse. But he was also very aware of the fact that women, especially you, his younger, hotter girlfriend, didn’t have the same issue. You could come back to back, the only thing stopping you was the increase in sensitivity and declining willpower to keep chasing that high.

But he was more than happy to keep pushing you. In fact, he was thrilled to do it. He’d been planning to push your limits since the first time he’d made you cum twice in one night, and so he’d planned. Jack waited until your busy schedules had kept the two of you from having sex for almost a week, wanting you ready and aching for it. It had given him time to plan, to think of everything he’d need and to contemplate his guess as to how many times he could make you cum.

He settled on ten. That seemed reasonable enough. You’d always been particularly receptive to him and exponentially sensitive after each orgasm. He had no doubt that you could do it.

“C’mon, sweetheart," he cooed while he leaned a little farther over you, keeping the vibrator in place even as your hand grabbed his wrist. A few tears were already leaking down your face as your body twitched and shook. God, he wanted to lick them up. “You can do it. Let go.”

“Jack, no I - I can’t-” you cut yourself off with a loud moan, arching up when his mouth met your breast. His teeth scraped over your nipple. “Too - too much!”

“‘S not too much,” Jack moved to your other breast, trying desperately to ignore his rock hard length straining against his boxers. It took everything in him to not grind against your thigh. “You can cum for me again.”

“No, no-”

It snuck up on you. Jack abandoned your breasts in favor of sitting back up to watch how your body locked up, all of your muscles tensing for one beautiful moment before it truly crashed over you. Your legs shook, your grip on his wrist tightened almost painfully, and your entire body was wracked with spasms. The best part was the noises you made. They were desperate high pitched whines and moans, your voice cracking and breaking over a shout of his name.

Jack couldn’t get enough. He loved to watch you cum. The sight of you falling to pieces at his hands was a better high than any drug could give him.

When your tears started falling more consistently and your body was still aside from the occasional twitch of an aftershock, Jack finally removed the vibrator. You were twitching, eyes barely open.

While he gave you a brief break, Jack leaned over to grab the pen on the nightstand. Carefully, he crossed through the four lines he’d spent the last hour crafting.

“Halfway there, baby,” his next step was to crack open one of the water bottles, bringing it to your lips to give you a sip.

“I can’t, Jack,” you were trying to squirm away as he put the lid back on the bottle, but he couldn’t have that. His hands grabbed your thighs and he yanked you back down the bed.

“Yes you can,” he picked up the dildo, tilting and examining it, relishing in the warring look on your face. He could see your fear, dampened heavily by the hunger in your eyes and the way your teeth dug into your bottom lip.

“It’s too much!” 

You were trying to twist away from him again, but he couldn’t have that. Using his body weight to hold you down, he thrust the dildo inside of you, setting a ruthless pace.

He really should have tied you up. But oh well. Like any scientifically sound experiment, this one would have to be repeated. And he would be a very bad scientist if he did not make improvements as he went.

[whatif-ialreadydid]

soft and slow and new - t.s

pairing: trinity santos x fem!waitress!reader

wc: 4k

summary: a pretty girl at your restaurant gets very obviously stood up by her date

contains: probably medical inaccuracies, trin's surprised by anybody wanting her, MDNI, spicy but not smutty, surprise! at the end

a/n: rly loving being gay and messy for trinity santos rn, ily all! lmk if you like this particular pairing (iykyk) | beautiful divider from @strangergraphics

"Anyway, I can't make it tonight. Thought I'd call so you wouldn't be stuck waiting around. How often do you get the chance to scrub in on a whipple procedure?" 

"Yeah," Trinity says curtly into her phone, her jaw tightening. Her fingers curl around the bottom hem of her blouse until her knuckles turn white. 

A whipple isn't even an emergency surgery, she thinks, grinding her teeth. 

"Besides, we're just casual, right, Santos?" Garcia says on the other end of the line, her nonchalance stabbing into Trinity's already-punctured stomach. 

"Totally," Trinity bites down on her tongue, the physical pain embracing her like an old friend. She rattles off a half-assed goodbye, then slams her phone down onto the oak picnic table. 

The patio of Shirley's Temple Bar & Grill is cast in a warm, twinkly glow from the jar lights dangling from the pergola. The transition from summer to autumn comes later and later every year, so rather than ending up too warm in a pumpkin-spiced-sweater, Trinity's arms are exposed by her red, flowy halter top. 

She scoffs to herself, sucking in a sharp breath. She'd picked this top because she thought Yolanda —Garcia— might like it. Thought it might garner a lingering look or even the illusive compliment from her… 

Nothing. Garcia isn't anything to Trinity, as she's made abundantly clear. She didn't even apologize for flaking out. 

Trinity slides her hands down the ruched fabric of her pants, giving herself no quarter for being such a fucking idiot. 

"Excuse me?" 

Trinity's eyes snap up to the waitress, who hovers over the edge of the table, carrying an offended expression and a gin and tonic. 

"What?" Trinity asks, furrowing her brows. 

You set her drink on the table, then cross your arms over your chest. "Did you just call me a fucking idiot?" 

The color drains from your customer's face. "Oh, my god, no, I'm so sorry," she waves her hands up effusively. "I was calling myself one, I-I didn't realize I said that out loud." 

Now it's your turn to feel bad. "I know," you whisper, eyes shifting conspiratorially as you lean down, just an inch closer. "I was just fucking with you." 

The silence between the two of you is deafening, you hunched over her table, her face looking up at you, void of all expression. Two animatronics, broken down mid-scene. 

In a desperate attempt to reboot the conversation, you force out a laugh. It's something caught between a self-deprecating chortle and a maniacal cackle reserved only for world domination. "That's what I get for pulling pranks on my first day, huh?" 

An unsettled titter stumbles out of the girl's throat. She's about your age. Uniquely pretty, with inky black hair and glassy, cream-colored skin. Tattoos scattered about her arms, and a short, gold chain dangles around her neck. 

She seems stuck in place, too stunned by the blip in the matrix that was this entire interaction. 

You pop your lips together, then gesture fruitlessly to the drink at the edge of the table. "I'll, uh, leave you to your drink. Let me know if you need anything else." 

You shift your weight to turn back inside, with every intention of begging your trainer to switch tables with you. Before you can make a not-so-graceful exit, the woman blurts out, "I was just ditched for the night." 

Halting mid-pivot, you flick your gaze to her phone, still face-down on the table. "I, uh, heard, actually. Your side of the conversation, at least." 

The color returns to her cheeks in a subtly pink flush. 

"So I'll probably just take the check and get out of your hair," her glossy lips flatten into two straight lines. "I'll leave a good tip, I promise. You don't even have to flash me." 

The crack of her smile sends you reeling, teeth baring in a kindred grin.

"Aha!" You point at her in the embodiment of a 'gotcha!' moment. "I knew there was some fire under that pout! Let me guess… an Aries?" 

She shakes her head.

"Scorpio," she admits, pulling the drink towards her. 

"Ah, thus the air of mystery," you waggle your fingers playfully. You extend your hand, and recite your first name. "Though, you could have probably guessed," you add, chin dipping towards your nametag.

It's pinned to your black, long-sleeved t-shirt, your name written in pink and yellow chalk pen. Swooping, girlish letters, which Trinity thinks is meant to match the rubber bands holding together your bubble braids. They curl out the back of your head like devilish horns, which makes a lot of sense. 

You're trouble. She can practically smell it on you. 

She shakes your hand, then follows suit. "Trinity."

"Well, Trinity," you keep your hand clasped to hers a few moments longer than necessary. Trinity notices the flicker in your eyes, finally recognizing it for what it is: flirtation. "I'll be back with your check." 

As you head inside, Trinity takes notice of all the details she missed before, when she was still buzzing on the possibility of Garcia sitting down across from her at any moment. 

You sport brightly colored Brooks, the same shoes she wears at the hospital, and a little black apron tied around your waist.

Your black jeans, seemingly the uniform, judging by the other servers, hug your hips snugly. They outline your frame in a way that makes Trinity purse her lips. 

They —your jeans, not her lips— are decorated with hand-sewn patches of fabric. She counts four, all varying in shapes and patterns, before you disappear behind the glass door. 

Trinity makes note to ask you about them when you return, which is about eight minutes, and half of a gin and tonic, later. 

A red, plastic basket of curly fries materializes onto the table, notably unaccompanied by a check. 

"Oh, I didn't order these," Trinity chirps, already feeling lighter by way of the gin. 

"I know," you mimic her perkier tone, propping a foot up on the end of the bench she's sitting on. "On the house. So's your drink." 

"Your first day and you're already stealing from the kitchen?" Trinity cocks her head to the side, placing a dramatic hand over her chest, clutching invisible pearls.

"I bought them for you," you admit without an ounce of bashfulness. That adorable red flush crawls across Trinity's cheeks.

Her button nose, akin to that of a cartoon woodland creature, twitches happily. "That was nice," she says dumbly. 

"You won't think so when I tell you why," you slide your fingers absentmindedly down one of your bubble braids. When her eyes cut to yours, you smile again. Warm and inviting, with just a hint of delicious mischief. "I'm kinda hoping I can hold you hostage until ten o'clock." 

"Why's that?" 

"Because that's when I get off," your heart flips acrobatically in your chest, but you school your expression into something cool and unaffected —two words you'd absolutely never use to describe yourself. "So if you're still here by then, it'll make it a lot easier for you to ask me out." 

Amusement softens the lines of Trinity's face. "Oh-ho-ho," she chuckles. "I'm gonna ask you out?" 

"It's the least you could do," you push your weight forward on your knee, still propped up on the bench beside her. "After all, I just bought you a drink and a snack. Broke my oath as a waitress to do so."

"An oath, huh?" Something about the word hits her in a way you can't quite translate, her seagreen eyes never leaving yours. 

God, if eye contact with her is this titillating…? 

You don't let yourself go there, instead shooting her a winsome wink before disappearing back inside for another forty minutes. 

After you've clocked out and hung up your apron, you trail back outside to find Trinity now perched against the locked gate separating the patio from the rest of the city. 

You've only shed your apron and replaced it with a denim jacket and a pink cross-body bag, but Trinity looks at you like a whole new person. 

There's something so familiar about you, she thinks maybe she's met you in another life. Warmth radiates off of you like a fireplace, drawing her in from the blizzard she so often locks herself out in.

She can't belive herself —having stayed past a restaurant's closing to wait on some woman she doesn't even know.

Then again, she argues with herself, this whole thing with Garcia is just casual. 

She straightens when you approach. You hold out two styrofoam cups.

"A little water for the road?" You offer, and Trinity accepts with a nod of thanks. 

She's less bubbly now that the alcohol's had a chance to course through her veins, leaving her feeling oddly wistful.

"I meant to ask you about your pants," she says, then gestures to the patchwork over your black jeans. 

You follow her extended finger to the small square of yellow and orange plaid over your left thigh. No busier a pattern than the ditzy blue flowers on your right, or the red stripes over your knee. All bordered in purposefully clunky, bright-colored stitches.

Suppressing the urge to tease her about her interest in your pants, you hum. 

"I like to sew," you say. "They told me black jeans were the uniform, so I thought I'd personalize 'em a little bit. Help me stand out." 

"So it really was your first night?" Trinity asks before taking a sip of her water. Under the streetlamps, now your only source of light since the patio's been closed down, you have the fleeting thought that she looks like a mermaid out of an old storybook. "You seemed so… comfortable there."

"It's not my first service job," you explain with a noncommittal shrug. "Plus, I've been coming here with my family since I was a kid. Shirley's was a Monday Night Football staple growing up." 

Trinity tugs on this new thread of information. "You're from Pittsburgh?" 

"Mmhm," you hum again. The sound buzzes through Trinity's arms, tingling all the way down to her fingertips. "I just moved back a couple weeks ago. From Boston." 

"What was in Boston?" 

Another shrug. "It wasn't Pittsburgh," you give a little laugh, then look around. "You wanna go to Midnight? It's a bar just down the street. Maybe two blocks. You can continue your interrogation there." 

Trinity laughs, then starts in that direction. 

"I'm not interrogating you," she explains as you fall into step together. The warm summer haze has tapered off since Trinity arrived at Shirley's Temple, now more of an autumn crisp. "I'm just trying to get to know you better." 

You notice her shiver when the breeze picks up, gooseflesh bumping along her bare arms. 

"Stop for a sec?" You murmur, and she does as she's told. You hand her your drink, then remove your cross-body and your jacket. 

With your bag secured back to your chest, you hold out your jacket. When Trinity just stares at you blankly, you take back your cup, and replace it immediately with the denim, Indiana-Jones-style

"God, you're really not used to people being nice to you, are you?" you ask, adjusting the long sleeves of your shirt. 

"I can't take your jacket," Trinity holds it out at you with what she assumes is the same expression as that of a dumbfounded basset hound. 

"You didn't answer my question," you challenge, propping your hip out and pursing your lips at her. Trinity wonders fleetingly what flavor lip gloss you're wearing.

A scoff rolls out of her, and she takes the bait, handing you her cup so she can slide your jacket on over her shoulders. It's one size too big, but its warmth immediately satiates her chill. The aroma of jasmine and vanilla isn't a terrible bonus, either. 

"People can be nice to me," she mutters stubbornly, untrapping her hair from the jacket's collar. It falls around her shoulders in quick but silky waves. 

"Yeah, but you're not used to it," you point out with a smirk. 

"Go easy on me, Dr. Phil," Trinity teases before stepping back out on the sidewalk. You follow her lead. A beat passes, then she asks, "So what brings you back to Pittsburgh?"

"Decided to be closer to family," you answer, then take a sip of your water. Over the top of your cup, your eyes meet Trinity's cloyingly. "Helps that the people are more interesting around here, too." 

"What, Steelers fans?" she jokes.

"Pretty girls," you parry, garnering yet another soft, pink blush from her. 

"Are you always such a shameless flirt?" She switches her cup to her other hand. 

"Only when the person I'm flirting with melts into a pretty, flustered mess," you quip, and at the same time, she scoops your hand into hers. 

Your knees wobble beneath you as you continue down the sidewalk, knocked into surprise by the forwardness of the gesture. 

Trinity shoots you a sideways smirk.

"Two can play," she tuts, the human embodiment of the cat that ate the canary. 

You have to look away, shoving down a girlish giggle while you tangle your fingers with hers. 

Midnight, as the name suggests, is a darker bar in terms of lighting. Cool-toned, blue stars project from can lights in the ceiling onto the floor, illuminating your path to the bar itself. 

Trinity reluctantly tears her hand from yours to buy you a drink. 

The clink from your overenthusiastic cheers sends both of you into a fit of laughter. 

Then the smooth, fruity taste of whatever the special of the night is —Berry Into You, an appropriate name, you decide— rolls down your throat. 

Trinity tells you about her roommate, some guy she works with that she took pity on when she found out he didn't have a place to live, and traces her fingers up under your sleeve, pressing soft, tingly touches along your forearm while you pretend to listen. 

"You wanna dance?" You ask once your glasses are both empty, nodding to the small crowd in the corner. Someone's hooked up a laptop to a speaker, a cheap spotlight ensconcing the area in a turquoise sun. 

There's probably ten or twelve other people on the dance floor, but you can't say you looked at any one of them once Trinity's hands found your hips. The songs alternate between soulful bedroom pop and more upbeat, mainstream numbers.

You don't think you could name any of the songs if you tried. 

Your stomach churns under your ribs. You rub your hands along Trinity's arms, which you can barely feel beneath the bulk of your jacket. 

She plays with you, spinning you around like a top until you're giggling, grabbing your hands and stretching them out with hers. The music lifts her spirits in a bubble, floating incandescently all the way up to the ceiling. 

It feels so freeing after all the goddamn mind games with Garcia, Trinity thinks. Looking at you and seeing her own want reflecting in your eyes equates to inhaling a breath of fresh, clean air. 

Time slows down for a while, your forearms eventually settling in the crooks on either side of her neck. Trinity teases the bottom hem of your shirt, just barely riding it up but oh-so-scintillatingly. 

Her silky hair tickles your cheek as she whispers in your ear, sweet, meaningless words that poke that kindling in the pit of your tummy, stoking the fire in a steady, thrumming heat. 

Trinity didn't think it was supposed to be this easy. Warmth from your jacket, from the cocktail, from the dance floor, from your smile. It seeps through her and unlocks all the chains she's had wrapped around herself, at least temporarily. 

When you invite her back to your place, her answer is an unequivocally eager yes. 

Your apartment is teeny-tiny, tucked in the corner of your floor. A sad excuse for a kitchen looms to the right of the door, then a bedroom and a bathroom to the other side. 

You've made strategic use of each inch of space, Trinity notes, from the floating shelves to the sliding totes under the loveseat in the corner. A few pictures and books are dotted around the space, but she doesn't pay too much attention to any of them. Surrounding details don't feel very important right now. 

"Can I get you anything?" You offer, hanging your bag on the hook on the back of the door, then latching the deadbolt. 

"I'm okay," Trinity hums, the energy between you buzzing but not quite as intense as it was back at Midnight. 

It feels like the moment right before you go down a waterslide, Trinity thinks. The anticipation, the rushing water, not knowing exactly the right moment to let go. 

You gnaw on your lip, approaching slowly to where she's perched against the wall. You're both glistening in a thin sheen of sweat from all the dancing, but somehow it makes her look even more beautiful. Stripped back and unfiltered. 

"You're so pretty, Trin," you murmur, sliding two sets of fingers down the lapel of your jean jacket loosely drooping over her shoulders. 

The gloss of your lips has since faded since leaving Shirley's, but Trinity's still curious. 

"Can I kiss you?" she asks in a whisper, fingers splaying over your hips.

She's not a doctor right now. Not needed in fifteen different places at once, not triggered constantly by reminders of her own hurt, not clamoring to prove her worth at the detriment of others. 

She's just Trinity. 

Trin, like you called her.

She hasn't been called that since she was a little girl.

"Please do," you nod, using your hold on the jacket to tug her ever closer. 

Trinity's hands slide around to the small of your back, her head angling to the side.

Your first kiss with Trinity is strawberry-vodka-flavored, slow and chirring. She snakes her hands around you, lips slotting over yours. 

Trinity's stomach flutters as she deepens the kiss, coaxing out of you the most tender little purr. Her tongue exploratorily requests access into your mouth. 

It's all softness and femininity until you pull away because —annoyingly— oxygen is imperative for survival. A string of spit bridges your lips to Trinity's, until she chases after your lips for one last, slow kiss. 

Helicopter blades chopper through your insides as you tug your denim jacket off of Trinity's shoulders. The shiny skin of her clavicle catches against the warm glow of the lamp in the corner, her hair spilling over it the same time the jacket hits the floor. 

You trace your two fingers under her angular jaw, tilting your head to the side to trail along with your lips. 

Trinity's back pancakes against the wall, tipping her own head to the opposite side to grant you better access. Sounds of your lips puckering over her skin fill the shoebox apartment, crowding the walls. 

"I didn't think this would…" Trinity speaks in exhales as you ministrate over the column of her throat. "I just thought you were being nice because I got stood up." 

You hum indignantly, peeling your lips away to run the tip of your nose under her ear. "I'm berry into you, Trinity," you joke, referencing the drink at the bar and earning a breathy laugh. 

"Mmkay, good," Trinity's hands cap your shoulders, squaring your face in front of hers. "Me too." 

She backs you into the loveseat propped up on the other wall, cramming her knees into the claustrophobic slots on either side of you once your ass hits the cushion. Straddling you, her hands skate under the fabric of your shirt and across your tummy. 

You exchange moans and saliva and these perfect, fleeting little smiles, like you're trying to soak up as much of her as you can before your carriage turns back into a pumpkin. 

"Fuck, Trin," you whisper, dazed from a lingering buzz that's only further agonized by her touch. 

Her dark hair falls over both of you in a short curtain, her back arched in a feline manner.

"I don't think we should…" she murmurs between kisses before finally withdrawing long enough to look you in the eye. Her thumbs swipe over the apples of her cheeks. "I don't think we should have sex tonight." 

The words deflate you, stilling your touch at her hips. Your bottom lip flips out. "You don't want to have sex with me?" 

Your disappointment shoots rockets through to Trinity's core. Fuck, your pouting is maybe even more arousing than your advances. "Shit," she whispers, shaking her head. "That's not what I meant. I mean, I don't think we should have sex tonight." 

The emphasized tonight tingles at the base of your spine. "I just mean, we've both had alcohol tonight," she explains, trailing her fingers down your bubble braids, pinching the ends affectionately. "And I was… well, you know. I was going to meet somebody else at Shirley's tonight." 

"Before they stood you up," you point out, and though it lacks any real bite, the reminder still smarts a little. 

"Before they stood me up," Trinity shifts up on her haunches, still effectively pinning you to the loveseat. But now her seafoam eyes are more parallel to yours. "I just… I want us both to be in our right heads," she explains. "I think it'll be really special with you, and I don't want something stupid like a hangover to ruin the memory of it." 

Her explanation untangles the tangled telephone cord wrapped around your heart. "Okay," you whisper, rubbing her hips in agreement. 

"Okay," Trinity, presses forward, and kisses you again. More tenderly this time, humming softly into your mouth. "Do you want me to go?" 

You shake your head. "You could sleep here tonight," you offer, breaking one hand from her hip to thumb along the front drape of her hair. "If you wanted to."

"Do you want me to?" she anchors her forehead against yours. Under the red halter she picked out for someone else, her heart is glowing. 

You close your eyes briefly. "Yes, I do." 

Trinity borrows a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. She showers, quickly, unable to comprehend that you didn't even exist on her radar until four hours ago. She brushes her teeth with her finger. 

You shower after her, then settle into the bed beside her. 

It's all very new and exhilarating, but safe and soft and disarming all the same. 

You stay up another hour, nose-to-nose, just talking. She tells you about the music she grew up listening to. You rattle off cozy anecdotes about your niece and nephew. Her hand slides up and down your arm, while your thumb draws circle into her hipbone. 

It feels like kindergarten, holding out little pieces of yourself without fear that they might be rejected. 

When you drift off, tucked into her chest, with her chin in your hair, you don't think this apartment has ever felt so much like home. 

Morning ekes in slowly, accompanied with more adoring, swollen kisses, and discovering new, ticklish spots of each other. Then when Trinity finally peels away, you follow her out of the bedroom. 

"I'll call you, after work, okay?" She promises, cradling your jaw and kissing you again. She's still in the same bubble she was in last night, drifting alongside you.

It's then that you realize you've never exchanged numbers, so you swap phones to do so.

You tilt Trinity's phone back to her, the contacts app still open. 

"What'd you say you did for work?" You ask casually, stretching your arms over your head. A laugh flutters out of you. "Can't even remember if you told me or not." 

"I'm a doctor," Trinity explains. "At the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center." 

"No kidding!" You exclaim, the surprise in your voice setting off Trinity's spidey sense. "My older brother works there! Or, well, he's kind of… on leave, for now, I guess. What department are you in? Maybe you know him!" 

She glances down at her phone, spies your first name, then your last name. Her stomach drops hard and fast.

"Who's your brother," she asks flatly, watching with a festering nausea as you cross the crowded, suddenly too-small, airless room. 

You pluck a picture frame from one of the shelves, then present it to her.

Trinity's fingers curls around the picture frame. It's you, a little younger than you are now, locked in an embrace with an imposingly tall, brown-haired man with a friendship bracelet around his wrist and strikingly blue eyes.

"Dr. Frank Langdon," you chirp, tapping your brother's face over the glass of the frame. "Do you know him?" 

Just like that, the bubble pops.

Edit: read part 2!

[fangirl-dot-com]

When did you get hot?

tags: sammy bryant x detective fem!reader, non-linear southland seasons, timeline skip, cannon men objectifying women, men in general, tammi is also a warning, 18+ MDNI

notes: so, I started southland and needed to get this out there! so if this flops, I lowkey don't care cause this was for me, "when did you get hot" by sabrina carpenter is 100% sammy bryant coded, if you'd like to join my permanent tag list, please comment here, enjoy!

word count: 3.9k

The bullpen was unusually quiet for a Wednesday afternoon, the kind of lull that settled over the station when everyone was either out chasing leads or buried beneath enough paperwork to make conversation feel like extra work. The overhead lights filled empty spaces while phone calls and distant voices drifting in from another room. You sat at your desk with a half-finished report open and front of you, through your attention had long since wandered elsewhere. 

Namely, to Sammy Bryant. 

He, like your other fellow detectives, sat across the room hunched forward as he stared at a case file. His tie had been loosened hour ago, sleeves rolled up his thick arms, and there was a deep crease between his brows that hadn’t left all day. You weren’t even sure he’d touched the lunch he’d brought that morning. 

It wasn’t necessarily unusual for him to be this way. Lately, nothing about Sammy looked easy, especially when his phone rang and rang and rang and rang and—

The flip phone next to him started buzzing loudly on his desk, and you watched the change happen before he ever reached for it. 

A minute earlier, he’d been laser focused on the report in front of him, distracted enough that he’d nearly missed the call altogether. Then his eyes narrowed, almost like he knew exactly who was calling—he did—and whatever small amount of peace he’d managed to find over the course of his afternoon disappeared completely. Tension returned to his shoulders so quickly you almost winced as it settled like a familiar weight. You noticed that he didn’t look annoyed, because you of all people had seen Sammy annoyed way too many times. An annoyed Sammy usually came with a sarcastic comment, a muttered complaint, and a dramatic roll of his eyes that had always been capable of drawing a laugh from your chest. 

Annoyed Sammy never looked as exhausted as the one across from you did as he answered the phone. He had the kind of expression people wore when they already knew how a conversation was going to end before it had even begun. 

You lowered your gaze back down toward your report, not wanting him to catch you watching, though your ears remained turned toward the other side of the room. Eavesdropping was never intentional; at least that was what you told yourself. 

But you were a detective. 

Being nosey was part of the job description even if it wasn’t explicitly written in the fine print of your contract. It was simply difficult not to pay attention when Sammy spent so much of his day carrying the weight of everyone around him and so little time allowing anyone to carry any of his. 

“Hey, Tammi,” he said after opening his phone, voice gentle like it always was. 

You never understood how he managed to do it. 

The response that crackled through the speaker wasn’t loud enough for you to make out every word, but it was loud enough that you caught the tone: sharp, frustrated, and accusatory. Whatever was going on, it clearly wasn’t any good. 

Sammy listened for nearly thirty seconds before speaking again. “No, I know.” He paused, sighing quietly away from the speaker. “I know.” His eyes squeezed shut tightly, and the fingers of his free hand drummed once against the desk before curling into a fist. “No, that’s not what I said.” 

Around him, the station continued moving as if nothing was happening, as if Sammy arguing with Tammi was a normal part of the schedule (which, in a way, it was). Nate looked unphased as he flipped another page of whatever he was looking through. Behind you, the printer whirred to life and spat out a few pages. The normal rhythm of the day continued uninterrupted while Sammy sat perfectly at his desk, absorbing every word coming through that receiver like a man standing in the rain with no intention of finding shelter. 

You hated that. 

People got upset; Tammi got upset. Relationships, romantic or not, were always known to at least have a few complications down the line. 

What you hated was that their conversations never sounded like two people solving a problem together and always sounding like one person apologize for existing. 

Sammy huffed. “Tammi, I was working a homicide. I let you know that I’d be late hours earlier to make sure that you were aware.” A pause. “No, I can’t just up and leave in the middle of a case just because you made dinner for once! Why would you even make that when you knew—” 

His voice remained calm even if there was a detection of strain beneath it. He had the careful balancing act of a man choosing every word with surgical precision because one wrong phrase would turn an argument into a war. For the next several moments, he didn’t speak at all, simply listening to her go on and on while his expression grew tighter and tighter. When he finally leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand across his face, you found yourself wondering when the last time had been that you’d seen him look genuinely happy. 

The answer disturbed you because you couldn’t remember, and it made things worse when you were sure Sammy probably didn’t remember either. 

His gaze drifted briefly across the room, hazel eyes landing on nothing in particular, and for just a second, you caught a glimpse that washed over into defeat. It made your heart hurt. 

Sammy Bryant was one of the better guys you knew. He was polite, never throwing around crude remarks about women like the rest of the men of the LAPD seemed to do. He was loyal to a wife that seemed to loathe his existence while your boss was running around with another woman behind his wife that actually loved him. And while he might not have been the dictionary definition of hot with his stomach pudge that spilled over his belt and puffy cheeks that grew when he ate, you found him endearingly handsome, someone you wouldn’t mind taking to meet your parents. 

Your lips tugged into a frown at the thought. 

He remained frozen in place; eyes fixated on some invisible point on his desk. Slowly, he exhaled through his nose and rolled his chair backwards, hand now rubbing the back of his neck in smooth motions, his skin bunching under his thick fingers. A beat later, he pushed himself to his feet and disappeared toward the break room. 

“I don’t know how he deals with her,” Nate muttered after briefly glancing up at you. 

Your pen caught between your teeth. “He loves her.” 

He snorted in response. “I think love flew out the window a long time ago. He deals with her cause she’s familiar. He needs to go find someone for a night.” 

Your eyes rolled far into your head. “Sammy’s not that kind of guy, Nate. He’s loyal unlike the rest of you pigs.” 

Across from you, Russell coughed your name loudly. “Tell us how you really feel.” 

“Oh we’d be here all day if you let me,” you said with a large smirk. 

“Amen, sista,” Lydia called out as she passed. 

Nate finally looked at you for more than a second. “So, you’re saying you’d rather have our Sammy boy here miserable for the rest of his life with that woman?” 

“That’s not what I said,” you shot back, eyes going back down to your report. 

By the time Sammy returned, he was carrying a fresh cup of coffee; you’d lost count if that was his third or fifth. The cup joined his growing collection of bad coping mechanisms as he settled heavily into his chair once more, fingers reaching for a case file despite the fact that he hadn’t even finished the last one. 

“You’re gonna give yourself a stomach ulcer,” you called out, eyes still cast downward.

He blinked up at you. “What?” 

You pointed your pen toward the coffee. “That.” 

“Oh.” A tired laugh bubbled. “Pretty sure I’m already past that point.” 

“How’s the missus?” Nate asked, earning him a glare from you. 

Sammy shrugged indifferently. “Same old, same old. Feels like lately everything I do pisses her off.” He started listing with his fingers. “I’m working too much, but if I’m home, I’m not helping enough.” Another finger. “If I’m helping, I’m doing it wrong.” Another. “If I miss a call because I’m working, it’s because I’m shaking up with woman; or, if I answer the call while I’m working, she gets mad because I should be more focused.” 

You truly wondered if he was going to run out of fingers. 

Nate let out a low whistle. “If you’re shaking up while I’m driving, let me know next time, man.” 

At least his partner was able to paint a small smile on Sammy’s face, his cheeks pushing up to partly hide his eyes. 

“You ever try not trying so hard?” you found yourself asking before you could stop yourself, and even Sammy looked shocked that you had. “Don’t give me that look, Bryant.” 

He shook his head. “I’m not giving you a look.” 

“You’re definitely giving me a look.” You pushed back slightly from your desk. “Look, if trying so hard gets you in trouble, what will not trying look like? Instead of giving your all to a woman who seems to not appreciate it, why not put that energy into yourself?” 

“You always hand out life advice like a shrink, L/n?” Nate asked before you threw him a middle finger. 

Sammy stayed quiet, almost as if were mulling over your advice. He clicked his pen a few times before setting it down. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” he asked, a bit quieter. “What if it all just stays the same.”

You tilted your head. “Then I guess it’s time for a bigger change until something sticks.”

“Did you ever have to change?” 

A loud snort flew from your nose. “How do you think I ended up here in this dump?” 

“Hey!” 

“Shut it, Moretta,” you snapped. “LA is a dump, and you know it.” A sigh pressed from your lungs. “My last job wasn’t doing too much for me, so I tried a bunch of different things until I found something that worked.” 

Sammy looked entirely unimpressed. “Being a homicide detective in Los Angeles was it for you?” 

“It was.” You went back to scribbling something on your report before standing from your chair. You lightly tapped him with the stack of papers as you passed. “You’ll find yours soon enough.” 

You didn’t know, but Sammy’s eyes tracked you until you disappeared around the corner, his chest blooming with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. When he looked over to Nate, the man was already wiggling his eyebrows at him. 

“Think that’s her signal man. She wants youuuuuu,” he teased, eyes alight with humor. 

Sammy scoffed. “She does not. Knock it off.” 

Nate held up his hands in surrender. “Whatever floats your boat. Just saying she won’t be available for much longer. Not when she looks like that.” 

Before Sammy could really think about it, Nate’s phone buzzed. His partner jumped to his feet and nodded his head toward the door. Sammy scrambled to his feet, hands grabbing at his suit coat on the way out. 

But even as they rushed down the freeway, your words were stuck in his head. 

_______________________

The call was nothing special, and by the time you arrived on scene, patrol had already secured the area, the initial statements had been collected, and all that remained was the tedious process of sorting through details. You knew this was going to be the kind of case that filled far more paperwork that excitement, and as you climbed out of your car into the hot California sun with your badge clipped to your waist and a clipboard tucked under one arm, you found yourself mentally calculating how long it would take before you could reasonably justify grabbing lunch from the Mexican stand on the way back to the precinct. 

Sweat trickled down your back and made your blouse stick slightly to your skin as you approached the cluster of officers gathered near the patrol cars. Most of the officers loitering around were unfamiliar faces since enough transfers and promotions had shuffled people around that it felt like every week brought someone new in during the past several months. You barely glanced at them, wanting nothing more to do than get this case translated into paperwork to do at your desk with decent AC. 

But then, your attention snagged on a familiar laugh, and the sound stopped you before your brain caught up. For a second you simply stood there, gaze searching through the gaggle until your eyes landed on the source once before looking away. 

Every muscle in your body went tense because there was absolutely no way that the man laughing was Sammy Bryant. You took another look, and then another before you finally let your eyes roam over him. 

That was definitely Sammy Bryant, with the same brownish-red hair, the same crooked-toothed smile, the same easy way he carried himself when talking to people. That man was the same man you’d spent years knowing and silently pining after. 

Yet, at the same time, somehow, he wasn’t the same man at all either. 

You stared at him all dressed in his uniform. 

The sight wasn’t that jeering; you knew he’d transferred to patrol almost a year ago. But it was the fact that it fit him differently than his suits ever did. Where his button-up shirts always pushed out across his stomach before disappearing into his pants, the blue fabric ran almost loose and straight down below his utility belt, soft plush around his hips completely gone. His face also looked leaner; jaw more defined every time his neck stretched just slightly. His arms bulged in places that hadn’t before, and instead of fat around his biceps, your eyes traced the distinct muscle lines instead. Even his skin held a darker tint from being outside more, a large comparison to the whiter shade he had while the majority of his time had been spent at a desk. 

In simple terms, he looked absolutely delicious. 

However, that wasn’t what kept your attention. 

Plenty of people lost weight; plenty of people changed how they looked; plenty of people seemed to be happier after a big change. 

The thing that nearly knocked the breath out of you was how happy he looked. 

Long gone was the crease that you used to trace when it showed between his brows. His shoulders weren’t hunched. His smile actually reached his eyes. Even standing under the hotter-than-hell sun in a patrol uniform dealing with a tedious call, he somehow looked mentally lighter than you’d ever seen him, like somebody had finally removed a weight he’d been carrying for years. 

“And then, I told him to drop the gun, and you know what he did? He fell to the ground and then dropped it,” Sammy’s voice boomed through the small group, earning a few chuckles from his fellow officers. 

“Hey, Bryant, you gotta bomb ass snack detective staring at you,” one of them said. “Did you get a girlfriend and forget to tell us?” 

Sammy’s brow pinched in confusion, and his head snapped over in your direction. Unfortunately, you weren’t fast enough to look away in time and continued to stare right at him. For a split second, you wondered if he’d pretend to not notice and go back to joshing with his friend. But then, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. 

He said your name so loudly and genuine that your heart literally fluttered. “Hey!” 

He excused himself from the group without hesitation and started toward you; the officers sent out a few cat calls and jumbled garbage, but Sammy looked like a man on a mission. The closer he got, the more your cheeks flushed under his sunglasses-covered eyes. 

The patrol uniform should not have been doing whatever it was doing. His sleeves were tight around his biceps. His radio rested against his shoulder and wavered with every step. His hand—left hand you noted was missing a silver band—reached up and tugged the sunglasses off his face and tucked them in a slat between buttons. 

Above all, your brain stopped functioning when Sammy stopped in front of you, arms raising like he wanted to bring you in for a hug before dropping back down to his thighs. 

“I didn’t know you’d been called,” he said, grin still wide as ever. “Thought this’d be handed off to Gil or Ben.” 

When you failed to say anything, still staring up at him with intense eyes that made him want to melt, his smile dropped a bit. “You okay? Did someone say anything to you?” His eyes glanced over toward the group. “Those guys were just joking—” 

“Bryant.” 

He blinked rapidly. “Yes?” 

You raked your eyes over him for good measure. “When did you get so fucking hot?” 

As the world slowed down around you, for one second you seriously considered throwing yourself into traffic during busy hour. An officer who had hear chocked on his coffee. When Sammy seemed stunned before he burst out laughing. His head dropped back, and the noise was loud enough to draw attention from half the squad nearby. 

“That’s one way to say hello,” he snickered. 

You shoved weakly at his shoulder, briefly feeling the tight muscle underneath. “Just wasn’t expecting Sammy Bryant turned Adonis. I’m guessing patrol has been good to you?”

He smiled shyly. “Just doin’ what you told me to. Did a lot of changing before I found something that stuck.” 

“I’m glad,” you breathed through a wide smile. “You look good, Sammy.” 

He tisked and shook his head. “I think I recall you saying hot specifically?” 

“I think you recall incorrectly, officer. Maybe need to get your hearing checked if you want to continue field work.” 

From behind you, someone shouted your name, causing you to turn away from Sammy for a split second. Your partner waved you over with a head tilt toward the body on the ground. You held up your pointer before looking back at Sammy. 

“Duty calls, I guess,” you muttered. “But it was good to see you.” 

You took one step back before Sammy’s hand jutted out and caught your forearm between his large fingers. He had a nervous look on his face, tongue peeking out to wet his lips. 

“We both have work, but uh, would you want to argue over what you called me during dinner?” 

Your head bobbed before you could stop it. “Hope your phone still has my number. Call me when you’re off shift.” 

A blush crept up his neck. “I will.” 

“Then I will see you very soon, Officer Bryant.” 

Sammy couldn’t help but laugh softly as you sauntered away, hips swaying under your dress pants that—in his opinion—hugged your figure in the best ways. When he turned back toward his buddies, the whole lot hooting and hollering at him, he couldn’t wipe away the smile that spanned his face entirely. 

He’d missed you during this season of finding himself, your words always ringing in his ears as he stopped arguing, as he signed the divorce papers, as he chose to leave detective work and join patrol, as he walked over to say hi after not seeing you for close to a year, and finally as you blurted you thought he was hot even if you denied it right after. 

Sammy missed out on a lot of things, but this time, he wasn’t going to miss out on you.

_______________________

“Fuck, Sammy,” you whined as his lips pressed deeply into your neck. 

Dinner had been a wonderful ordeal; almost right out of a dream you’d almost given up on. Sammy had picked you up, brought you flowers, paid for the meal, and offered to walk you back up to your door. 

Which, in hindsight, you should have known it wouldn’t take long for you to invite him inside or even longer for him to crowd you into the nearest wall and have his way with you. 

Your fingers shook as they unbuttoned his shirt one by one before they tentatively grazed across his now-visible abs. The sound you pulled from his lips—a small whimper—made you crave him even more. While you were busy mapping his body under your palms, Sammy was busy attacking your jaw and neck, tongue lapping to taste your perfume you’d sprayed hours earlier. 

“Do you wanna give up and say that you think I’m hot now?” he teased in a hot breath. “Or should I cuff you and get my confession that way? Would you like that? Couldn’t ever do this when I was a detective.” He groaned loudly when your hands squeezed his pecks. “Didn’t imagine I could have you like this.” 

The idea of him placing the cold, metal bracelets around your wrists shouldn’t have turned you on as much as it did, but just thinking of Sammy that way had you tightening your legs around his hips. 

Drunk on the feeling of him, you couldn’t help the next sentence that flowed from your loose lips as your head thunked against the wall. 

“Could have,” you panted. “Wanted you even back then, but you were married, and I’m not a homewrecker. Always thought you were handsome, Sammy.” 

He froze against you; his face tucked into your shoulder. You took the moment to lower yourself back down to the floor and place your hands on his face, fingers gently pulling him away so you could look into his confused eyes. 

“What?” he asked. “What do you mean you wanted me back then.” 

You licked your lips. “Sammy, you were happy, and I—” 

“I wasn’t happy,” he interrupted. “Far from it. Only fucking time I was happy was when I got to see you at work, sweetheart.” 

Your eyes fell down to your shoes. “Sammy.” 

He pressed his forehead against yours. “Thought about you all the time,” he whispered. “You were always there. Been kicking myself for letting you slip through my fingers. I really thought that when I could get in shape and get in a better place, I could have you; I could deserve you.” 

That had you looking back up at him with a frown. “No, Sammy, no.” Your hands dragged down his front and settled under the flaps of his shirt against his warm skin. “That’s not—that was never it. I was never going to overstep, but Sammy, please understand it took everything against myself to not jump you in the bullpen.” 

In that moment, a wave of humiliation washed through you, but Sammy looked absolutely delighted at your confession. He dipped back down and pressed his lips back against yours. You quickly reciprocated it and opened your lips to let his tongue dive into your mouth. Air was sadly a necessity, causing you to pull back panting. 

“So,” you gasped. “You said something about handcuffs.” 

Sammy smirked wildly, and in the next moment, you were squealing as he hoisted you over his shoulder, stalking to your bedroom with intent. 

Time for naked twister you reasoned. The plot thickens.

🏷️ permanent tags: @dumb-fawkin-bitch @nofinnn2 @books-thingys-andstuff @nyxmoretti @glitterquadricorn @itzpixiebabe @xoxoloverb @macbaetwo @cerberus101 @thorfemmes @goddess-of-spring @staygoldsquatchling02 @obi-wansgirl @phantom-101 @fly-me-away @xblackcatx @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @aoi-warrior @keepingitundercover @sofianotvergara @shawnhatosysrightbicep

[louloops]

Rewind (S. Bryant) NSFW

The concept of you and s1!Sammy being close because you're working in forensics so you're often in his presence. You both start taking your lunch breaks together, you bring him snacks, he always makes sure to grab your favorite coffee in the morning since he knows that you've probably been working the entire night.

And then you realise that you're getting too close, too used to his presence that when he's not at the police department you miss him and he feels the same. You miss his laugh, his caring nature, the way he seemed to know what you needed before you even had to voice it out.

But you're a girl's girl and you know that Sammy's married, unhappily but still married. So when a promotion arrives that comes with a transfer you have a little discussion with Sammy about it and he asks you why you would want to leave and you can't really say that it's because you refuse to see him with another woman, that it'd be better for you to leave before you got your heart ripped open since s1!Sammy is a family man. But he can see the look in your eyes, knows the real reason because of course he feels the same about you... but he lets you go, feeling the weight of his wedding ring on his finger. The second you get up to leave he regrets it immediately.

And everything that happens with Tammy happens and he regrets it even more. He can't believe he wanted to uphold his vows for someone who clearly did not respect him when all he wanted was you since the first week you spent together on a common case.

And through it all, he keeps a close eye on your career, cheers the loudest alone when you get promoted again, he even reads your research papers though he barely understand anything, just so he could feel closer to you somehow.

And then you move back to Los Angeles, working with SWAT's team as a forensics auditor which is a huge deal. When a task force between the LAPD Gang and Narcotics and SWAT is created, he sees you again. You both knew of each other's career trajectory because of course you kept an eye on him just like he did on you.

You don't make it awkward, you smile and hug and he wants to cry. He's just so proud of you, so proud of everything you've achieved. He's also regretful for not seeing that you were supportive of him, professionally and personally. You don't recognise him at first, you were used to his bulkier build, chubbier cheeks, sweeter disposition. Now he was a rugged, muscular, leaner man whose vulgar mouth got your head spinning. He's much more aggressive, decisive, and you find it hoooottt.

And when the task force ends with a bar celebration, he takes you back to your place which he tells you isn't too far away from his though in reality it adds 30mins to his route and he walks you to your door and all the feelings you had for him come back tenfold and you hate yourself even more for it. Until his lips are on yours and you can't help the moan that erupts from your chest, you feel his hands slip underneath your shirt automatically going to flick at your nipples and- you slap him.

That doesn't seem to deter Sammy as he's back on you, leaving little bites on your neck as you fist his hair in pleasure, body rammed against your door with his thick frame blocking yours.

"Y-your wi-iffee S-sammy." You managed to whimper, red hot shame boiling through your body as you try to put some distance between you two though he seemed to push himself impossibly closer with any extra inch you managed to create.

"Divorced, long time ago sweetheart. It's always been you." If he could, he would rewind time and not even get married to Tammy if it meant having you.

And that's all it took for you to throw your door open, feeling his hands roam you. He didn't even wait for you to lead him into the bedroom-no. He takes you on your sofa, his thick cock barely pulled out of his pants before he gently pushes himself in because even though he wants to finally feel what he's been dreaming about, he loves you and wants to take his time savouring.

Though it barely lasts a few thrusts before he cums, shameful because you just felt so good pulsing around him, your moans and groans like symphonies in his ears.

But you hadn't cum and he simply can't have that. So of course, he spends the next hour eating you out, edging until you're a sobbing mess with the only clear thing you're able to say being his name.

Masterlists

[eliabbott]

Popemira.

I’m a little late to Popemira Sunday as it’s Wednesday. But I’m definitely a convert. Managed to sketch and colour this one in my sketchbook and finish with some more neon reds in photoshop.

[lostalioth]

sammy / pope with hyperspermia (i think that's the right term), need i say more

I’ve never written hyperspermia but i am happy to write more of it, maybe ill do a pope one later.

Sammy would be so embarrassed by it. He wouldn’t let you touch his cock he’s already so sensitive to your touch and he avoids you making him feel good at all costs. He’d much rather eat you out til you’re the one making the mess anyway.

When you finally confront him about it he tells you about the condition and explains it. Lil ole you think “it can’t be that much it’ll be okay sammy, baby i promise just let me jerk you off at least” “pleaseeee” and not that you had to beg all that hard, he was practically already aching in his uniform pants when he came over after work. 

The two of you get comfortable in your bed, making out lazily for a little before you are pawing at Sammy’s cock. Hesitantly he pulls down his pants and boxers letting you take his cock in all it’s beautiful glory for the first time. Your mouth is watering a bit and you kind of want to taste him bad. But Sammy only agreed to your hand and you’d never push him, it took a little while just to get this far.

It really doesn't take long, a few strokes of your pretty hand up and down Sammy’s cock has him spewing. “M’ cummming baby oh fuck baby” he warns but if anything that encourages you to jerk your wrist faster. He’d been pent up having not fucked his own fist in a week or more, and as i said he’s very sensitive to your touch. With one last stroke, ropes of cum squirt out of the reddened tip of his cock, coating his stomach and your hand. You smile a dopey soft smile at Sammy, proud of yourself but as you look back at his cock, it’s still going. More and more and more cum spills out of him for a solid minute or so you don’t know until there is an obscene pool of his cum all over you, him and your bed. And with a final small twitch he’s done cumming. You're staring down at his cock as it twitches and flops down a little when you let go in both shock and awe. 

“Baby, baby- hmm” he whines out when you reach down and touch him again after he just came, running your finger over his dick to wipe off some cum. “Sammy s’ so much” you whisper as if it was a secret he wasn’t aware of. “Yeah baby, i warned you” he chuckles not knowing far dirtier images of him filling you until it leaks out, him covering you in cum, trying to swallow as much of it as possible before inevitably it’s too much.

[jackr-abbott]

been three hours, there are 55 votes, not a single person has voted for you to stop your freakiness. I say this is a sign to go freakier and get kinkier

Trying Something New

[pope cody x reader smut] [established relationship] [fem/afab reader] [oral both ways] [p in v unprotected] [butt stuff] [sweat/sent stuff] [riding] [cock warming] [marking] [freaked out]

word count: 2.6k

summary: after a cozy night in and a few cocktails, you ask your boyfriend andrew if there's anything he wants to do in the bedroom that you haven't done yet. his answer leads to a night of extremely pleasurable exploration and loving connection.

authour's note: guys this is my most freaked out fic yet. not that it's overly aggressive or anything, just outside of my usual imagination. it came to me in a vision and i had to act. huge shout out to everyone who answers my polls ya'll give me the confidence i need. i hope you guys like this level of freak, lmk how you feel!

much love <3

It had been pouring all day long; the sky was gray and hazy, thunder boomed and thunder flashed every so often. It had been the perfect day. You and Pope had spent the day curled up in your apartment together not doing much of anything. You ate breakfast and drank coffee over a newspaper you split in half and swapped half way through. You curled up on the couch and took turns picking shows- his action and car shows while yours are 2000's comedy comforts. You take a long, hot, shower, the water hitting your skin like a gentle massage.  

You step into the bedroom in just your towel, hair still wet and starting to curl, to see Pope propped up on the bed, shirtless, and staring at you like a sniper latched to a target. You adjust your towel and reach for the clothes you laid on the bed pre-shower. Pope kicks out a foot and knocks your hand out of the way. Your head jerks up to look at him. A small smile traced your boyfriend's lips as he leaned over to grab the clothes and toss them over the other side of the bed. You look at him confused before he speaks.  

"I want you to sit on my face." Plain and simple. More of a command than a request. He moves himself closer to you and bring one of his hands to the one that is holding your towel in place. He tugs at it gently and any confusion or resistance you might have melts away. You lets his hand guide yours down, and as the towel comes tumbling down around you, you can't tell what sensation is more intense: the cold air on your slightly damp skin, or Pope's gaze as his eyes devour your exposed body. 

Without another word he's pulling you into his lap, kissing you with one hand in your wet hair and the other gripping your waist. Your tongues explore each other's mouths and your hips instinctively grind down on the bulge forming in your boyfriend's pants.  

"Fuck Andrew." You blurt out as you wrench your lips apart. His face is buried in your neck, kissing and biting, and the stubble of his facial hair prickles in the best way possible. He kisses down your chest and under your breasts. He starts biting and sucking harder and you know he's leaving marks. He sucks and bites and kisses back up your chest to your neck to leave a few more marks above your collar bone and below your ear. 

"I want you on my face. Please." Pope states between bites of your neck. He's not quite begging, but you can tell he's desperate. You run your hands up his chest to rest on Pope's shoulders and guide him to lay down.  

It's your turn to look at him now. The way he looks up at you -the desperation in his eyes- you can't get enough of it.  

"Please." He's begging now.  

"Of course sweetheart." You purr as you lift yourself onto his mouth. As you ease down onto your boyfriend, his hands reach around your thighs and pull you tight to his face. In seconds your head is thrown back and your hands are grabbing for Pope's hair. He knows exactly what to do with your clit; just how to lick and suck to make you scream his name in a torrent of expletives and moans.  

"Grind baby." He manages to grunt out. You oblige happily. Your hips grind onto his mouth but it's not enough. You're grinding on his face harder and harder. His stubble is just prominent enough to add the perfect spark of pain to the pleasure you're writhing in. It's not long before you're screaming and grinding your way to an orgasm. Your boyfriend holds you tighter as you climax, burying his face in you as deep as he can while you twitch and clench around him.  

"Fuck! Fuck- Andrew, god." It’s another few seconds before Pope finally lets you up. You collapse next to him on the bed and roll over to kiss him. Your tongue searches his mouth looking for every little bit of yourself.  

"I love the way we taste together." You whisper almost in unison as you pull apart, your head falling to his chest and his arm wrapping around you. You lay there for a minute just holding each other before Pope gets up and retrieves your clothes he threw across the room a few minutes ago. He hands them to you with a kiss to your forehead.  

"I'm gonna get started on dinner, why don't you get dressed and join me when you're ready." Pope could be scary, and intimidating, and dangerous, but he could also be so gentle, and loving, and steady. You smile and reach for the clothes. 

"I'll be right there my love. I've had some cocktail recipes I've been wanting to try, any interest?"  

"Yeah. I'll try a couple." And with that he was out the door.  

You spent the evening cooking dinner together and trying various proportions of some pomegranate citrus cocktail, trying to find just the right balance. After a full meal and a few drinks you found yourselves in bed. You knew what a few cocktails did to Pope. His hands were all over you and those puppy dog eyes of his were working is overdrive. A question popped into your head and before you could stop yourself it was coming out of your mouth. 

"Is there anything you want to do in bed that we haven't done yet?" You ask as you curl into your boyfriend.  

"Uh. Shit. Really?" He's clearly taken aback and rightfully so.  

"Really. I wanna know. Maybe I can make it happen." You press a few soft kisses into his chest.  

"I guess, fuck," you love when Pope's flustered like this, "I guess I've always wanted to try 69? I don't expect you to use your mouth if you don't want to but I wanna taste you from the back." You blush and pull yourself deeper into him. Your first instinct is to be embarrassed, but you sit with it for a few seconds and realize it might be fun.  

You lift your head up to meet his gaze, "I think I can make that happen." You whisper as your hand wanders towards the waistband of his shorts. You start slowly tugging at them but Pope quickly gets tired and yanks down both his shorts and underwear. His hands are on you in a blur, pulling at your clothes like if he doesn’t take this opportunity now he'll never get it again. In seconds you're bare in front of him for the second time in 4 hours.  

You hesitate to just climb on him so you lean down to kiss Pope who is already on his back. He kisses you back with the passion that keeps you coming back for more every time. You blush slightly as you pull away, the idea of what you're about to do making you more shy than you normally would be. 

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Pope asks, noticing the hesitation in your body and on your face. 

"Yes, I promise I do. I'm just a little nervous." You admit.  

"That's okay, we'll take it at your pace. If you want to stop we stop; we don't do anything you don't want to do." He's so sincere your fear melts away enough for you to begin to shift your body into position. You swing your knee over his shoulder and arch your back as you slide down his stomach. Pope's dick growing ever harder and getting closer and closer to your face both excites you and makes you nervous. You feel his hands wrap around your legs and rub the insides of your thighs gently. He moves his hands up to your ass, gripping tightly. Your pussy clenches around nothing as his fingers trace your most sensitive spots. With a grunt he grabs you tightly and pulls you onto his face.  

You let out a moan as his tongue plunges into you and his fingers dig into your ass. Your head falls and your face is buried in his thigh, his rock hard cock an inch from your face. You've never felt like this before; your bodies fully pressed together, your boyfriend's mouth absolutely devouring you, you moan and squirm against him. Pope always knows how to make you feel so good you don't know how to form coherent sentences. You're basking in the feeling of his tongue on your clit when you remember this is, indeed, a two player game. You know there's no pressure and that's what makes you feel comfortable enough to try something new. You lift your head to look at his throbbing one. Your hand wraps around his shaft and he lets out a groan of pleasure.  

The vibrations of his voice on your cunt is too much and yet you need more. You press your lips to his head and swirl your tongue around it slowly. Pope moans again and the vibrations mixed with the prickle of his stubble and the warm wetness of his tongue made you squeal. You take him further into your mouth and you swear you can feel him growing in your mouth. You're both moaning into each other as he sucks on your clit hard and you take him all the way to the back of your throat in response. 

"Fuck you taste so good for me." Pope grunts into you.  

God those vibrations.  

That stubble.  

"Andrew, god, you feel so good." You sink your mouth back down around him and he groans and grips you tighter. Pope responds by circling your clit harder and faster, pressing into it with the flat of his tongue just how you like.  

Pope's hands reach for your stomach and begin to pull you up, off of him. You don’t understand what's happening until you feel his tongue trail back from your clit, over your hole, and further towards your back door. You gasp with recognition and he freezes under you. 

"This okay?" He asks cautiously. You take a moment to consider and decide there's a first time for everything. 

"Yeah. Yes. I want to try, with you." You can feel him smile under you even if you can't see it and it makes you smile too. You feel so safe and so alive all at the same time. In the back of your head a voice tells you this is what love feels like and you can't find a solid argument against it. 

His tongue circles around your hole and you squirm at the new sensation. He holds your hips in place while he makes the circles smaller and smaller until he's right up against your hole. You squeal and shake at the sensation and your hand reaches for his stomach to steady yourself. You enjoy the new feeling but all of a sudden you start to feel empty. You need him back inside you. You lean back down to take him in your mouth again.  

Pope moans into you and goes back down to your clit. He's alternating between your holes now, like he can't choose. He finally settles on you clit and sucks hard, pulling you deeper into him by your ass. You feel yourself getting close and you're both so desperate to cum and yet you wish this moment could last for hours. Your boyfriend knows you, and your body, better than anyone else. He knows exactly how to make you shake and scream and he's pulling out every trick in his book. You're so close and he knows it. He pushes you over the edge, the muscles in your legs tighten and your back arches but you don't stop using your mouth on him. As you ride out the multiple waves of your orgasm you continue to work his dick hard and fast. You're bobbing up and down, hand filling the space your mouth isn’t when Pope starts grunting harder and harder.  

"Fuck I'm gonna- fuck!" He wraps his arms around you and pulls you off of him before he can finish. You collapse back onto his thigh, his skin warm and soft, his dick still hard an inch from your face; heat radiating off, and spit dripping down it. You run your hands up and down his legs. You're both breathing hard and your clit is still pulsing from the orgasm hat was just ripped out of you.  

"Fuck." You let out in a half whimper half exhale. You take a few more breaths then lift yourself to turn around. You need to kiss him, to taste yourself on him. You swing your leg over once, and then twice, turning around to straddle him. You grind your hips back on his rock hard dick and you press your lips to his. His moan combined with the way you taste is too much to handle.  

"I need you inside me." You can't tell if you're begging or commanding but it doesn't matter. His hand reaches up to guide himself into you and you both gasp and moan in harmony as Pope's tip enters your tight hole. You grip onto his shoulders and he wraps his arms around your neck, pulling you in close. Your face is pressed into his neck and you leave kisses and bites wherever you can reach. He's thrusting into you and you're grinding down to meet him. The rhythm isn't perfect, and it doesn't need to be. It's raw, and messy, and desperate and so are both of you.  

"Andrew- guuh- I love the way you fucking fill me up. It's so much- it's so good." You're babbling and whimpering from the intensity of the pleasure you feel. 

"My pretty girl, anything for you. You feel so fucking good around me, don't stop clenching. Fuck, god, fuck, you feel amazing. And you smell so... god com'ere"  

You're both grinding and thrusting into each other as hard and fast as you can. His hand reaches for your arm and he crosses it over his face so your armpit is level with is nose. He takes a deep inhale before drawing his tongue across you, licking up every bit of sweat he had fucked out of you. You gasp in shock before realizing just how hot you find that. He's so obsessed with you he literally wants to lick your sweat. You clench around him tighter than you thought was possible and his moans get even more desperate.  

"God baby, I love you. You feel so good around me, fuck I love you." He's babbling now too. 

"I love you too. God I want you to come. Please I fucking need it." You're so desperate to make him feel just as good as he makes you feel.  

"I will, shit, of course I will. You know just what to do, just keep- fuck, oh god, I'm- I'm, fuck!" And with that he empties himself into you with a grunt and a moan, then a whimper and a sigh. You melt into each other and roll onto your sides. You kiss each other gently amongst the heavy breathing and expletives you exchange. He goes to pull out of you but you pull him closer instead.  

"Just a little longer, please. I just love the way you feel." You ask shyly.  

"Of course my love. Anything you need." He reassures with a kiss to your forehead.  

'a little longer' turns into falling asleep tangled up in each other, your ear pressed to Pope's chest listening to his heartbeat. You held each other the entire night and when you woke up you were pleased to find he was still inside you.  

[samirasystole]

anybody else feeling short of breath?

credits: supriyaganesh_ on ig

[beccasdoll]

found a pope cody n amy deleted scene !!! i’m not okay !!! (@. hatughsea on twitter)

him leaning into the kiss n touching her waist but pulling away so quickly !!

n then grabbing her back for the kiss after she pulls away ugh

the firmness in which he cups her face :,)

n then ends up kissing her forehead & he looks so shy after!!! aaaaa

i might have to write a pope fic inspired by this scene

[andrewmiinyard]

happy birthday popey <3

just a quick blurb that i cooked up in honor of the love of my life andrew cody's birthday :)

my dream of getting high and shotgunning with pope and riding his thigh outside his pool. pwp. not proofread but all from the heart (wc: 1.9k)

—

Andrew Cody has never been a fan of his birthday.

You knew this. He had told you stories in the past about how his brothers had always chosen for him the past. Activities that they liked to do. He had told you that once Julia was gone, he had found the occasion lonely, not used to blowing out the candles alone. That the three years behind bars had him forgetting when it even was.

Naturally, that had broken your heart. So you took it upon yourself to make sure that things would be different, especially now that you were around.

It was casual and intimate, just him and his family sharing drinks under the blanket of the quiet night in their backyard. The candlelight of the two candles sitting atop of the grocery store cake that Deran had brought glinting off the rippling blue pool water. After a few slices of cake and a few too many shots in Julia’s honor, the two of you were left alone, the low murmur of jovial conversation from the rest of his family muffled by the glass doors. Andrew had moved to sit on one of the loungers that were scattered around the pool, feet firmly planted on the floor. He’s got a beer in hand and a calm look on his face, staring into the water.

“Happy birthday, handsome,” you say as you approach him from behind, hands wandering across the broad expanse of his chest. Nosing into the crook of his neck, you can see the beginnings of a smile take over his features as he lays a hand atop of yours. “I hope you had a good time.”

“C’mere,” he grumbles, pulling you by the wrist and into his lap. It’s a familiar position, his strong arm wrapped around your waist. You slide a hand into his hair, nails scratching his scalp. His eyes flutter shut for a moment at the feeling, and you swear that if he was a dog you’d be able to see his tail wagging. You giggle at the thought and lean down to give him a soft kiss, one he gladly returns. “Thank you.”

With one hand settled on his shoulder, you pulled out the joint Craig had taken the time to roll for you from behind your ear. A big grin on your face, you brandish it in front of him, extending a silent invitation. He’s got an eyebrow cocked, half smile on his face at your excited expression more than anything. 

“Care to partake, Andy?” You ask, slipping the joint between your lips. Wordlessly, he pulls his lighter from his back pocket and lights it for you, flame warm as it approaches your face. With a deep inhale the cherry burns orange, and you place it between your fingers before exhaling the smoke. You place the joint between Andrew’s lips down, smirking at just how easily he accepts it from you. Smoking with Andrew was always a rare occasion; he was never one to partake at the hundreds of parties that happened at the house. It was always just you and him, sometimes the rest of his family too.

You swing a leg over his lap so you can watch him properly as he takes a toke, everything blurring into the background. He turns his head to blow the smoke away from your face, ever the gentleman. Handing it back to you, he lets out a small laugh, eyes a little glassy and he turns his head back to you. Warmth spreads through you, although you’re not sure if it’s from the weed or from the way he’s looking at you.

His eyes are half lidded, blown out pupils falling to your mouth as you take a toke of your own. He’s still wearing a goofy smile, the one he always gets when he’s able to release his inhibitions under the influence. Being high makes you hyperaware of his touch, the meaty hands settled comfortably on your hips, his body heat making your skin tingle underneath the fabric of your clothes. You lean forward and brush your lips against his, a matching smile stretching over your lips. If you didn’t know him any better, you wouldn’t have noticed his shuttery exhale over your lips as you did, or the way that his grip tightened ever so slightly on your hips. His lips chase yours as you pull back with a giggle, teasing.

Instead, you grab his face in one hand, manicured fingers resting against the soft skin of his cheeks. He’s looking up at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars but you can see the want painted on his face, clear as day. You shift in his lap and you can feel him growing hard underneath you, mouth parting silently. With a grin that can only be described as evil, you bring the joint to your lips once more. His fingers twitch as he watches you move, squirming in your grasp a little in the effort to make sure that he has the full picture. The way that he looks at you has your thighs clenching; like he wants you to eat him whole.

You hold the smoke in your mouth, fingers adding just a bit of pressure so that Andrew’s lips are puckered for you. When you lean forward, back into Andrew’s space, you can see his eyes flicker with the recognition of what you’re about to do. The smoke curls in the air between the two of you, sweeping over his face as he inhales. The sight is almost more intoxicating than the weed itself, his lashes fluttering as your hand slides down from his cheek to his neck.

And then he lets out a giggle.

It’s endearing in the best way possible, even as he cants his hips up to meet yours in a slow roll. You can’t help but follow suit, the edges of everything blurring in the most blissful way as your high takes hold of you. You’re still holding the roach between your fingers, the cherry long gone out from the night time wind. And he’s still looking at you like that and his half hard cock under you has your brain going foggy, so you surge forward and press your lips against his. He lets out a broken whimper into your mouth, hands instantly pulling you flush against him.

Andrew wastes no time licking into your mouth, already kissing you deeply. You can still feel his smile against your lips, like he just can’t get it off his face. The kiss sends your nerves alight, the feeling much too mesmerizing for you to pull away. He’s letting out these small moans, noises getting swallowed up in the sounds of your heavy breathing. The way he rolls his hips has you gripping his hair, to which he shutters and lets out a low groan.

“Gotta be quiet, Andy,” you mutter, still too wrapped up in the pleasure of the kiss to pull away for longer than a moment. He tries his best to obey to his credit, you can tell from the rumble in his chest every time you grind against the denim of his jeans.

God, his jeans.

You’ve been checking him out all day. They’re your favourite pair of jeans; they’re so tight in the right places, leaving you drooling after him. They accentuate his thick thighs and you can’t shake the thought out of your head.

The kiss is messy; wet, open-mouthed, teeth knocking like you’re trying to see who can devour each other first. It has your mind spinning but your thoughts are still with his legs, his thighs. Despite the fact that you feel like you’ve melted into his body, you pull away, moving backwards until you're settled on one of his thighs, your legs bracketing. The muscle feels strong and thick under your core; you’re sure that you’re leaving a wet spot on his jeans.

“What’re y’doing, baby?” he asks, a little desperately. His eyes are still basically closed and he’s lurching forward to follow you, still chasing your lips so he can kiss you again. You oblige for a moment, hands winding tight into the fabric of his shirt.

“I wanna ride it,” you sigh into the kiss, hips already rocking slowly against the denim. He lets out a low groan and nods his head, although you’re not entirely sure if he heard you or not. His hands are all bunched up in your skirt, skimming over the curve of your ass as you move. “Please?”

“Okay,” His answer is simple, breathless. You’re still a bit boneless, the high keeping your body relaxed, but it’s easy to keep moving with Andrew’s guiding hands on you. The pace the two of you have set is brutal, and it has you mewling and your face dropping into his shoulder after just a few minutes.

His hands slide under your skirt and his fingers hook into your panties, pulling them taut. You let out a loud moan as the fabric adds pressure to your clit, tipping your head back. He takes advantage of that and slaps a hand over your mouth, muffling your noises. You notice how quickly his eyes fly to the window that the rest of his family is seated behind but his attention is back on you in no time, blown out pupils matching yours. “Gotta be quiet, sweetheart.”

He hands your words back to you, and you’d roll your eyes at him if pleasure wasn’t building low in your stomach in a way that made your legs shake. Instead, your eyes roll back when he shifts in place, hitting a whole new angle. The chair creaks underneath you from the way the two of you move, his hips rising occasionally in an effort to release some pressure. The noises you make are still stifled by the palm of his hand, but Andrew knows your body well enough to know that you’re close. You're soaking into his jeans, chest rising and falling at a quick pace that matches his.

“So pretty,” he says mindlessly, eyes trained on your face, the way it’s twisted up in pleasure. You know that he loves watching you like this, looking at you like he’s trying to burn the memory into his mind. “You gonna cum for me?”

You nod frantically and he bares his teeth at you, just for a moment, wrapped up in the thought of you coming undone for him. His mouth is hanging open as he just watches, looking as blissed out as you feel, and you’re not even touching him. He’s getting off on this; watching you use him. The thought alone has you careening over the edge, shuttering in his lap as your orgasm overtakes you. He lets out a raspy groan at the sight, moving forward to tuck his face into the crook of your neck as your hips still on his thigh. 

Once you catch your breath, you let your hand trail down his chest, nails clinking against the cool metal of his belt buckle. Your hand lands on the bulge in his jeans, and he lets out a shaky exhale as you press your lips against his ear, voice husky. “Should I give you your gift now?”

[agentmilayawithshield]

[flowersforbucky]

the light is coming

andrew pope cody x reader ~ word count: 22.4k

when the codys plan a heist for a luxury gentlemen’s club in los angeles, the last thing pope expects is to connect with the club’s most coveted and profitable dancer. right away, he feels there’s something different about you. little does he know, you aren’t working there of your own free will. your father is indebted to the club’s owner, and his life and yours are on the line if you don’t keep bringing in money until the debt is paid.

warnings/tags: canon level violence, strip club/nightclub setting, shitty and abusive men (not pope duh), death (not reader or anyone in the cody family), reader knows how to pole dance, reader is afab and goes by she/her pronouns, love at first sight vibes, reader is kinda a man-hater but it’s justified, some angst and some fluff, pov switches, reader goes by a stage name but her real name is never stated, no use of y/n, possible strip club inaccuracies, kissing, not explicit smut but mdni, pope is protective af, no baz or smurf, takes place after lena gets adopted but pope is still living in baz’s old beach house. flashbacks are italicized!

author’s note: woooo-weeeeee. my longest fic ever. holy shit. i cannot believe it is finally done. thank you endlessly to @fru1t4fr0gs and @thethyri for reading over this for me and letting me talk about it for weeks and weeks. this is by far the most challenging fic i have ever written and at times i wondered if i should just give up on it, but i’m very glad that i kept going and can share it with you all. i hope you love it as much as i do.

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Tonight was supposed to be your first Friday night off in years.

In hindsight, you had been an idiot to not realize that’s too good to be true. Friday and Saturday nights are always Solstice’s busiest nights, and you aren’t exactly in a position to pick and choose your shifts. Weekends are mandatory for anyone who brings in decent money, and you’re no exception.

You should’ve known it was a simple scheduling error, an oversight from whichever manager had been responsible for this week’s schedule, but the thought of getting take-out and spending your Friday night catching up on a few of your favorite shows that you’ve neglected the newest episodes of had been too tempting for you to think about questioning why your name wasn’t listed under Friday, as it usually is.

Then, at 9:15 pm, precisely fifteen minutes after your shift's typical start time, your phone rang. Right away, a ball of nausea wound tight in your stomach. You didn’t even have to look at the screen to know whose name was displayed across it.

You also knew better than to risk not answering.

“Yes?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

Silas is pissed. That’s nothing new. Silas has been in a perpetual state of pissed off since the day you had the misfortune of meeting him. Pissed is his default.

“Not at work.”

A loud, sarcastic guffaw sounds from your speaker. “Yeah, I fuckin’ see that. Why the hell do you think I’m calling you? To ask about your overall wellbeing?”

“Oh, I’d never think that,” you mutter under your breath, too low and quick for him to make out over the roar of R&B music that blares in the background. “I wasn’t on the schedule tonight,” you say more clearly, digging your nails into your palm in an effort to keep your voice level.

“Yeah, and your buddy Trevor is getting his ass chewed out for that, too,” Silas spits. “You always work Friday nights. The only exception was the time you got food poisoning because I didn’t want you shitting on a customer during a dance. You know that.”

Damn it. Trevor is your favorite of all of the floor managers - the only one who talks to you like a human being. Why couldn’t it have been Gregory? That pervert getting in trouble would almost be worth this phone call and whatever punishment Silas has in mind for you not being at work right now.

“It’s not my fault that Trevor fucked up the schedule,” you say, voice still lethally calm. “I show up when I’m told to. Nothing more.”

“I don’t give a rat’s fat ass whose fault it is,” Silas hisses. “And I’m telling you to show up now, so you better get here before ten o’clock or—”

You don’t want to hear whatever he’s about to threaten you with. It could be anything from not letting you perform a solo routine on center stage tonight to taking a bigger cut of the money you make from private rooms…to even worse.

“Okay, okay. Jesus fuck. I’m on my way.”

You hang up before his voice can give you a migraine before you even arrive at the club.

Forty minutes later, after doing your hair and makeup in record time, throwing on the first cute lingerie set you can find that’s clean, and speeding at least ten over the speed limit the entire drive to the club, you show up with less than five minutes to spare.

Luckily, Silas is nowhere to be found when you enter through the back door. You know that he’ll bitch at you some more whenever you see him, but right now, you’re relieved to start your normal rounds while he’s otherwise occupied. Likely smoking himself to death with a hotdog-sized cigar in his office.

You walk the main floor, making small talk with a few regulars that aren’t complete pieces of shit as far as men who frequent strip clubs go. You book your first private room of the night, and Gregory is a little too happy to inform you that Silas will be taking sixty percent of your earnings tonight as opposed to the standard fifty.

As annoying as that is, you can’t help but feel a little relieved. As far as punishments go, a ten percent increase in his cut is mild. Last time you were reprimanded (for not fucking smiling enough), Silas added an additional five grand to the already exorbitant amount of money that your father owes him.

The exorbitant amount of money that just so happens to be the very reason you are working in this shithole in the first place.

Not even two hours into your shift, and you’re already over it. So over it that you offer to take out a bag of trash for the bartenders just as an excuse to get some fresh air for two fucking minutes.

This part of Los Angeles isn’t exactly quaint - there’s a near constant stream of car horns blaring and police sirens wailing but it’s white noise to you at this point. At least the night air is a nice reprieve from the stench of cheap weed and cheaper cologne even for only a moment.

It says a lot that you consider hanging out by literal dumpsters more appealing than being inside.

You should’ve been out of here a long time ago. It wasn’t supposed to take more than a year to clear the debt that isn’t even your debt to clear.

You didn’t even know that your dad was sick. Not until you came home from college on a random weekend, hoping to surprise him, and found him far thinner and more frail than you had ever seen him, hooked up to a dialysis machine to keep himself from dying of kidney failure.

He’d tried his hardest to keep it all from you. He didn’t want you to worry, didn’t want you to drop out of school to take care of him. He tried to handle the medical bills that accumulated rapidly on his own for as long as he could.

And when he accepted that he couldn’t, he got desperate.

He thought Silas was just a lender. Someone who would help him stay afloat long enough to get a transplant, recover, and get back to work. He didn’t realize exactly what kind of man he had borrowed from until Silas showed up at his house, uninvited and unannounced, waltzing right in like he owned the place.

So vividly you can remember the look of shame on your father’s face when Silas revealed the truth, and the panic that quickly bloomed when he looked directly at you and said the words that changed the trajectory of your life.

“You failed to mention that you have a daughter,” Silas purrs. “She sure is pretty. You know, I think she’d do real well working in one of my clubs. Yeah, she’d be popular. Make me a lot of money. How does that sound? You wanna help your poor, sick daddy out?”

Your dad had instantly refused, pleading with Silas to just give him a little more time, but you could tell that Silas wasn’t really asking. He was telling you what you were going to do. And because you were scared, for your own life and your father’s, you agreed.

Here you are, three years later, with no true end in sight.

The club’s back door screeches open, and you know that your ninety seconds of the closest thing you can get to peace around here has come to an end.

“The hell are you doing out here?” Silas booms, interrupting the relative quiet of the alleyway. “It’s almost time for you to go on center stage. You’re lucky that I’m even letting you go on at all tonight. I wasn’t planning on it, but there’s a group of guys in there requesting you.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. The last thing you want is for him to change his mind at the last second and give your solo slot to one of the other girls. “I’m coming. I was just taking out the trash.”

You take a step to walk past him, but he blocks the doorway, his clammy hand shooting out to catch you by the elbow. His grip isn’t quite hard enough to bruise, but still makes bile churn in your gut.

“Don’t get cute with me,” he spits. “You’re already on thin ice tonight.”

You don’t say anything, biting your lip to hold back the overwhelming desire to spit in his face. Silas leans in, his breath foul with the stench of whiskey and cigar smoke.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten what’s at stake here.” His fingers tighten just a fraction around your arm. Just enough to make you wince. “Maybe your dad needs a reminder.”

You taste iron from where your teeth break the skin of your lip. “I said I’m coming.”

Silas snorts, satisfied for now. He lets go of your arm with a shove that is more dismissive than violent and turns back toward the door.

“And try not to fuck up your set,” he snaps over his shoulder. “Those guys in there are blowing their money on you. Don’t make me regret doing you any favors.”

And then he’s gone, letting the metal door slam closed behind him before you can follow him inside.

You stand there for a moment, breathing in and then slowly exhaling when movement from your peripheral vision catches your eye.

Great. Just what you fucking need right now. An audience. Men, of course. Two of them. Just close enough to have heard every word.

“What are you looking at, boys?” You call, voice void of emotion as you make direct eye contact with the stocky, curly-haired one.

He’d be cute, you think, if he wasn’t the kind of guy to spend his Friday night outside of a strip club. The sandy blond looks slightly surprised that you’re acknowledging them, but his buddy remains stoic.

You jerk your chin towards the door Silas slammed behind him.

“The show’s inside.”

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Pope all but forced Deran to switch tasks with him at the last second.

Originally, he was supposed to be the one keeping a close eye on Silas Leary, Solstice’s owner, while Deran scopes out the club’s main floor for the heist that Craig, of all people, is orchestrating.

He shouldn’t be surprised. A luxury gentleman’s club based heist is quite possibly the most Craig heist possible.

But now, instead of watching the balding, sweaty jackass who had berated you in the alleyway not even ten minutes ago, he’s watching you on stage.

You’re more pleasant to look at, at least.

He’s never really seen anything quite like it - the way you dance. This isn’t his first time at a strip club. His brothers have coerced him into going to strip clubs before, though every time prior to tonight was for pleasure, not business. Still, he isn’t unfamiliar with the scene. He’s watched women pole dance before, but not like this.

You’re the only thing in the room that he can concentrate on. For the entirety of the five minutes and some change that your set lasts, he forgets that he’s technically here for recon. He and his brothers made this trip to Los Angeles to get a feel for the building’s layout, to see how operations work, to check out the security systems…not watch the strippers.

He tells himself he’s keeping up appearances. It would be weird to not watch you. Everyone in the room is - even the other dancers, though they watch with less enchantment and more disdain than the patrons.

The song comes to an end all too soon, and Pope continues to watch as you make quick work of collecting all of the bills that had been thrown onto the stage. He stands just a few feet away, close enough that he can see the body glitter dusted across your chest sparkle in the glow of the neon stage lights.

When you stand up, thick stack of cash in hand, your gaze locks with his for one tense but fleeting moment. The look in your eyes is the same as when you had made direct eye contact with him outside the club.

Just as fast as you had appeared on the stage, you then disappear, leaving Pope staring after you.

He thinks back to what he and Deran had witnessed in the alley. He had instantly recognized Silas Leary from pictures he’d seen online, so he and Deran hung around to witness the brief interaction, hoping to get some idea as to what Silas is like in person before entering the club.

It came as no shock to Pope that his reputation precedes him. Harsh, volatile, cruel seemingly for the sake of being cruel. That isn’t what made Pope freeze in place in the alley. It’s what Silas had said to you.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten what’s at stake here. Maybe your dad needs a reminder.”

And your response. You didn’t agree or disagree. Didn’t fight him on it. You looked Silas dead in the eyes, expression unreadable, and barely flinched. Like you had heard the threat a thousand times before, like you were used to the way he grabbed you by the arm. Like it hardly even phased you.

Pope’s first instinct had been to intervene, but he knew doing so would have tanked the job before it began. He couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself and Deran, and deep down, he also knew that stepping in would have likely made things worse on you, too, in the long run.

So he watched from the sidelines, feeling more at peace than ever at the prospect of stealing loads of money from someone, knowing Silas Leary deserves what’s coming for him.

Deran knew it, too, playing it off with a joke that sparked an idea in Pope’s head.

“Shit. You think she hates the fucker enough to help us rob him?”

Pope had said nothing at the time, but he was unable to shake the thought. The entire time that he watched you on stage, the look of unadulterated hatred on your face kept replaying in his mind.

But for just a few minutes, as you danced on the center stage, you seemed different than you did in the alley. Different than you did when you were collecting the dozens of tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills off of the stage floor. For a few moments, Pope saw himself in you. The way you seemed to completely dissociate while you performed, like there was no one else in the room but you and nothing else mattered. In his own way, he’s been there. With skateboarding, and with boxing. For him, those things are escapes.

He can’t help but wonder if that’s what dancing is for you. An escape from this place.

He supposes there’s really only one way to find out - if he’s right, and if Deran could possibly be right, too.

Good thing Craig had suggested they all bring plenty of cash with them. To keep up appearances, he had said. If you’re going to a strip club, you should always have cash on you. This is just recon, but you never know.

He’d smirked when he said it, as if he already had plans to spend said cash in ways that weren’t relevant to recon, but he still made a fair point.

Pope’s eyes scan the crowded room, searching through all of the dancers and customers in hopes of finding someone who might be of some help. He notices a short, pudgy, middle-aged man who appears to be scolding another dancer.

Gregory, Pope sees that his name tag reads once he approaches him.

“The dancer that just finished up on stage,” Pope asks him, “What’s her name?”

A creepy, almost unsettling smile grows on Gregory’s face. “Oh, that would be Soleil. Why? You want a room with her?”

What Pope wants is to wipe that perverted look off of his face, but rationally he knows that would be counterproductive right now, so he settles for a curt nod. “Yeah, I do.”

“Half hour? Or a full hour?”

Pope knows that he’s supposed to meet his brothers and nephew where they parked a couple blocks away in less than an hour, so he isn’t really sure why he lets the next words come out of his mouth, but for whatever reason, he does.

“Full hour.”

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Gregory barges into the locker room without so much as knocking.

You’re dressed (as dressed as you possibly can be in a place like this), just counting the money you made from your solo set, but his sudden presence still unnerves you.

“You’ve got a private room,” he barks, not bothering to be subtle with the way his beady little eyes trail up your legs. “Room two. Full hour. This guy asked for you after watching your solo performance, so you better not disappoint him.”

You cram the rest of your money into the locker and snap it shut, trying not to give Gregory the satisfaction of seeing how irritated you are - at the way he thinks he owns this place and can enter a changing room without knocking, and especially at hearing you have to do another private room. For a full hour.

You don’t bother asking who the private room is with. You’re confident it’s one of the men who had convinced Silas to let you go on center stage tonight. A group of four or five sat as close as possible to the front, several familiar faces throwing bills at you every few seconds. Any given one of them looks like the type to drop six hundred dollars on an hour-long private room.

“Oh, I’ll try my hardest,” you breathe sarcastically. “Now can I have a second to freshen up? Alone?”

“Hurry,” Gregory snaps. “He’s waiting for you.”

You wait until the door clicks shut behind him to curse under your breath. Sometimes, you think you might hate Gregory as much as you hate Silas - if that’s even possible.

After reapplying your lipgloss and spritzing on a little more perfume, you reluctantly make your way to the private room where you’ll spend the next hour of your life.

At least once it’s over, it’ll be after midnight, which means the rest of the shift likely won’t be quite as busy, and you’ll be able to go home soon—

“Hi,” you chirp, slipping into the room with a forced smile and your best customer service voice. “I’m Soleil. Thanks so much for booking a room with me tonight. And what’s your na—”

You freeze as soon as you turn around from shutting the door behind you, the question dying on your tongue.

Not one of the men from the eager group that sat right next to the stage. You do recognize him, though. He too had stood close to the stage, by himself.

One of the men from the alley.

“Oh,” you quip, voice rising an octave. “You’re—”

“Pope,” he interrupts, and you’re thankful for it, because you didn’t really even know where you were going with that sentence. “My name is Pope.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Pope,” you smile, taking a tentative step closer to where he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Would you like to sit down?” You ask, gesturing towards the couch behind him.

He nods. You hover for a moment, giving him space as he lowers himself stiffly onto the couch. He looks around with uncertainty, like this entire process is completely unfamiliar to him and he isn’t sure what exactly he is supposed to say or do.

“Let me guess,” he starts, settling into the velvet couch. He runs his palms over jean fabric that conceals his bulky thighs. “Your name isn’t actually Soleil?”

You snort a laugh as you take a seat in the empty space beside him. You tuck your legs beneath you, one arm relaxing across the top of the couch, your hand coming to rest just behind his head. Instinctively, your fingers inch towards the base of his skull to toy with the reddish brown curls there, but you stop yourself at the last second, instead smoothing your fingertips over the soft, velvet material of the couch.

Normally, you wouldn’t hesitate to show physical affection for such high-paying clientele - that is what at least 95% of them are here for, anyway - but something about the way he stiffens at your sudden closeness makes you think twice before touching him.

“That depends,” you counter. “Is Pope actually your name?”

He turns his neck to look you in the eye - now close enough that you’re able to see his hazel irises and the light dusting of freckles across his skin.

Pretty, you think - even if he is the kind of man to spend an asinine amount of money on a nearly naked and complete stranger’s attention, you can’t deny that he’s pretty.

“No,” he says lowly. He pauses, swallowing. “Pope’s just a childhood nickname. My real name is Andrew.”

“Andrew,” you repeat with a slow nod. “And which would you prefer that I call you?”

A slight blush appears on the apples of his cheeks. “You can call me whatever you want to.”

It doesn’t really make a difference to you, considering you’ll likely never see him again after the hour he paid for comes to an end, but you can’t help but think the way he blushed when you said Andrew was oddly endearing.

“Well, Andrew,” you hum, “you are correct in assuming that my name is not really Soleil. That’s just the stage name I chose to go by.” You nod towards the sign on the opposite wall that spells Solstice in neon, cursive lettering. You give a small shrug. “I thought it pairs well with the name of the club. Soleil at Solstice.”

There’s something close to a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m sure you’re already aware that soleil means sun in French.”

Yes, you are aware of that, but you’re slightly surprised that he knows that. Most men that come here don’t know their left from their right.

“That it does,” you agree. “Kind of ironic, actually.”

His eyebrows pinch together a bit. “How so?”

Because there isn’t actually any sun in a place like this. A dark, dystopian fucking hellscape.

But you can’t say that, of course. God forbid you say anything even slightly negative about this place and word somehow gets back to Silas. That would be your third strike of the night, and he’d likely tack on an additional twenty grand to your father’s outstanding balance for the hell of it.

You instantly regret saying anything at all.

“Oh, nothing.” You shake your head in dismissal. “Just meant the only thing that’s bright here is the strobe lights.”

He stares at you for an extended moment before responding, his gaze heavy on you. “I wouldn’t say the only thing.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, your cheeks warming more than they should at the sentiment. It fills you with a bit of shame, really - the fact that you’d feel even slightly flustered over a vague compliment from a stranger paying for your company.

“So, Andrew…” you say, breaking the brief but loaded silence that had settled between you. “You paid for this room. What would you like to do in it?”

You dread what comes next. You always do. The kind of “dancing” that you hardly even consider dancing. The stripping, the touching. There’s supposed to be boundaries, of course, but most men think that if they’re paying then that gives them a right to cross them.

But private rooms are part of the job. Silas has made that clear from day one. He lets you perform your solo routines because they generate too much revenue to deny you the one part of the night that you don’t absolutely despise - but your sets last five, maybe ten minutes at most. Your shifts run about six hours. That leaves five hours and fifty minutes to keep the money flowing if you want to keep Silas appeased, which means doing every soul-sucking part of the job you hate: the floor dances, the private rooms, the mandatory mingling and endless flirting.

Every now and then, though, someone will book a private room and pleasantly surprise you.

“I just wanna talk,” Andrew says simply. “If that’s alright with you.”

You have to hold back the urge to sigh in relief. Talking you can do. And the fact that Andrew doesn’t reek of body odor and stout liquor like the majority of your customers makes the thought of conversing with him for the remainder of the next hour even less painful.

Six hundred dollars (well, significantly less once Silas takes his sixty percent cut…) and all you have to do is sit and talk to a decent looking man who isn’t belligerently drunk? You’ve had far worse nights.

“Of course,” you smile, and for once it isn’t completely forced. “You’re paying. If you want to talk, then we talk.”

Andrew is silent for a moment, as if he’s considering what to say next. His stare is unyielding, but not in the way that would normally make you cringe so hard that you risk breaking a tooth. Instead, it feels like he’s really looking at you. Not Soleil, but you.

“I watched your set earlier,” he says when he finally speaks. “That was very impressive. How long have you been dancing?”

Ah. Yes, you had noticed him towards the very front of the crowd when you finished your routine. He’d looked every bit as serious and solemn as he had when you first saw him in the alleyway earlier tonight.

“Dancing? Since I was four. Ballet, tap, jazz, lyrical…” You list off all of the weekly classes you remember taking throughout your childhood. “Pole dancing, though? About three years.”

Andrew looks surprised by the answer, his brows lifting slightly and hazel eyes widening. “Only three years? I would’ve thought a lot longer than that. Is that how long you’ve worked here, then?”

You nod, retracting your arm from where it had been resting behind his head now that it’s clear that - for whatever reason - Andrew is only interested in conversation. You let yourself relax a bit, relieved that you don’t have to put up the usual facade that makes most men swoon.

“Yeah, right at three years now. I practice a lot at home, though. I even got a pole for my apartment. If you work here, you’ve really gotta know your way around a pole, so…I’ve put in the hours.”

He looks impressed at that - or maybe surprised. Or maybe something else entirely. You aren’t sure. You can’t read his facial expressions or his body language nearly as easily as most of the men that enter this room.

“Wow,” Andrew hums with what appears to be a nod of approval. “That’s dedication. You must have really wanted to work here to put so much effort into learning such a specific skill.”

You barely manage to hold back a cackle at that. If he only fucking knew.

You give a half shrug, playing it off. “What can I say?” You sigh. “Guess I really needed the money.”

It’s the truth. Not the whole, disgusting, gritty truth, but it is accurate. As accurate as you can be without trauma dumping and jeopardizing your life…and your father’s.

Andrew nods, looking down at his hands splayed across the tops of his thighs. “Yeah. I get that. I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t made money in some unconventional ways.”

That piques your interest. “Oh? Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

He exhales a small laugh before bringing his eyes back to yours again. “As long as you promise not to tell anyone. If I tell you, it can’t leave this room.”

You make a motion with a hand across your mouth as if you’re zipping your lips and throwing away the key. “My lips are sealed. Pinky promise.” Then, for good measure, you hold out your pinky finger to him in offering.

He stares at your littlest finger for a long moment, the slightest hint of a smirk beginning to tug at the corners of his lips again before he finally lifts a hand of his own, pinky finger upright. He wraps the digit around yours, giving it a firm squeeze before slowly pulling away.

“Years ago,” Andrew starts, “I robbed a bank. It didn’t go as planned, and I spent a few years in prison for it.”

You blink, and wait for him to laugh, or say that he’s kidding. But then five, ten, fifteen seconds pass, and he’s still looking at you with the exact same unreadable expression.

“You robbed a bank?” You ask incredulously. “Jesus, I thought you were going to say that you sold pictures of your feet online or something.”

He doesn’t smile or flinch, just holds your gaze for a second longer. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t say that I’m proud of it, but I did.”

You know that your face must give away your surprise. His revelation should freak you out - if he’s capable of bank robbery, what else is this stranger capable of?

Maybe you’ve become somewhat desensitized to the concept of people going to extremes for money. Your dad. Silas. Even you. A few years ago, you never would have imagined that you’d be here right now. But you have your reasons, and you are. Even though it isn’t your first choice, you wouldn’t want anyone to judge you too harshly for doing what you feel you have to do.

You don’t know Andrew’s past. You have no idea what happened in his life that led him to make the decision to rob a bank. It probably wasn’t because he woke up bored one morning and decided that it sounded like a fun thing to do. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and you know that all too well.

“Well,” you huff a laugh, “I can’t say that I really blame you. I mean, I’d never be able to execute something like that, but it’s fun to fantasize about on occasion.”

“On occasion?” Andrew repeats in a low, curious tone. His brows lift in question. “Like when you’re here?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Please, if I was planning a bank robbery every time that I’m here, I would’ve been locked up years ago. But this place…” You trail off, searching for the right words for what you want to say but know you shouldn’t, “this place can get to you sometimes. Makes stupid ideas sound less stupid. No offense.”

Andrew makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a hum. “No offense taken.”

The rest of the hour drifts by far easier than you expect. Andrew tells you some stories from his time in prison, and about how he grew up not too far from here, in Oceanside. He talks about his siblings, looking down at his lap when he reveals that he’s a twin, but his twin sister, Julia, passed away somewhat recently. You try not to talk too much about yourself, but when he asks you questions, you answer as honestly as you can - telling him that you had been in your third year of college when you started working here, and that one day, when the time is right, you’d like to finish your degree.

By the time a knock sounds at the door signaling that the hour is up, you’re almost startled. It barely feels as if sixty minutes have passed.

“Huh,” you muse, rising from the couch as he does. “That went by a lot quicker than time usually does here.”

Andrew is silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face, still as serious as when you had first made eye contact with him in the alley. Then, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small envelope.

“Here,” he says quietly, holding out the envelope for you to take. “This is for you.” He pauses. “Just you. Not your boss.”

Your eyes shoot up to his in surprise. Not at the fact that he’s offering what you presume to be a tip, but at the last three words. Not your boss.

When your brain catches up, you accept the envelope, clutching it in both hands. “Thank you,” you murmur, trying to keep an even, neutral tone, though you’re sure your face betrays you. “It was, uh…it was nice to meet you, Andrew.”

He gives a small, polite smile as he takes a step towards the door. “It was nice to meet you, Soleil.”

Only when he reaches for the doorknob do you stop him by uttering a single word. He looks back over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised.

You repeat yourself once more. “That’s my name,” you clarify. “My real name.”

He says your name softly. Barely audible. As if just testing how it feels to say it. Then, with a slow nod, he turns the doorknob and exits the room without another word, leaving you staring after him.

Only after his footsteps fade down the hallway do you open the envelope and find that he has given you a thousand dollars.

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“You’re joking, right?”

Jay’s voice fills the silence that had settled over Smurf’s living room following Pope’s suggestion.

“No,” Pope says, trying not to let impatience slip into his tone. “I’m not joking. I really think she would be willing to help us.”

The three men take turns looking at each other before turning their stares back to Pope.

“The stripper?” Craig snorts. “That’s your big idea? I mean, I love strippers as much as the next guy, but you can’t be serious right now.”

“It was technically Deran’s idea.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Deran pipes up.

“When we saw her in the alley,” Pope says, like it’s obvious. “You asked me if I think she hates her boss enough to help us rob him. The answer is yes. I think she does hate him that much. I think she hates that whole place that much.”

No, you hadn’t blatantly said so, but you didn’t need to. He could see it in your eyes, and hear it in your tone. It may as well have been written across your forehead.

“Jesus Christ, man, I wasn’t being serious.”

“Still,” Pope implores, “I spent an hour talking to her. It’s clear she doesn’t want to be there. And after what we witnessed in the alley? It wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.”

His brothers and nephew are silent again, exchanging glances amongst each other.

“She’s been there for three years,” Pope continues. “She knows the layout. She knows when Silas comes and goes. And I’m willing to bet she knows exactly where that safe is and how to get to it, too.”

“So she hates her job,” Craig shrugs. “Doesn’t mean she’s cool with risking a felony charge.”

Pope shakes his head. “She didn’t seem too put off when I told her that I’ve done time for armed robbery.”

All three voices erupt at once.

“You told her what?”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“Dude, are you insane?”

“I wanted her to know that she can trust me,” Pope says simply. “And she reacted fine. More than fine. She seemed to understand.”

Jay clears his throat. “Look, if we do this, she can’t be a liability. She needs to know what she’s doing, and she needs to keep her mouth shut.”

“She will,” Pope says instantly. “I know she will.”

Deran squints. “How? You spent one hour with her. You don’t actually know her.”

Pope meets his eyes with an unblinking stare. “You think I’d risk all of our asses if I wasn’t sure? I know enough to know that I’m not wrong.”

Pope’s stare is locked on Craig. It’s his operation and therefore he gets the final say. If it were solely up to Jay, or even Deran, he wouldn’t think there’s a chance of getting them to agree. But Craig’s a little riskier than they are. If he thinks there’s even a slight chance that it’ll increase the odds of the job being a success, he’s likely to agree.

“Fuck it,” Craig finally mutters, shaking his head. “Fine. We’ll try it your way. But we aren’t sharing our cut with her. If she gets anything, it’s coming out of your share. I’m not sacrificing my payday because you have a crush on the stripper.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope knows a guy who knows a guy who somehow knows everything about everyone. And if that guy doesn’t know, he has ways of finding out.

Well, technically Smurf knew him, but Pope uses that connection to his advantage.

The information doesn’t come cheap, but Pope needed to know with absolute certainty before waltzing back into Solstice and asking you to help him rob your boss.

Except now he isn’t just asking for help pulling off the heist. He’s going to ask for help pulling off an execution, because he doesn’t just want Silas Leary’s money, he wants him dead.

It may have cost him three grand, but Pope now has confirmation that his suspicions were correct and somehow worse than he had thought. Not only are you essentially being trafficked, but you’re doing so because your life and your father’s are on the line.

Now he knows, without a doubt, just how desperate you must be for a way out. And even though he’s only met you one time, Pope wants to give you that way out.

If only you’ll be willing to take it.

Pope makes the hour and a half long drive from Oceanside to Los Angeles again the very next night without any confirmation that you would even be working, but it’s a chance he’s willing to take. Craig and the others want to get on with the job, and Pope wants to get you away from the likes of Silas Leary as quickly as possible.

He goes over it all in his head the entire drive to the club. Everything he knows about you, from what he had witnessed the moment he first saw you in the alley, to every word you said to him in the private room, to what the private investigator informed him of.

But that’s not all he thinks about. He also thinks about the way your pinky finger felt wrapped around his when you offered the symbolic gesture to keep his secret, and the intoxicating smell of your perfume that he had to fight the urge to inhale the entire hour that you sat beside him on that tiny couch. He thinks about how sweet it sounded to hear you say his name, his real name, and how it sounded even sweeter when you told him your real name.

Maybe Craig is right. Maybe he does have a crush. That’s the most logical explanation for why Pope suddenly no longer cares how much money he pulls from this job. There will always be another job - if he wanted to, he could rob another bank by himself next week. He cares more about getting you out of the unfortunate predicament you’re in, and ensuring that Silas can never bring harm to you or anyone else ever again.

When he arrives, it’s close to midnight and the club is packed. He can barely get through the dense crowd of dancers and patrons that occupy the main floor, his eyes carefully scanning the crowd as he makes his way to the bar, where he orders a beer to keep up appearances until he’s able to spot you.

He waits for over half an hour. He doesn’t move from his seat at the bar, where he has the perfect view of center stage, the main floor, and the doorway to the hallway that leads to the private room he shared with you last night.

Just observing it all is overstimulating. From the loud music that pulsates through Pope’s barstool, to the neon strobe lights that make his eyes throb, to the smell of bodies and liquor that hangs heavy in hot club air, he doesn’t know how you have done it for three years without losing your sanity. Even just sitting here, all Pope can think about are all of the germs on every surface of this place.

When you finally appear at the mouth of the small hallway that leads to the private rooms wearing a pale pink, ruffled bodysuit that looks like it was custom made for you, Pope momentarily forgets why he’s here.

He watches as your eyes flicker around the main floor of the club, as if you’re dreading stepping back into the chaos of it all. When you finally glance towards the bar, your gaze locks with his and Pope’s skin warms at the way your face lights up with surprise. He offers you a small smile and wave of his hand, and that’s all you need to walk the short distance to where he sits.

“Andrew,” you breathe, coming to stand next to where he sits. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Soleil,” he greets, a teasing edge to his tone. He almost lets your real name slip out, but thinks better of it at the last second. He isn’t sure why you trusted him enough to let him know your real name after only an hour together, but he gets the feeling that isn’t something that you tell just anyone.

“I didn’t expect to be back so soon, but…” He trails off momentarily, glancing around the crowded room. There’s too many people. He has to speak too loudly in order for you to hear him over all of the voices and loud music, and he doesn’t want to risk anyone overhearing. “Are you busy right now?”

You shake your head. “No. I just finished up a private room. I’ve already done my solo set for the night. I was just going to walk around, make conversation with some regulars. Why? Are you…wanting a room?”

Pope can’t help but think you sound a little hopeful. But maybe that’s wishful thinking on his part. You are doing your job, after all.

“Yeah, I am,” he says, standing up beside you. “If you have time.”

You nod with a smile that reaches your eyes. “Of course.”

He follows as you lead him down the hallway, straight to the exact room that the two of you occupied last night. As he does, a terrifying thought occurs: you might say no. You might get scared, and deny everything, and refuse to help. You might tell him to get lost, and he doesn’t know where the hell that would leave him. But as he walks into the room after you, he swallows that thought down, and focuses on what he does know: you want to be here even less than he does.

“I’m really glad to see you,” you say as you shut the door behind him. “And I’m not just saying that because you tipped me a thousand dollars. Thank you, by the way. That was very generous of you.”

Pope takes a seat on the couch, the exact same spot he sat twenty-four hours ago, though he feels significantly more nervous now than he did then. “No need to thank me,” he murmurs. “I really enjoyed talking to you.”

You take a seat beside him, relaxing against the couch. “Is that why you came back? To talk more?”

He nods. “It is. If that’s okay with you.”

“More than okay with me. Is there anything in particular that you’d like to talk about tonight, Andrew?”

He hesitates for a second. He spent half the drive here rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to you to ensure that this would go as smoothly as possible, but now that he’s sitting beside you, he has forgotten how to string two words together.

He clears his throat slightly. “Can I ask you something?”

Your eyebrows twitch in curiosity. “Sure.”

“If you could walk out of this place tonight and never come back, would you?”

A small laugh escapes you, and you instantly drop his gaze, looking down at your hands in your lap instead. “That’s a hell of a question. You know, most people that get me alone in this room just ask me if I have a boyfriend or what my favorite position is.”

Pope watches you for a moment. “Well, I’m not most people.”

You look back up, your lips pursed. “No,” you agree quietly. “You’re definitely not.” You pause just long enough to make Pope wonder if you’re going to say anything else at all. “Yeah. I would. What makes you ask?”

He exhales slowly, only mildly surprised by your honesty. “I heard what happened in the alley yesterday.”

You’re visibly taken aback, your body going rigid and your eyes going wide, and he can understand why. In the entire hour you spent together last night, he didn’t bring up the incident in the alley. You probably assumed he hadn’t been able to hear what Silas had said, or that he at least hadn’t thought anything of it, but now here he is, bringing it up unprompted.

“Oh,” you start, your voice unnaturally high, “that was just—”

He cuts you off by shaking his head. “I’m not asking you to explain anything to me,” says lowly. “But I know who Silas is. That’s why me and my brothers came here last night. We were supposed to come here, get information, and leave.”

You don’t move as you stare at him in silence, either too stunned or too scared to speak. He continues so you don’t have to.

“But then I met you. And now I can’t just pretend I didn’t see that.”

You study him for a long moment. “What kind of information?”

“Remember when I told you that I did time in prison?”

Your eyebrows scrunch together before realization blooms across your face a fraction of a second later. Instinctively, you change your position on the small sofa, putting more space between the two of you. “Jesus,” you hiss. “You were going to rob—”

You don’t finish your sentence, looking from Pope, to the door just a few feet away, to a security camera in the corner of the room.

“You’re lucky that thing doesn’t have audio,” you spit under your breath.

Pope holds back a laugh. “I know it doesn’t have audio. I know what I’m doing.” He pauses, then offers a small, almost shy smile. “Most of the time.”

“Oh, most of the time?”

Pope shrugs. “Most of the time.”

You sigh, running a hand down your face as you look around the room again.

“Look,” you whisper, “I don’t care what you and your brothers do to Silas, but I can’t get involved.”

Pope doesn’t respond right away. He was expecting you to say something along those lines. But you aren’t screaming at him to get out, or running away to find a security guard, so he still feels hope.

He murmurs your real name for the first time since you had first told him what it is last night. It causes your expression to soften the tiniest bit, a glimpse of vulnerability appearing in your eyes.

“I know that he’s got something over you. And I swear I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

You purse your lips as you stare at him, as if searching for any sign that he could be lying to you.

“I know you don’t know me,” Pope adds delicately. “I wouldn’t blame you for not trusting me. I’m just asking you to hear me out.”

Another beat of loaded silence. “Okay,” you say, barely audible. “But we can’t talk about this here. It’s too risky.” You nod towards the door. “I don’t get off until three.”

“That’s okay,” Pope says, and he hopes that his relief isn’t too evident in his tone. “I can wait.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

When you first noticed Andrew sitting at the bar, grinning as if just waiting for you to walk in the room, you would’ve assumed that would be the most surprising thing to happen to you tonight.

That assumption proved to be dead wrong, because five minutes later, he revealed that he’s planning to rob your boss.

(Correction: he’s planning to rob him, and knows that he’s a huge piece of shit who is blackmailing you).

The surprises don’t stop there, though. Next, you surprise yourself by inviting a practical stranger into your home.

Your self-preservation skills have always been lacking. That was evident the day that you willingly agreed to work for Silas to help pay off your dad’s debt instead of fleeing the state of California and never looking back.

But this might just break the record for most reckless and foolhardy thing you’ve ever done.

Andrew waits for you in the parking garage down the block from the club until you get off just after three o’clock in the morning. Your body is exhausted, but your mind has never been more awake as you drive back to your apartment with him tailing you in his truck.

Your thoughts reel with all of the ways that this could go disastrously wrong.

You do not actually know this man. You’ve spent less than a collective two hours with him. Your gut tells you that he’s being honest, but is it worth the risk? He’s a bank robber. A convicted felon, who apparently comes from a crime family. Is it possible that you could just be trading one Silas for another? Andrew claims he can help you, but how? And at what cost?

Moments after you arrive at your apartment, Andrew pulls into the parking spot directly next to yours and then follows you wordlessly to your unit.

You have every intention of telling him to make himself comfortable on your couch and offering him fresh coffee. It is well after three o’clock in the morning - most people who don’t work the nightshift would be asleep at this time. But as soon as your front door clicks shut, you suddenly forget all pleasantries.

“You said that you know he’s got something over me.” You stand before Andrew in your small kitchen, looking him dead in the eye. “How much do you know, exactly?”

He meets your gaze with an equally level stare. It isn’t harsh, but it is hard for you to read. You’re quickly learning that to be the norm with Andrew. Difficult to read.

“I know enough,” Andrew says calmly. “I know Silas is a loan shark. I know you’re working for him to pay back money that you didn’t borrow.”

You nod slowly, dropping your gaze to the floor as you lean against your kitchen counter. “And how do you think you can help me with that, exactly?” You glance back up. “Don’t get me wrong, I would love to believe you, but I just don’t see how you and your brothers robbing the guy magically frees me of him. I mean, if he were to find out that it was you, and that I’ve even talked you outside of the club, he would—”

“He wouldn’t find out,” Andrew cuts you off, voice even and low. “I would make sure of that.”

“How?” You take a step towards him without thinking, your hands clasped in front of you. “How would you make sure of that? If you know why I’m working for Silas, then I’m assuming you know about my father. It isn’t just my life on the line here, Andrew.”

His hazel eyes soften at that. “I do know about your father. I also know there’s a lot of people stuck in situations like you and your father, because of Silas. A lot of people who would all be better off if Silas…wasn’t around anymore.”

Your eyebrows lift halfway up your forehead. “Wasn’t around anymore?” You echo. As soon as they leave your lips, the implication becomes clear.

Wasn’t around anymore. Gone. Deleted. Erased.

Andrew doesn’t verbalize a response. He just watches you from where he stands an arm’s length away and waits for you to process what he’s telling you.

That he’s offering to kill Silas. Or have him killed. You don’t really know. There’s a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears that’s making it impossible to think clearly.

You finally manage to get two words out. “You’re serious.”

It isn’t posed as a question.

“I am,” Andrew says simply. “If you want me to be.”

You snort at that, because what the fuck are you supposed to say? “Yeah, off with his head!” and “oh no, please don’t hurt him!” somehow feel equally wrong.

You look to the floor again. And then around the room. To your houseplants that need watered, and then to last night’s dishes that still need to be put in the dishwasher. Anywhere but Andrew’s intense, unyielding honey colored stare that you could probably get lost in if it weren’t for the bizarre circumstances for which he is in your apartment right now.

Finally, you exhale. “I think…I want some coffee.” You turn to the espresso machine behind you, and then glance at Andrew over your shoulder. “What about you?”

He looks surprised for a split-second, then nods. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

Upon your invitation, Andrew takes a stiff seat on your couch while you use the few minutes that it takes you to brew and prepare the drinks to attempt to process what the fuck has transpired since the two of you entered your apartment.

It does little good. You still have just as many questions as you did on the drive home. Even more now. Andrew is offering to kill for you? Has he killed before? Was he really in prison for bank robbery? Or was it something else? Should you be trying to secretly dial 911 on your watch right now?

Probably. If you were smart. But you’re not smart. You’re desperate, and Andrew might just be offering you a way out on a silver platter.

Although it could come back to bite you in the ass, right now, you’re willing to be an open book. You meant what you had said to Andrew at the club tonight - you don’t care what he and his brothers do to Silas. Rob him, or worse…he deserves it. And after the hell he has put you, and your father, through these last three years, you have very little hesitation helping Silas get his karma.

“Hypothetically,” you start, sitting down on your small loveseat directly across the table from him. “Let’s say I agree to this…walk me through it. How would you and your brothers…go about this? What would you need from me? And what about…afterwards? What would I owe you?”

The questions pour out of you faster than you can stop them.

Andrew’s brows scrunch together. “You wouldn’t owe me anything,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’m not Silas. I just want to help you. And if you have any information that could potentially help us, then that would be great, but if not…I still want to do whatever I can to get you out of this mess.”

He says every word so sincerely that it makes you feel silly for even thinking otherwise.

Of course he isn’t Silas. You might not know Andrew very well, but you know that he isn’t Silas. Silas takes what he wants with zero regard for anyone but himself. Andrew has given you every opportunity to express discomfort, to change your mind, to tell him to fuck off. Even now, if you told him to get lost and never contact you again, you don’t doubt that he’d honor your wishes.

Andrew stares so heavy that you swear he can see right through you. His voice is low and steady when he speaks again. “You don’t deserve what Silas is doing to you. But he does deserve what’s coming to him.”

You don’t know if the next words out of your mouth mean that you’re crazy, or just desperate.

“What kind of information do you need?”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope didn’t want to leave you in Los Angeles, but he had to come back home to Oceanside to work out all of the details of the heist with his brothers.

He knows you’re capable of taking care of yourself. You’ve been doing it for years. You don’t need a man that you met two days ago playing bodyguard. But he’d be lying if he said that the thought of you working even one more shift at Solstice, or the thought of you being in close proximity to Silas, or the thought of a random sleazebag laying so much as a finger on you in that place doesn’t make his blood burn white-hot.

He takes comfort in knowing that after tonight, you only have to step foot into that place one more time. And that time, he will be there, too.

Still, he hates knowing that as he sits on his couch in Oceanside, you’re at the club in LA. Pope had suggested that you call out tonight, but you had shot that idea down quickly. You explained that you always work Sunday nights, and you didn’t want to risk drawing any negative attention to yourself before the heist that is now planned for this upcoming Friday night.

Currently, it is 3:46 in the morning, and Pope is wide awake, even though he shouldn’t be, and thinking of you, even though he probably shouldn’t be doing that, either. He wonders if you’ve made it home from work yet, and if your shift went okay or if Silas was there tonight…and he subconsciously grits his teeth at the thought of that.

He manages to hold out until 3:58 before he finds your name in the recently added section of his contacts and presses call.

You answer just after the first ring.

“Andrew,” Your voice pours from his speaker softly, slightly hoarse. “Is everything okay?”

Right away, he’s relieved at the lack of background noise. No music blasting and no drunk frat guys yelling over it. No car horns honking or sirens wailing. It’s safe to assume that you have made it home already.

“Everything’s fine,” he answers. “I just wanted to make sure you got home safely. See how your shift went.”

You exhale a hum of soft laughter. “Just walked through the door a few minutes ago. Work was busy. Really busy for a Sunday night. I’m glad it’s over. Almost.”

“Almost,” he agrees. “At least you’re off for the next few days. The next time you step foot in that place, it’ll be the last.”

There’s a brief pause before you speak. “As long as everything goes according to plan,” you murmur, and Pope can hear the nerves in your voice.

“It will,” he assures you. “Let us worry about that, alright? You just try to relax in the meantime.”

You snort. “Easier said than done.”

“Keep yourself busy so you don’t think about it too much,” Pope suggests lightly. “Do you have any plans this week?”

“Not really,” you grumble. “Los Angeles isn’t really my scene. I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for…” You trail off momentarily. You don’t have to finish the sentence. “Anyway. I go to work, I go home, and sometimes I go to the beach. That’s about it.”

“You like the beach?”

“I do,” you hum. “It’s one of the very few things I like about living here. My apartment is only about a twenty minute drive from Venice Beach. Well, really more like forty with all of the traffic…”

Pope is silent for a moment. During those few seconds of silence, he can hear waves crash against the shore just beyond the front door of the small beachfront house. If he were to step outside and walk mere yards, his feet would touch sand. He can glance out of the window in front of him and see moonlight dance across the water. There’s nothing separating him from the ocean but the walls of the house.

“I live right on the beach, you know,” Pope says, going for casual but probably failing. “The beach is my front yard.”

“Really?” You chirp. “God, that must be nice. I mean, you saw where I live in LA. Just about anywhere beats this shitty apartment, and the shitty traffic, and all of the endless noise, but living on the beach? I can only imagine how peaceful that is.”

There’s an idea forming in Pope’s mind, and he knows it’s irrational and naive, but he has already offered to kill for you after knowing you for one day, so how crazy could anything else really be?

“You ever been to Oceanside?”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Against your better judgment, later that day you drive to Oceanside with the address Andrew sent you typed into your GPS.

You almost turn around at least a dozen times.

You don’t want to turn around, but what little common sense you possess nearly convinces you to do so. What would you say if one of your coworkers told you that they have packed a bag and are going to stay with a mysterious man who booked a private room with them only forty-eight hours ago, tipped them a thousand dollars, came back the very next night, and revealed that he’s planning to both rob and kill your boss?

You would tell them that the next time you see them, it’s going to be on a missing person’s poster or a Dateline episode.

Yet here you are. Doing exactly that. Because for reasons you do not fully understand, Andrew makes you feel safe. Maybe you’re just so used to feeling unsafe that true safety has become a foreign concept to you. Maybe your judgment is clouded. But when he told you that he has a spare room and offered it to you for the days leading up to the heist, it hardly took any convincing for you to say yes.

Now, less than twelve hours later, with only a duffel bag in your passenger seat stuffed full of beach attire and toiletries, you’re driving to him.

Andrew had offered to come get you, too. And even though you ultimately insisted that you were fine with driving yourself to Oceanside, you can’t deny that the offer made your whole body feel irrationally warm and fuzzy - the fact that he’d be willing to make a third trip to Los Angeles in the last three days because you had made an off handed comment about your distaste for LA traffic.

You’re excited. Not only to get away from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles for a few days, but also to see Andrew again. This time not inside a private room at Solstice or in your tiny apartment at four o’clock in the morning. You’re eager to get a feel for who he really is outside of the club environment, to see how he is when he’s somewhere that he’s comfortable, to learn about the man who has done nothing but surprise you time and time again since you met him only days ago.

When your car’s GPS announces your arrival, you don’t have to question whether or not you’re at the right place. He’s waiting for you on the front porch.

Like every time that you have seen him so far, he wears a short sleeve button-up shirt and a grave expression that would make you question if he’s actually glad to see you if it weren’t for the fact that he wastes no time trotting down the porch steps to greet you at your car.

He opens your door for you before you have the chance.

“You weren’t exaggerating when you said that the beach is your front yard,” you laugh, grabbing your duffel bag from your passenger seat that Andrew immediately reaches to take from you. “If you were any closer, you’d be in the water.”

When you stand up, Andrew shuts your door behind you and then rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, his cheeks flushing slightly. It dawns on you that this is the first time that you’ve seen him in the daylight. Before now, you’ve only seen him in the neon fluorescents of the club and the low lighting of your apartment in the middle of the night. But now, in broad daylight without so much as a cloud in the sky, you feel like you’re really seeing him for the first time.

You already knew he has freckles, but now you could count every single one, if you wanted to. You knew that his eyes were hazel, but now you can see the tiny flecks of gold around his irises. And you thought that he was pretty the very first time you saw him in the alley, but you can’t help but think he’s even prettier in the sunlight.

“I may have said that to make you want to come,” he admits sheepishly. “But it wasn’t a lie.”

Your own face warms at the admission. “Well, clearly it worked. I came.”

Andrew’s mouth upturns slightly at the corners, his eyes crinkling around them. “Come on,” he nods towards the house. “I’ll show you around.”

The place is relatively small - a single story two bedroom, but in comparison to your studio apartment, it feels like a castle. And it’s clean. Spotless, actually. You hadn’t been expecting a pigsty by any means, but the exceptional tidiness is still a pleasant surprise. There’s not a decorative pillow out of place or so much as a dirty dish in the sink.

He carries your bag to the doorway of the first bedroom and lets you enter before him.

“This is the, uh…” Andrew trails off for a fraction of a second, searching for words, “This is the guest room. All yours while you’re here.”

You take in the appearance of the small room. Like the common areas of the house, it’s clean, but there’s certain characteristics that stand out to you. A pastel pink, floral comforter. A stack of children’s books on the dresser. A handful of small clothes hangers in an otherwise empty closet, and a ladder of pencil markings on the wall right beside it. At first, they look like random scratches in the paint, but as you take a step closer, you realize that they are height measurements. Each spaced a few inches apart, with dates scribbled next to each line. Some of the handwriting appears more feminine, whereas the more recent markings seem childlike.

You glance at Andrew over your shoulder, where he still stands in the doorway, watching you. “Do you…have children?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

His gaze shifts past you, to the pencil markings in the far corner of the room. “No, I don’t,” he answers, a hint of melancholy in the words. “This room was my niece’s, but she doesn’t live here anymore. I just…can’t bring myself to erase it.”

Judging by his tone and dejected expression, he doesn’t seem particularly eager to talk about the subject, so you don’t press it any further, instead locking the information away with everything else you’ve learned about him in the last few days.

His childhood nickname is Pope. He had a twin sister named Julia. He drinks his coffee black. He has a niece, and as of last summer, she was approximately 45 inches tall. He did time in prison for armed robbery, and he’s prepared to kill someone for a woman he barely knows.

You offer a small nod. “Well, it’s a really nice place. Thank you, again. For inviting me. You have no idea how glad I am to be away from LA, even for a few days.”

Andrew’s expression softens. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, voice calm in a way that you’re quickly growing to find very comforting. “I’m happy that you’re here.”

You plop down on the edge of the mattress and grin up at him. “So, what’s the plan for today? You gonna show me around Oceanside?”

“I was planning on it.” He leans against the doorframe, his thumbs in his pockets as he smirks at you. “We can do whatever you want. Go to the beach, the pier, just ride around. We do need to go to the grocery store at some point so I can grab some things for dinner.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “We can do whatever I want and you’re going to make me dinner? You’re quite the host, Andrew.”

He blushes at that, the apples of his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. The thought crosses your mind right then and there - you would never in a million years guess that he’s capable of doing what he plans to do later this week just by looking at him. This blushing, thoughtful man who has been nothing but respectful and considerate of you since the moment you met. He’s going to put a permanent end to the problem that has plagued you for years?

There’s more than one side to people, clearly. But that doesn’t bother you. Not in the slightest. In fact, you’re interested in getting to know every side of Andrew Cody. The soft-spoken version of him standing before you, and the version of him capable of the kind of violence you’ve only ever let yourself fantasize about.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Oceanside is - quite literally - a breath of fresh air compared to Los Angeles.

It isn’t exactly a small town, but it feels like one by comparison. There’s less people, less noise, less traffic, less smells. The ocean is five minutes away no matter where you go.

Los Angeles may be less than a two hour drive from Oceanside, but it feels like it’s worlds away. You feel like you can actually fucking breathe here.

By the end of your very first day here, you dread ever returning to LA. To Solstice (even for just one more shift). To your cramped, overpriced studio apartment that you’ve tried your hardest to make feel like home but never really has.

But here? Oceanside? Even just a few hours after your arrival, you can tell that this is a place that could easily start to feel like home to you. Partially due to the relaxed nature of the beach town, and partially due to the curly-haired man who is currently cooking you dinner as you watch from across the kitchen bar.

“Whatcha gonna make for dinner?” You ask as Andrew pulls into the grocery store parking lot.

He puts the truck in park and unbuckles his seatbelt before turning slightly to face you. “That depends entirely on what you’d like to eat.”

You had tried to insist that you were fine with whatever, but Andrew is quite convincing when he wants to be. He had refused to leave the grocery store until you told him what to make for dinner. Not wanting to be an inconvenience, or high maintenance, or too picky, you suggested the first relatively simple and inexpensive meal that you could think of on the spot.

Now, you sit across the counter from him, watching as he cooks fettuccine alfredo for the both of you.

As hard as you try not to let your eyes wander, you can’t stop yourself. Andrew seems oblivious, and if he notices he doesn’t say anything, but your eyes are drawn to his broad shoulders, thick arms, and bulky chest. His curls are wind-blown and skin sun-kissed from an afternoon spent walking on the beach near his house, making his freckles more visible than ever.

He catches you smirking at him as he’s plating up the food. A bashful grin appears on his face. “What is it?”

You shake your head with a small shrug. “Nothing. You’re just…not at all what I thought you’d be when we first met.”

Andrew’s eyebrows arch slightly. “You mean the kind of guy that normally books private rooms with you at the club?”

You snort a laugh. “Yeah, something like that.” You pause, grinning. “I mean, obviously most of them don’t recruit me to help them rob my boss…” Andrew chuckles lowly at that. “But they also don’t cook me Italian food and let me stay at their beach house.”

“What can I say?” Andrew slides your plate across the counter. “I’m full of surprises.”

You can’t disagree with that.

Andrew takes a seat beside you and the meal is eaten in companionable silence for the most part, giving your thoughts time to stray to all of the things that you have tried your hardest not to dwell on too much since you arrived here today.

You’ve tried not to think about what’s to come at the end of the week, and all of the ways that it could go disastrously wrong. As hard as you try to think positively, you can’t help but worry about someone getting hurt. Andrew, or one of his brothers, or a random dancer at the club who somehow gets caught in the crosshairs, or even yourself. Your brain conjures worst case scenarios, causing visions of anyone other than Silas dying to replay on a loop until you snap yourself out of it.

But with Andrew sitting next to you, it’s a little easier to silence those scary thoughts and replace them with better ones. Like maybe, just maybe, if this whole operation doesn’t go to shit, there could be more moments like this.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope isn’t particularly eager for you to meet his family, but he knows it’s bound to happen sooner or later. Especially if he hopes to maintain a regular presence in your life once this week is over.

He doesn’t expect you to want the same, but he does hope.

So, on your second day in Oceanside, he bites the bullet and drives you both to the family home after asking his brothers and nephew to meet there to go over everything for the heist a final time.

You assure him you don’t mind, but you’ve never met his family before. He’s slightly comforted by the fact that he never has to worry about you meeting Smurf, but there’s still Deran and Craig, who act like teenagers more than half the time.

“Look,” Pope stops you with a gentle hand on your arm before he reaches for the front door, “If they say anything inappropriate, or weird, just ignore them. They’re children. We’re just here to go over the plan and then we’ll leave, I promise.”

You exhale a laugh. “I can assure you that I’m used to inappropriate and weird, Andrew. They cannot possibly be any worse than the men that I have dealt with on a regular basis the last three years.”

He hesitates a moment, his hand still on your arm as he watches for any sign of reluctance, but you give none. Grudgingly, Pope opens the door and lets you enter before him.

Inside, there’s less noise than Pope expects, and it gives him the tiniest bit of hope that everyone will be on their best behavior. He leads you through the house, where the two of you find Craig, Deran, and Jay already gathered in the living room.

All three pairs of eyes immediately land on you as soon as you and Pope enter the room.

“Holy shit,” Craig laughs. “She actually exists.”

Deran snorts. “I told you she does.”

“Still,” Craig shrugs. “I didn’t believe that she would actually be willing to hear Pope out and not immediately run screaming to the cops.” He stands then, walking the short distance to where you stand beside Pope, extending a hand to you in offering. “Craig, by the way.”

“Ah,” you sigh, briefly shaking his hand. “The mastermind behind this operation, I hear.”

Craig winks, clicking his tongue. “You’ve heard correctly.”

Jay and Deran then introduce themselves, clarity blooming on your face as you recognize Deran from the brief encounter in the alley. You’re perfectly friendly, but the tension in your shoulders and the way that you clasp your hands in front of you doesn’t go unnoticed by Pope.

He can’t blame you for being nervous. You are in a room full of criminals, all of whom are strangers to you - himself included - to plot not only the financial but also physical demise of the man who has made your life hell for years.

Anyone sane would be nervous. But it speaks volume to Pope how much trust you’re putting in him (and how desperate you must be for any chance at freedom, no matter how risky it may be).

With a featherlight hand on the small of your back, Pope nods to an empty section on the couch for you to take a seat. He sits directly beside you, just close enough for the side of your thigh to brush against his.

Craig immediately launches into the logistics of the plan for Friday night. Jay is to disable all security cameras inside and around the perimeter of the club, and then waits with the getaway car. After the cameras have been disabled, Craig, Deran, and Pope will all enter through the basement. Once they are in the safe room, Pope is to signal to you through a discreet communication device that you’ll wear in your ear.

“…and then you’ll tell your creepy floor manager…”

“Gregory.”

“Gregory,” Craig repeats, “that you saw a customer open the basement door and go downstairs. But only if you know that Silas is distracted at the time. We don’t want Silas coming down before we make Gregory open the safe.”

“Right,” you nod. “So then Gregory opens the safe, Deran takes the money and leaves, you and Andrew make Gregory call for Silas to come downstairs, and then…?”

“And then Craig and I take care of the rest,” Pope answers simply. He doesn’t want you worrying about the specifics as to what happens once Silas enters the basement. The less you know at that point, the better. “Whatever you do, you stay upstairs. Finish your shift just like you would any other night. By the time you get off, it’ll all be finished.”

You’re silent for a moment, glancing around at each of the men in the room before you turn your head just enough to look Pope in the eyes. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do to help? Kinda feel like I’m not really pulling my weight here.”

“We’re sure,” Pope says before any of the others have a chance to speak up, his tone final, leaving no room for objection. “Between the information you’ve given us and what you’ll say to Gregory, you’ve done more than enough.”

You glance down to where your hands are interlocked in your lap. Then, in a smaller voice with a humorless laugh, “Enough for you to kill a man for me? To risk going back to prison?”

The question makes him forget that the two of you are in a room with three other men. He instinctively reaches out, placing a hand on top of both of yours. Your eyes dart down in surprise to where his hand rests on yours and a thick silence settles over the room before Pope slowly retracts his hand before answering you with absolute resolution.

“Yes,” he implores. “I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again. You don’t have to do anything to earn this. I’m offering. Because I want to.”

He wants to for you. Since the moment he first saw you in that alley and he stood and watched as Silas grabbed you by the arm, a part of him has wanted to ensure that Silas never touches you again. That desire has only grown stronger since meeting you, talking to you, and getting to know you these last few days. The only thing that could possibly stop him from sending Silas to an early grave is if you personally begged him not to, and even then, Pope would still want to with every fiber of his being.

You stare at Pope, pursing your lips, and he halfway expects you to argue. But he doesn’t drop your gaze, doesn’t even blink, and eventually you exhale a shaky breath.

“Let’s do this, then.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“You nervous about tomorrow?”

You’re hardly able to make out the words over the crashing of waves against the shore and the squawking of a seagull just a few yards away from where you and Andrew sit on the beach.

You turn your gaze away from the sun that has started to set over the Pacific Ocean to find that Andrew is already looking at you.

“Of course,” you admit with a breathy laugh. “Are you nervous?”

Andrew lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, looking back out to the water. “We’ve pulled off more complicated jobs than this before. Not too long ago we infiltrated a military base. A strip club is nothing compared to that.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, as they tend to do anytime you’re learning new information about the man sitting beside you. “A military base?” You echo in disbelief. “Jesus. How exactly did you guys even get into this kind of thing, anyway?”

Robbing banks. Offering to kill a man for a woman he’s only just met. And apparently, infiltrating military bases. That kind of thing. The kind of thing that should send you running in the opposite direction but for some reason makes you want to lean in closer.

Andrew shakes his head, a quick snort of laughter escaping him. “Our mother,” he answers. “She taught us everything we know. I’ve been doing this since Craig and Deran were still in diapers.”

“Jesus,” you mumble. You don’t know the exact age difference between Andrew and his brothers, but he can’t possibly be all that much older than them. He was just a kid. “And you…enjoy it?”

Andrew thinks about it for a moment, leaning back with his palms pressed into the sand. “I wouldn’t say that enjoy is the right word. It’s just all that I’ve ever known.”

You nod slowly, contemplating the words. This lifestyle is his baseline for normal. If you struggle to remember what life was like before you got dragged into working at Solstice only a few years ago, you can only imagine the complex feelings that come with being groomed into an entire lifetime of crime.

“Have you ever thought about what else you would do?” You ask hesitantly. “If you weren’t doing this?”

Again, he doesn’t answer right away. You watch as his eyes narrow in thought, his stare locked on the pink and orange horizon ahead of you. “I’ve thought about it,” he murmurs, a hint of restrained emotion in his tone. “Never for long enough to act on it, but…maybe I’d open a skatepark. Eventually settle down, start a family of my own.”

“Really?” You can’t hide the surprise from your voice. You aren’t quite sure why the answer surprises you as much as it does - you did literally just meet this man less than a week ago, but you didn’t exactly peg him to be the chasing toddlers, Pee-wee soccer game on a Saturday morning kind of guy. “You want to have kids?”

“Maybe one or two,” he shrugs. “I probably won’t, though. It’s just something I like to think about sometimes.” He pauses. “What about you? What are you gonna do when this is all over?”

That’s a question that you’ve been asking yourself for years. Up until now, it has only felt like a distant fantasy. Even now, you’re trying not to get your hopes up too high for fear that it won’t work out. That things will take a turn for the worst. That someone will get hurt, that Silas will somehow get away and find out what you’ve tried to do. Even with freedom almost close enough to touch, you won’t let yourself believe it’s yours until you’re actually holding it in your hand…and until you are, it’s difficult to imagine what life could possibly look like.

You exhale. “I’ll probably start by visiting my dad. I haven’t seen him in a while. I wanna let him know that me and him are gonna be okay. And then…” You trail off momentarily, “and then I’m gonna get the fuck out of LA. Maybe go back to school eventually,” you shrug. “I guess I haven’t let myself think about it too much either.”

Andrew hums in thought at the response. Then, he sits up straight, pulling his knees awkwardly to his chest and looking at you with the same serious expression that you’re no closer to being able to read than you were the night you first met him.

“You’re always welcome here. If you need a place to stay while you figure out what you wanna do.”

The offer warms you more than the evening California sun. Not only the words, but the way you can’t help but think he sounds nervous, and maybe a little hopeful, when he speaks them.

And because you don’t know how to express your gratitude in words, you place your head on his shoulder, instead. He tenses in surprise for a fraction of a second, then relaxes into the embrace, nuzzling the side of his cheek against the top of your head.

“I do like it here,” you hum. I like you, too, you think to yourself. “I might have to take you up on that.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“Cameras are officially offline. Soleil, if you can hear me, cough two times.”

Jay’s voice pours through the tiny communication device that Andrew had helped place in your ear only an hour ago. You’re able to make out Jay’s words, but they’re muffled, as the club is already extremely busy tonight - which you’re far more grateful for than you usually would be. Tonight, the more noise, the better. Boisterous laughs and obnoxiously loud music means that patrons and dancers are less likely to hear anything out of the ordinary.

As inconspicuously as possible, you raise your arm and cough twice into your elbow.

“Good,” Jay replies. “Everyone keep to the plan. Pope, let us know when you guys are in.”

The line then goes silent, leaving you to attempt to act calm, cool and collected for however long it takes Andrew, Craig and Deran to get into the basement and then the safe room without being caught.

You haven’t even been here for an hour yet, and you already feel the need to reapply deodorant due to the intense nervous sweats that you’re currently experiencing. You’ve already been to the bathroom twice because your stomach is so tied in knots that you are convinced you’re going to get sick.

Maybe you should have listened to Andrew and called out tonight. He had tried to assure that they would find a way to make everything work without you there, but you stubbornly insisted on helping.

What if your anxiety gets the best of you and you get sick on center stage tonight? What if someone notices how antsy you are? What if your earpiece falls out while dancing?

Oh, that’s just a hearing aid. I somehow went partially deaf in the last few days.

It doesn’t help that Silas is exceptionally irritable tonight, barking at every dancer and employee for every little thing. You spend the first part of the night maintaining as much distance between yourself and him as you possibly can while also keeping a careful eye on him. It’s sheer dumb luck that no one requests a private room with you during the first hour of the night so you’re able to monitor both Silas and Gregory from a reasonable distance while simultaneously conversing with customers.

And, if you were having any second thoughts about playing a part in Silas’ demise, those go out the window the minute that he approaches you that night.

You’re standing at the bar, waiting on some drinks for a table you have been entertaining, when he eases up beside you. Call it a sixth sense, but the way that your skin crawls at the sudden presence tells you it’s him before you even glance over.

“Enjoy your days off?” Silas asks, voice low enough for only you to hear. You cut your eyes in his direction to find him smirking at you, the look in his eyes making it clear that he isn’t just making friendly conversation.

“I did,” you answer shortly, eyeing the bartender to see where she’s at with the Jack and cokes. Not that it’s any of your concern, you bite back.

Silas hums, swirling the ice in his glass. “I’m glad to see you tonight, you know. I was starting to worry that maybe you skipped town.”

Your hands clutch the edge of the bar to steady yourself, your stomach sinking. He doesn’t know. There’s no way that he knows. How would he know?

“Am I not allowed to go out of town for a few days when I’m not working?” You snort, trying to play it off, hoping your horror isn’t displayed across your face. You don’t deny it, because if he’s bringing it up, then he already knows. You just don’t know how much he knows. “I have to run my vacation plans by you now?”

A low chuckle escapes him as he takes a slow sip of his drink. “What’s in Oceanside, anyway?”

Fucking hell.

Just as the last word leaves his lips, and the room around you seems to freeze, the bartender slides the tray of drinks across the counter to you. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to pick it up. You’re vaguely aware of Andrew whispering your name in your ear, his voice panicked, but you can’t respond yet.

“The ocean,” you spit, turning around and walking away with the drinks before Silas can say another word.

When you’re halfway across the room, Andrew’s voice pours through the communication device again.

“Are you okay? What the hell was that?”

You still don’t risk responding. You drop the drinks off at the table with exaggerated pleasantries and quickly excuse yourself before the men have a chance to drag you into whatever it is they’re now animatedly conversing about. A fleeting glance in the direction of the bar lets you know that Silas is now occupied by a customer, and only after confirming that his attention is no longer on you, do you take off in the direction of the employee bathroom and lock the door behind you.

“Andrew?” You hiss under your breath. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it,” Andrew answers right away. “How the hell does he know?”

“I have no idea,” you whisper, sitting down on the closed toilet. Now that you’re alone and can begin to process what the hell just happened, your heart is racing and your body is shaking and you’ll be lucky to walk back out of this room without collapsing. “I haven’t told anyone about my trip to Oceanside. He must have someone keeping tabs on me when I’m not here.”

The realization makes bile churn in your gut. He’s watching you. Even when you’re not here, he’s watching. He knows when you come and when you go, and he knows where you go. Who fucking knows how many times he’s had someone spying on you when you were just buying groceries or getting your nails done or—

“Breathe,” Andrew says, somehow able to detect your panic without even seeing you. “He’s just trying to scare you. He might know that you went to Oceanside, but he doesn’t know our plan. This doesn’t change anything, okay? We’re already in. We’re doing this. And you won’t have to worry about him anymore after tonight.”

You inhale, then exhale, then repeat, trying your hardest to convince yourself that what he’s saying is true. You know he believes it, and you trust that he wouldn’t lie to you, but right now the small amount of self-preservation that you possess is screaming at you to abandon ship.

But then you think of Andrew, in the basement, only one floor separating you from him. You think of all he’s risking by what he’ll do for you tonight. You think of your time spent together in Oceanside, and how you long for more, and how that isn’t a possibility unless you leave this bathroom and do what you came here to do.

One more deep breath. “Okay,” you exhale. “Okay, I’m okay.” It sounds like you’re trying to assure yourself as much as you are him.

“Good,” Andrew encourages softly. “We’re in the safe room now. No sign of anyone down here. I need you to get Gregory to come downstairs now, okay? Remember the plan?”

Even though he can’t see you, you nod. “I remember.”

Just in case someone is standing outside the door, you flush the toilet and turn the sink on momentarily for the sake of keeping up appearances as you take in your own appearance. Your makeup is slightly patchy from beads of sweat that have gathered on your forehead, but all things considered, you look normal enough.

You pause with your hand on the bathroom doorknob, taking one last, steadying breath before reentering the main floor of the club. A large group of men are huddled around center stage as another popular dancer performs her solo set, and sensuous music blasts loudly through the room.

Silas has moved from his seat at the bar, relocating to a far corner where he sits conversing with a table of regulars with his back to you. Good. And as for Gregory….

Gregory stands next to one of the newest dancers, who currently looks as if she’s being held hostage by whatever Gregory is saying to her.

Now or never, you suppose, forcing one foot in front of the other as you walk across the room.

“Hey, Angel,” you greet her with a cheerful voice and smile, hoping it sounds genuine. “There’s a guy at the bar asking for a private dance with you. I told him I’d send you over.”

Right away, she looks relieved to be freed from her conversation with Gregory. “Thanks,” she breathes before heading in the direction of the bar.

Gregory starts to walk off - knowing that you won’t engage in casual conversation with him like the newer hires who feel obligated to - when you speak up.

“Hey, I saw a guy trying to open the basement door just a minute ago,” you tell him, relieved when the words come out with just the right amount of faux concern. Gregory immediately looks in that general direction, beady eyes narrowing as he tries to find who you could be referring to.

“He was jiggling the handle,” you continue, hoping it prompts him in that direction.

“A guy?” He repeats. “What guy? What did he look like?”

You shrug. “Never seen him before. He was about your height, middle aged, short black hair.”

Gregory’s eyes dart between you and the hallway behind you. “Okay,” he huffs, taking a step away from you. “I’ll tell Silas—”

“I already told him,” you blurt without thinking. “He’s busy. He told me to tell you to check it out.”

To both your surprise and relief, he doesn’t question you further. He just huffs in annoyance, muttering something under his breath about having to do fucking everything around here and storms in the direction of the basement stairway.

For the briefest of moments, you almost feel bad for him. Then, you remember all of the times he has walked in on you and other dancers in the changing room, or tattled on you to Silas for not smiling enough, or stared directly at your tits with zero shame, and then your guilt disappears just as quickly as it had appeared.

You aren’t quite sure what Andrew and his brothers plan to do with Gregory. You didn’t ask, and you aren’t going to. You figured that Andrew would likely give you the same answer he has to the majority of questions you’ve asked over the last few days: the less you know, the better.

You do your best to appear subtle as you watch Gregory approach the door that leads to the basement of the club. He glances around, seemingly looking for the mystery man that you had made up a description of on the spot. When he sees no one that looks as you had described (because of course he doesn’t), he jiggles the handle to find it still locked. Your stomach sinks as you worry that Gregory will chalk that up to good enough and turn around to report to Silas, but then he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a set of keys, still visibly muttering under his breath and shaking his head.

You breathe an audible sigh of relief when he opens the door and he slips into the stairwell without drawing any attention from Silas, who still has his back to the entire incident on the other side of the room.

“He’s coming,” you murmur under your breath, “Gregory is coming downstairs now.”

There’s a quick whisper of confirmation, so fast and low that you aren’t even sure whose voice it was, and then the line goes silent. Your part of the job is over, and you’re left to wait. Wait until you see Silas walk to the stairs when Andrew makes Gregory call for him. Wait as you hope that he never walks back up those stairs. Wait until you hear from Andrew, wait until your shift is over.

And waiting might just be the hardest part of it all.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“I’m gonna ask you one more time to open this fucking safe.”

Like a rat after a piece of cheese, Gregory had walked right into the trap. He clearly had not actually expected anyone to be down here, because he walked right inside the safe room, muttering to himself about not getting paid enough, where Craig and Deran snuck up behind him, overpowering him within seconds. He didn’t even have a chance to yell before a handkerchief was crammed into his mouth.

Popes gotta hand it to Gregory, though. He fully expected the cowering, sniveling little shit to open the safe the very first time the three masked men demand he do so. But so far, he has yet to cave. Even with the barrel of Pope’s gun pressed to his temple.

He’s trembling, and whimpering, and he has definitely pissed himself, but he is also refusing to put the code in the fucking vault. He’s loyal to Silas, even if he’s nothing else, and that makes Pope feel the slightest bit better about what he plans to do with Gregory whenever they no longer have any use for him.

Pope and his brothers like to avoid casualties if at all possible. But after all you’ve told him about Gregory and now how stubborn he’s being? Pope has a hard time feeling bad.

“I don’t fucking have time for this,” Pope grunts, pulling the Glock away from Gregory’s forehead and instead aiming it towards the lower half of his body. He tries to shout, tries to protest, but the cloth crammed inside his mouth makes it all sound like muffled gibberish.

Pope doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, sending Gregory crumpling to the floor with a shot to the thigh that has him screeching around the gag; a high-pitched, animalistic sound. Upstairs, the music continues to blast, the bass vibrating through the floor. Even if Pope’s gun didn’t have a suppressor, he doubts anyone would have heard the shot over all the noise in the club.

Craig and Deran yank Gregory back upright despite his cries of pain. “The next shot won’t be to your leg. You think we’re bluffing?” Craig bellows. “You’re gonna find out if you don’t open that fucking safe right now.”

Gregory frantically nods. Craig and Deran haul him forward, and he raises his bound wrists to the safe’s keypad and begins typing with shaking hands. After a few seconds, the safe door clicks open. Deran pulls Gregory out of the way, allowing Pope to open the door.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Craig laughs in relief at the sight inside. “This has gotta be even more than I thought.”

It is a lot - too much for Pope to take an accurate guess as to exactly how much, but it has to be in the hundreds of thousands. He can’t get too excited yet, though. Not when Gregory here is bleeding through his pants and you’re still upstairs with Silas.

Pope and Craig make quick work of emptying the safe, shoving the stacks of cash into backpacks that Deran and a soon to be masked Gregory will wear out of here to where Jay awaits with the getaway car while Pope and Craig deal with Silas. But first…

“You got your phone on you?” Pope asks Gregory.

Gregory nods with an unintelligible noise of confirmation through the handkerchief still in his mouth.

“Good,” Pope lifts a hand to remove the gag, pausing before pulling it out. “I’m gonna take this out now. You scream, you die. Understand?”

Gregory nods, eyes wide with fear. Pope then yanks the cloth out of Gregory’s mouth, and he immediately begins to hyperventilate.

“Where’s your phone?” Craig demands.

“Back - back pocket,” Gregory pants.

Deran reaches into the back pocket of Gregory’s pants, retrieving the cell phone and tosses it to Pope. Pope holds the phone up to Gregory’s face, letting Face ID unlock the screen. He goes through Gregory's call history and quickly finds Silas’ name.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Pope says coolly, looking Gregory dead in the eye. “You’re going to give your boss upstairs a call. You’re gonna stay calm, and tell him that you need him to come down here right now. When he asks why, you tell him there’s an issue with the safe. If he tries to question you, you pretend you can’t hear him over the music and reiterate for him to come down here. Am I clear?”

Craig speaks up before Gregory has a chance to agree or disagree. “If you try to warn him, you’ll be bleeding from your other leg, too. Or worse. Got it?”

Gregory nods with a panicked sound of agreement, and Pope presses Silas’ name. He answers after the second ring, pop music pouring through the phone’s speaker.

“What?” Silas barks.

Gregory doesn’t speak right away. He opens his mouth like he’s going to, but then closes it, his eyes darting between Pope, Craig, and Deran. Pope wiggles the phone in his face, giving Gregory a look that dares him to test his luck.

“Hey,” he squeaks. “I - uh - I need you to come downstairs for a minute.”

“What?” Silas snaps. “Why? What are you doing downstairs right now?”

“I…I…uhm—” Gregory stutters, his voice unnaturally shrill and shaky. He looks between Pope and his brothers again in hesitation, unable to force the next words out. Deran nudges Gregory’s ribcage with his gun in a reminder of what’s at stake.

There’s one last, loaded second of silence before Gregory opens his mouth and seals his fate…and yours.

“Soleil told me she saw a man going to the basement, I’m sorry Silas, they made me do it—”

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

You watch Silas from across the room the moment that he raises his cell phone to his ear.

It could be someone else calling him. Maybe it isn’t Gregory, yet. But it only takes about ten seconds for any doubt to fade away, because Silas looks over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room until they lock with yours.

You try to look away, to play it off, to pretend you weren’t just watching him like a hawk, but it’s too late. He noticed. He definitely fucking noticed. And whatever was said to him during that short phone call, makes him stand up and head directly towards you.

“Why don’t we take a little walk?” Silas says, low enough for only you to hear. “There’s some things that we need to talk about.”

Your knees buckle and the room around you begins to spin. “I…have a private room in a few minutes. Can’t it wait?”

That’s a lie, but you’re trying to do whatever it takes to do what Andrew had asked of you. Stay upstairs.

“Nah, it can’t.” Silas glances around briefly before sliding a hand into his coat pocket. The movement looks innocent enough but then the unmistakable outline of a gun straining against the material catches your eye. You look back up, your blood running cold, and he’s smirking at you. “And I’m not asking.”

He doesn’t give you the chance to object before he grabs you by the arm and starts hauling you across the overcrowded dance floor, everyone too drunk and distracted to pay any mind to either of you.

“Where are we going?” You ask, trying to play dumb. You say the words loudly enough that Andrew, or anyone listening downstairs, will be able to hear.

He vibrates with low, chesty laughter. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

It takes every ounce of concentration just to put one foot in front of the other and keep yourself upright. Your thoughts are reeling with worst case scenarios. What will you find when you enter the basement? Did Andrew and the others get caught? Did Gregory have a gun on him? Is someone hurt? Once you walk down these stairs, will you ever walk back up?

Neither of you speak again until Silas opens the stairwell door, pushes you inside, and pulls it closed behind him.

“I’ve always known that you’re a flight risk,” Silas grumbles, steering you down the stairs with one hand gripping you by the shoulder and the barrel of his gun now pressed to the small of your back. You couldn’t escape even if you tried. “You really think I wouldn’t notice if you left town for four days? To fuck off to Oceanside?”

You don’t answer. His grip on your shoulder tightens enough that you’ll still feel the imprint of his hand hours later.

“The tracker that I put on your car sure came in handy,” he chuckles low, the sound sending chills down your spine. “Led me right to the Cody residence. I had to do a little digging after that, but imagine my surprise to learn that the Codys have quite the reputation.”

You reach the bottom of the stairs, and he shoves you up against the concrete wall and brings the gun to the side of your temple. You can’t stop the whimper that escapes your lips.

“I just didn’t think you would risk your dad’s life trying to pull some bullshit like this. Clearly I underestimated just how stupid and naive you really fuckin’ are.” He’s close enough that spit sprays across your face with nearly every word that he says.

“So this is what you are going to do if you want your sweet old daddy to live to see another day,” he murmurs, voice lethally calm in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand straight.

Your dad’s face the night Silas first showed up at his house to collect flashes through your mind. The night that would eventually butterfly effect into you standing right here, right now.

“We’re going to walk in there exactly like this.” He presses the gun harder against your temple for emphasis. “And you’re going to tell whoever is in that room to put my money back where they found it. After they’ve done that, you’re going to tell them to get the fuck out of here unless they want to clean your brains off of my floor. And then I’ll deal with you after.”

He pulls the gun away, and the small device in your left ear suddenly feels impossibly loud despite the silence on the other end.

You can only hope that Andrew has heard every word and knows what is coming.

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

The door to the safe room is wide open, and you see Gregory’s motionless body crumpled on the floor before you even step foot inside, a bullet wound dead-center of his forehead.

The second thing you notice is that Craig and Deran begin to lower their weapons as soon as you, and Silas directly behind you with his gun still aimed at your head, come into view.

The third, and most concerning thing? Andrew is nowhere to be seen.

After you get over the initial shock of realizing that Gregory is dead, presumably killed by one of the boys after saying whatever the hell he said that made it click in Silas’ head that you have very much played a part in all of this, the realization that you have no idea where Andrew is and that Craig and Deran are surrendering their weapons hits you like a brick.

You were so, so stupid to have ever thought this would work. To have actually believed that things wouldn’t go to shit, that everything would go according to plan, that this would end in your freedom. Now it’ll be a miracle if you and every member of the Cody family makes it out of this building alive.

Where the hell is Andrew?

He wouldn’t leave his brothers behind. He wouldn’t leave you behind. You’re sure enough of that. Not if there were any other way.

“Well?” Silas barks, pressing the muzzle of the gun into your temple. “Tell them.”

But your mouth has gone bone dry. Andrew. Andrew. Where is Andrew—

Craig and Deran exchange a look that lasts a mere second before Craig opens his mouth to speak. “Look, man, we don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Let her go and we’ll leave. Just take it easy.”

“Easy?” Silas repeats incredulously. “You conspire against me, break into my club, kill one of my employees…” He tips his head in the direction of Gregory’s lifeless body. “…and you want me to take it easy?”

Craig and Deran are both silent.

“Kick the bags over,” Silas sighs, his patience already wearing thin.

“Do what he asks, guys,” you manage to force out. “He’ll let you go. Just give back the money.”

Another second of hesitation, another glance between themselves, and then they nudge the backpacks across the floor.

Silas laughs quietly from behind you. “Smart choice.”

It’s then that you notice Craig’s eyes shift past Silas, the movement too quick and minute for Silas to even register as he starts to reach down for one of the backpacks.

Then all hell breaks loose, and the following thirty seconds feel like something out of a fever dream.

One second, Silas’ gun is pressed against your head, and the next, it’s flying across the room with a shot that goes right through the wall. Your body gets propelled forward by a blunt force from behind you, and you go tumbling to the floor with a sharp cry.

When you look up, there’s chaos all around you, but most importantly, there’s Andrew.

The door to the safe room, which had been wide open just seconds ago, is now nearly shut. He had been here the whole damn time, just waiting for the perfect moment to pop out and strike Silas from behind.

Andrew drives into him like a freight train, wrapping both arms around Silas’ torso and carrying him into a metal shelving unit. The entire thing rattles violently on impact, random boxes and loose paperwork falling from the shelves and scattering across the floor. Silas lets out a startled, animalistic grunt, but he recovers surprisingly fast for a man pushing sixty.

Then Craig and Deran jump in, and the four men crash together in an aggressive tangle of limbs and curses. It all happens so fast that it’s impossible to tell who throws which punch and whose blood is dripping onto the concrete.

All you know is that you’re the reason that they called Silas down here in the first place, and you see someone’s gun on the ground, no more than an arm’s length away from you.

Before you can give it a second thought, you grab the gun and force yourself to your feet.

Your hands are shaking so hard that it looks as if you have Parkinson’s disease, and you’re terrified to take the shot for fear that you’ll hit anyone other than Silas, but every horrible thing he has said and done in the last three years is suddenly replaying in your mind as your finger dances over the trigger and you know without a doubt that you have to do what you’re most scared to do.

You yell. A deep, guttural sound that tears through you, loud enough to get the attention of all four men in front of you. Deran, who’s positioned slightly in front of a beaten and bloodied Silas, instantly moves out of the way, giving you a clear shot.

You hear Andrew say your name, you see Silas start to attempt to lunge towards you, but you don’t let either of those things stop you from squeezing the trigger.

Time slows down. Despite the fact that the gunshot hadn’t been very loud thanks to the suppressor attached to it, there’s still a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears.

For only a fraction of a second, you wonder if you hit him at all. Then, your question is answered when dark crimson begins blooming across the fabric of his cream colored button-down, just over his heart.

Silas opens his mouth to speak, but only blood comes out, and then he falls forward, collapsing on the ground beside Gregory.

You’re still aiming the gun right where Silas had been standing with shaking hands when Andrew takes a tentative step towards you.

“I killed him,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I killed him.”

Andrew slowly and carefully peels your hands away from the gun and takes it from you. You’re still glued to the spot, both your mind and body in shock from what just happened. From what you just did.

You killed him. You killed Silas. You killed someone. Murdered them. And yes, they deserved it, but you still fucking pulled the trigger and shot them in the chest.

“No, you didn’t,” Andrew murmurs, giving Silas a kick to the shoulder with his foot. Silas lets out a weak groan that makes you instinctively jump back. “He’s still alive.” Then, before you can spiral any further, Andrew aims the gun directly at the man lying on the floor and fires it again, hitting Silas in the head.

He turns to face you, holstering the gun. “See? You didn’t kill him. I killed him.”

“So much for not shooting him in front of her,” Deran grumbles as he picks up one of the backpacks and slides it on. Him and Craig begin to move around the room, but you aren’t paying attention to what they are doing, because your eyes are locked on the body on the floor in front of you.

Bodies. Plural. Two of them. Silas, and Gregory. And blood. A lot of it.

Andrew steps in front of you, blocking your view of it all.

“We need to clean all of this up now,” Andrew tells you gently. He raises his hands as if he’s going to place them on your shoulders, but stops himself at the last second, his hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before dropping them back to his sides. “I need you to do one last thing for me, and then this will all be okay. Okay?”

His voice is steady and calm, but his hazel eyes are serious and pleading, like it’s taking every ounce of his willpower to maintain composure for your sake.

You give him a shaky nod to confirm that you heard him.

“I need you to go back upstairs. I need you to keep watch and make sure that no one tries to come down here, and warn us if they do.”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking. “What? No, no. I can’t go back up there. I can’t. I won’t be able to keep it together. I can’t pretend like—”

“You can,” Andrew interjects, voice firm. “It’s for your own safety, too. People will be suspicious if you disappear at the same time as Silas. You need an alibi. Go upstairs, show your face, book a private room or two, and pretend like everything is normal. Just for a few more hours.”

You swallow, inhaling and exhaling. What he says makes sense. All of the individual words make sense. But how the fuck are you supposed to walk back upstairs and act like everything is normal when you just killed a man?

Okay, Andrew technically killed him. But you still shot him in the lung. He would have eventually died from that alone even if Andrew hadn’t taken the gun from you and put a bullet in his brain.

“Just stay until the end of your shift to cover your own ass. Do you know if anyone noticed you come down here?”

“Uh—” you stutter, trying to remember everything that led up to this moment. “Uh, no. I don’t think so. The club’s really crowded tonight, everyone seemed busy and distracted.”

“Good,” Andrew nods. “You were never down here, okay? The cameras are offline, so you were never here.”

You nod, still unsure of how you’re going to will your legs to carry you back up those stairs, or how you’re going to keep the utter shock of what has transpired in this basement off of your face for the next few hours.

“What - what about you guys?” You ask him. “How are you going to get rid of all of this?”

Andrew shakes his head in dismissal. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. We’ll handle it. The bodies, the blood, the money, we’ll take care of all of it. Just go upstairs and keep an eye out for us.” He pauses, his eyes scanning your face. “You’ve trusted me so far, yeah? I just need you to trust me again for a few more hours.”

You have. You do. You don’t know if you trust yourself to not have a full blown panic attack in the middle of the club, but you do know that you trust Andrew.

You can’t quite bring yourself to verbally agree, but you nod.

Andrew takes a step closer and raises a tentative hand to your face, gently tilting your head to the side. “Earpiece is still in place,” he murmurs.

You expect him to pull away once he’s satisfied with his inspection, but he doesn’t. Instead, the soft pad of his thumb sweeps beneath your eye, wiping away a streak of smudged mascara. The touch is so tender that under different circumstances, you might have leaned into it. Might have closed the distance between you entirely. But right now, with blood still drying on the floor, all you can do is stand there and let him.

It gives you the much needed inspiration to get through the next few hours without completely falling apart, at least.

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

It takes every single last ounce of Pope’s self-restraint to not abandon Craig, Deran, and Jay to deal with the aftermath of the heist by themselves while he whisks you far the hell away from the city of Los Angeles in the middle of the night.

Truthfully, the only reason he doesn't do just that is because he doesn’t want it to come back to bite you in the ass.

He has to make sure everything is cleaned up. Everything. Every last drop of blood, every fingerprint, every strand of hair that could have fallen from your person to the floor of that safe room has to be eradicated before he feels comfortable leaving the club’s premises, and he sure as fuck doesn’t trust Craig or Deran to be as thorough as him. Deran lets his dish sponges get filthy and he doesn’t trust Craig to properly wash his own ass.

Finally, in the early hours of morning just before dawn, Pope can confidently say that the job is finished. Through the combined efforts of Craig, Deran, Jay, and himself, the safe room is cleaned spotless, the bodies of Silas and Gregory are disposed of, and the haul of cash makes it back to Oceanside.

Getting both bodies out wasn’t exactly easy, but Pope had planned for shit to go sideways. Jay was on standby in the getaway truck with an appliance dolly in case they were unable to retrieve the money from the safe while inside the club.

It was Craig’s idea, actually, to cram both bodies inside the safe and haul the entire thing offsite…to the middle of the fucking desert where all four men spent several hours digging a hole big enough for a six hundred pound safe.

No, things didn’t go according to plan, but they rarely do. It all proved to be worth it when the cash count ended up being just shy of half a million.

And if Pope’s share of more than a hundred grand wasn't enough to make the entire ordeal feel worthwhile, the relief on your face and the way you fling your arms around his neck when he shows up at your apartment later that day sure as hell does.

Maybe it’s a combination of everything that has happened in the last twelve hours and sleep deprivation, but it takes Pope a moment to register that you’re hugging him in your doorway. When he does, he wraps his arms around your torso and hugs you back, pulling you tight against his chest without a word.

“Sorry,” you breathe when you pull back, just far enough to look up at him. “I’m sorry, I…I’ve been so worried.”

He instantly feels guilty. He had sent you a singular text to let you know that they had left the city when they were on their way to the desert, but after that, he had been so preoccupied with disposing of Silas and Gregory’s corpses that he hadn’t provided you any further updates. He had been operating on autopilot, going through the motions of shoveling dirt, driving his brothers and nephew back to Oceanside, and then driving all the way back to Los Angeles after only a shower and two shots of espresso.

“No, I’m sorry,” Pope murmurs, reluctantly dropping his arms back down to his sides. “I should’ve texted, or called, I just…” He glances around to make sure that none of your neighbors are lingering around outside. You notice his hesitation and move to motion him into your apartment. He steps inside, only continuing once you pull the door closed behind him. “Just wanted to make sure everything was taken care of.”

“And?” You ask, biting your bottom lip in the way Pope has noticed that you tend to do when you are especially nervous about something. “Is it? Taken care of?” You add in a smaller voice.

Pope nods. “Yeah. Everything has been taken care of. There’s nothing that you need to worry about now. No one will ever find them.”

You audibly exhale in relief, your shoulders visibly relaxing as you lean against your kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. “Andrew, I…I don’t even know how to say thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me at all,” he says simply.

He’s told you already, but he’ll tell you again, he did this because he wanted to.

He saw you in that alleyway and knew you didn’t belong in that place. He saw you dance on that stage and knew that he had to talk to you. He had one conversation with you and knew that he would be willing to kill for you.

And he would do it all over again, even if he didn’t gain a penny from it all.

Which reminds him…

He pulls out a large, thick envelope tucked beneath the waistband of his jeans and holds it out to you. “Actually,” he clears his throat, “you can thank me by taking this.”

Your eyebrows scrunch together as you accept it from him. “What’s this?”

“It’s your cut.”

You pause before starting to open it. “My cut?”

“Yeah,” Pope shrugs. “Your cut from the money we pulled last night.”

You don’t even look inside before you’re trying to hand it back to him. “Andrew, no. I can’t take this. You killed a man - two men - for me, and then cleaned up the mess and dumped their bodies in the middle of the ocean—”

“Desert, actually,” he corrects softly, and your mouth snaps shut into a tight line, but he can tell by your eyes that you’re fighting a smirk.

“Still,” you implore. “You have done more than enough for me. Taking your money wouldn’t feel right. Not when you’ve already given me a second chance at life. That’s worth more than any amount of money ever could be, Andrew.”

God, he needs to go to sleep, because the last thing he should be thinking about right now is how much he likes to hear you call him by his name.

He hums a laugh, reluctantly accepting the envelope that you’re practically shoving against his chest, then takes a slow step towards you that leaves very little space between you. You’re slotted between him in front of you and your kitchen counter behind you, but you don’t appear the least bit put off by the tight space.

“Thought you said that you wanna get out of LA?” He murmurs. He reaches beside you, placing the envelope on the counter behind you. Then, instead of dropping his hand back to his side, it hovers for an awkward moment before falling to the edge of the counter, right next to your hip. He isn’t quite touching you, but if he moved his hand over a quarter of an inch, he would be. “Go back to school eventually? Start a new life?”

You’re smirking up at him now. “I did say that.”

He quirks a brow. “Then you’ll need money to do that.”

You’re silent for a moment, your eyes trailing over his face. You raise a tentative hand to his jaw, the soft pad of your thumb brushing a featherlight touch over a bruise that he had sustained in the brief but intense scuffle with Silas. Without thinking, he leans into the touch. The bruise is tender, but the feeling of your skin against his outweighs any discomfort.

“I thought you said that I’m always welcome at yours,” you hum. He opens his eyes to find you grinning slyly. It makes the back of his neck warm.

“You are,” he answers automatically. “Always. Is that…something you think you would want?”

You don’t answer with a yes, or a no, or even a nonchalant shrug. You just stare at him with that same soft, teasing expression as your eyes flicker between his eyes and his mouth, your hand still caressing his face.

There’s barely enough time for him to wonder if you’re thinking of doing what he has wanted but held back from doing since you pulled into his driveway in Oceanside before you lift onto your toes and press your lips to his.

His breath catches in his chest as your lips, tentative and impossibly soft, brush over his and every coherent thought leaves his mind at once. One moment, he’s standing in your kitchen trying to convince you to take sixty thousand dollars in cash, and the next he can’t remember how to breathe because the feel and smell and taste of you is overtaking his senses.

You linger just long enough for him to pull away if he wants to.

He does not. Of course he doesn’t.

His hand moves from the counter to your waist, and yours still resting on his jaw shifts to the back of his neck where your fingertips toy with the hair at the base of his skull. He leans down into the kiss, angling himself closer until there’s barely any space left between the two of you.

It’s soft, and hesitant, as if you’re both worried that if you move too fast, the moment will end all too soon. Warm lips move tenderly against his, your tongue sweeping lightly against his in permission that he eagerly grants.

It’s probably the last thing he should be thinking about in this particular moment, but he’s glad that he didn’t talk Craig out of his idea for a gentleman’s club based heist. Really, really fucking glad.

When you pull away, you release a small, breathless laugh that ghosts across his lips.

“Don’t worry,” you breathe, “that wasn’t me trying to say thank you or anything. I just wanted to do that.”

“Yeah?” He murmurs, brushing his lips over yours a final time. It isn’t quite a kiss, but it sends goosebumps down his spine nonetheless. “I take that as a yes, then? You’ll come to Oceanside with me?”

You nod, the tip of your nose nudging his. “I think Oceanside with you is exactly where I need to be.”

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡ three months later ｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

“Are you sure you can’t see anything?”

Your eyes are wide open, and all you see is pitch darkness. Andrew is apparently as meticulous at securing bandannas around a person’s forehead as he is everything else he does in life.

No surprise there.

“Honey, I’m positive,” you laugh, repeating yourself for the third time since you got home from class no more than five minutes ago. Andrew had been waiting to greet you, as he usually is, with a blindfold in hand. That part was unexpected, but you have quickly learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to Andrew. He never disappoints.

He had asked if you trust him (he knows that you do) and proceeded to secure the black cloth around your eyes before guiding you down the hallway to the spare room of yours and his new place, which he recently set up as a study room for you.

“Ready?” He murmurs, one hand on your lower back as the door creaks open.

You step into the room. “I don’t know. Am I?”

He chuckles softly, bringing his hands to where the cloth is tied behind your head and then pauses. “If you don’t like it, I’ll take it down.”

“Take it down?” You echo, brows scrunching beneath the fabric.

He answers by letting the cloth fall away from eyes.

What you see is the very last thing you expect.

Right in the very center of the room, directly in front of where you stand, is a dance pole. Damn near identical to the one you had in your Los Angeles apartment. The one you hadn’t bothered to bring with you to Oceanside, because you had been so eager to leave everything about your life there behind. Everything.

Or so you had thought, until very recently when you began to find yourself missing one, and only one, thing. Dancing.

Not dancing for money, not dancing for men, but just dancing. By yourself, for yourself.

You had mentioned it to Andrew in passing only yesterday, that you wish you had kept your dance pole when you packed your entire life into your car and happily drove from Los Angeles to Oceanside to be with him.

Now, not even a full twenty-four hours later, he has both acquired and installed one since you left for class this morning.

You don’t even realize that you’re just staring at the pole, wordlessly, until Andrew clears his throat.

“Like I said, I can take it back down. It isn’t a big deal.”

“What?” Your gaze snaps to him. “No, it’s not…it’s perfect. I was just thinking,” you murmur.

His eyebrows lift slightly. “What are you thinking about?”

Since you came to Oceanside three months ago, you and Andrew have taken things relatively slow in your relationship, aside from the obvious of living under the same roof.

Things started in such an unexpected and unconventional way, but once you got here, your newfound dynamic was able to settle with a sense of normalcy. You may have met in a strip club, killed your boss together, and had your first kiss all in a week’s time, but Andrew still took you out on a proper first date and has been nothing but patient with letting the relationship progress at a pace that you’re comfortable with - physically, mentally, and emotionally - while processing everything that you’ve been through in the last few years and starting your life over at the same time.

Never, in a million years, would you have expected such beauty to come from such trauma, but it did. Because of him, it did. He was the light waiting for you on the other side of the darkness.

You shrug, grinning softly. “About how much I love you.”

Andrew’s hazel eyes widen in surprise. It’s the first time you have said those three words aloud. It’s not the first time you have thought them, but it is the first time you have verbalized them.

After the initial shock fades from his face, it’s replaced with the grin that you’ve fallen in love with waking up to every morning. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance between you by taking your face in his hands and slotting his lips against yours. Your arms instinctively wrap around his thick torso, melting into his embrace as he kisses you in a way that is both familiar and takes your breath away.

He murmurs the next words out of his mouth against yours in between kisses, his voice low and sincere.

“I love you very much.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

thank you SOOOO much if you read to the end of this!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated and will make me love you forever.

also, if anyone reading has watched season 2 of the punisher, i’m sure you caught the reference in the heist scene 😉

[in-ky]

𝚠𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 ˋ°•*⁀➷

~ titus danforth x f!reader ~

masterlist

after sitting out of a post-wedding hunt due to a headache, you're not expecting the game to come to you. even though you're able to take down the threat, titus finds you and is distraught at the fact that it could've ended very differently.

Word Count: 7.4k Warnings: LIGHT MOVIE SPOILERS (references to some events but no scenes are outright used)! Violence and gore (Duh), including violence towards reader, established relationship, SMUT (18+), p in v, crying during sex, really intense missionary, sex next to a dead body, sorry man, soft(ish) titus, therefore a little ooc titus, stylistic punctuation, way more plot than porn sorry gang, i highkey did more world building than the movie LMAOO, "mrs" use but no pronouns and no use of y/n A/N: God guys idk if this is good but i needed to get this out of my brain and onto some paper. It's so self-indulgent it’s actually not even funny. Lowkey there's a lot more internal dialogue and exposition than actual relationship stuff but idc. I’ll probably write more of these two eventually. Please be kind xoxo. Also GO SEE THE MOVIE!!!! It’s one of the best ‘survive the night' horror movies I’ve seen in a long time (and not just bcs the people’s princess is in it)!

The wedding was nice. The tall windows in the Danforth estate ballroom illuminated a room decorated with white dahlias and yellow alstroemerias. Silk ribbons and twinkling fairylights wound around the columns and rows of oak chairs faced a glorious altar, with the Danforth ram’s head sculpted into the marble arch. An air of sophistication permeated the room, as it tended to do when the world’s most influential people were gathered together. You were seated in the third row, behind the immediate families and friends. Titus sat to your left, thigh pressing against yours. He held your hand in his, rubbing small circles with his thumb and playing with your wedding ring. The act made you smile. 

To the world, Titus Danforth was a brute- and that wasn’t untrue. He had a complex, you knew that, but he had never once done anything to purposefully hurt or scare you. One time after a hunt, he had that wild look in his eyes. And you’d be lying if it didn’t scare you a little. But the moment that his fingers touched your skin, he relaxed. Titus was like your guard dog, a position he wore like a badge of fucking honor. Sometimes he bit, but never the hand that fed him. You loved him. And maybe it wasn’t in a completely healthy way, but who gave a shit? Titus loved you in his own way. You fought occasionally, but damn if he didn’t bring you a bouquet of your favorite flowers the next day and spend the night on his knees making it up to you. He was your Titus. And he knew it, which is why he could be himself around you. He didn’t need to put on the mask around you like he did with his family. Titus was a complex man. Blood-thirsty during the games, and yet so very gentle to you in everyday life. In the early phases of your relationship, you had spent hours in the soft light of early morning talking, curled up in the luxury bamboo sheets of his bedroom with the fireplace coals still smoldering. He had spilled his heart to you, eyes wet and breathing uneven. How he had been trained as a killer since he was a kid, how he never felt like he was his own man, how his sister was the real ‘heir’ of the family name, how he was scared to have children (especially a son) because he might fuck them up like his father did to him. You had listened with open ears and kind eyes. You had pressed his head to his chest and covered him in kisses saying that you weren’t going anywhere, and thanking him for being so vulnerable. And when you survived your wedding night, he had proposed to you again, promising to never let any harm come to you as long as you both shall live. And you had accepted, the pendant he had gotten you resting gently against your blood-splattered skin. You soothed him, brought him down from edges that would result in casualties. Some might have said you made him soft. And to those people, Titus would nod and beat the shit out of them.

You had a distant look in your eye and Titus noticed. He stopped fiddling with your ring, the ring that made you cry tears of joy when you first saw it, and intertwined his fingers with yours. Titus leaned over slightly in your direction. 

“She can do so much better,” he murmured, only loud enough for you to hear. You gave a small huff of amusement.

“Be nice.” You scolded softly, eyes still locked on the couple exchanging vows. But he was right. The wedding was for a Danforth cousin, one you hadn’t been introduced to until that morning. Even though you and Titus had been married for the better part of five years. The acting heads of the Danforth family tried to keep the outer edges of the family away. Something about keeping secrets closely guarded. You supposed it was a wise idea, given the nature of the family’s pastimes. But every Danforth, no matter how far removed, was required to be married at the estate. The ancestral home. And, of course, required to participate in the matrimonial hunt. You knew every family did their hunts a little differently- some prioritizing certain aspects over others. But the Danforths were focused on their bloodline. Hunting down a new member of the family wasn’t done out of necessity or the fact that the entire family would combust if they didn’t (because that wasn’t part of the Danforth contract). No. Instead, the purpose of the hunt was to prove that the new member belonged. That they were cunning and a survivalist, willing to do whatever it took to live as a Danforth. If they survived, great! If they didn’t…well, then they didn’t deserve to be a part of such a prestigious family in the first place. And, if you were being honest, the man standing at the altar likely would not survive the night. But hey, he could surprise everyone. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened. 

“I just want them out of our fucking house.” You heard Titus sigh heavily beside you. His knee began to bounce. He was getting bored and impatient. You were sitting in the third row behind the friends and family of this unknown cousin. They had been exchanging vows for what seemed like forever. You moved your hand from where it was intertwined with Titus, an action that made him furrow his brow and pout slightly. But the look disappeared when you placed your palm on his knee, giving a reassuring squeeze. You shifted in your seat and fully tilted your head so that your lips were brushing against his ear.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” You whispered breathily. A sinister grin formed on your lips as you felt him go still beneath you. “Just think of all the excitement waiting for you tonight.” Titus’ gaze flicked to the groom and his breath started to grow uneven. He gave a nod and squeezed your hand with his. “Just a little longer, ‘kay sweetie?” You pulled back and captured Titus’ gaze. His eyes were growing dark, the way they always did before a hunt. The muscle in his jaw ticked and he nodded before returning his attention to the ceremony.

ˋ°•*⁀➷

Finally, the new couple was married. The room erupted into cheers and congratulations, though certain members of the family were notably more reserved, no doubt thinking about what was next on the agenda. The congregation rose from their seats as the bride and groom walked down the aisle together and through the large dark oak double doors into the reception area. You stretched as the people began to follow, rolling your shoulders and rubbing your neck. Titus noticed immediately, as he tended to do, even though you were facing away from him. 

“Is it bothering you again?” He said softly. His hand came to your neck and began massaging the muscle there with his thumb. You gave a small nod. During your hunt, you had been pushed down the stairs. The tumble had resulted in a herniated disc and a compressed nerve in your neck. Treatable, but pain still haunted you when you were forced to be in a single position for too long, like sitting at a wedding that felt like it would never end. Titus hummed behind you. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Anything I can do to help?” You turned to face him. He looked heavenly with the light from the window illuminating his silhouette. It caught on his grey curls and perfectly punctuated his broad shoulders. Titus’ hands rose to your hips, pressing you against him. Your hand rested on his chest, smoothing out the coat of his suit and readjusting the tie. He felt so warm and sturdy under your palms. It made you smile. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. But before you pulled away, you murmured in his ear:

“You can win the hunt. And come back safely. For me.” The hands on your hips tightened. A promise.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” 

ˋ°•*⁀➷

Ursula had been disappointed to learn that you wouldn’t be participating in the festivities. Your relationship at first had been rocky. She was unsure if it was wise for Titus to take a wife, given his track record with violence. But after you had won your hunt by bashing someone’s head in with a bat and hiding in the woods until dawn, you had proved yourself capable of holding your own against Titus in her eyes. As the years passed and Titus began to mellow a bit, Ursula had started to act truly as a sister to you. You went shopping together, she taught you the unspoken rules of living as a Danforth in high society, you gave her book and movie recommendations, and most of your afternoons were spent lounging by the pool or playing tennis together. You didn’t have much family, and you would forever be grateful that Ursula filled in as a sister. She had been disappointed at your absence for the evening, but mainly because she had to spend a night dealing with Titus without you. Ursula had urged you to watch from the monitoring room, but you had a hot date with a bubble bath and a mug of herbal tea to ease the pain in your neck and the migraine it was bringing on. 

You sighed in contentment as you sunk into the tub, warm water and scented bubbles immediately putting your mind at ease. You got nervous during hunts. Most of the family believed that they were invincible simply because they were Danforths, the prime stock of the world. That they would succeed in their hunts and kill their target in time to catch the evening news. But you were a testament that they thought too highly of themselves. When someone is fighting for their life and weapons are involved, things can get very ugly very fast. Usually, these anxieties were calmed (at least slightly) by the fact that Titus was by your side every step of the way. You were basically just along for the ride. A tether to the real world so he didn’t get so lost in himself that he put himself in danger. But that wasn’t the case tonight. He would go without you and that made you nervous. If there was one thing that would never be quelled by you, it was Titus’ desire to prove himself. Prove himself as a man and as a Danforth and sometimes he pushed himself too far. You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you looked out the window of your bathroom. The sun was dipping low in the sky. The horn would sound soon. The door to the bathroom creaked open, drawing your attention from the horizon. You smiled at Titus as he came into the door holding a steaming mug of your tea. He was already dressed for the hunt, the black fabric of his pants and vest contouring his body in a way that made your mouth water. In the dying light of the day, his eyes took on a more golden hue. A color that you memorized as he looked at you and held out the mug. 

“Here you go, honey,” Titus said, sighing as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the tub. You shimmied to sit up in the tub and took the mug graciously, careful not to get any bubbles in the tea. “Did you get a new shampoo?” Titus asked, pressing his lips to the crown of your head and inhaling deeply. You nodded as you took a sip of the tea.

“They came out with a new one. It’s called ‘Field of Dreams’ but I think that’s just a pretentious way of saying it has chamomile in it.” You swirled one of your hands through the water. Titus furrowed his brow and grabbed your wrist, pulling it out of the water. You knew what he was about to ask before the question could leave his mouth. You had taken off your bracelet. A thin leather strap that crossed over your wrist and clasped in a way that resembled a tiny horse’s bridle. Titus had given it to you during your six month anniversary when you were dating. You had been walking down the street window shopping when it caught your eye. You had immediately gushed over it, saying how sleek it looked. You preferred leather jewelry to metal, especially when it came to bracelets. Metal pinched at your skin and leather felt much nicer. You had only mentioned it once. And yet, three months later, Titus had pushed a small box across the table during dinner. He had remembered. You had thrown your arms around him, kissing him on the cheek as he put it on you, promising to never take it off. And you hadn’t. You had worn it every day. But you weren’t wearing it now, and Titus noticed. “It’s on the counter. I don’t want it to get wet, it’ll rust the clasp.” Another thought crossed his eyes. “I don’t care if you’d buy me another one. I’m sentimental.” 

With a small chuckle, he pressed a kiss to your wrist before placing your arm gently back into the water. He took a deep breath and stood from the tub, walking to the mirror and fiddling with his curls. You took the chance to sip your tea and rake your eyes over your husband’s form. A crisp black vest wrapped around his torso, silver fleur-de-lis checkering the silky fabric on his back. Beneath the vest was one of his favorite shirts, a deep navy blue that hugged his biceps but were easily unbuttoned at the wrists when he needed to roll up his sleeves and get dirty. The shirt was tucked into plain black slacks that were held up with a dark leather belt. God how you loved him in this outfit. He wore it for every hunt, his own ceremonial robes.

“Are you done ogling me?” Titus asked, catching your gaze in the mirror. Heat rose to your cheeks, embarrassed for being caught. But there was a playfulness in Titus’ eyes, a shit-eating grin on his lips. Damn him. He knew what he did to you.

“Never. It's not my fault you look so good.” You hummed, taking another sip of your tea. He chuckled and smoothed out his vest before turning. He paused for a moment, and you knew that he saw it. Your night dress hanging on the back of the door. 

“What’s this for?” He said slyly, running the silk between his fingers. 

“Hm?” You hummed, feigning innocence. “Oh, that’s for later.” He held up the fabric to his arm, comparing the shades of blue. Titus looked to you for confirmation and you nodded, taking another sip of tea. The color was deep blue, exactly matching the color of his shirt. You had ordered it specially for tonight, somehow eluding Titus and pulling his tailor aside and asking for a sample of the fabric during his last visit. You’d taken the color swatch to your favorite lingerie store and they had created the slip perfectly. The top edge was laced, a floral pattern perfectly accenting the curve of your breasts. Titus let out a low groan. Approval. 

“For later,” You emphasized, holding out your hand. Titus crossed the room and held it gently. The sun was almost below the treeline now and it wouldn’t be long before he had to leave. You took a deep breath and looked into your husband’s eyes. He seemed to pick up on your uneasiness and lowered himself to kneel beside the tub. You interlaced your fingers with his and took a steadying breath. “Please be safe,” you begged, voice barely above a whisper “And come back to me.” Titus lost the edge in his gaze and lifted your hand to his mouth. His lips pressed a kiss to your knuckles and brought your palm to his cheek. You caressed him, swiping your thumb over his cheekbones and the stubble that had grown in the past week of him not shaving. Titus pressed his own hand over yours, keeping it against his face until the very last moment.

“Nothing could keep me away from you,” Your husband’s voice was soft but also held a bit of a threat in it. A threat against the universe, perhaps, a promise that he would do whatever it takes to get back home to you.

“That’s what worries me,” You were only half joking. “Titus. I’m serious. Please.” Titus lowered your hand from his face and held it tightly.

“I promise.” A beat passed and you could tell an idea popped into his mind. “If he…You remember how to use the crossbow above the dresser, right?” You tilted your head in curiosity. 

“Yea,” you confirmed, brows knit in confusion “Why?” Titus shook his head and got to his feet, placing another kiss on your forehead. He lingers a bit longer than he would normally. Not weirdly abnormal, just enough for you to take note of it.

“Just in case. Just…maybe keep it near you, alright? I’ll be back in a few hours.” He captured your lips in a chaste kiss, like he was about to leave for a business meeting. Titus opened the door partially. You shared another look before he exited. 

By the time you were slipping into your laced night gown, the sun was down. You were applying your lotion to your legs when the horn sounded. A deep, whining noise that permeated the entire estate. Every time you heard it, you were transported back to your wedding night. An instinctual shudder ran through you and you paused. For a few moments, the world stood still. When you didn’t hear an immediate gunshot, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You sighed and went back to your lotioning. Guess tonight would be a party after all. 

ˋ°•*⁀➷

Three hours had passed. You had heard a few screams and shattering of glass, but it had been pretty quiet. You were laying in bed, plush comforter pulled up around your waist as you rested against pillows and the headboard. Your headache was subsiding now, the faint wisps of discomfort the only sign that it was there to begin with. The night was well underway, but the fact that you hadn’t heard anything definitive yet made you nervous. You had tried reading, but your fingers mindlessly flicked the edge of the page you were staring at for the past twenty minutes. You spared a glance over to the dresser where the crossbow sat. You had taken it down from its mount and loaded an arrow, but didn’t bother holding it with you. You began to second guess yourself. Maybe you should’ve suffered through the pain and gone on the hunt. You shook your head at the thought. Titus never would’ve allowed it. Your heart ached for him. Your Titus. You prayed to all that was unholy that he was alright. A small flicker in the back of your brain taunted you. Of course he was alright. You had seen what he was capable of, and heard stories of him doing even worse. He told you stories of his birthday hunt when he turned eighteen. His coming of age ritual. Titus had chosen the challenge of being completely unarmed and instead giving his Prey a knife. His whole family had thought he was crazy. But when Titus dragged the dead man back to the manor, face beaten so badly that pieces of skull had been left behind in the mud, they had stopped laughing. And he had only become more experienced since then. Titus had it down to a science, really, and you thoroughly enjoyed watching the master at work. But there had been a few times where he had almost gone too far. In fact, during the last hunt, he had tried jumping off the roof to capture the Prey. Only when you physically tackled him to the ground did he give up pursuit. It wasn’t really the groom you were worried about, but rather Titus himself. 

You threw down the book in exasperation. You swung your legs over the bed and walked over to the opposite wall, pulling back the drapes to look at the shadowed forest. To your surprise, you didn’t see any flashlights or golf carts out on the grounds. Perhaps the groom didn’t escape as well as you thought. Maybe he-

Creak.

You froze immediately. There was someone in the hallway. You could hear heavy breathing on the other side of the oak door. The door to your bedroom was shut, but not locked. Because there were no locks in this god forsaken house, they considered it cheating. You were afraid to move, to give your position away. Thankfully, you were wearing socks and you shuffled slightly backwards toward the dresser. But you didn’t get far. Because of course, out of all the doors in the hallway, the door to your bedroom opened and the bloodied groom crashed into the room, falling to the floor. You stood still, looking down at him. You tried to keep your breathing under control. Titus had taught you to never give another person the upper hand by appearing flustered. It was at that moment when you realized you didn’t even remember the groom's name. And here he was, panting on your floor, trying to get up but slipping on his own blood. He rose to his knees and seemed to notice you for the first time.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, throwing himself forward and grabbing the windowsill to pull himself up “Thank God you’re here! You’ve gotta help me! My in-laws are trying to kill me!” You did a quick inventory of the situation before responding. His leg was bleeding (all over your rug, by the way. Quite rude), but he seemed otherwise okay. Physically, anyway. He clutched a crowbar in his one hand, like it was his only way of survival, and his eyes were wild. Blood was splattered across his cheek, signaling that someone had been on the receiving end of a crowbar blow. He swallowed hard, not realizing that you weren’t reacting like a normal person in this situation. “What time is it?” 

“About midnight.” You stated calmly, hands bunched at your sides and shoulders tensed. His body was blocking the door. And he was in a position where, if you made a bolt for the crossbow, he would be able to stop you. A dull sense of fear began to settle at the base of your spine. You were trapped. Then he looked at you. Really looked at you and seemed to remember who you were. “Did they do this to you too?” You shrugged and nodded.

“It wasn’t really that bad,” you said honestly. “I made it out of the house and hid in the woods until dawn.” “Fuck, that’s smart.” It was. And he was quite honestly an idiot for not trying to escape the house. The house that belonged to the family who was trying to kill him. The house that the Danforths were raised in and knew like the back of their hand. The groom was still trying to catch his breath and you took the chance to take a few steps toward the dresser. He dropped the crowbar on the floor and reached into his waistband. He had a gun. Shit. You failed to hide your grimace at the new piece of information. That complicated things. It didn’t matter if you made it to the crossbow first, he could just shoot you. You didn’t recognize the gun, but it had the Danforth ram’s head engraved in the handle. Ah. It likely belonged to the same person whose blood was smeared on his cheek. 

“Listen,” you said, wetting your lips and taking another hesitant step toward the crossbow. “I get you’re trying to hide, but you can’t stay here. This room’s off limits.” The groom scoffed and pushed himself off the bedpost.

“Oh yea?” He scoffed, “Says who?” Irritation prickled in your chest. You opened your mouth to say that you were, in fact, the lady of the house, and he needed to leave you the fuck alone before your husband got back, but you caught yourself. Labelling yourself as important is a great way to get taken as a hostage. When you didn’t answer, the groom laughed. “Yea, I think I’m gonna stay here for a while.” He took your phone off the nightstand and tucked it into his pocket. “Just so you don’t go snitching on me.” He explained. He lifted the gun and pointed it at you. “I don’t want to hurt you, for the record, but if being in here gets me to survive until the morning, you’re fucking insane if you think I’m leaving.” You pursed your lips. Running some quick calculations in your head, you figured that if you could kick his bad leg out from under him, you could probably get to the crossbow before he had time to line up a shot. You took a deep breath, chest rising, and you caught the groom’s eyes flick to your chest. You remembered what you were wearing, a slip that was only meant for Titus’ eyes, and heat flooded your face. Self consciousness settled in your chest and you crossed your arms across your breast, earning a scoff from the groom.

“Y’know,” he mused, shaking his head “this is more what I thought my wedding night would be like. A pretty lady and I sharing a bedroom together.” Your brows furrowed.

“Ew.” your lip curled in disgust. “I wonder if your new wife would enjoy you speaking to another woman like that.” 

“Yea, I’m probably gonna ask for a divorce tomorrow.” He shrugged, “I’m not a big fan of marrying into a family who tries to kill me-” You took the chance to lunge at him, sliding across the wooden floor and kicking his ankle out from under him. As he fell, a shot rang out from his gun. The bullet was lodged in the crown molding, but he still had the gun in his hand. You used the chance to climb on top of him and slam his hand against the floor. His hand relaxed and you shoved the gun away. It skittered across the floor before being swallowed by the fabric of the floor-length drapes. The groom, while disarmed, wasn’t caught off guard for long. He brought the palm of his hand up and jammed it into your nose. Stars erupted into your vision and you instinctively brought your hands to your face, feeling the blood start to seep between your fingers. The groom used his hip to flip you over, pinning your arms against the side of your head. You snarled in his face, spitting blood in his eyes and jerking your knee into his crotch. He fell to the side and you scrambled to your feet, reaching the dresser and grabbing the crossbow. You heard the groom get to his feet as you set the arrow. You whirled around and before the groom could plead his case, you pulled the trigger, releasing the arrow from the bow and straight through his eye socket. Blood bubbled from the wound and he fell to his knees, falling face first onto the gorgeous persian rug underneath your bed. Gently, you lowered the crossbow to your side, finger still on the trigger. Stepping over the groom’s legs, you examined the scene before you. You stood for a moment, gulping large and frightened breaths into your lungs. It had been years since you killed someone by yourself. Tears clouded your vision and rolled onto your cheeks, mixing with the blood coming from your nose. You let a sob tear from your chest and all you wanted in that moment was Titus. 

As if the universe heard you, your door flew open again, crashing against the wall with a bang. And standing there, rumpled and panting and eyes blown wide with urgency, was Titus. Your dear husband. He was wielding a bolt-action rifle, pointed into the room. Without thinking, your hands flew up, telling him not to shoot. The only sound for several moments was his ragged breath. Titus’ eyes flicked from you, wearing the navy blue lingerie that was now covered in your blood, to the crossbow, to the man slumped on the ground with an arrow through the head. You were slightly unnerved at the way that Titus stared at you. You locked eyes with your husband and you could see the fear there. The fear that he was too late, that he had expected a very different scene in your bedroom. Perhaps he expected the roles to be reversed. For you to be on the floor, blood pooling around your head. His hazel eyes were shining with an emotion you couldn’t quite figure out. And without tearing his gaze from you, Titus cocked the rifle and unloaded round into the head of the already dead groom, splattering his brains across your floor. You let out a disappointed noise.

“You stained the carpet.” You murmured. Titus let out an incredulous laugh, tossing the rifle to the ground and crossing the room in large strides to get to you.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Titus growled, pushing you with his hips until your back thudded against the wall. He pressed himself into you and you could feel the hard bulge beneath his trousers. You were about to ask if he was okay, but his lips plunged into yours before you could speak. The kiss was rough and messy. His teeth nipped at your lips, and his mouth wandered all over the lower half of your face. You could feel your lips begin to swell from the force and your hand flew to his hair, tugging lightly on his curls. You felt a strange wetness on your cheeks and lips, but it wasn’t blood, it was tears. You opened your eyes and saw tears streaming from Titus’ eyes. He was gasping for breath in frequent sobs, bordering on hyperventilating. He continued to kiss between his pulls of breath, and you had to tug his head away from you.

“Titus,” You said softly, putting your hands on both his cheeks. Titus’ short inhales were high pitched and unfulfilling and you could tell that he was holding back true wailing. “Hey,” You led him to the bed and sat on the edge, bringing him down and wiping the tears from his cheeks. “What’s wrong, honey? I’m alright.”

“I thought…I thought I lost you,” He choked out, sobs ripping from his chest as he threw himself at you, pulling you close and resting his head on your shoulder. Snot and tears smeared his face but you didn’t care, you held him just as tightly. “W-When I heard the gunshot…when I realized what part of the house it came from…” he trailed off. You pressed a kiss to his forehead and petted his head as he sobbed into your chest. You shifted so that you were facing him, taking both his hands in yours and making him hold eye contact.

“Titus, breathe with me,” You placed one of his hands on your chest and took a deep breath. He mimicked the action, drawing in a deep breath, only hiccuping a few times, and holding the air in his lungs before breathing shakily out. You repeated the action several times, only stopping when Titus was breathing normally again. His shoulders relaxed and he closed his eyes, dropping his head slightly. You brought your hand to his cheek and lifted his face. 

“I love you so much,” Titus whispered, “I couldn’t imagine living in a world without you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, my love,” You assured him, pressing a small kiss to his lips. “You are, unfortunately, stuck with me.” Titus let out a breath of laughter and you gave him a small smile. He returned it with a nod, lip quivering slightly and eyes still wet and raw from crying. Titus took a deep breath and looked around the room. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he assessed the damage. “I’m sorry I took your kill,” you said, gesturing to the body “How was the hunt otherwise?” That earned a genuine smile from him, and you felt your heart soar in your chest. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart, you deserved it after your hard day.” Titus kissed your knuckles. “It was fine. I’m not hurt.” His brow furrowed and he brought his hands to your thighs, pinching the edge of your slip between his fingers. “I’m sorry your relaxing night was ruined. I can beat him up a little more if it would make you feel better.” You laughed and slung your arms around his shoulders. 

“I don’t think it would make him any more dead than he already is.” “That’s not the point.”

“I know,” you assented. “I appreciate it, but I’d rather just keep you here.”

“You want to keep me in bed, Mrs. Danforth?” Titus raised his eyebrow, putting his hands on your hips. You hummed and twirled a piece of his hair with a finger. He knew that using your honorific always sparked arousal.

“Guilty.” His face was closer to yours now and you captured his lips in a gentle kiss, a juxtaposition of the kiss from only a few minutes ago and a true testament to Titus’ complexity. One of his hands slid up from your waist and gently squeezed the sides of your neck. You broke the kiss and Titus let out a little whine of disappointment. “We don’t have to.” You didn’t want to push him after he had just been extremely vulnerable with you. After you had talked him down from an edge. But Titus just shook his head.

“I need you,” He whispered, nipping at your lower lip and using his weight to push you onto your back, caging in your head with his elbows “need to prove how much you mean to me. Wanna worship you.” Titus’ kisses moved down your neck and onto your chest. He paused at the edge of the lace. “When I saw you standing over him, covered in blood, I’ve never been so fucking hard in my life.” His pupils were blown with lust, chest rising and falling with strangled breaths. Titus usually had no problem ripping your lingerie off you, but as he kissed down your stomach and settled between your legs, he left the slip on. He even paused for a moment to suckle the splotch of blood on your ribs, moaning slightly when it caused you to squirm beneath him. “Think I wanna see you wearing this every hunt. Remind me how fucking killer my wife can be.” You moaned his name softly and watched as his head disappeared under the edge of the dress. You yelped when he yanked your thighs over the edge of the bed, resting upon his shoulders. Titus laughed against your core and it sent a pleasant vibration that turned you into liquid. 

When he licked the first stripe between your folds, your hands bunched the bedding between your fists. The first swipe of his tongue was always criminal and your favorite part of sex with Titus. It was always his top priority, preparing you for him in the best, most pleasurable way possible. Once you had told him that he didn’t have to eat you out, that you wanted him to enjoy it too. He had been genuinely offended and made you cum six times on his tongue as punishment. And then he went to bed with a straining cock, stating that your release was what gave him the most pleasure and that it was enough for him just to taste you. 

Titus’ tongue plunged into your core, swishing from side to side to stretch you out before you took him fully. He removed his tongue and licked up to your clit, the pointed edge of his tongue catching on the small nub as he licked circles around you. He gave a slap to the outside of your thigh, a chastation that you weren’t being loud enough for him. So you let the next moan rip from your throat, a degenerate sound that made Titus whine against you. 

“Fuck, Titus, you eat me out so good,” you babbled, pleasure making the edge of your brain fuzzy and clouded the edges of your vision “You’re doing so well for me. Making me feel so good.” You noticed that his hips bucked up into the air at your words, trying to find friction where there wasn’t any. A smirk formed on your lips, but it was quickly replaced by a slackened jaw when Titus inserted two of his fingers into your heat.

“Don’t play games with me,” Titus growled, flexing his digits against your velvety walls. You nodded, even though he couldn’t quite see it over the navy fabric bunched at your hips. The combination of his tongue and his fingers was overwhelming. 

It wasn’t long before you felt the familiar tingling at the apex of your thighs and the base of your spine. Your fingers pried one of his hands off your thigh and entwined your fingers with his. Titus squeezed your hand to remind you that he was there with you. You clenched your thighs together, squeezing Titus’ head. He knew that it meant you were close and he locked in on his administrations, continuing the lapping and fingerfucking that had gotten you to the peak. You came with a shuttered moan, drawing a deep breath and squeezing your thighs tighter as you bucked against his face, drawing out the pleasure of your orgasm for as long as you could. Titus continued to lick you until your thighs fell wide, your belly heaving with stabilizing breaths. 

Titus sat back on his heels and wiped a hand across his mouth before climbing over you. His belt was already undone to give himself some relief and he tugged on his zipper and shimmied his pants off until his cock was freed. Titus swiped his head through your folds until he collected enough of your juices where he could push in without resistance. He lined himself up and locked eyes with you before pushing his length into you. This was his favorite part of sex with you- watching your expression change as he slowly split you open on his dick. You threw your head back in pleasure, but Titus wouldn’t have that. He gripped your chin with the hand not holding himself up and jerked your face back to him. Your eyelids fluttered as he bottomed out completely. Titus pressed his lips to yours, tongue swiping at the seam. You allowed him access and he stuck his tongue in your mouth, messily making out with you as he bucked his hips up into you for the first time. You whined needily. You could taste yourself on him and it made your walls clench harder on him. Titus set a harsh but not merciless pace, fucking you hard into the mattress while making the thrusts smooth. He never fully left your cunt, sliding in and out with ease as each thrust of his hips bumped against your clit in the most delicious way. You brought your hands to his cheeks and pressed your foreheads together. 

“I’m here, Titus, fuck, I’m here.” You moaned, kissing his cheekbones. Titus responded with a ragged whimper, breaths coming out in short pants and making all the noises he knew you loved. 

“I. Fucking. Love you. So much.” He moaned, punctuating each word with a thrust. You maintained eye contact with him as you pressed your heels into his ass, urging him to go harder, faster, deeper. He obliged. How could he not? You were everything to him and he would give everything to you. His hazel eyes were a rim around blown pupils, but his eyes were filled with so much care and love it made your chest hurt. 

“I love you too, Titus. I’m yours.” Your voice was small and breathy, all the air being fucked from your lungs by the force of Titus’ thrusts “I’m always yours. I’ll never leave you.” This earned a high-pitched moan from your husband and he tucked his face into your neck, kissing along the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You grabbed fists of his hair as he faltered slightly, knowing he was close. “Cum in me, please. Mark me.” Titus growled at your words, sucking a hickey onto your neck and readjusting his position so he could get a better angle for his cock. He lifted his head and you saw his face contort into an expression of pure pleasure, puffs of air leaving his lips as he chased his orgasm. He came with another whine, bucking and stilling deep into you as thick ropes of cum painted your insides. Titus gave one final thrust, to make sure his cum stayed inside of you. He gasped and huffed and fell to his elbows, brushing the hair from your forehead and peppering your face in gentle kisses. His dick pulsed and twitched as you squeezed him. The two of you stayed there for a while, neither one of you wanting to pull away. 

“I love you,” you said softly, wiping some sweat from his brow. “I got so lucky.” Titus shook his head fervently.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” The two of you shared another, gentler kiss, as his dick softened inside you. One that was filled with devotion and appreciation. Titus cupped your breast and ran a finger along the lace line of your lingerie. 

“I was serious, you know,” he mused, kissing the skin of your chest. “I want you to keep this. I don’t care that it has some asshole’s blood on it.” You exhaled through your nose. 

“If that’s what you want,” You give “but I want another one. A clean one.” Titus nodded. “And you’re gonna pay for it. For letting him get even close to me. One that he’s never touched.” A flash of possessiveness crossed his eyes.

“Of course,” he gritted, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He gave you one more kiss to the forehead and pulled out. You whined at the sensation, feeling the mixture of your juices and his cum run down your leg. Titus stepped into and pulled his boxers over his hips. He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a washcloth soaked in warm water. Your husband cleaned you reverently, using a single finger to wash away the stickiness between every fold of your skin. He gave you a kiss on your thigh before walking over to the body still laying on your floor. He ran a hand over his face.

“I should probably deal with this.” Titus sighed. He put on his pants and kicked the body over onto his back. Titus’ brow furrowed in a frustratingly attractive way as he calculated the best mode of transport of his now dead cousin in-law. He glanced over to you, searching your face for something. You realized he was waiting for your permission. You waved your hand. 

“Please,” you agreed, “get him out of here.” Titus nodded. You had given him a task. A priority. He grabbed the man and hoisted him over his shoulder. It helped that the groom was a twig of a man, but the show of strength reignited the flame in your lower belly. You licked your lips and gave your husband the best bedroom eyes you could muster. “Hurry back.” Titus snickered and shook his head.

“Insatiable.” He murmured. But he would be back. He just had to carry the body down the stairs and into the monitoring room, where the help would take care of him. Then, Titus would be back in the place where he felt the safest- in between your thighs.

[drjabbotswife]

"fuuuucking hell."

derran and Craig furrow their brows at you. sitting on the loungers either side of you, debating getting high or going in the pool (only to end up doing both)

"what?" Craig asks, rolling his joint.

you tear your eyes away, try to look at the pool. but your eyes travel to the other side of the garden, to andrew 'pope' cody and his sledge hammer.

"you guys didnt tell me your brother was hot," you manage, staring at him as he smashed shit up in just a pair of jeans.

derran and craig look at each other. "seriously? pope?" derran asks and you nod. "the guy that just got out of prison?"

"yup." you sit back and put your sunglasses over your eyes, shamelessly watching the stoic cody brother. the hottest cody brother, for sure.

you could watch him all day, unaware that every time andrew turns around, he's watching you too.

[oxalaia-quilombensis]

stalker!pope

so I am still working on the pope breeding kink one shot that the people voted for, but man is it fighting me. so! I figured I'd try my hand at one of these little headcanon drabble for one of the losing prompts on my poll : stalker!pope x derans sweet new bartender who's not as sweet as she seems

18+

Stalker!Pope who freezes the second he walks into Deran’s bar one day, shocked by the sight of some pretty little thing he’s never seen standing behind the bar. He doesn’t like when there are unexpected changes made to his routine. But then you greet him with a sweet little smile, pouring him his bourbon and passing the glass to him with a peppy little “enjoy!” and he decides maybe he’s ok with this change. He swears the liquor tastes better when you pour it.

Stalker!Pope who quickly becomes obsessed. He’s lingering, hanging around the bar even when he’s not drinking or there on business. He even volunteers to help Deran clean up a bit so that he’s got an excuse to be around you during your shifts. That’s not enough for him, though, so he starts following you home every night. Just to make sure you get there safely! God knows Oceanside isn’t a safe place for pretty 20-somethings like yourself.

Stalker!Pope who finds himself quickly becoming addicted to watching you through your windows. You probably want him to, since you never shut your curtains. You even leave your windows open! It’s not his fault when he picks the lock to your front door so that he can close them. He knows the ocean breeze probably feels good, but leaving your windows open is practically begging for some freak to sneak in. He’s just trying to keep you safe. That’s what he tells himself. That’s why he watches you sleep from the corner of your room. He’s always gone before you wake, nothing but shut windows and the lingering scent of his aftershave left behind.

Stalker!Pope who starts breaking in when you’re not home, curiosity getting the better of him. He wants to know what your place looks like in the daylight. And once he’s in there, he just can’t help himself. He cleans, scrubbing your floors, doing the dishes left over from your breakfast, even doing your laundry. Which is how he finds your underwear. The temptation was too strong to fight, and that’s how he ends up inhaling, taking in the scent of you that clings to the fabric. It’s like catnip to him. Pope takes them, building a collection in his room, buried beneath his own underwear. It’s filthy and so unlike him, but he just can’t help himself. Over the few weeks since he started coming during the day, you find yourself with less and less undergarments. 

Stalker!Pope who thinks he’s being subtle, who thinks you have no idea, who thinks it is a total coincidence that you start leaving your underwear on the bed instead of buried in your hamper. But you know the truth. As good as Pope is, his obsession had made him a little sloppy. About a year before Pope became obsessed, someone unwelcome had actually broken into your place, and you’d had cameras installed in every room. You’d known it was him stealing your panties since the beginning. It turned you on to know that he craved you, that he couldn’t get enough of you. The underwear you’d leave him started getting racier and racier, until it just scraps of lace held together by tiny little strings.

Stalker!Pope who is completely caught off guard when you’ve decided you’ve had enough one night after closing at the bar. The patrons and Deran are gone, leaving just you and him as you clean while he sits at the counter watching. You slip into the back, quickly removing the g-string underneath your denim skirt. When you come back, you set the panties on the bar top before him. “Here, save you a trip tonight.” And he is shocked, just staring at you with wide eyes. He doesn’t try to deny it or offer any excuse.

Stalker!Pope who finally snaps when you bend over at the waist, giving him a beautiful view of your glistening folds just barely hidden beneath that skirt that is much too short. He’s jumping over the bartop and pressing his raging hardon against your ass as you stand back up.

Stalker!Pope who’s throwing you around. He has you bent over the counter, one hand on the back of your head, pushing your face against the cold wood, and the other is 3 fingers deep inside you to stretch you out. You’re crying and whining and begging for him to just fuck you, but he doesn’t, not right away at least. “Gotta get you ready for me.”

Stalker!Pope who gives in, taking his hands off you just long enough to undo his jeans. He yanks them down just far enough to give him access before he’s thrusting all the way inside you. He wants to go slow, make it a little bit romantic, but pretty soon you’re writhing and snapping at him, goading him into a faster, harder rhythm. 

Stalker!Pope who is in awe when you take his hand, dragging it to your throat while you fuck yourself back on him, clenching and squeezing around him. He chokes you, dragging you up until your back is pressed against his chest while he pounds into you as hard as he can. When you both cum, you’re pulling away and dropping to your knees. Pope watches with wide eyes as you lick his cock clean.

Stalker!Pope who falls even more in love when you tell him it makes you wet to know he’s following you. That you want him to keep breaking in, keep taking care of you. That you like his obsessions and his quirks.

Stalker!Pope who nearly cums in his pants when you tell him the next time he breaks in while you sleep that he should have his way with you.

[diirty--chaii]

Jack Abbot has some fat fucking tits

cw - implied unspecified age gap, crack treated seriously

Jack groans in frustration as the button on his dress shirt pops open again. Of course this was happening the night he was meeting your parents. He hasn't had the occasion to wear this particular shirt in a few months, and it looks like his efforts in the gym during that time have payed of considering every time he breathes in, the button pops open.

He hears you giggling from your spot at the mirror, putting the finishing touches on your makeup.

"You think this is funny?"

"If you spent more time snuggling me on the couch you wouldn't have this problem," you come up to him, wrapping your arms around his waist before leaning forward and pressing a kiss between his pecs. When you pull back you reveal the lipstick print you left behind. Jack makes no move to wipe it off.

"I gotta keep up my end of the bargain and stay and shape so you don't leave me for someone your own age.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," you jest, running your hands along his biceps, giving him a light squeeze, "I can still use you for your money."

"Very funny."

You try this time, bringing the two sides of his shirt together, straining to put the button through the button hole. Alas, your efforts turn out to be equally futile as the shirt pops open as soon as your hands drop. Jack rolls his eyes at your laughter.

"My tits are too fucking fat," he mutters.

"Who the fuck taught you that?" your laughter resumes.

"You think your generation made up the term fat tits?"

"No, but I thought your geriatric ass would calls them cans or whatever."

"How old do you think I am," he rolls his eyes again, "One of the nurses-"

That gets your attention. Your laughter stops immediately and you straighten, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Which one of the nurses was talking about your tits, Abbot. I'll kill her."

"Relax, would you?" he chuckles, "It was Mateo."

You frown, "Why the fuck was Mateo talking about your tits. My point still stands, I'll kill him - he knows those are my tits."

"He's not my type, doll, don't worry," he leans forward. Relief floods through him when you let him kiss you. You're just playing with him, "Well actually what happened was I spilled water on myself and Shen said it was unfortunate our scrubs aren't white because a wet T-shirt contest would get our patiend satisfaction scores up-"

"Shen's objectifying you too? I have a hit list now?"

"-And then," he ignores you, "Mateo asked me what my chest day routine is cause I apparently have some 'fat titties' and I will say it weirdly made me feel confident for the rest of the shift."

You stare at him a moment, processing the information you just received, "The night shift is so fucking gay."

*****

Bonus:

"Shit," Jack groans as the lid on his waterbottle comes lose and ice cold water from the thermos sloshes all over him. He gasps at the temperature shock, looking for a napkin or something to help him wipe off.

"Do we have to put you in a home already, Abbot?" Shen laughs handing Jack a box of tissues from the nurses station, "Thought we had a good five years left."

"Ha-ha," he rolls his eyes, "Lid was loose."

"Good thing your pregnant patient already went upstairs," Mateo laughs from across the desk where he's charting, "Her bp was already sky high."

"Maybe we should get white scrubs, and get him to do that in front of the next one," Shen counters, "Might raise our patient satisfaction scores."

"Abbot you got any tips for chest day?" Mateo continues, making Jack roll his eyes again, "Apparently girls like when a guys pecs are fatter than hers."

"Fat…oh my god, Diaz go," Jack commands, but there's no bark in his voice. He actually gets along quite well with the kid, and feels his abscence whenever day shift manages to poach him back, "Go lance an abcess."

"You're not my boss, boss," Mateo cackles, tapping the 'RN' on his badge, "You can't tell me what to do."

*****

and as always shout out @promotional-dvd for helping me brain storm