How to take it apart and put it back together. How to turn it inside out and then right side out again. Pulling your trigger with a calloused finger.
He touches you with care, but not like he’s afraid you’ll break. No, that’s not how you touch a gun.
You touch a gun like it’s something with the power to take. Something with the power to destroy. To kill.
God knows you could kill him, wake up and realize you deserve more than he could offer. You could blow up in his face and leave him bleeding out on the floor.
He worships you with the same precision he uses to clean his gun, careful strokes with delicate touches. Just like a weapon, sometimes you need different things from him. A gentle hold and little aiming. Rough hands and a steady prop against his shoulder. Sometimes his entire body is behind every movement, thighs wide for support even when his back starts to ache with effort
Simon fucks you like a bullet.
He tears himself apart, or at least he would if you asked him too. Slowly losing his sharp edges with every ricochet as he bounces around you.
He fucks into your cunt as if you pulled a trigger, letting himself go in whatever direction you ask. Hard, slow, fast, teasing, nights when you make him do that thing with his hips.
You go at it like animals most nights, pulling that raw want out of the holster and flicking off any safety’s that get in your way.
There’s no bullet proof vest or gun case that can hide him from the most dangerous weapon of all.
@romantic-insomniac and i were talking about being pope's fake hostage for a job and getting turned on by his rough treatment… this might be the longest fic i've ever written lmao
andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader
18+ MDNI | cw: bank robbery, fearplay, gunplay, chokehold / choking, sub!pope at the end, mention of nipple sucking
pope had been so stressed out about getting the money he needed for lena's trust fund. it's not like he could ask his brothers for help with a job — they'd all ask for their cut, and he needed all the cash he could get. it was making him brood more than usual, so you hadn't even wanted to initiate sex recently, knowing he wouldn't be in the mood.
eventually, pope had narrowed down the bank he wanted to hit, but he was having a little trouble with the logistics. it was a lot trickier to rob a bank solo.
you watch as he pores over meticulously laid out blueprints, his eyes low, waiting a few moments before you speak up.
"why don't i help?"
pope's eyes linger on the table for a while before he turns to you. "you're not getting involved with this," he murmurs.
"why not?" you ask.
"because you've never done this before," he replies plainly with an arched eyebrow. "hitting a bank for your first job? it's too dangerous."
"i didn't mean that i'd be taking the place of one of the guys," you elaborate, voice slow and soothing, "i meant as a civilian. a hostage. y'know? like how smurf used to act like an sweet, clueless lady when you hit diners together? and she'd make you hold her up?"
pope's brows crease at the memory. he remembers how well that had worked: his mother had really sold the "frightened lady caught in the crossfire" act. and he knew you were quite the actor, considering how sweet you could be towards smurf despite your disdain for her, and how easily you could fool any wayward cops into thinking you had no knowledge of the goings on inside the cody compound.
"that could work," he mumbles as he works through it in his mind. "you get there early, wait in line to cash a check or two…"
"right," you agree, a soft smile forming on your face. "you bust in all scary, wave a gun around, put me in a chokehold…"
pope listens as your voice turns a little breathy at the idea. he can picture it going off without a hitch now.
"alright," he grits out eventually. "listen carefully, here's what's gonna happen…"
it's just after half past ten in the morning, and you're at the bank. you lingered at the side for a while, pretending to be very interested in a business checking account pamphlet, before it was time to join the queue. your pulse kicks up just a tad. any second now…
the door busts open with a loud thud and you jump, just like everyone else, before you hear sharp yelps and shrieks.
"EVERYONE DOWN, ON THE GROUND, NOW!"
it's pope's voice, muffled slightly behind his ski mask. you almost obey him out of instinct before he grips you by the arm and pulls you to his chest. he smells so comforting, like his favourite lemon verbena detergent, but you remember to struggle convincingly.
"stop!" you cry out.
"you shut up," he hisses back. with a grunt, pope slings the crook of his elbow around your neck, pushing just hard enough to make you gasp.
it's a gasp that convinces everyone else in the bank that you're currently struggling for air, fearing for your life, but pope knows it means you're incredibly turned on.
"mornin'," he mumbles gruffly against your temple, and you can feel the way he hovers for a milisecond, fighting the inclination to press a kiss there.
to really sell it, pope lifts his gun and presses the cold metal of the barrel to the place where he'd just had his lips. you hear multiple people gasp. your panties are soaked.
"any of you move, and she gets it," he bellows, and it echoes through the unnatural stillness of the bank. you whimper, forcing tears to your eyes as you let your knees buckle slightly.
"you okay?" pope whispers almost imperceptibly against your ear.
"harder," you reply through a sniffle.
at that, pope tugs your body upwards, hauling you upright. "stand up," he commands. "hands behind your back."
you obey, your wrists clasping against your lower back. you take the chance to clutch at the edge of his shirt, tugging pope impossibly closer. he exhales, then walks you over to the nearest teller.
"empty it out— quickly," he orders. the teller's gaze momentarily flicks between pope's masked face and yours. your eyes are scrunched shut, your mascara running, your chest heaving with laboured breaths. she empties the register without an argument.
he goes around the rest of the registers the same way, using your innocent, terrified, whimpering face to get the cash he needs. pope drags you out of the bank with his gun still pressed to your head. you make sure to end your performance with a little kicking and screaming and a performatively loud "what are you going to do to me?" before he hauls you into his car.
he peels out of the parking lot, and the drive home is fast, tense with anticipation. pope pulls off his mask and his auburn curls are gloriously messy and damp with sweat. your thighs press together, both from the sight of him, and from the rush of the job.
pope clenches his jaw as he drives, and then when you're finally safe behind the gates of the cody compound, he rumbles out a "… bravo. you did good."
he tells you to go wait in his room while he brings the duffles of money in, and you don't waste a second before stripping yourself bare, the thrill of the heist still thrumming in your veins. besides, it had been a while since the two of you had had sex, and what better occasion to fuck for than a successful heist?
soon enough, you're riding pope into the mattress in broad daylight. it's barely noon, and you're grinding your hips deep into his as you grip his wide shoulders. you have a lot of adrenaline to use up.
"that— was— fucking amazing," you pant as you bounce on his cock.
pope's breathless too. he has one of your nipples in his mouth, the other cupped is in his thick palm. his free hand is squeezing an ass cheek as you roll on top of him.
he pops his lips free of your breast, still glistening with spit, as he gazes up at you, his hazel eyes wide and pleading. it's a wild contrast to the fearsome expression he had plastered on just hours ago.
"not— ah— wasn't too rough?"
"not nearly rough enough," you breathe out in reply, pressing his cheeks together in a hand.
"you shoulda slapped me when i talked back, like i told you to, that would've sold it so much better."
pope grunts in acknowledgement, and his eyes fall shut at the idea. not of slapping you, but of how much more ravenous for him it would make you for him afterwards. his cock twitches where it's nestled deep inside you.
"next time," he murmurs as he pouts up at you for a kiss.
warnings: TW: GUN PLAY I'M WARNING YOU NOW DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T FW IT!!!!!!!!! SMUT!!!!!! porn but blaize can't write anything without A LITTLE PLOT... so if you squint it's there.... subtext angst...mentions of abuse. (i might delete later sooooo we'll see) if u like this and want more lmk
words: 3.8k
summary: you ended things with your fuck-buddy, gator tillman, a few weeks ago because you absolutely hate him. he was okay with it. until he wasn't.
The movie’s been playing on your laptop for twenty minutes before you realize you haven't actually watched any of it.
Your phone buzzes against the mattress. You give it a sideways look the way you'd look at a bug on the wall— mild, removed— and then go back to your laptop screen. It buzzes again. You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.
You deleted the contact three weeks ago. Felt good for about four hours. Not good enough to block it, apparently, which you're aware is its own admission, one you refuse to examine. It doesn't matter. You've memorized the digits by now the way you memorize anything you encounter too many times— involuntarily, against your will, like a jingle or a scar.
It's that time of night anyway. You knew this was coming. You'd actually be insulted if it wasn't— if he'd just accepted it— which tells you something about yourself you're also not going to examine.
You reach over and flip it to silent. Done.
The movie carries on. Somewhere around the halfway mark your eyelids start to lose the argument, the warm weight of the blanket pulling you under, and you're almost there, that soft gray edge of almost-asleep—
A sound. Down the hall.
You go completely still.
Metallic. Faint. Like something small and deliberate.
You sit up, heart kicking once against your ribs. The movie has progressed without you— the scene has changed, something you don't recognize on screen. You pause it. The apartment holds its breath with you.
Nothing.
You press your palms into your eyes, rub them, shake your head once like you're clearing water from your ears. You're tired. You're hearing things. You close the laptop and the room goes dark except for the streetlight bleeding orange under the curtains, and you turn over, pulling the pillow under your cheek—
There it is again. A clink. Kitchen.
You're out of bed before you've decided to be.
The nightstand drawer opens quietly. The gun sits where it's been sitting for months — a suggestion, mostly, a comfort object you've never had to use and don't entirely know how to. Gator had offered, once, in that loose post-sex way he had of saying things that implied a future neither of you would acknowledge in daylight. I'll take you to the range. Show you the proper grip. You'd laughed at him. Filed it under: things clouded men say when their brain is in the wrong head.
You hold it now with what you hope is convincing authority.
The hallway is dark. You move along the wall, bare feet quiet on the hardwood, the sound getting clearer— definite movement, the soft mechanical hum of the refrigerator opening, a glass shelf rattling.
You round the corner.
Someone's back is to you, half-bent into the fridge, broad shoulders blocking most of the light. You scan the room fast— windows closed, front door shut, no sign of how—
"Put your hands up," you say, and your voice comes out steady, which surprises you. "Cops are already on the way."
The figure pauses.
Then keeps digging through your fridge.
A scoff— more exhale than sound— and then the soft knock of bottles being moved aside, and then the fridge door shuts.
For one stupid second, relief.
Then your grip tightens.
Gator turns around and leans back against the refrigerator like he lives here. He's holding a can of sparkling water with the same energy someone holds a beer they didn't want. His black tank is too small in the shoulders, stretched at the chest, his stomach pressing soft against the hem— that particular softness that you've had your hands on enough times to stop pretending it doesn't do something to you. His bare biceps flex when he moves. The “LOL” tattoo on his upper arm. Black pants that have no business fitting the way they do, tight around his thick thighs that are always warm.
His hair is a wreck. The gel has lost its grip, pieces fallen forward, the fade still clean at the sides but everything on top giving up. He looks like he drove here without thinking about it.
God, he looks good.
You hate him. You want to be clear, at least to yourself, that this is genuine hatred— not the performed kind, not ambivalence wearing hatred's clothes. You are disgusted by him. By what he is, by what his family is, by the way he moves through the world like it owes him. This is real.
The gun stays pointed at him.
He looks at the can like it personally offended him.
"All you have is fuckin' sparkling water." His accent pushes the a flat, the r dropped somewhere in the back of his throat.
"Gator." Your jaw tightens. "What the fuck are you doing here. How did you get in."
"No beer." He's still looking at the can, turning it. "Not even no cheap shit." He cracks it open anyway, takes a swig, grimaces like he's drinking medicine.
"Gator."
He rolls his eyes— slow, deliberate— and looks at you properly for the first time since he turned around. He licks the corner of his mouth. The smirk arrives without effort, like it's his face's natural resting position.
"Picked the lock, darlin'." A small shrug, one shoulder. "It's not hard."
"You can't just do that."
"You weren't answering my calls." He tips the can back, finishes it, and then crumples it in one hand with a soft metallic crunch. Tosses it on your floor without looking. "No fuckin' respect."
The can hits the tile and something in your chest pulls tight with pure, clean irritation.
You step forward. Gun still up.
"For good reason. Now get the fuck out. I told you I was done."
He goes still, watching you. His tongue moves behind his teeth— that specific sound, the soft click— and then he pushes off the refrigerator.
He walks toward you.
You straighten your arms, making the point unmistakable, the barrel between you. He tilts his head. Up close his height reorganizes the room, the smell of him reaching you before he does— something sweet and artificial underneath, the ghost of vape on his lips, beer that's soaked into the fabric of his clothes.
He presses forward until the barrel touches his sternum.
His eyes drop to it, then back to yours. Dark. Unbothered in a way that makes your teeth ache.
You push the gun into him harder.
"I will put a bullet through you, Gator Tillman." Your voice doesn't waver. "Don't think I won't."
Something moves at the corner of his mouth— not quite a smile.
"Now, darlin'." His voice drops, slow. "You think a cop wouldn't know the sound of an unloaded gun?"
Your face stays stone.
His hands come up— large, covering yours, covering the gun itself— and he takes it from you with the practiced ease of someone disarming a child. You let him, which you'll think about later and hate yourself for. Your hands drop to your sides, useless.
He turns it over in his palm, examining it. His jaw flexes once, and then, without ceremony, he points it at you.
You know there's nothing in it. He knows you know. The logic chain is airtight.
Your heart still slams.
He watches your throat move when you swallow, and the laugh that comes out of him is low and mocking, his bottom lip pushing out in something that's almost a pout.
"Aw." He tilts his head. "You don't wanna play now?"
"Get out," you say. Final. "Now."
"Right, right." He looks around the apartment— makes a show of it, scanning, waiting. "Cops comin', yeah?" A beat. A slow smile spreading. "Guess you're stuck with me, darlin'."
His hand moves to your face before you can step back, big palm cupping your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks until your lips push forward. It should feel ridiculous. It doesn't.
"Can't tell me you didn't miss me," he says.
Your eyes burn into him. You mean it as a warning and he reads it as something else entirely, and you hate that he's right to.
His thumb moves to your lips. Presses down. Your mouth opens on instinct— just slightly— and he drags his thumb across your tongue, slow, watching your face the whole time. The sound of your breath catches in the back of your throat. From somewhere low in his chest comes something that isn't quite a sound, more like a response, involuntary— the sensation of your wet tongue registering before his expression does.
The corner of his mouth pulls. That head tilt again, a cat watching something small and interesting.
He runs the barrel of the gun along your tongue. The metallic taste burning your tongue.
Down your chin. The line of your throat. The hollow between your collarbones, the skin there jumping up in a rash of goosebumps. Down the center of your chest, between your breasts, over the soft of your belly.
You close your eyes.
The metal is room temperature now, barely perceptible, more suggestion than pressure as he ghosts it low, ghosting your cunt— and your whole body goes very quiet, waiting.
Then—
A shift. Small. Almost undetectable in someone else.
It's the thing that always catches you off guard. Every time, without fail, in the middle of all of it— he finds this register. Quiet. Like he's speaking into the floor, not quite willing to send the words all the way to you.
"Is this okay?"
You open your eyes.
His face has done the thing it does. The crease above his brow that appears only here, only like this— the one that has nothing to do with posturing and nothing to do with performance. Something in the lines of it that reads less like Gator Tillman and more like someone who is very tired of being Gator Tillman. The dark eyes gone briefly uncertain, softer than he'd ever let them be in daylight.
You don't say anything.
You step closer, and your hips roll forward— slow, deliberate— grinding against the barrel, and the sound you make is small but it fills the kitchen.
His breath catches.
He leans down until his nose presses against your cheek, his lips close enough that the heat of his exhale ghosts your skin.
"I deleted your contact," you say, and you don't mean it to sound like what it sounds like. You look up at him through your lashes, and you're not sure what you want him to do with that information.
His breath stutters when you rock forward again, the damp fabric of your shorts brushing his fingers, and a soft sound slips through his parted lips— unguarded, pink, nothing like the smirk from two minutes ago.
"I did too," he says.
He doesn't say it like an admission. He says it like it doesn't change anything.
The gun presses harder and the sound that tears out of you is sharp— a gasp that grabs his shoulders before your brain decides to, fingers locking around him, and then his mouth is on yours.
It's not a kiss so much as an argument. Hungry and graceless and wet, his lips working yours open, your teeth catching each other, the slick heat of it filling the quiet kitchen with sounds you'd be embarrassed about if you had any capacity left for embarrassment. His free hand fists in your hair and shoves you harder into him, and you go, because apparently that's the kind of person you are tonight.
His mouth is filthy and relentless and you hate how good at this he is.
The gun slides out from between you, snaking around, and he taps the back of your thigh twice. You jump without being asked. Your legs find his waist, cross at the ankle, and his arm bands across your back like a trap snapping shut— one hand bracing you, one still tangled in your hair, thumb angled against your scalp, a pressure that makes your spine go liquid. Your fingers claw into his hair, what's left of the gel tacky at the roots, and you pull— just to pull— until the gun slips from his grip and hits the kitchen tile with a hard metallic crack neither of you look at.
He walks you backward into the wall.
The plaster is cold through your open shirt. His mouth drops to your throat and he works it the way he does everything— like he's making a point— teeth and lips and suction until the skin there is burning. His hands find the buttons of your pajama top. He doesn't work them. There's a short violent tug, the fabric jerking, and buttons scatter across the floor like something conceding.
Your tits fall free and he makes a low sound against your collarbone.
Both hands cup you— rough, immediate, no preamble— kneading, thumbs dragging, and then his mouth is on you and his teeth are doing something that makes your vision go briefly white at the edges. Your back arches off the wall on its own, hips rocking, grinding down against the soft give of his belly, the friction dragging a sound out of you that you'd never in your life repeat in daylight.
His hand slides into your waistband.
No hesitation. Two fingers in and his thumb finding your clit in the same motion, like he has the layout memorized, which— he does, and you knew that, and it's still maddening.
"Fuck—" Your head knocks back against the wall. Your nails find his shoulder blades.
He works you like he's got nothing to prove and everything to prove, curling, the heel of his hand pressing, his thumb moving in these small deliberate circles that make your thighs tremble where they grip him. You can hear it— the wet obscene sound of his fingers moving— and you want to die about it a little.
"Come on." His voice is low and rough against your ear. "Do it. Come." A pause, his fingers curling again, ruthless. "I know you want to."
You do. You do and he knows it and you come anyway, shaking against his hand, your forehead dropping to his shoulder, a moan muffled into the meat of him.
He doesn't stop moving until you make him.
His mouth finds yours again, slower this time but no cleaner, and then you're turning your head, mouth at his throat, and your teeth latch on with no mercy— sucking hard, a mark you can feel blooming under your lips. He makes a sound you'd replay in a weak moment. High and involuntary, not quite a whine, the kind of sound he can't manufacture.
"Hey—" He tries to pull back. "He'll give me shit—"
You don't move. You suck harder. His protest dissolves into his throat.
Your hands slide down his sides, find the hem of his tank where it's come half-untucked. "Off, Gator."
He reaches back with one hand, grabs the fabric between his shoulder blades, and yanks it over his head.
The shirt goes somewhere.
Your hands find his back.
Broad. Warm. Solid in a way that makes your chest do something it shouldn't. Your palms map the topography of him— and then your thumb drags over something that stops you. Small. Round. The texture of scar tissue, old and fully healed, located low on the right side where the ribs taper.
A cigarette burn.
Something that should have been tended to by someone who loved him, a long time ago, when he was small enough that this would have been an enormous and incomprehensible pain, and instead just— healed over on its own.
You don't say anything. You don't look at him. Your thumb brushes over it once and then keeps moving.
His mouth comes back to yours.
You feel the hair on his chest against your tits, the constellation of moles and freckles you've mapped before and refused to give any significance. His hands working at his belt in the gaps between kissing, the clink of it giving way, his pants dropping to his ankles.
He starts to lift you.
Your palms press flat against his chest. "Condom, Gator."
He stops.
You look down. He's flushed and swollen and leaking and enormous, which you're not going to comment on because you've told yourself you're not impressed by him and you have a reputation to maintain internally.
He's breathing hard. "In my pants, sugartits."
You stare at him.
He stares back. Makes no move toward the pants currently at his ankles.
His hand winds back into your hair, watching you with a particular expression as you sink down to one knee, digging through his pocket. There's a frankly offensive amount of stuff in here— receipts, his vape, something that might be a guitar pick, two separate lip balms— while above you you hear the slow drag of his hand working himself and you feel his eyes on the back of your neck like something physical.
Then he does it. Taps the side of your cheek with his cock. Light. More suggestion than impact.
You look up at him.
He looks down at you.
Out of something you could only describe as targeted, specific, deeply personal spite— you lean in and press your lips to the pink swollen tip. Soft. Almost gentle. A kiss.
The sound Gator Tillman makes is not something he will ever acknowledge. A whimper that comes up through his chest, eyelids dropping, a sharp inhale through his nose like he's bracing for something.
You find the condom at the bottom of his pocket. You stand slowly.
You roll it onto him without looking at his face.
Then you look up.
He's already looking at you.
The kitchen has gone very quiet. His chest rises and falls, lips parted, and something has shifted in his expression that neither of you are going to name out loud. His eyes are dark but not in the way they were before— something in them searching, the lines of his face looser than Gator Tillman is supposed to look.
You swallow.
He swallows.
His hand comes up and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear with a care that is almost an accusation.
When he kisses you this time it's different and you both know it— slow, mouth fitting to yours like there's no urgency, no point being made. His arms come around you, not grabbing, but gathering, your body pulled into his chest, and you let it happen. You let yourself feel how good of a kisser he actually is when he's not performing it.
You bite his bottom lip.
He makes a sound low in his throat and pushes you back against the wall, lifting you back up, your legs wrapping around his waist. His hand dropping between you. He lines up. His forehead almost touching yours, breath hot on your mouth.
"You still want this?"
"Yes," you breathe.
He waits. His jaw is tight, chest heaving.
"Yes what." It comes out rough and wrecked and a little desperate.
"Yes—" Your voice barely makes it. "Sir."
He's inside you before you finish the word.
The sound you make bounces off the kitchen walls. He bottoms out— the stretch of it, the absolute fullness, knocking your head back— and then he's moving, pulling all the way out with excruciating slowness and driving back in, the smack of his hips against yours sharp in the quiet apartment, and he doesn't slow down. He finds a rhythm that's punishing and relentless and perfectly calibrated to destroy you, each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin, by the groan that tears out of him, by the knock of your back against the wall that you'll feel tomorrow.
He swears under his breath. "Fuck."
Then kisses you. Then: "Fuck—" again.
His hands are everywhere— palming your tits, nails raking down your side, gripping your thigh to tilt your hips, one thumb dragging circles where you're already oversensitive and shaking. You rake his back with your nails and he hisses and goes harder. Your heels dig into his ass and he makes a sound that scrapes out of him like it costs something. Your mouth finds his throat again, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
The sounds you're both making are obscene. You've lost any attachment to dignity. The slick heat of it, the grunt on each thrust that he only half-tries to muffle, your own whimpering that you couldn't stop if you wanted to.
You don't want to.
It crests hard and sudden, your whole body seizing, and you bury your face in his shoulder. His rhythm stutters and then he's groaning— low and undone and pressed into your chest, your name muffled against your skin like something he didn't mean to say out loud.
The kitchen is very still afterward.
Both of you breathing like you've been running.
He sets you down slowly. His hands stay on your waist. They stay there longer than they need to, fingers loose, and when you look at his face his eyes are glassy and his lips are swollen and he looks— young, almost. Like some version of him from before he had to learn to be who he is.
You press your palm to his stomach. The soft give of it warm against your hand. You keep your eyes down.
"I really don't want to see you again," you say.
A beat.
"I know," he says.
You look at him. He looks at you. His gaze drops to your mouth and you can see him deciding something, can see the question working its way up through him—
The buzz against the floor.
Both of you look down at his phone, lighting up against the tile beside the gun.
He looks at it for a long moment. Something moves across his face that he closes the door on quickly, and then he's bending down.
You watch from the window.
The parking lot below is orange-gray, the overnight quiet of it, and Gator crosses it with his hands in his jacket pockets, not looking up. His cruiser door opens. Closes. Headlights on.
You watch until the taillights disappear.
The shower is long and almost too hot, and you're thorough about it— the smell of vape smoke and beer-soaked cotton, the slick of him, the marks on your throat you can feel more than see. You scrub until your skin goes pink.
You change into clean clothes. The ruined pajama shirt goes in the trash.
You lie in bed and look at the ceiling and try to sleep, and you almost do, and then you reach for your phone.
The screen shows a string of missed calls. Unknown number. All from earlier tonight. And then, seven minutes ago:
