notes: i know it's been 100 years. finn and holley will never leave my heart, i'll never move on! so i just pounded out this chapter in one go after sitting on it forever because this one has been by far my favorite and i wanted to do it justice. i know every chapter has been vaguely sexual but this one is… very sexual. not explicit but what can i say i've always wanted to be a stripper
maps
wait; they don't love you like i love you.
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five times Finn should've taken his own advice
(and one time he's glad he didn't).
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[four.]
Here's the first problem: the operation is in a strip club.
The place is disreputable at best; the charming type of seedy underground dungeon filled to the brim with the finest clientele the back alleys of Liverpool have to offer. The scent of alcohol, cigarettes, and old fish rolls off of the men from the shipyards in a dizzying haze.
Finn paces along the back wall. His steps unconsciously echo the pulsating beat reverberating across the walls and through his skull. The entire situation is giving him a killer headache.
His eyes scan over the crowd of drunken men and scantily clad cocktail waitresses weaving lithely between them, trained to move steadfastly and never spill a drop of alcohol on their trays even when rough hands accost them from all directions. It makes Finn cringe; his fingers twitch instinctively for his gun, though to take it apart and put it back together compulsively or let it take someone apart, he's not certain.
The music slows from its frantic pounding and a new girl sidles up to the spotlight. Her fingers curl around the silver pole as her hips begin to roll with a sluggish undulating beat.
She tosses her tangled brown hair, drags a hand down her body, lingering on her breasts and pale thighs with slender fingers that look as though they'd be much more comfortable caressing the keyboard of a computer than the gap of skin between a garter belt and thigh highs.
Finn doesn't realize he's been staring until she catches his gaze with a flash of uncertainty in momentarily wide green eyes, and flicks her hips in the direction of the mark.
Here's the second problem: the stripper is Holley Shiftwell.
(It's a covert operation.)
Before she'd been rushed backstage, Holley had been fidgeting nervously at the bar and teetering in her stilettos. "This feels…" she began, propping her elbows on the bar and leaning into them to ease the pressure on her lower back. "Unorthodox."
Finn laughed briefly in response, sweeping a sidelong glance at his partner. Holley's stooped position and arched back draw his eyes down the crisscrossing ribbons scrawled across her spine and lower to black lace and—
"Tell me the plan again?" she asks, even though he knows she's already mapped out every detail in her mind. He knows she's just nervous.
"The mark will be in the front row, stage left," Finn states, awkwardly forcing his attention across the empty club.
The mark: Rhys Whitney.
A typical mob-boss brat, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and raised right under the mafia leader's wing. The Whitney family had made quite a name for themselves pushing cocaine around the area, and young Rhys was poised to take over his father's business when the senior Whitney passed on. Which was, conveniently, looking to be any day now.
"Your job is to-," Finn cleared his throat awkwardly, much to his partner's amusement. "You know…"
Holley smirked and batted her false eyelashes. "Give em a show?"
"Exactly." He gave her one of his solid looks and said firmly, with authority, "Don't get distracted."
And so, Finn ends up here. In the back of the club, watching Holley give them a show indeed. He can't help but be surprisingly impressed with her performance. From the jump, Holley insisted she could barely keep a rhythm, and yet here she is, rolling with every beat, unexpectedly graceful in her own slightly awkward way.
He thinks, she almost looks natural up there.
He thinks she's performing for him, which he knows she's not, but it's hard not to imagine pulling her body tight against his when the night is over and they're back in their shared hotel room, unsnapping her garters, and-
Stay focused, stay focused, stay focused—
Holley arches back against the pole, head lolling back over her shoulder, slender neck bared, thick false eyelashes lowered to half mast. Heavy breaths slip through her cherry lips and thrust her breasts forward against the confines of the corset.
A vein pulses in Finn's temple.
She slides all the way down the pole then drags herself forward on her hands and knees. It's exactly according to plan, Holley crawling achingly slow toward the edge of stage left. She looks out with a lascivious open-mouthed smile.
And the look is directed exactly where it should be, stage left front row, at one Mr. Rhys Whitney. But for one fleeting moment, her hazy eyes go past the mark, to the back of the club, and Finn stops pacing instantly.
Amid the heady haze pounding bass and cigarette smoke and neon lights, Finn thinks:
This would be a very bad time to get an erection.
When the song ends, Holley smiles again, with obvious relief, and steps demurely off the stage, crossing in front of the mark, and-yes-crossing past Whitney with a hand outstretched gracefully and he takes it with confidence. Just like they knew he would, because conveniently, Holley is exactly his taste. He rises behind her, her hand in his, and follows closely behind. Finn sees him whisper something to her, to which she giggles and nods, then lets him guide her toward one of the private rooms.
Finn waits until they disappear to make his move in the same direction, slinking back along the walls behind distracted patrons. He lingers right outside the room, to where he can just barely make out the voices inside. One hand rests on his hip, seemingly casual, but hovering over his gun.
Inside the private room, the lights are red.
Holley's grateful for it, the barely visible lighting, it makes the entire situation feel like some kind of fever dream which makes it easier to stay in character. That, and she doesn't want to see the filth she's sure is covering every square inch.
The room looks like this: another pole in the corner, up on a small platform, a shimmery velvet curtain hiding them from the main room, and a single chair in the middle. A pair of fluffy red handcuffs hang from the metal back of the chair.
Whitney sits in the chair like a real playboy, reclining back with his legs spread wide, grinning up at her with a cocky half smile. "I've never seen you around before, darling," he says, oozing with charm.
"Well, I'm happy you like what you see," Holley purrs back, stepping between his legs and leering down.
He reaches for her waist with both hands, and she grasps his wrists quickly. "You know the rules, Mr. Whitney," she says with a coy half smile on her red lips. "You can't touch."
Whitney laughs and shakes his head. "You know who I am, do you, love?"
"Of course." Holley rolls her shoulders and shakes her hair back, lowering down to a wide-legged crouch with her hands on his knees. "You're a pretty big deal around here."
Whitney hums his approval and folds his arms behind his head. Holley straightens up with her back arched high, ass in the air, and turns her back to him. She slides into his lap, hips rolling slowly into him.
The feeling of his warm breath on her neck makes her skin crawl, but her heart is beating tense with exhilaration at the same time. She's never done this before, but the feeling is not altogether unpleasant.
In fact it's...not unpleasant at all.
As she grinds into the man slowly, she thinks of Finn, outside. She knows he's just behind the curtain, waiting for the signal to strike. She wonders if he can see her.
Whitney's hands go to her waist again, and this time she doesn't stop him.
She hopes Finn is watching.
Leaning into Whitney's chest, she lets her head fall back onto his shoulder. He groans into her ear. "God, you're beautiful," he huffs.
She turns her head just enough to let her lips brush against his neck and whispers breathlessly, "I know."
"You know who I am," he says quietly, his hands running along her thighs. "You know I could take care of you, don't you, darling?"
Holley spins around in his lap, straddling him and rocking her hips against his. "You wanna take care of me?" she echoes in that fucking purr.
Finn hears her, somehow, above the music, and feels a chill drag down his spine.
"Yes, baby girl," Whitney growls back, gripping her thighs tight.
Holley drapes her arms back behind him, one hand pulling at the back of his neck while the other unhooks the handcuffs from the cool metal of the chair. "You have to be good for me, then," she purrs. She shows him the handcuffs and he shakes his head, grinning.
"You're too much," he says. His eyes are heavy with arousal.
She laughs and grasps one of his wrists, hard, pushing his arm behind the chair. "Be good," she repeats, and he acquiesces, his free hand joining the other willingly.
Finn's heart rate quickens outside, it's almost his time to come rushing in, but he finds he almost doesn't want this moment to end. The show he's getting is too good.
He shakes his head though, trying to clear the thoughts. The show is happening for a reason. Don't get distracted, he thinks. Do not fuck this up.
Holley has Whitney exactly where they want him, melting like putty in her slender hands, and she drapes herself over him until her lips are right against his ear.
"You're under arrest," she hums, and the handcuffs click into place.
She pulls back and looks him in the eye, grinning her evil grin.
He looks breathless and confused, and stammers, "Wh-what do you mean?"
Finn steps around the curtain into the hot red light. "She means exactly what she says," he announces suavely, whipping his gun out and finally pointing it right at the mafia brat's face.
Holley slides off of him, still smiling, and joins Finn.
Whitney's face has gone from flushed red to completely pale. "You gotta be fucking kidding me."
Finn flashes his famous Finn McMissile smile and says, "Excellent work, Miss Shiftwell."
"Thank you, Mr. McMissile." She smiles back at him, cool and unphased.
"You fucking bitch," growls Whitney, jerking his cuffed hands fruitlessly against the metal chair. "Fuck you, you fucking whore!" he screams.
The playboy looks pathetic now, babbling and screaming, clanking the ridiculous fluffy handcuffs and rocking the chair as hard as he can. But the ridiculous handcuffs hold, and he knows he's fucked.
The local cops show up moments later, effectively dispersing the club's crowd into a chaos that spills out into the parking lot, and haul an indignant Rhys Whitney away. He glares and curses at Finn and Holley as he's dragged past them, to which they both watch in satisfaction.
Holley pulls on a trench coat Finn hands her, tightening the belt around her waist and shaking her hair out.
"Well that was exciting, wasn't it?" she says with a specific cheer in her voice that only comes out when they've pulled off something big without a hitch. Her cheeks are flushed pink.
Finn grunts in response. He hasn't quite looked at her still, staring straight ahead at the flashing cop lights outside the open door.
"Finn?" she asks lightly, elbowing him in the side.
He groans and closes his eyes.
"You alright?"
"Miss Shiftwell," he says in a dead serious tone. "If you so much as touch me right now, I will fuck you right here in this god forsaken club."
Holley's eyes go wide, her already racing heart rate rocketing into an unbearable pounding, her stomach tight with lust. "Well then…" she begins, swallowing, and then demands, heady, "get me out of here immediately."
He looks her in the eye and it takes all his restraint not to kiss her right then and there.