Judas, no! @myrrh-dock - Tumblr Blog

pretty when you cry🍒🌅 [act one/three]

(andrew 'pope' cody x reader)

1971. Running from a past you're desperate to forget, you find yourself waitressing in the pits of LA's seedy underbelly. When you're offered a gig at Oceanside Videos, making 'adult' films, it feels almost too good to be true. Maybe it is. Pope is the first person you meet from that world - one of the biggest names in porn, and completely and utterly elusive. Except to you he seems like an open book. He's kind, thoughtful, and makes you feel alive in ways you thought were no longer possible. But how can you possibly fall in love in an industry that runs on you both having sex with other people?

warnings: 18+, mdni! this is the most explicit fic i have ever written, minors absolutely do not interact. it also deals with some sensitive and upsetting themes related to the porn industry - if you'd like more specific warnings, please reach out! graphic sex (mostly with pope, but she makes videos with other men too), including unprotected pinv, cunnilingus, blowjobs, use of sex toys, issues with safe-words while filming (not by pope), rough and non-consensual scenes played out in the context of making a porno, domestic violence (not by pope), graphic violence described outwith the domestic violence context, drug use by multiple characters, discussions of overdose, suicidal ideation, age gap (early 20s/mid thirties), time-accurate biases towards sexuality+women, smurf is creepier than canon and micromanages her sons doing porn, pic below is just for vibes and reader is not described w/c: 11.6k

main masterlist // pope masterlist

Deep in the San Fernando Valley - approximately halfway between Encino and North Hollywood - lies Oceanside Videos. In the late thirties, it had been an office building - an insurance agency, or something equally boring. The war had put paid to that, and the hulking property sat in near desolation for twenty years.

Apparently, the local government had wanted it demolished. Thought it was an ‘eyesore’ to the local nature, even though plots were being bought and built on faster than anybody could keep track of.

Whatever happened, the paperwork didn’t go through in time, and it ended up in the hands of Janine ‘Smurf’ Cody. A former cocktail waitress with five kids to different men (other than the twins), no one really knew where she got the funds from.

Nobody dared ask any questions.

Not with the Cody reputation hanging over the place.

Rumours of gangs, the mafia and more swirled, all while quiet renovations were made to the lot. When it finally opened it’s doors in 1967, controversy was rife amongst the community. Sure, Los Angeles was all about the hippie counterculture, and sexual liberation, but none of the local Angelinos were thrilled about a porno production company opening up just a few streets over from their schools.

Gone were the tiled floors, and lines of identical desks - replaced instead with plush velvet furniture and shaggy carpets. They even created their own backlot, filled to the brim with whatever sets the common porn film may need. Fake schools, houses, offices - Smurf thought of it all.

Including her stars.

The girls were largely nameless at first - pretty things who needed to make some quick cash. Very rarely would someone hang around for more than one or two. Julia Cody tried it very briefly, before getting into a fight with her mother and storming off set, never to be seen again. The only reason they know that she’s still alive are from the postcards she occasionally sends Pope. Last he heard, she was living up in a commune in San Francisco.

The boys, however?

Almost entirely Cody.

Deran’s an easy sell. As Los Angeles becomes more comfortable with homosexuality, there’s considerable market for men. Helps that Deran enjoys the work, too. He’s never once complained.

Baz had been the first best-seller. His initial videos did so well that Oceanside starting hosting their own premieres for each picture they produce - it’s a decidedly seedy affair, full of people you wouldn’t want to run into past midnight on Hollywood Boulevard. Despite being the only non-Cody, Baz is on such an upward trajectory that he pulls everybody else up with him. Oceanside Videos goes from being a bunch of nobodies, to challenging the biggest and brightest of the European porn industry.

Craig is Smurf’s dark horse. Where the other boys have hard lines, and lists of things they categorically will not do on film, Craig hasn’t found a kink that didn’t call to him yet. His audience trends nicher, more hardcore, but he has his fans anyway.

And finally, Andrew himself.

Initially dismissed by Baz and his mother, nobody really thought he would have much draw. He’d never been great with girls growing up, and it’s easy to imagine that awkwardness carrying in front of the camera. It’s a slow start. He’s a little stiff at first, doesn’t know quite where to put his hands. Baz jokes that it must be his first time.

But by 1971, the fourth anniversary of Oceanside, Pope has eclipsed them all. Turns out, girls love the brooding thing he’s got going on. His broad shoulders, deep voice, and signature curls combine in the most lethal way, making him the biggest earner of the seventies so far.

Especially now that Baz has stepped back a little. It’s Pope’s world, and everybody else is just living in it.

Except he doesn’t seem to know how to live in it at all.

There’s the Laurel Canyon mansion - bought only to get some distance from his family. With the rest of them shacked up in Beverly Hills, the half-hour drive between him and them is a godsend. When he spends all day with Smurf, the last thing he needs is to be around their ragers that last until the next morning.

He knows she’d rather he lived nearby - ideally on the Cody compound itself, but she’s in no position to make demands. Not when he’s her biggest money-maker these days.

There’s also the Cherry Red 1969 Mustang. Admittedly, that was one thing he’d really wanted. Having spent his childhood admiring the cars that sped by Venice Beach, it was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself to fully enjoy. He couldn’t not enjoy it - not when he’s cruising along Mulholland Drive, blasting the new Doors record at full volume.

Where the others revel in their fame, and abuse it in whatever ways they can - Pope seems to shrink in on himself. He has no real interest in the hard drugs - after a brief stint on cocaine in the mid-sixties, he eventually swore off it entirely in favour of weed.

He’s not a virtuous man. Has never claimed to be.

He just hates feeling out of control.

That tends to surprise people. They hear the stories about Oceanside, about the parties and the arrests and the smashed hotel rooms, and they assume Pope must be the worst of them. The scary one usually is.

While Baz disappears into bedrooms with aspiring actresses and Craig seems determined to ingest anything handed to him, Pope spends most parties lurking at the edges. Nursing the same beer for hours. Watching everyone else unravel, while he plots his exit route.

It almost adds to the charm.

Nobody ever truly knows Andrew, outside of his family. That excites people, and draws them in further. Makes them buy his movies.

Today is no different than any other day in this industry. His pants are down around his ankles, his hair thoroughly mussed while they film the literal climax of the picture. Pope’s barely paying attention, hips snapping against some girl from Wyoming while she whines and whimpers under him. Or was it Missouri? Maybe Kansas, actually.

Either way, it’s somewhere he has absolutely zero interest in visiting.

Her lipstick is stained across his jaw and collarbone, but not his lips. Never his lips. One of Pope’s little quirks, as Smurf would call it, is that he doesn’t kiss on the lips.

He’ll eat a girl out until she cries, and coat his lips in her cum, but will flat-out refuse to go any closer than the neck with actresses. A few girls have tried, claiming either to be lost in the heat of the moment, or just not thinking at all, but he always dodges it. It’s also the surest way to be kicked off an Oceanside set, and have your contract suspended.

He doesn’t need kissing to make a film good. Great, even.

Most people find that difficult to understand. The assumption is that someone who lives their life surrounded by sex must always want more of it, when the reality is almost exactly the opposite.

Pope spends ten hours a day discussing chemistry, attraction, boundaries, consent, comfort levels, camera angles, and performance. Every expression is analysed. Every touch is planned. Every intimate moment is broken apart and rebuilt until it serves the scene.

By the end of the day, there is very little mystery left in it.

None of it translates to personal interest. Unfortunately, every few productions, someone decides that the chemistry they created together on camera must mean something off camera too.

It never does.

Pope’s not sure he’ll ever feel a need for sex outside work again. Often he feels he must be broken in some horribly fundamental way. Craig and Deran would screw anything that moves, and while Baz claims loyalty to Cath and Lena, Pope’s walked in on him with more than one barely-legal model.

Smurf’s always said he was wired a little differently.

He knows what that means.

Wrong. Freak. Weirdo.

When Julia was still here it was manageable. She knew, even if she didn’t quite understand.

But now she’s gone, and all he has left are Smurf and porn.

*****

Somewhere in Huntington Beach, you also feel like you’re wired differently. Growing up in Dallas in the fifties, you were surrounded by conservatism. Every woman in your family aspired to be no more than a housewife, and every man saw more of the local dive bar than he did of his own children.

Ever since you could talk, it hasn’t felt right for you. Dallas was all about keeping up appearances. Your mother spent her days fighting dust, starching shirts, and making sure the kids were seen and not heard. Your father and uncles were ghosts who smelled of stale tobacco and cheap whiskey. The only thing worse than their absence was their presence.

You spent your childhood hiding in the branches of the backyard pecan tree. From up there, the neat rows of suburban houses looked like a grid of tiny boxes. You would stare at the horizon where the flat Texas earth met the sky, wondering how far you would have to run to find some semblance of peace.

Eventually, the answer came to you, in the form of a biker blowing through town the summer of your seventeenth birthday.

Jim De Costa.

Allegedly. Now, you’re not sure that’s his real name. But at seventeen, he could have told you his name was Jimmy Dean, and you would’ve believed him wholeheartedly.

He was the most worldly person you’d ever met - somehow on top of every book, record and movie going, despite living out of motels and inns as he travelled aimlessly. He’d been to Paris, was friendly with an upcoming band called the Eagles who we swore were going to be the next biggest thing, and had seen JFK get assassinated the last time he was passing through Texas.

The beauty of hindsight is the fact that you realise it’s a load of horseshit within a year. Unfortunately for you, by that point you’re across the country, and entirely dependent on him.

The warning signs were there, of course. You just chose not to see them. There were the sudden late-night departures from motels when the manager asked too many questions. There were the gaps in his stories, and the way his mood could turn from warm to freezing if you asked the wrong question. But back then, you were too drunk on the open road to care. You packed your life into a single canvas bag and rode away from Texas without once looking back in the rear-view mirror.

For a while, it felt exactly like the life he'd promised.

You woke up in different states every few weeks. Oklahoma bled into Colorado, Colorado into Arizona.

It quickly became apparent that nobody cared if you were underage. Not if you paid cash, kept quiet, and stayed out of trouble.

Every morning brought a new horizon. Every night brought a new story from Jim. He knew a guy in Nashville who'd written songs for The Mamas and Papas. He'd smuggled liquor across the Canadian border. He'd once spent three days stranded in the desert with nothing but a hunting knife and a canteen.

Some of the stories seemed too random to be made up. Like his tales of some hippie guy up in San Francisco - a Charlie Manson who could hypnotise women, and convince them to do whatever he wanted.

But the details would change every time, and soon even the most mundane stories felt like lies.

Maybe there was a small part of you that recognised the contradictions from the beginning, but admitting they were lies would have meant admitting you'd thrown away everything for a stranger.

The first cracks started to show in Nevada. After eighteen months of floating aimlessly, money grew tighter, while Jim grew meaner.

At first, it was little things.

He started keeping hold of the cash. Said you were careless with money. Said you didn't understand how expensive life on the road could be. Whenever you asked how much you had left, he'd laugh and tell you not to worry your pretty little head about it.

The charming drifter who'd swept you off your feet began disappearing for days at a time, returning with bruised knuckles and pockets full of cash. If you asked where he'd been, his smile would flatten.

If you asked twice, he'd stop speaking altogether, and you learned quickly that silence was worse than shouting. Silence meant days of cold shoulders and locked motel bathroom doors. It meant him sleeping with his back turned to you. It meant wondering what you'd done wrong this time.

Eventually you'd apologise just to make it stop. Even when you had no idea what you were apologising for.

The first time he put his hands on you, it barely registered.

You were arguing in a motel outside Albuquerque. About what, you can't remember now. Most of your arguments blurred together eventually. You only remember reaching for your bag.

His grip had been rough and his voice low, as his fingers wrapped around your wrist, tugging sharply. You remember letting out a cry, dropping whatever you were reaching for.

The bruise had lasted for days.

He said you needed to listen to him more.

As though you had forced him into the assault. He apologised afterwards, naturally. Profusely. He bought you dinner, held your hand across the table, and told you he'd been scared of losing you.

You had believed him, and accepted his excuses, because the alternative was a far more terrifying pill to swallow. That maybe Jim wasn’t your knight in shining armour.

The shift happened so slowly that you didn’t notice the lines being redrawn. It started with a heavy shove during an argument at a party, causing you to stumble into a couple standing behind you. He had caught you by the elbow and laughed it off.

Soon, it turned to throwing things. He didn't aim at you, at least not at first. Instead, a heavy glass ashtray would shatter against the drywall right above your shoulder. A coffee mug would explode against the kitchen cabinets, spraying sharp ceramic shards across your bare feet. The message was clear. You understood exactly what those flying objects meant. He would always have power over you, and was totally unafraid to wield it.

Every incident came with an explanation. He was stressed about money. He was exhausted. He’d had a rough life before he met you, and his nerves were shot. You had just caught him at a bad moment.

The first time he hit you, you left.

He’d spent the entire day drinking, eventually talking you into hitting a few parties, even though you had cramps and could see the whole thing far enough. According to Jim, the bartender was flirting with you, and you were letting him.

On your end, you were just trying to order another round.

Conscious of the fact that everybody was staring at you both, you had dragged him outside, begging and pleading for him to stop with the yelling. That he was scaring you. That you were sorry. When you tried to pull away, he used his free hand to strike you across the face - a heavy, open-handed slap that split your lip against your teeth and sent a coppery taste flooding into your mouth.

You slid down the wall when he let go, your knees hitting the concrete while he stood over you, shouting words that felt like background noise compared to the loud throbbing in your jaw.

You made it a week on your own before he came crawling back. And like the weak, spineless girl you were, you took him back, and things stayed much the same for another two years, before you called it quits for the last time.

Now, you’re standing at a bus-stop in Huntington, with a single bag of belongings, and no idea what you’re going to do next. The reality of your situation is settling in, and you dig into your pocket and pull out your crumpled dollar bills, counting them twice just to be sure. It’s barely enough for a couple of dinners, much less rent or bus tickets.

But you have to get out of here.

If you stay, Jim will find you, and you’ll end up exactly where you started.

Letting out a shaky breath, you make your choice. Stepping away from the bus stop, you look at the shimmering black asphalt of the highway stretching north. To Los Angeles.

You think about your vague, half-baked dreams of Hollywood as a child. Maybe this is where you were meant to be all along. Your heart pounds against your ribs as you raise your right hand, sticking your thumb out toward the oncoming traffic.

*****

The neon sign outside buzzes with a low, wet hum that always gives you a headache by midnight. A far cry from the bright lights of Hollywood, The Velvet Troubadour had been the only place to offer you a job without asking too many questions.

Most places wanted to know about your education (none), work experience (none), and what had brought you to the city (a desire to disappear).

The Velvet Troubadour, not to be confused with the infinitely more successful club in West Hollywood, s a dim, sticky dive on the edge of the city that serves cheap rye to men with heavy eyes, while a rotation of bored girls dances on a small wooden stage under a pink spotlight.

The uniform is an absolute joke. In what can only be described as a cross between a bikini and a maid’s outfit, you’re expected to prance about in five inch heels with a smile plastered to your face for the whole shift. Every time you bend over to pick up an empty glass, you feel the weight of twenty stares anchoring onto your back. You hate the way the cheap fabric smells of stale sweat and cigarette smoke, no matter how many times you scrub it in the sink of your rented room. You hate the mandatory heels that make your arches ache before the dinner rush even starts. Most of all, you hate the way the manager, a sweaty man named Lou, looks you up and down every shift to make sure you haven't gained an ounce.

But the job pays in cash every night, and right now, cash is the only thing keeping you from the sidewalk.

You learn the specific art of laughing at a terrible joke just long enough to secure a dollar tip, while keeping your body just out of arm's reach. Whenever a hand strays too close to your hip, your muscles go rigid. A cold spike of panic shoots through you, giving you flashbacks to Jim. You sidestep the reach with a practiced, icy smile, your knuckles tight with tension until you make it back behind the bar.

Almost all your customers are men. Comes with the territory, given the kind of place you work at. Which is why you notice her as soon as you step out from the dressing rooms. She’s commanded the entire back corner - there are a few men in tow, but it’s clear she’s in charge.

Lou appears at your back, and you flinch. Old habits die hard. “Go take care of her, yeah? Start her with a round on the house.”

“Who is she?”

Her hair isn’t a natural blonde - it’s bleached and fried in a way that can only come from years of heat damage. Maybe decades, based on the leather-look of her skin. But you get the sense that the blonde might be so deeply ingrained in her sense of identity that she wouldn’t know what to do without it.

“Head of Oceanside Videos,” He replies, as if you should already be familiar with what that is. When your expression remains blank, he lets out annoyed huff. “They're the biggest porn production company in Southern California. Name's Smurf. Call her Ms. Cody.”

While you don't know much about porn, you do know about California - particularly the fact that the Valley is infamous for its adult film industry. For this lady to run the top production company in the area, she must know her stuff.

“Got it.” You begin the walk over, suddenly very conscious of the height of your shoes. Men love the stumble, the slight sway as you bend down to place their drinks on the table. Makes them feel powerful, when they can put their hands on your waist, murmuring a quiet, “hey there,” into your ear.

With the way Smurf appears to be sizing all the girls up, you feel a strange urge to please her blooming in your chest.

You flash her your best and brightest smile. “What can I get for you all tonight? First round is on the house tonight.”

Normally when you take orders, you scribble a couple of letters to keep you right, but something about Smurf keeps you from reaching for the notebook in your pocket. In years to come, you’ll wonder how your life would’ve turned out if you’d just written the orders down.

You repeat them like a mantra on your way to the bar, and are filled with relief when she nods at you approvingly as you bring them back. You’re about to ask if they need anything else when she beckons you over with a neon pink nail. On closer inspection, it looks almost like a claw. “You're a cute little thing, huh? How long have you been working here?”

It's said with a layer of condescension that would bother you, were you not entirely accustomed to it by now. From all kinds of patrons. “Just a few months.”

“Figured. I would've remembered you, that's for sure. Come here, sweetcheeks,” She murmurs, patting the empty spot beside her. “You like working here?”

You know what Lou would want you to say.

Oh, yeah. It's real groovy, having men sleaze all over me for minimum wage.

You know that's not going to fly with Smurf. Instead, you go for a half-truth. “It pays the bills.”

“Mhm,” She hums, like she’s not at all surprised. “Why’d you move here, honey? Movies? Music? Modelling?”

This makes you bristle a little. Why does the very nature of Los Angeles entitle people to knowing the personal lives and stories of complete strangers? Especially since one look at Smurf tells you she once had those ambitions too. Now, you figure she must live vicariously through those that she manages.

“Just needed a change,” You reply, tone inviting no further conversation.

“I see,” She replies. “Well - is this how you envisioned your life here?”

“Not exactly,” you say slowly, trying to choose your words carefully. It doesn’t seem to matter. Smurf hasn’t so much as glanced as anybody else since you sat down.

“It never is,” She says, tilting her head so the harsh light catches the heavy gold chains around her neck. Her eyes narrow as she looks you up and down, scanning you the way a pawn shop owner examines a piece of old silver. “You’ve got a look, honey. A real specific kind of look that makes people look twice.” She pauses, letting the noise of the crowded bar fill the silence between you. The clinking of glasses and the low roar of drunk laughter feel miles away.

“A look like that is worth real money,” she continues, her voice dropping into a smooth, confidential purr. “Way more than the pennies you drag off these tables. I run a boutique production company just outside the city. High-end adult features. Very artistic, very private.”

She waves a manicured hand dismissively, as if casting away the entire concept of regular work. Her long, acrylic nails click against the laminated tabletop. “I’m not talking about the cheap, dirty stuff you find in the back alleys,” she says, her tone dripping with a layer of pity that makes your stomach twist. She speaks down to you with the effortless grace of someone who believes they are tossing a lifeline to a drowning swimmer. The worst part is that you think you may be exactly the kind of girl she thinks you are. Totally desperate. “I’m talking about real production value. And I happen to be looking for a fresh face for a new project.”

Smurf reaches into her leather handbag, her rings clicking against the brass zipper. She pulls out a thick, glossy business card with embossed gold lettering and slides it across the wet wood of the table. It stops right against the edge of your tray.

“Think about it,” she murmurs, sliding back into the shadows of the booth. “A girl like you shouldn't waste her best years wiping up spilled beer.”

You look down at the gold lettering on the card, the edges already soaking up a ring of condensation from a stray beer glass. You don’t immediately reach for it, but you don’t push it away either. Instead, you look straight into her eyes, keeping your voice cool and steady.

“What’s the compensation like?” You ask. If you’re going to sell your soul to the devil, you’ve got to make sure it’s worth it.

A slow, genuine smile spreads across Smurf’s face, replacing her plastic smirk. She lets out a soft, approving hum and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Straight to the point. I like it.” She taps a long, acrylic nail against the card. “I'll give you a hundred bucks cash just for showing up and doing a basic camera test at the headquarters tomorrow. If we both like how it looks, the real paychecks would allow you to live a very comfortable life.”

A hundred bucks would guarantee a roof over your head for the next two weeks. After spending months bouncing around the couches of acquaintances, you’ve finally run out of people to call, and have been subjected to the worst motels LA has to offer. You stand there and think it over, the heavy tray resting against your hip. You look around the dingy bar, listening to the sticky floors crunch under your shoes and watching Lou yell at a customer near the jukebox, and your decision becomes crystal clear.

This cannot be your life.

But you also aren't stupid. You know exactly what a camera test in Smurf's world means. It isn't just standing under bright lights and posing. It means having sex with a total stranger while a lens records everything. A cold wave of nausea hits your stomach, but the thought of sleeping on the street next week feels a whole lot worse. You swallow down the panic and force yourself to look casual. “I don’t have a car, so I don’t know how I’d get there.”

“Don’t sweat it, sweetcheeks,” Smurf says, her voice dropping so low that it’s barely audible. “I'll have a car pick you up right here in front of the club tomorrow morning. 2 PM sharp. Just make sure you're ready.”

You nod, already having the feeling that you might be making the biggest mistake of your life.

*****

You’re standing on the curb outside the Troubador by half-past one. After your shift, you’d barely slept a wink, too busy tossing and turning as you envisioned all the ways that today could go wrong.

You’ve only slept with two people in your whole life. How on earth is that supposed to translate to a career in porn?

The sex with Jim wasn’t even anything to brag about. He rarely made you finish, only taking the extra effort when he wasn’t hammered or in a foul mood.

Expecting a cab, or maybe a modest Volkswagen, your jaw is thoroughly dropped when a limousine pulls up to the curb. The driver’s head emerges from the front window to confirm your name, and soon a glass of champagne is being pushed into your hand as you get comfortable in the back.

The drive doesn’t take long, but you know you would’ve been walking for hours, had you tried to attempt it yourself. God, you miss having access to a car. The limousine pulls up to a stark, sun-bleached stretch of the valley, and the driver kills the engine. Through the tinted window, you get your first real look at Oceanside.

The building is an old, boxy office complex that has seen better days. It looks like it used to house insurance adjusters or dental accountants, but the new tenants have done their best to scrub away the corporate boredom. The exterior is slapped with a fresh coat of blinding, flamingo-pink paint that practically screams under the harsh California sun. A giant, modern logo reading Oceanside Videos is bolted over the front doors, the metallic letters gleaming in the heat.

You step out of the air-conditioned luxury of the car, and the thick afternoon heat hits you like a wall. Walking up the concrete path, you feel a nervous flutter in your stomach. You look down at your outfit, a sudden spike of uncertainty hitting your chest. Having zero idea how one is supposed to dress for such an occasion, you’d finally landed on a floral halter top and a pair of denim shorts, hoping the look comes across as casual and attractive. Standing here now, you start to worry that you look naïve, or worse, totally desperate.

You barely reach the top of the concrete steps before the heavy glass door swings open. Smurf is standing there waiting for you, looking completely in her element against the blinding pink backdrop. She wears a sharp, cream-coloured pantsuit that looks like it cost more than you would make in a year, and she smiles widely as soon as she sees you.

“Oh hun, look at you!” Her voice is a coo, one you imagine she might have used for any children she may have had when she was younger. She doesn’t really strike you as the motherly type, though.

The blast of cool air is an immediate relief, but the nervous flutter in your stomach only gets worse as you follow her. She leads you down a maze of long, winding corridors, where the walls are lined with framed, oversized movie posters from Oceanside’s biggest hits. The carpet under your sandals is thick and dark, muffling the sound of your footsteps as Smurf chatters away about lighting grids and distribution schedules.

She leads you through a pair of double doors into her main office, and the sheer scale of the room makes you stop in your tracks. This singular office is almost the same size as your entire childhood home. High vaulted ceilings, and a shelf packed to the brim with golden awards and trophies. But what catches your eye first is the equipment. Right in the middle of the room, a heavy Super 8 video camera is already set up on a tripod, its blank lens pointed directly toward a large, mustard yellow velvet couch.

Your eyes quickly dart to the corner of the room, where a man is leaning against the wall, shadows falling over his sharp features. He doesn’t look hugely tall, but his shoulders could fill an entire doorway, and you swallow slightly at the way his muscles bulge under his sleeve.

He doesn't smile, and his gaze is heavy as he watches you walk in.

“That’s Pope,” Smurf says, giving a careless wave of her hand as she breezes past him toward her desk. “He’s the man you’ll be filming with today. Don't be nervous, honey, he's my best-seller. He knows exactly what he's doing.”

Pope gives you a slow, single nod, his hazel eyes tracking you from across the room, but he doesn't say a word.

Smurf claps her hands together, drawing your attention straight back to her. “Alright, let’s leave Pope to his brooding. Sit down, honey. We need to talk business before we get you in front of the lens.”

Pope looks entirely unsurprised by this display, and you wonder how many girls have been paraded in and out of here before. Does he have to fuck each and every one of them, or does Smurf pick people out based on instinct?

“I-I have a few questions,” You manage, hating yourself for the waver in your voice.

“Anything, baby.”

“You make porn,” You feel like an idiot for stating the obvious, but the most rational part of your brain is still mildly terrified that you’re about to be chopped up and left on the street like the Black Dahlia. Smurf just nods, and waits for you to continue. “And this is basically an audition to work for you?”

“Correct.”

“And… what are you looking for?”

Smurf’s eyes twinkle a little at the question. “Well, that’s kind of hard to quantify. You’ve got a look I like already, which is a lot of the battle. Rest comes down to chemistry, malleability, and star quality. But you shouldn’t worry too much. My Pope will take real good care of you.”

The way she says malleability leaves a sour taste in your mouth, but you’d be lying if you claimed that sneaking glances at Pope weren’t making you feel a little hot and bothered. His bicep alone is bigger than Jim’s head.

“You mentioned compensation at The Troubadour.”

There’s no point in dancing around it any longer. You bite your lip, while Smurf pushes a contract towards you. “We work in yearly contracts, with a baseline number of films. We’d start you with one every six weeks, and if you sell well, you’ll be signed on for more. With a very generous bonus, of course. Basic salary is five-hundred up-front for each film, with a two-fifty bonus for breaking even, and another two-fifty for profits on top of that.”

You read through it quickly. There’s a lot of legal jargon, but it doesn’t look to be anything immediately insidious. At least, not on the surface.

“You've got such cute little doe eyes, kid. A real Bambi look about you,” Smurf comments, barely glancing up as she rolls a joint. Her movements slow to a stop as she considers her words, head tilting just slightly. “Actually, that could work.”

“Uh, what could work?” You ask, brow furrowed a little as you glance between her and Pope.

“Bambi. Got the innocent vibe that the public like, but it's not too out there. Easy to remember, snappy-”

You're still not quite following. Luckily, Smurf seems entirely caught up in her monologue.

“Pope and Bambi,” She muses. “Cute. Might be an easy sell to audiences. Now, are you ready to give this thing a go?”

Her expression is so expectant that you’re not sure you could say no, even if you were considering it. Luckily, your options in Los Angeles are fast running out, and you’d do anything to keep away from Jim. You nod slightly, and Smurf gestures to the couch.

Pope moves quietly, taking a stiff seat at the edge. You dread to think what a UV light would show here. If you were to shine it on the plush velvet, the shag carpet that seems to decorate every surface.

Ringing your hands nervously, you try to keep your attention on Pope.

The man Smurf wants you to fuck.

He’s handsome - that’s not the issue here. He’s tanned, like he spends most of his time in the sun, a mop of dark curls on his head. Your first thought is that they must get tugged on during sex. His arms are freckled, and you start to imagine one of his hands wrapped around your-

No. Stop.

He’s definitely out of your league.

You haven’t even said hello to him, much less anything else - and yet your future is currently reliant on you impressing Smurf enough to take you on.

You keep reminding yourself that it's better than the alternative. Wandering around Hollywood Boulevard until your next shift, or even worse. Back with Jim.

"Go on, honey," She instructs, sitting comfortably behind her desk after starting the camera rolling. "He doesn't bite. Unless you ask him to, of course. Just remember, no kissing on the lips - it's a personal boundary of his."

You nod, lip between your teeth as you reposition, lowering yourself onto his lap.

You shouldn't be nervous. Smurf told you herself that Pope is a pro. Her most popular actor. It's literally his job to have sex.

It takes every ounce of willpower to maintain eye contact, as you reach tentatively for his hands, currently stuck at his sides. You guide them to the hem of your shirt, and he complies immediately, eyes locked on you the entire time.

Now entirely bare, you're filled with more confidence when his gaze flicks down to your tits, his tongue wetting his lower lip before he meets your eyes again.

You don't even realise that your breathing has stuttered.

God, how are you meant to do this when you can't even relax for one other person?

"It's okay."

Pope's voice startles you a little, low and gravelly. It's the first time you've had anything more than grunts from him.

"Just do whatever you're comfortable with."

He seems genuine, a far kinder cadence than you were expecting, and for just a second you forget that he doesn't do lips. What a shame.

You think you'd like kissing him like that.

Instead, you tilt downwards, and start mouthing wet kisses along his jaw. It's like a switch his flipped in him - one hand cups the back of your head, while the other settles on your waist, grip firm.

You roll your hips once, as a test, then again when he lets out the softest little hiss.

You work your way down his neck, unbuttoning his shirt as you go, until you're able to push it from his shoulders. Pope uses the momentum to take over, sucking a bruise onto your collarbone.

There's a record playing in the background now. Some Gloria Gaynor single. To set the mood, you assume.

You certainly don't need music to get in the mood, not with the way Pope takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling the other between his fingers.

The moans tumbling from your lips are borderline pornographic.

Maybe you are cut out for this.

“Show her a good time, Popey,” Smurf calls, breaking the spell for just a second.

Almost like a sleeper agent, he complies immediately, lips trailing down your sternum and towards your navel. He nips at your skin before soothing at it with his tongue, all while reaching for the button on your shorts. You lift your hips up, and allow him to shimmy them off.

The no underwear is a happy accident. You don’t fully subscribe to the hippie lifestyle, but you also hadn’t packed much when you left Jim behind. After weeks of crashing, you’ve taken to leaving your few meagre belongings at the club. People only steal things occasionally, and it’s better than having to trek it around all day while you look for other jobs. Nobody’s rushing to hire a girl who’s carrying her entire life around in a backpack.

“You alright?” He asks, nose brushing your inner thigh as he glances up at you.

Words leaving you, all you manage is a nod. When he licks a stripe through your folds, you’re not sure you’re ever going to have words again. You realise that you’re in over your head when Pope moans against your pussy, the vibrations making your head spin. His hands are firm on your hips, keeping you pressed against the velvet of the couch and entirely at his mercy.

There’s a slight scruff on his chin - facial hair that’s been left for a day too long without a shave. The scratch against your clit has you seeing stars, and you find your hand reaching down to his hair, gripping tightly as a guide. The other hand finds purchase against the velvet, gripping feebly as you let out another whimper.

“S-Shit,” Your back arches off the couch, which only serves to deepen the angle Pope has. The sensations are burning hot - you’re pretty sure you can feel every single nerve in your body. It’s the fastest you’ve ever begin to even feel the onset of an orgasm.

Already, it’s swimming at the edge of your vision, blurring slightly with each dip of Pope’s tongue. Soon, it seems like it’s in reach. Just a little bit more, and….

“Stop.”

The voice is firm, reminding you of exactly who’s in charge here. You’d been so wrapped up in Pope you’d forgotten all about her.

“Ma, she didn't even come-”

The nickname gives you pause. Ma? Like mother?

Surely not.

Must be some kind of term of endearment.

“Anybody can look good while getting head - I want to see what she's like giving now.”

When he meets your gaze, your breath hitches entirely. He seems to hesitate before he moves, leaning back against the back of the couch. He’s hard in his bell bottoms already, blush dusted across his cheekbones. You reach for the buttons, doing your best to look suave and cool, but given the way your head is spinning, you’ll take not looking like an idiot.

There’s a lingering tension now. Unfulfilled chemistry buzzing between you and Pope. His cock is freed - thick, heavy, and shining in pre-cum already. You take him in your hand, pumping softly once or twice as you settle yourself between his legs, knees on plush carpet.

The first contact is your tongue tracing along the vein that runs under his shaft - Pope lets out a low hiss, chin tilting upwards as his eyes close. When you finally wrap your lips around his cock, you wonder how on earth you’re meant to fit this inside of you.

Not only is he longer than Jim - he’s considerably girthier.

Hollowing out your cheeks, you employ every tactic you’ve ever learned to make a man cum.

“How is she, Popey?”

Pope’s reply is barely more than a grunt. “Real good.”

“Star material?”

You bob your head a little, taking him deeper, and Pope shudders. “She’s got the best mouth in LA.”

Smurf hums approvingly. “High praise, Bambi. Pope’s fucked a lot of ladies in this town.” She checks her watch briefly, before sighing. “I’ve got that investor coming in half an hour. Skip to the main event.”

Slightly awed by how blasé they’re both able to be about all this, you hesitate for a second, until Pope’s hand circles around your wrist. “Still with me?”

For the first time, he offers you a small smile, and you feel yourself returning it immediately. “Yeah, I’m peachy.”

And you mean it. Really. This is unquestionably the oddest afternoon of your life, but there’s something about him that intrigues you. He seems gentle, a trait you wouldn’t have thought would be encouraged in pornstars.

He’s reaching for the rubber, and soon you’re sinking down onto him, doing your best to combat the immense pressure building in your belly with each stretch. Your forehead drops until it’s tucked in the crook his neck, while his hands settle on your waist.

“God, baby,” He moans, almost directly into your ear. “You’re so fucking tight - when was the last time somebody fucked you good and proper?”

Five minutes ago, you would have said about three months ago. Now, knowing how Pope feels, and what he tastes like, your answer is rapidly changing. “Never,” You mumble, as he starts to guide your movements.

The rhythm is relaxed, but the coil in your abdomen certainly isn’t. Your nails leave dark moons on his skin as you rock against him, head tumbling back as you whimper and whine. You catch Smurf’s eye as you do, feeling the slightest bit of shame wash over you.

What would your folks think, if they knew their little girl was out here having sex with strangers for money?

It doesn’t take long for Pope’s thrusts to turn erratic, his grip so tight you’re sure it’s going to leave a mark. One of his hands slips between you both, rubbing at your clit, and it’s enough to throw you over the edge.

A cry from you, a low groan from Pope, and it’s all over.

Chest heaving, a quiet falls in the room before Smurf’s voice cuts through the haze. “Well, I think we’ve just found our next dynamic duo.”

You leave the building with a twelve-month contract, and a packet of birth control pills. Pope stays relatively quiet as you finish up with Smurf, offering you a small wave as you make your way out through the corridors.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Normally, as soon as he’s finished filming, he feels satiated until Smurf calls him in next. With you? He thinks he could’ve gone for another hour, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“You like her.”

“What?” His head whips around, gaze zeroed in on Smurf as she smirks at him.

“S’okay, baby - it was bound to happen eventually. Might be nice for you to have a favourite for a bit. The fans’ll love it, too.”

Pope knows better than to argue with his mother. That never ends well for anybody, least of all him. “When are you gonna do her first film?”

“Couple of weeks,” She shrugs. “After we’re sure the birth control’s working.” She shoots him an amused look. “Don’t worry - m’not gonna throw her to Craig on her first ever picture. You can do it.”

Pope’s expression doesn’t shift, but the relief he feels is palpable. He loves his brother, but his track record with running his female co-stars off of sets is an embarrassment to the company. “I should get going,” He grunts. “You’ve got that meeting.”

“Right. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, baby.” As usual, despite his protests, a kiss is placed directly on his lips. He fights the childish urge to wipe at them, and nods goodbye.

While he’s assuming he’ll see you again, he isn’t expecting for you to still be sitting outside at the front door. You must have left half an hour ago - what are you doing? “You're still here?”

You jump a little at the sound of his voice, and Pope clocks it immediately as instinctual. He wonders who made you like that. “I uh, don't have a car. Was hoping to catch a lift from somebody passing by… but there doesn't seem to be much traffic round these parts.”

Smurf calls the tow trucks whenever somebody stops on this street for more than thirty minutes. People just avoid it now.

“Where are you headed? I'll drive you.”

“I actually have a shift - it's The Velvet Troubadour? Down by Venice - not the cool one in Beverly Hills. And not the cool part of Venice either.”

Pope nods. He's familiar, and not entirely surprised that that's where Smurf found you. She's always had a thing for lost and lonely girls - giving them the world and then watching them implode in on themselves when they inevitably can't handle it.

“S'a real shithole,” He comments, arms crossed over his sweater.

You snort. “Tell me about it. But I can't ask you to take me all the way there - maybe just drop me off on Hollywood, and I can try and-”

“It's no trouble. Hardly even out of my way.” A complete lie. Pope's plans for the rest of the day had been to head home and read some shitty Western by the pool. The drive to Venice is not even close to the road to Laurel Canyon, but he doesn't care.

The idea of you having to hitchhike with god knows who up here makes him feel a little ill.

When you smile at him, his conviction only grows. For all her faults, Smurf sure knows how to find the prettiest girls on the West Coast.

He can't think of any stars that look quite like you, but he could imagine you in one of those Golden Age of Hollywood pictures. Swathed in jewels, hair done to perfection, and eyes twinkling.

Instead, your claim to fame is going to be getting fucked in The Valley - both literally and figuratively, if Smurf has her way.

“Come on,” He urges, gesturing across the lot to the Mustang. His hand drops to your waist, at the sliver of skin between your top and shorts, and he tries not to think about what he was doing the last time it was there.

You slide into the passenger’s seat, and Pope hopes that Smurf isn’t watching from her office as he pulls out onto the main road.

Me and Bobby McGee starts blaring from the radio, and you let out a contented sigh, allowing your head to lean back against the leather of the seat.

Pope eyes you carefully as he pulls out onto the main road. “You a Joplin fan?”

“Isn't everybody?” You crack one eye open, watching the way his muscles flex with each turn of the wheel. “Fuckin’ shame what happened to her. Whole lotta potential just wasted like that.”

“Wasted potential’s kind of LA’s thing.”

Pope should know.

You turn your head, so that your cheek is pressed up against the seat as you look at him. “That’s a bleak outlook.”

“You disagree?”

“Just think it’s bad for the soul, to not believe that everything’s gonna work out eventually.”

Pope’s sure his soul is plenty bad by now, but he finds himself nodding in agreement. “I like that. Not sure how true it is, but I like it.”

You laugh, and it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. He eyes you carefully as he navigates the heavy traffic. He keeps one hand loose on the steering wheel, his knuckles slightly white. The road ahead is a shimmering ribbon of heat, packed with cars, but his focus keeps drifting sideways. He watches the way the bright California light catches the edge of your profile. It shows the small, tired lines around your eyes and the soft curve of your mouth.

He keeps one hand resting heavy on the gear shift, close enough that his knuckles almost brush against your knee every time he moves into fourth. The drive down to Venice takes longer than it should, the silence inside the car growing thick and heavy as the salty sea air starts to whip through the open windows. Pope doesn't say much, and neither do you, but it’s comfortable, and he works to ignore the want bubbling in his chest.

When the car finally idles at the curb in front of The Velvet Troubadour, the place looks every bit the shithole he remembers. “Well - guess that’s you.”

The neon sign is cracked, and the afternoon sun only makes the dingy exterior look worse.

Pope shifts into park, his hands staying glued to the steering wheel as he stares straight ahead at the building. His jaw is tight. He hates the idea of leaving you here, even if he barely knows you.

“It’s a glamorous life,” You murmur dryly.

You reach for the handle, but before you slide out into the heat, you pause. Pope looks over at you, his dark eyes intense and unblinking. Lean forward, you press a quick, soft kiss right against his rough cheek.

He freezes completely. He doesn't move a muscle, his breath hitching in his chest as the small gesture catches him totally off guard. The skin where your lips touched burns hot against the cool air of the car.

"Thanks for the ride, Pope," you say with a small smile, already opening the passenger door.

He just nods once, his voice trapped in his throat as he watches you step out onto the pavement and head toward the entrance. He keeps his eyes locked on your back until the heavy door of the bar swings shut behind you, his hand rising slowly to touch the spot on his cheek you just kissed.

*****

Pope tells Smurf that he can't come round for dinner because he's got some errands to run - instead, his car practically drives itself to The Velvet Troubadour.

This is potentially the worst idea he's ever had, but his mind has been plagued with you for the past forty-eight hours. He hasn't been able to eat, or sleep, and he thinks he might be going crazy.

The stench of sweat and grime hits him as soon as he steps through the door, but he's already looking for you. You're leaning over the bar, laughing at something one of your co-workers, but a man steps in front of him before he can make his way across the club.

Pope vaguely recognises him as the owner.

"Mr. Cody! What an honour to have you here tonight - would you like a booth?"

He just nods, eyes still glued to you.

"Fabulous - I'll have Sabrina over to serve you immediately."

Pope shakes his head. "I want her."

Lou follows his gaze, before nodding slowly. In most cases, what a Cody wants, they get.

He lets Lou lead him to one of the shadowed booths tucked along the back wall, where the music is loud enough to drown out conversation and the lights are low enough that nobody can stare too hard. The owner disappears with a knowing smile, and Pope is left gripping the edge of the table, eyes fixed on the bar.

Fixed on you.

You still haven't noticed him.

He's not sure if that's a relief or an insult.

You throw your head back laughing at something, and the sound carries across the room despite the music. It settles somewhere under his ribs.

Jesus Christ.

He's lost his mind.

When Lou taps on your shoulder, turning you towards him, Pope worries for one awful moment that he's made a catastrophic mistake. But then you smile, and start to make your way towards him. You stop beside the booth, and for a second neither of you says anything.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Neither was I," Pope replies, feeling a warmth spread through him when you laugh.

"You scope out all your co-stars like this?"

It's a joke, but Pope replies seriously. "Just wanted to see you." It's the most sincere he's been towards another person in a long time. Maybe since Julia left.

"So you're saying I should feel special?"

God help him.

He's completely fucked.

"You are."

You don't have a quip ready for that one, and just glance away, embarrassed by the attention. "Can't believe you're putting yourself through the horrors of The Troubadour just to spend time with me. Can I get you something?"

Pope nods. "Whatever."

"Very specific."

"I trust your judgement."

You pour him a glass of the finest liquor the bar offers, which is firmly middle-of-the-range for any reputable establishment. When you return, his hand makes its way to your wrist. "Sit for a while."

You glance toward the bar, where Lou's already glaring, and point discreetly. "I should go."

Pope's expression changes instantly, and something flashes across his face. Disappointment.

Then he speaks. "Stay."

Your heart gives an embarrassing little jump. "You want me to stay?"

"Yeah." The answer comes immediately.

"Lou's gonna be mad."

Across the room, Lou is indeed watching. Arms folded and expression thunderous.

Pope doesn't even turn around.

"I'll handle him."

*****

The rest of the evening passes in a blur.

Every now and then you have to leave the booth to actually do your job, but he remains exactly where you left him every single time. Nursing the same drink. Watching the crowd with vague suspicion. Looking profoundly uncomfortable whenever another customer tries to start a conversation with him.

By midnight, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

By one o'clock, you're pretty sure every girl working tonight has noticed.

When Sabrina asks you how you know him, you're vague.

We met at a party.

When it hits three, Pope closes out his tab. "I woulda stayed until the end of your shift, but I have a meeting in Santa Monica in the morning." When he produces a wad of cash that's definitely too much for his bill, your eyes widen immediately.

"Pope." He presses the money into your hand, and you stare down at it. Then back up at him. "This is far too much."

"You took care of me all night."

You snort. "I brought you two drinks."

"You sat with me."

God, you think you might be a little bit in love with him. You tuck it into your skirt, and smile at him. "Thank you, Pope."

"Andrew."

"Huh?"

"My name," He says softly. "It's Andrew."

"Andrew. I like that," You smile. "Suits you."

He pauses for a second, as if considering his actions, before leaning forward to press the briefest kiss to your cheek. "I should go." His voice sounds rougher now.

You nod, because speaking appears beyond your capabilities.

"See you soon, kid."

As soon as he's gone, it's like blood in the water.

Lou abandons whatever he was doing behind the bar and starts making his way toward you with alarming speed. The staff are still cleaning around the room, stacking chairs and wiping tables, but more than one head turns in your direction. Everyone knows that look. Everyone knows Lou has spotted money.

"It was a tip."

"A tip?" Lou repeats. "A tip?"

"Yes."

"That man tipped you half a mortgage payment." You try to step around him, but Lou steps directly into your path. "Oh, that's definitely getting pooled."

The warmth that had been lingering in your chest all evening immediately evaporates, and you freeze. "No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is."

"He gave it to me."

"He gave it to an employee, while she was working, under my roof."

It's no use. You can argue until you're blue in the face, but all it takes is the threat of unemployment to have you handing it over. You're still not sure how reliable Oceanside is going to turn out to be, and you can't blow your life up over seven-hundred dollars.

Somehow Lou ends up with whatever he wants anyway. There's no point in fighting it.

Within minutes the money has vanished into the envelope where pooled tips are kept before being divided up. You watch the last bill disappear, and try not to cry.

Salvation comes in the form of a heavy leather jacket, left in Pope's booth. You figure he must have left by now, but you announce that you're checking the parking lot anyway, if only for some fresh air.

Much to your surprise, the Mustang is still sitting in the corner, with Pope's gaze held on the front door of The Troubadour.

"You forgot this," You call holding up the jacket. Embarrassment clouds his features, and he gets out to walk over to you. "Thought you had an early meeting?"

"This place has a, uh, pull," is his only response. "Thank you." Then his eyes narrow - almost imperceptibly. "Where's the money?"

Shit. You hadn't thought for a single second that he would notice in such a short interaction, and you wince slightly. "Lou took it. He pooled it."

Pope continues staring, eyes stormy.

"He said everybody has to share tips. I'm really sorry, Andrew - I tried to tell him, but you know what he's like-"

"S'not your fault-"

"I should've hidden it, or something-"

"Wait here."

You immediately shake your head, confusion flooding through you. "What? No."

"Wait here, and I'll be out in a few minutes."

You should probably stop him.

Instead you find yourself standing there watching him storm towards The Velvet Troubadour, jacket slung over one arm, broad shoulders disappearing toward the entrance of the club.

Time seems to slow while he's inside, and you find yourself pacing restlessly outside, with no indication of what's going on. When the door finally opens again, you straighten so quickly you almost pull a muscle.

Pope steps outside, looking completely calm, and then you notice what he's carrying.

Your bag. Your jacket. Your tips.

"What did you do?"

Pope shrugs, entirely unconvincingly.

"I talked to him."

"You talked to him," You repeat, incredulous.

"Yeah."

"Why do you have my stuff?" The silence that follows is not encouraging. "Pope."

Another pause.

Then finally...

"You don't work there anymore."

You think you might pass out. "What?"

"You don't work there anymore. He fired you. Or, I guess you quiet before he could."

You stare, unable to believe what you're hearing.

"I quit?" Pope nods, and you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You got me fired."

"He got you fired, because he's the world's shittiest boss."

"You went in there."

"Yeah."

"And now I don't have a job."

"He shouldn't have taken your money." He says it like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"That isn't how employment works, Pope." You press both hands over your face. "Oh my God."

A fresh wave of panic starts rising in your chest.

Rent.

Bills.

Food.

The money from Smurf will only go so far - certainly not far enough until she brings you in for your first picture.

"You've got a job. A better job than that. It'll be fine."

"No, I had a job. Oceanside isn't a job until I see proper cash."

"I'll get you an advance." He seems determined to solve every one of your problems, and you can't decide whether you love or hate it. "And you can stay with me, until you're back on your feet."

You stare at him, eyebrow arched. "How do I know you're not going to kill me in my sleep?"

At this, he snorts a little. "Scout's honour?"

Despite everything, you laugh. "God, I can't believe you."

"And I can't believe you stayed at that place for three whole months."

Standing there in the empty parking lot, clutching a bag of belongings against your chest, you find yourself thinking that Pope Cody might actually be completely insane.

The problem is that you're starting to find that incredibly difficult not to like that.

*****

It's a battle to stay awake as Pope drives you through the winding Canyon roads, before he finally pulls up a driveway.

It's exactly the kind of place you'd imagine Jim Morrison or Joni Mitchell living, all hidden and wooded. Pope grabs the backpack before you can, and opens the car door for you.

"I thought you had a meeting in the morning?"

"Fuck 'em," He replies, unlocking the front door. Pre-Manson, he wouldn't have dreamed of locking up in a neighbourhood like Laurel Canyon. Post-Manson, he's careful. Far more careful than the rest of his family. "They'll get over it."

Somehow, the inside of the house is even more impressive. The walls are covered in records, some you're familiar with, and others you've never heard of, while the fire crackles softly in the corner. It's warm, and lived in, and far nicer than any place you've ever spent time in before.

"Holy shit," You murmur.

"You like it?" Pope asks, and when you glance back at him, you get the sense that he's genuinely hoping you do.

"Andrew, this is insane." You want to say more, but tiredness overcomes you, and you yawn. "God, I'm such an asshole, I'm sorry-"

"Don't worry about it. It's late. I can uh, I can show you to one of the bedrooms."

He hasn't even closed the door to the guest room before you're out, exhaustion finally catching up to you, now that you're in the first proper bed you've slept in in months.

*****

It's easy to forget that there are cameras around. That this isn't simply you and Pope, in the comfort of his Laurel Canyon mansion.

You've spent the last four hours filming - firstly, the preamble. You, the girl whose car broke down in the middle of the night. Pope, the man who's happy to fix it, in exchange for a few favours.

The dialogue in the script is ropey at best, leaving you both largely to improvise. With a few exaggerated sighs, and jutting your ass out towards the camera, you've gotten by just fine.

Next had come an hour of you blowing Pope. It wouldn't have taken so long, were he not insistent on being far gentler with you than the director wants. It isn't until Smurf calls from across the room, "come on, baby. Tug her hair like you mean it," that he finally complies, mumbling an apology to you between takes.

You're endlessly impressed by his stamina. Where you'd assumed most adult film stars would rely heavily on viagra, Pope seems to bounce back just fine.

He's chattier than you expect. Each time the crew huddle round to set up a shot, leaving you perched in his lap for an uncomfortable few minutes, he's asking you questions.

Real questions.

Nothing about porn, or sex. But about you.

What you like about LA (everything). If you've driven up to Griffith for a sunset (not yet). If you'd like to go with him sometime (you would). The last part is said in a considerably quieter voice. Glancing around, you wonder if he doesn't want Smurf to hear. You get the sense she controls almost his entire life.

Finally, it's time for the main event. Spread out on a fake kitchen table, Pope stands at the end, hand on your waist and waiting for his cue. He's hard again already, leaking pre-cum against your thigh.

Were he not a consummate professional, you'd wonder if you had something to do with it.

"Doing okay?" He checks in, briefly. "Need water or anything?"

You shake your head, lip between your teeth. "I think after all this build-up, I kind of just want to get fucked."

The laugh he lets out is small, barely audible. "I think I can manage that."

A voice cuts across the set, and everything dims. "Lights, camera, action!"

*****

There’s a bead of sweat trickling down the valley of your breasts, and Pope has to fight the urge to lick it. Instead, he lines himself up against you, allowing his cock to brush through your folds once, catching your clit before he sinks in.

Your ankles lock behind his back, breath hitching as your fingers try desperately to grasp at something. Finally, they find purchase at the edge of the table, as Pope bottoms out.

It’s no secret that he’s big.

One of the biggest in the industry, if Smurf is to be believed.

Not that he’d know. He doesn’t make watching porn a habit. Why would he, when he lives it every day?

Were it not for the literal hours of foreplay today, he’d have been worried about you being able to take it. You’d struggled a little during the camera test, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt you.

You’re a sweet little thing. Experienced enough to know what she’s doing, but enough of a blank canvas for Smurf to mould however she wants. Provided she wants to sign you.

You're a good ingenue. Girl-next-door

He figures you must be running from something. A husband, boyfriend, your family - he isn’t sure yet.

You’re panting directly into his ear, various pleas tumbling from your lips as he snaps his hips against you. The table is rocking now, barely withstanding the force, and Pope finds his hands snaking under your thighs, just in case it gives way.

“G-God, Andy-”

For a single millisecond, Pope freezes. Did you just say his name? Or was it baby?

The cameras are still rolling, which makes him think it must have been baby.

It's just wishful thinking. He wants it to be Andy. In fact, he never wants to hear you say the name Pope again.

For the first time in an almost five-year career, Pope dips his head, and kisses on camera. His movements are exaggerated, hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you against him. Making sure that nobody can claim that you initiated it.

He knows that Smurf would use it against you in an instant if she felt like it.

Your lips are as soft as he imagined, and you make the prettiest sigh against him, as his tongue traces the seam of your mouth. If he were to look around right now, he’d see a jaw-dropped Smurf, along with a crew who isn’t quite sure what just happened.

It could be minutes or hours, but he's still kissing you when he comes, cock pulsing inside you as he cradles your face. You look a little dazed, lipstick smeared across your cheeks, and presumably also his lips.

"And... cut!"

The world comes screaming back, and the both of you are surrounded by your respective makeup artists, dropping robes over your shoulders.

He raises his gaze to look at Smurf, but she's entirely focused on you, smirk wide in a way that makes his skin crawl. "Oh Bambi, honey - you're going to be a fuckin' star."

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