𓆩diemcay𓆪

18+ MDNI she/her

[diemcay]

✷ you're familiar, like my mirror ✷ masterlist

andrew "pope" cody x female boxer!reader

note: wowwww thank you all for the love you've shown on these! wanted to put this here so it's easier for everyone to navigate! 😛

part 1 - You and Pope Cody orbit each other in the same underground fighting scene. A few months ago, you almost made him lose a match.

part 2 - After getting knocked out in front of Pope, you try to distract yourself from embarrassment by sleeping with a friend.

part 3 - Pope pays you a visit at work, leaving you shaken by his recent snooping into your past.

part 4 - pls I’m working on it I swear

[diemcay]

if it ain’t broke don’t fix it

[foggycatgarden]

Shawn Hatosy 'Animal KIngdom' Season 4 episode 3 'Man vs Rock'

[sammy-bryant]

SHAWN HATOSY as JIMMY HALL Criminal Minds | The Bittersweet Science (7.10)

[yesimfinewhydoyouask]

this is a pro- amy wheeler blog but her one and only sin (other than not hugging that poor man can't actually blame her for it) is saying she was a fangirl for that fuckass megachurch music

[diemcay]

Your boxer fic is 10/10, absolutely fantastic, such an immersive reader insert. Well done! Can’t wait for more.

THANK YOU!! I’m so glad you like it 💕 😆

[diemcay]

✷ you're familiar, like my mirror ✷ pt. 3

andrew "pope" cody x female boxer!reader

all parts

summary: Pope pays you a visit at work, leaving you shaken by his recent snooping into your past.

Tags: season 4 pope, stalking, pining, angst, etc, threats of violence, physical violence and injuries (cuts, bruises), mention of vomit/nausea, mention of sexual content, hints of past trauma and bad memories, flashbacks, reader is anxious and off-putting, slow burn, eventual smut, original characters, little physical description of reader (usually relating to boxing and height)

word count: 3.7k

note: consider me a witch who's been brewing something special in my cauldron just for you – enjoy!

You’ve recently decided that one of the best feelings in the world is the weight of sand over your feet. You bury them until it piles around your ankles, the tiny particles feeling cool against your skin the deeper you push. You wiggle your toes, letting the sand fall through them.

You have a shift at the diner in thirty minutes. You’ve been working more since winning your fight last weekend, just to have something to do. Your rent and the rest of your bills are paid up for the next couple months, your savings are looking good, and you finally got your car’s air conditioner fixed. Luckily it didn’t cost as much as you expected. 

You needed a break from the fights. Your body is sore enough.

There’s a nice breeze at the beach today, right in front of where the diner lives on the boardwalk. The wind lessens the burn on your exposed skin from the sun. You close your eyes, listening to the sound of the waves meeting the shore. You’re in complete solitude, as if everyone else in the world suddenly vanished from the planet. If you open your eyes, all you’ll see is the endless water, extending past the yellow hue of the far horizon. Whatever exists beyond that is not for you to worry about.

In reality, a child runs past you, laughing hysterically and kicking sand up in their wake. It sounds like an echoed memory. You let go of your trance, watching the little boy shrink with distance. He runs to where his father has a towel and cooler laid out. 

Laughter. A playground filled with it. Beams of sunlight shining down on the blacktop of the basketball court you’re watching from. Your watch tells you it’s almost time to go back inside. A small, content smile set on your face. A cool wind floats past.

A van. The sound of sliding doors. Your head turns, but you don’t register the moment fast enough. 

The little boy jumps on his father’s chest, both of them laughing hard enough to bring you back.

Your eyebrows lower. You have to get to work. 

Nine hours later, you’re wiping down the counter in your button-down waitress dress. It’s old-fashioned, but your boss insists that the vintage aesthetic attracts more tourists. He’s right, you do get a lot of tourists. But locals still come in to see you and the other servers they know from around town.

Everyone else has gone home by now, leaving you to lock up. Your back is turned, breaking down the milkshake station when the bell above the front door rings. You should have locked that first.

“We’re closed,” you call, turning around to face whoever wandered in. You’re met with a familiar stranger.

“The door’s unlocked,” Pope Cody responds. 

He doesn’t make a move to sit down, just standing in the doorway, between the backs of two booths. He looks like he’s been through hell, you notice. He has bruises all around his eyes and a nasty looking cut on his cheekbone. He’s staring at you with a haunted look on his face, eyebrows lowered in a permanently menacing way.

But his shirt is purple. Not just purple, but lavender. Everytime you’ve seen him he’s been in some shade of black. Tonight he’s wearing a lavender button down, which you can tell has been ironed.

You look down to his hands. His knuckles are badly bruised. He must’ve had a fight recently. The last time you saw him, he walked away after you were knocked out in a spar. Embarrassment creeps up your neck, remembering that he didn’t stick around to see if you were going to get up.

You swallow. “We’re still closed.”

He breaks eye contact with you, looking around the room. His breathing is heavy, like he’s overwhelmed or maybe nervous. He looks unsure of himself. Of what he’s doing here. You should be more freaked out that he showed up at your job, especially because you’ve never told him where you work. 

This is the second time he’s done something like this. Showed up unannounced, for no clear reason. Your instincts tell you to put your foot down. He can’t keep doing this.

“What are you doing here?” You put a scowl on your face but don’t commit to it. “Why do you keep showing up everywhere?”

Pope doesn’t answer right away, avoiding eye contact. He’s taking in everything on the counter, gaze pausing on something to your left.

“You did good last weekend. At the fight.” His tone is gruff and low. 

You force a glare at him, putting emphasis on each word, “How did you find out where I work, Pope?”

He shuffles on his feet, shifting his eyes from the counter, to you, behind him to the front door and then back to you, like he’s trying to decide if he wants to stay or not. He’s definitely nervous, but why? You’ve never seen him like this. You feel very unprepared.

He gives half a shrug, “I followed you.”

Right, of course. Naturally. “Followed me when?”

He walks up to the counter, somewhat abruptly, but still doesn’t sit down. The shape of his muscles show through his long sleeves.

His eyes are fixed on yours. You’re reminded of last week, when you had to imagine your friend-with-benefits, Markus, as Pope just so you could orgasm. The image you created in your head of what Pope would look like on top of you, his large arms caging your head, his chest brushing your own with each thrust. His stare clouded with pleasure as he pushes into you.

Blushing, you break eye contact and turn back around to finish your closing tasks. Your fingers fumble the part of the milkshake machine you’re cleaning.

“You work a lot,” Pope grumbles from behind you, breaking the silence.

Head shaking in disapproval, “Why are you following me?”

“Is that pie?”

What? You turn, shifting your gaze to where his eyes point. He’s staring at the glass pie stand at the far end of the counter. There’s still a few pieces left from this morning.

“Apple,” you answer. He’s not going to give up the information you want easily, so you might as well humor him.

Pope slides onto a barstool, resting his interlocked fingers on the counter. A silent declaration that he’s not going anywhere without a piece. You don’t want to give in, challenging him with your stare. He stares back threateningly, daring you to object.

Your mouth twitches with irritation, stomping over to the glass case and retrieving a piece of apple pie from under the dome lid. You pivot to the microwave behind you, using unnecessary force as you shove the slice onto a plate and into the machine. You have to brace your arms on the counter and hang your head, taking deep breaths. 

You don’t appreciate being blindsided like this. What worries you the most is why Pope has taken such an interest in you. You’re not delusional enough to believe it might be personal, not anything like how you’ve been thinking of him. 

The only other explanation would be his family. What could the Codys want with you? You made it clear to Pope that you don’t want anything to do with their business, legal or not.

Once the pie is done reheating, you bring the plate over and set it in front of Pope, not letting go just yet. As he reaches for it, you pull back. “What do you want from me?”

He looks up at you, annoyed. “A fork would be great.” Dick.

Rolling your eyes, you grab him one from underneath the counter. You watch him eat, waiting for him to say anything at all.

After a few bites, Pope scrunches his eyebrows at his plate. “It’s too starchy,” he complains with a full mouth.

“It’s frozen,” you deadpan.

He takes a large breath. And another, before meeting your eyes again. You feel a pit in your stomach from all the unknowns.

“Can I give you a ride home?”

You step back. “What? Of course not. Why would I need a ride home?”

“Why not?”

Your mouth is slightly gaping in bewilderment. Fixing your face, you close your eyes and try to conjure up some patience. “Because I have a car, because I don’t know you, and because you just told me that you’ve been following me and I don’t know why you’re even here to begin with.”

“Well, I already know where you live,” he says, sounding put-out like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Pope–”

“Andrew. Call me Andrew.”

You give him a hard look. “...Andrew. I need to know why you’re here. Why you’ve been following me. What you want with me. I already told you I’m not interested in any Cody business—”

“I’m not here for my family.”

You’re lost. “Is this because I called you a motherfucker? Haven’t we already been over this? Look, I was just trying to cheer on Jackie—”

He interrupts you again, flustered with your guessing. “I’m not mad that you called me a motherfucker. I’m just– I was just in the neighborhood.” He’s lying. You never see him this far down here unless it has to do with MMA.

You lean a little closer, “Why?”

His mouth is twisted as if trying to stop himself from answering. “I like watching you fight.”

You drop your head, shaking it. “So do a lot of other people. That’s not a good enough reason to stalk me, Andrew.” 

You take his unfinished plate back to the kitchen, tossing it in the sink for morning crew to deal with. Leaning into your manager’s tiny cut out office, you grab your purse from off the hook and head back out the swinging doors. You walk straight past where Pope is now standing, diner keys in hand—fully willing to lock him in if he doesn’t move.

His voice is right behind you as you push open the front door. “Was it bad?” He reaches over your shoulder, holding it open. You try to make distance, mostly because whatever soap he uses lights a fire in your core.

“Was what bad?”

“Your knockout. At Sil’s.”

You turn to him after locking the door from the outside. You tilt your head up only slightly to look at him, “You don’t care. You left.” You can’t help the hurt that leaves your mouth with the words. It shouldn’t matter to you, but his exit combined with the knockout in general was too much for you to process rationally.

He follows a step behind you to your car, parked just down the block. “Were you alright after?”

“Yes, I was fine. Clearly I’m fine. Now leave me alone.” You snap, picking up the pace.

He doesn’t listen. He lets silence hang over you too for a couple minutes before continuing, “Why are you working at the diner? You win plenty of fights. Even without those, you have your degree—why don’t you use–”

You stop. Pope nearly crashes into you from the abruptness. Your fist tightens around your purse strap hanging over your shoulder. Nausea shoots down your throat to the bottom of your stomach like poison. No one is supposed to know that. If Pope knows about your degree then he must know about other things. You’re going to throw up. Keep it down, breathe. You swallow, clenching your teeth.

“What did you say?”

Pope looks at you from the side, confused. “I just don’t get the whole diner thing. Why don’t you teach anymore?”

Anger shines through the hole in your heart. 

You turn, taking a step towards him and using both hands to push hard at his chest. He doesn’t expect it, falling back a few steps off the sidewalk and tripping onto the sand. You get closer to him, pushing him again, “How the fuck do you know that!” Another shove, again, again.

A man, masked and gloved. 

He jumps out of the van, running towards the playground. You fumble with the whistle hanging around your neck, willing your feet to move faster. Your ballet flats aren’t built for running, you slip out of them and onto the blacktop. 

Your scream dies at your throat, fear washing over you like it does in your dreams.

“I looked you up. Found your real name, what—enough.”

He grabs both your wrists, tightly, looking down at your distress with a glare of shock. You tug down, ready to knee him in the balls, “Let me go, Pope!”

He does, silently. Hesitating to see if you’ll push him again. His eyes burn into yours, trying to find answers in your face. You shake your wrists from his hold, scraping your short nails over the sides of your head. 

“You stay away from me,” you huff. “Understand? Don’t follow me, don’t come around the diner.” His signature glare is back, but you can tell now that he’s only processing your words. “If you show up at Sil’s again, I will beat you to death.” Believe me believe me believe me.

Neither of you say anything after that, you only stare at each other. Your chest is lifting rapidly with heavy breaths. You don’t wait for him to call your bluff before gathering your purse off the sand and stepping back on the paved sidewalk, heading towards your car.

Grief takes the place of anger now. Your eyes grow heavy, pressure pushing from behind them as you walk. Your vision blurs with tears, our mouth contorted into a closed frown in a sad attempt to keep from crying. It doesn’t work and the tears fall anyway. You know Pope is probably still watching, so you don’t dare bring your hand up to wipe your face.

You have no memory of the drive from the beach to your apartment—unsure of how long you’ve spent in the parking lot, engine off, staring at your steering wheel. You’re all out of tears at this point, breathing shakily. You can’t move. 

You would like to move. You would like to climb up your apartment steps, crawl into your shower and just sit there while warm water rushes over your naked body. But you can’t. Your mind won’t cooperate.

A scream, not your own.

You get up to your feet, leaving your flats behind. The sound of your whistle blends together with the surrounding terror, creating a symphony of panic.

A van door sliding shut. Wheels squealing. Burning rubber. 

Gone.

Everything is too loud.

Finally dragging yourself into your apartment, your shoulders feel like they’re being pushed down by two giant hands. You’re drowning, far out from shore. There’s no escape from here. 

Not giving yourself time to think, you decide to start packing a bag. You’re not sure where you’re going, but you have the sudden urge to go anyway.

No, that’s stupid. You drop the bag, walk to the bathroom and turn on your shower, instead. Get fully undressed. Your phone, which lays forgotten on the kitchen counter, dings from a text. You drop your head. You can just ignore it, it’s not like you’re anyone’s emergency contact. There’s no where to go, not at this hour of the night.

How dare Pope invade your privacy like that. It’s not even the physical stalking, really. Well, it is, but that’s nothing compared to snooping around your past. You slide down on the floor, back against the kitchen counter. Staring at the wall helps. You try box breathing, waiting for your heart rate to slow down to a normal pace. Guilt crowds you.

You juggle Pope’s intentions with the discoveries he revealed to you earlier.

Pope said he wasn’t following you for his family. He said it’s because he likes watching you fight. He could be lying. This could be some kind of long-con that Smurf cooked up. You don’t know the details of what they got up to, but rumors spread like wildfire along the different beaches. The news is always reporting on different robberies. Would they be trying to get work closer to San Diego? Stealing or whatever they do?

How would you be of benefit to them? You don’t know anyone like that. You keep to yourself, to your own problems. Maybe you’ll talk to Markus the next time you see him. You can ask what he knows about Andrew Cody.

Sil’s noticed how bad a mood you’ve been in, so he’s taking it harder on you than usual today. It’s helping. You haven’t heard from Pope or seen him around at all. Not that you would, since he’d been following you for who knows how long, without you noticing. 

You’re working the bag, sweat flying off you at how much you’ve been exerting. You’ve been throwing mostly hooks, feeling comforted by the pressure it puts on your biceps. 

Sil walks over to you and watches silently for a few minutes. At certain points he’ll nudge you, correcting your form, but otherwise he doesn’t speak.

Until, inevitably, he breaks your mindless serenity. “You know, you could just let your boyfriend come inside.”

You only falter for a second and decide to switch to uppercuts, “What are you—talking about, Sil?”

“I’m not getting involved with your lover’s quarrel. But it is hot out today, and he’s been waiting outside for almost an hour.”

You turn to him. “Sil, I don’t have a boyfriend. Go find someone else to bother.”

“Well, then can you please go tell Pope Cody to stop staring a hole through my wall?”

You sigh, realizing that you were so deep in your training you didn’t even consider that it was Pope outside.

Staring back at Sil, “He’s not my boyfriend,” as you rip your gloves off and throw them to the mat below you. You’re going to have to kick his ass. 

You’ve grown very confident in your ability to fight a man in the past couple years.

Pope sits in a black truck parked across the street from the gym. He’s staring at the entrance from through the passenger side window as you walk out. The frustration in your walk doesn’t seem to stir him.

You cross in front of the car, feeling his eyes follow you until you reach his open window. He’s wearing a black sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. The bruises on his face have only lightened slightly. 

“Get out of the car, Pope.” 

“I wanted to talk to you about the other day—”

“I don’t care. Get out of the car.”

“Are you gonna beat me to death if I do?” His eyebrows raise sarcastically.

You glare at him. “I’m gonna reach through this window and strangle you if you don’t.”

His mouth closes in a tight light, huffing out through his nose. “If I knew it would upset you, I wouldn’t have brought it up.”

You shift on your feat, settling your hands on the door ledge. “That’s not the point, Pope. You’re stalking me. Digging up shit that doesn’t concern you.” You breathe out, rage subsiding to sorrow at your own words.

“Obviously I’m not making myself clear. So you’re going to get out of this car and I’m…” Your heart’s not in it anymore. “I’m gonna beat you up or something, I don’t know.” Your head falls to your hands rested on his open window.

Pope shuffles at your defeated stance. You hear him breathe out a couple times, hesitating. “Are you…Do you want to go for a ride?”

You don’t look up. “No.”

His question makes you start thinking, though. You need to know what exactly he wants from you, but if he skirts around an answer again you’ll probably combust on the spot. 

“Tell me something true,” you mumble from your position.

He takes a beat. “What?”

You step back, crossing your arms over your chest. Pope keeps his eyes on yours, head titled down. “Tell me something that’s true. No bullshit.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything.”

His face stutters. He’s sizing you up, trying to figure out what angle you’re playing.

When you’re really just grasping at straws.

For a split second, his menacing expression drops into one of vulnerability. “I needed to get out of the house.”

He reminds you of a sea stack way out past the shore. Waves crash into it, but it’s immovable, a constant force. You think he’s beautiful, his hard stare and firm mouth. The curls of his hair. The freckles peppering his tan skin. You want to ask what that has to do with you, but you don’t have the stomach for it right now. 

“That’s all? It really has nothing to do with your family or…or your work?”

“They don’t know I’m here. And I– I don’t want to talk about work with you.” 

You hold each other’s stares. Nodding, you respond, “Okay.” He waits for you to say more.

Looking back towards the gym, you feel the need to make a decision. Either you tell him to kick rocks again—using cruelty in response to his honesty, hoping that it drives him away. Or…

You’re not sure what an alternative is, actually. He’s snooping into your past, sending you spiraling about things you’re haunted by. At the same time, you can’t keep your mind off of him, he captivates you in a way that no one else has before.

Every crime documentary you’ve watched tells you not to get into his truck. He’s a stranger, he’s stalking you. This could be the stupidest decision of your life. Looking back to him, his hardness is tinged with patience.

“I’m not getting in your car. Stop following me around.” He brings his eyebrows together, barely nodding his head and looking down to his hands in his lap.

“Just, you know. Text me before you want to show up somewhere.” You reach into his truck for his phone sitting in the cupholder. He watches your every move, tracking your hand as it extends across his body. 

You hand him his phone, waiting for him to unlock it. It takes a second for him to realize what’s happening. Only when he has his phone back with your number added, does he grumble a response.

“Can I call you? I hate texting.”

You’re sitting in the back of an ambulance, vaguely aware of the scrapes across your palms from tripping onto the hard blacktop.

Your dress is ripped above both knees.

From a distance, you see his mother fall to the ground as a police officer breaks the news. His father freezes, losing his hold around her waist.

Their son has just been kidnapped.

--

taglist: @vicky066 @fanggq @reblogging-all-i-read @sunbonesss @ribsbyl0rd3 @oldmenrus @mxltiwth @kee-0-kee @romasead @avengersgirllorianna

[diemcay]

✷ you're familiar, like my mirror ✷ pt. 2

andrew "pope" cody x female boxer!reader

all parts

summary: After getting knocked out in front of Pope, you try to distract yourself from embarrassment by sleeping with a friend.

tags: MDNI 18+, smut, p in v sex (protected!), f and m orgasm, oral (f receiving), friends with benefits, grinding, fingering, begging, missionary, neck kissing, nipple play, teasing, cursing, reader thinks of pope to cum, fantasizing, pining, angst, etc, a little domestic if you ask me, mention of vomit, injuries, blood, reader is anxious and off-putting, original characters, i think i got everything

word count: 4.4k

note: reader has sex with markus/oc (sorry) but there is a purpose and it only has to make sense to me!

The diner bell pulls you out of your thoughts. It’s a Friday afternoon, so the place is packed with locals and tourists on the beach. You haven’t had a minute to stop and think one again interrupted by a family coming in to eat. You walk around the counter, pulling out a few menus from their designated slot under the counter as you make your way to their table. 

It’s a mother and father with their two kids. They probably come from the suburbs, maybe Mission Hills or somewhere like that. They look put together, polite. They all smile at you as you walk up to their table, save for their young son whose nose is buried in his iPad. The mother, with silky blonde hair that’s perfectly shaped, falters with her smile, glancing between her son and husband.

The father notices immediately, smacking the tablet with his hand, “Tommy, put that thing away,” he scolds. He puts the smile back on his face for you, “Sorry about that.”

You laugh it off, “No worries!” You tell them your name and ask for their drink orders. You like the name Tommy for a boy. It reminds you of those eighties movies. Their order was pretty standard—burgers all around. They’ll order two milkshakes with four straws for dessert. 

It’s easy to distract yourself from your knockout a couple days ago with this job. There’s too much going on to linger on the embarrassing memory. But when you’re let alone to wait for food from the kitchen, or wait for people to come and go, your mind falls back to that moment.

Two Days Ago

“Are you kidding? What was that!” Coach Sil yelled from outside the ring. You could barely hear as he pushed his body between the ropes to come check on you. You had assumed you’d been knocked out, considering the loss of memory. A blanket of shame enveloped your body, remembering that everyone in the gym was watching you spar Sabina. ‘Spar’ is a strong word. Sil had barely blown the whistle before you’d been knocked to the mat.

The last thing you remembered was Pope Cody’s stare, burning into your own. You hadn’t been able to take your eyes off of him as he stood behind Sabina’s side. It felt like he was waiting to analyze you, right after confronting you for distracting him. That day was so confusing, because you were just thinking about Pope the week before, and then all of a sudden he was in your gym. He was upset because you called him a motherfucker as you cheered on his opponent. That one cheer had made him lose focus on your friend Jackie, who was underneath him at the time. 

Pope ended up winning the fight anyway, which is another reason why you were taken aback when he came up to you at Sil’s that day and then stayed to watch you spar. 

As you laid on your back in the ring, with Sil’s large body hovering over you, you turned your face to the side. You watched as a silhouette that could only be Pope’s head towards the gym’s exit. You could have burst into tears right there. There was a ringing in your ear and you had never been more embarrassed in your life. You didn’t get knocked out, ever. Not anymore. Not since you actually got decent at boxing. And to get knocked out before the fight even started? You had to force your eyes not to tear.

“Are you ill? What the hell is the matter with you today?” Sil had concern written all over his expression, the fatter parts of his face squishing in a funny way as he hung over you. You had to admit to yourself that it was concern and a little judgement, too. 

You only answered with a groan, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to disappear completely. 

Sil didn’t let up. You didn’t bother raising your head or attempting to move, accepting the defeat despite everyone in the gym still watching you. Let them watch, you didn’t care. 

“Now answer me honestly, here,” Sil went on, shifting from foot to foot. He looked a little nervous. “Is it that time of the month for you?”

That made you sit up to a ninety degree angle, aiming a punch straight for Sil’s protruding gut cased in his tracksuit. He groaned loudly at the hit, holding his stomach in despair as you scolded him, “What the fuck is your problem?” You pushed yourself to your feet, anger overtaking embarrassment.

You climbed out of the ring, ripping the padding off from your head and body, “Ridiculous!”

Present Day

The hours pass by agonizingly slow, even if you’ve had what feels like a million customers today. You do all your closing tasks like normal, going quickly. You have a fight tomorrow that you should be focusing on, but you’re so distracted that you start to worry about your performance for the first time since you started boxing.

You don’t get nervous before fights, not in a real way. The fact that this one little knockout has this much impact on you is frightening. But deep down you know it isn’t the knockout or the audience that saw it. 

It’s Pope. It’s the fact that Pope Cody saw you fail.

You try explaining this to yourself as you married the salt and pepper shakers. Maybe you have some kind of respect for Pope as a fighter, making it embarrassing to lose in such a silly way while he watches. This could have been your reaction to anyone seeing you fall to the mat. 

Maybe it has something to do with your growing crush on Pope…Fuck.

You shake your head, trying to expel any thoughts like that. You’ve been doing that a lot lately, but it hasn’t worked. Locking the front door to the diner, you make a drastic decision.

You need to be in the right headspace for your fight tomorrow night. Yet, you can’t get your mind off of Pope. The only solution then, is to distract yourself from both. You sigh, knowing that Markus would be more than willing to help. The drive back to your apartment is silent. You don’t even bother turning on the radio because your nerves are so intense.

The queasiness in the bottom of your stomach is typical for you, especially when you know you’re about to have sex. It’s not that you dislike sex, you just can’t help the nerves. It’s not Markus either, he’s a good guy. Not someone you’d ever be serious with, but there’s nothing wrong with that. He’s safe and familiar. 

He’s already waiting at your door by the time you pull into the driveway. You feel like you could throw up. You take your time grabbing your purse from the passenger seat and climbing out of the car. 

Don’t be nervous, you tell yourself, It’s just Markus. He wants to be here because he thinks you’re beautiful and sexy or whatever. Now lighten up!

“Hey pretty,” Markus greets as you get to your front door. He’s leaning against the wall in a casual, confident way, like he doesn’t have the slightest bit of nerves. 

“Are you ready for this monster dic—” You spin on your heel, aiming your keys toward him like a weapon.

“Be polite and grateful, Markus,” you threaten, “Or I’ll send you and that thing in your pants home.”

He laughs, reminding you what a nice smile he has. You turn to unlock your door and feel his hands slide around your waist comfortably. You start to relax now.

Before you push the door all the way open, Markus brings his mouth down to the crook of your neck, lightly kissing you there.

“Thanks for calling,” he mutters softly, agreeing to your terms and placing another kiss down. It’s soft, non-expectant, and comfortable. You two have done this before, multiple times. For whatever reason, his friendliness calms you down. It would be different if it was a stranger.

You don’t feel like wasting any time, knowing that all of your worries about the fight and Pope could come back any second. Markus pushes the door open and guides you into the living room, lips not leaving your neck. As he walks you to the couch, he sucks and licks, teasing you. You reach behind you with one arm, dropping your purse to the floor from the other and slide your fingers through his hair. His grip around your waist tightens, wrapping his arms around you.

You tilt your head, letting him have more room to kiss you. Markus takes the opportunity to pull your chin to the side, his mouth meeting yours. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth and sucks before moving to your top lip. You scrunch your fingers in his hair and pull in response, making him hum into your mouth. Your breathing is heavier now and you can feel heat pulsing down towards your core.

He takes his tongue and traces the bottom of your upper lip, sliding it across the edges of your teeth. He’s asking for more, you realize. You pull his head down closer, not that you aren’t already face to face, and lick the roof of his mouth. 

He lets out a heavy breath and walks you to the arm of your couch, leaning you over it. This forces you to extend your hand out to hold you both up. From this position, your back is completely covered with Markus’s chest, his growing erection pressing into your tailbone. You’re both breathing harshly.

Markus leans closer to you, muzzling his face into the side of yours. “Where do you want me?” He whispers in your ear. You swear you can feel the flood gates open.

Your head drops, unable to make a decision. Your mind is cloudy with lust. He knows this, so he places soft kisses on your cheek, temple, and jaw, giving you time to think. He lets his hands roam, too. Not so much that it would distract you, but enough to light your skin on fire.

You just want him to fuck you. “Bedroom,” you respond finally, “please.”

He nods into your neck, kissing you there again. He doesn’t move, though. Instead, he slides one hand down your front, keeping his other arm wrapped around your waist. 

“Bedroom?” he huffs, cupping your pussy over the fabric of your work dress. You have to bite your lip to keep from moaning, letting your head drop back down. He rubs his fingers over your pussy lips, with purpose.

“You want me to fuck you in the bedroom?” He repeats. You let out a groan as he pushes one finger deeper, past your lips and right onto your clit. The feeling is muted from two layers of fabric—your dress and your panties—but when he starts rubbing small circles with his finger, you almost collapse.

“Yes,” you breathe, “ah– please, Markus.”

He pushes his hips into your backside, grinding his erection on you. “Fuck,” he leans his head into your shoulder, just focusing on your clit.

Suddenly, he removes his hand completely, making you whine at the loss of sensation. This gives you a second to be glad that your distraction is working. You would never admit it to him, but Markus is amazing at this. 

He gathers the end of your dress, pulling it up in a rush. You barely have time to process his pushing your panties to the side and pushing the same finger into your pussy. “Oh, God–” you moan out.

His breath comes in bursts over your neck, right below your ear. He pumps into you over and over, dragging your juices into your folds just to rub your clit. His pace is unfaltering.

“You’re gonna cum for me out here, first,” Markus’s other arms tightens around your waist since he notices you need help standing. “You only get fucked if you can cum around my fingers, baby.”

Your breathing hitches, eyes shooting open at the pet name. He’s never called you that before. He’s still working on your pussy and your body is responding the same, but suddenly you’re distracted. You let him move you into the bedroom and lay you down, your head turned towards your window. You observe the moving cars and the kaleidoscope of different colored lights from the street. 

Markus is kissing down your body and you make sure to respond by running your fingers through his hair. No one calls you baby. You hated it. An old boyfriend in high school tried once, but you shut him down immediately.

Your brows furrow, trying to understand why that name turned you off so much. You’re slightly pulled out of your thinking as he starts licking stripes up your pussy, sucking lightly on your clit. This does make your eyes flutter and back arch, a little.

Baby? 

After a couple minutes, Markus’s head lifts from in between your legs, “Hey,” he draws your attention back to him, running his hand over your knee. “You still with me?”

“Yeah, sorry,” you breathe out. “Distracted.” He peppers kisses over your inner thighs, pausing to give you a break. 

He tries to comfort you by rubbing up and down your legs some more. “What’s wrong? Do you need me to do something else?”

You sigh, dropping your head on your pillow to stare at the ceiling, absentmindedly running your hand through his hair. “No,” you respond, “Just…nervous for tomorrow I guess.”

“Tomorrow? You mean your fight? Since when do you get nervous about a fight?”

Markus moves up the bed, coming closer to rest his head on your lower stomach, waiting for you to share.

“I don’t know. I’m just feeling weird about it.”

He traces patterns over your skin with his finger. The silence between you two is comfortable. Despite all the flirting and teasing, you found that Markus was actually a good listener and doesn’t stir at vulnerability.

“So you wanted a distraction from that?” He asks. You would feel bad for using him, but you know he doesn’t care. Markus isn’t the type to pressure anyone or any relationship, especially yours.

You don’t feel like getting into the pet name thing. You don’t quite understand your own aversion to it. “Maybe. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you admit, pulling his hair lightly to make him look up at you, “Sorry.”

Markus takes your other hand, giving it a squeeze. “Nothing to be sorry about. You wanna stop?”

Part of you definitely isn’t in the mood for this anymore, the whole ‘baby’ thing really throwing you through a loop. Another part of you fears what else your mind will drift to that will keep you awake tonight.

Hopefully sex with Markus will tire you out. “No, let me try again,” you conclude, pulling Markus up to meet his lips. He goes along, kissing you just as passionately as before. You’re grateful for his patience. His hand reaches underneath your dress to massage your breast. Over your lace bra, he’s able to run his finger over your nipple, returning you to a sexual headspace.

Markus reaches over to your bedside drawer and pulls out a condom, rolling it on. Once your dress and bra are both off, Markus immediately attaches his mouth to the same nipple, playing with the other one in his hand. You tug on his hair, knowing he likes that. He moans into your chest, sucking harder on your sensitive peak and lapping it with his tongue. You wrap your legs around his torso in response, almost grinding your hips up into him.

You’re trying your hardest to keep your mind on him. There’s just something in the way, mentally. You encourage him to continue, letting him into your pussy, which is fairly wet. Not as wet as you normally would be, but you hope he doesn’t notice. 

Markus holds himself above you in a plank, dropping his hips into yours as he sinks his cock in and out of you. “Fuck, you feel amazing.”

“Mm,” you hum, feeling pretty indifferent towards the whole moment. Your hands rest on his biceps, rubbing across them gently. He’s well-built from being a fighter himself, you think. Not really anything special about him, but he’s conventionally very attractive. You mentally chide yourself for casting judgement like that. It’s not like you don’t think Markus is hot, you do. You just hang out with him for other reasons, the main one being your friendship with him.

Markus notices your silence. “How are you doing? Still stuck in your head?”

You smile up at him, placing your hand on his cheek and give him a small kiss. “Yeah, I guess so. You can finish, though.”

He doesn’t answer right away, leaning his head into your hand and looking deep into your eyes, thinking.

“You know," He starts, turning his face to kiss your palm, “Sometimes it helps to picture someone else. Only if you want to keep going, that is. You’re in charge here.”

You drop your hand, confusion coloring your face, “What?”

He pauses for another second, “Like, don’t get me wrong, I know I’m the sexiest person you’ve ever been with. But if you need to picture me as someone else to get off, that’s cool too.”

“What even made that come into your brain? What makes you think I need to pretend you’re someone else?”

He exhales with a small smile. Still inside of you, he leans down to kiss your neck as he explains. You’re intrigued, moving your head to allow him more space. “Something tells me you’re worried about more than just a fight. It’s not like you,” He brings his face up to meet yours, staring at your lips. “And even though I would make a perfect soulmate, I’m aware you only want me for sex,” he smirks, mumbling the last part into your mouth before he pushes his tongue past your lips.

You kiss him back, bringing both hands up to his head. You consider the idea, thinking about who could possibly fill the role of this…fantasy. If Markus can’t get you off when he’s literally inside of you, how are you supposed to finish to the idea of someone else?

As Markus resumes his pushing in and out of you, grunting in pleasure but going slow enough in case you want to stop, you try to picture anyone else you’ve found attractive. There’s only one person that comes to mind, the one person you haven’t been able to expel from your thoughts all week.

God dammit. Pope motherfucking Cody.

The image of Pope floods your thoughts. His broad chest, glistening with sweat. His beefy torso that is so obviously not dehydrated. The way his biceps bulge when he crosses his arms. And how his eyes pin you in place, taking control of your every move. You don’t even know him, have barely talked to him. But you’ve never been more attracted to someone in your entire life, despite making a fool out of yourself in front of him.

You give in to this idea a little more, feeling Markus’s body but imagining what it would look like if Pope was fucking you instead. If he had you caged underneath his arms, not allowing you to break eye contact. If he grunted with every rut of his hips, like he does when he’s fighting. You can feel your pussy flutter, eyes falling shut as Markus hits the sensitive spot within you. His cock slides through your entrance, stretching you out in the best way. You imagine that Pope would want to watch his cock disappear into your pussy, maybe playing with your clit at the same time.

“Markus, touch me,” you breathe out, “Pl–please touch me.” You’re getting so close that everything you say comes out in a whine.

Markus complies, allowing you to think of Pope’s thick fingers gently circling your puffy bud, starting slowly to make the feeling last longer. How he would alternate between small and large motions, gathering your slick from where his cock is entering you. You would be able to feel how hard he was, close to orgasm himself. He would find the spot just above your clit that makes you go wild, pressing down harder and picking up the pace of his fingers. Electricity would course through your body, bringing you close to finishing. It’s all too much—too much feeling. You wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to come around his cock, drowning him in your slick.

Your back would arch and he would attach his mouth to one of your nipples, sucking it in short spurts, flicking his tongue across the peak of it. You would moan, long and unrestrained. His hips would stutter, the fingers on your pussy falling away as he reaches completion. He would pound into you a few more times, harder and deeper than before, burying his cock inside your pussy and filling it with his cum. You would come immediately, pussy contracting around his length. Your grip on his hair would tighten too. He would moan around your nipple, unable to move.

“You good? Did it work?” Markus asks, laying on top of you. You can tell he’s recovering from his orgasm.

Your breathing is heavy, but your mind is completely blank for the first time all week. 

“Yeah, like really well,” You smile, running your nails across his scalp, “Thank you.”

He rolls off to lay next to you on the bed, stretching one arm out for you to rest your head on his shoulder. You trace his abs and crook one leg over his body. “Good, we need you relaxed for tomorrow,” he kisses the top of your head.

Before you succumb to sleep, a question pops into your head. “So…how often are you picturing me as someone else? And who do you use?”

He laughs, "Gorgeous, I’ve been hooking up with Halle Berry for like a year now.”

This week has been a mix of emotions for you. You resent the fact that you let a man get so in your head. You hate that you got knocked out in a spar. Boxing is more of a hobby or extra money for you now, it actually gives you something to care about. Pope disrupted that and it wasn’t even all his fault. You’re the one that couldn’t take your eyes off of him.

On top of that, the whole baby thing with Markus. That’s something you’ll have to self-reflect on. You didn’t think it would make that much of a difference, but when he called you that, your stomach turned. It was just so intimate and delicate. It didn’t feel right, didn’t fit you at all. You aren’t delicate. You aren’t someone’s baby.

While sex with Markus did help you loosen up, you feel guilty for imagining Pope instead. You don’t even know him. You have no intention of ever speaking to him again, but you were still slightly nervous about seeing him at different events. What if he came back to Sil’s? You hope your poker face is strong enough to hide that you got off to him.

There isn’t anymore time to think about that stuff right now. Not when you’re getting punched in the kidney. Tonight’s fight is for $3,000. You guess more people showed up after they heard about opening night. You’re just starting out, feeling good. Despite all your anxiety about tonight, you’re confident that you can beat the woman across from you.

Sil stands behind your corner of the ring, the large crowd cheering behind him. He’s mentally telling you to attack. So you do. You step out of your opponent’s reach, right as she tries to throw a jab, making her fall forward and have to catch herself. You pivot, throwing a right hook into the side of her head as she turns to face you. You don’t let up, throwing a left jab straight to her face next. She gets one on you, too, but she doesn’t throw hard enough. You catch her lacking, getting her in the kidney a few times before the ref makes you step back.

The crowd is going crazy. You hear your name, her name, cheers, boos. All of it. You bounce on the balls of your feet, shaking your arms out. As you resume your fighting stance, gloves up, you notice that she’s looking a little worn out. Her nose is bleeding into her mouth and she’s leaning to the side slightly, from pain. 

She’s waiting for you to make the next move. Works for you. You take a step towards her, staring at her between your gloves. She takes a step back, out of breath. Your attention is grabbed by the crowd over her shoulder.

You almost pause—almost. He came to watch you fight. Smurf and Craig are with him too. Pope is standing with his arms crossed, glaring at you with what seems like expectation. His expression motivates you to not fuck up again.

Turning back to your opponent, you feel a fire light in your stomach. You need to show him what you can do, that the other day was just a hiccup.

She’s so done.

You take another step, throwing a left jab at her nose. As her head reels back, you get closer, aiming another hook towards her jaw. Her upper half is forced to the side, so you meet her falling head with an opposite punch, pushing your shoulder and biceps muscles up, in a diagonal motion. Your calf supports the throw, foot twisting to add impact. Your breathing is calm, exhaling with each exerting movement. She’s down, cradling her head with one glove. 

You back up, letting the ref check on her. Before you look back at Pope, you turn around to Sil. See? You think to yourself, Not everything is about him.

Sil nods at you in approval, fists on his hips. His spattering of hair sticks to his balding head with sweat. He’s very shiny under the grey LED’s of the warehouse you’re in. The ref is asking your opponent if she can continue, so you look back to Pope. Smurf is behind him, looking at you too, her expression unreadable.

Pope doesn’t let you out of his glare. His biceps look amazing in their position, slightly suntanned and freckled. He’s wearing dark grey and black, and you realize you’ve never seen him in bright colors. He chucks his chin at you, and you’re not sure if it’s in challenge or congratulations. The ref comes over to raise your glove. The bell rings and the crowd around you sounds like ocean waves crashing onto shore.

--

tag list: @vicky066 @fanggq @reblogging-all-i-read

[diemcay]

ive been in a very shawn hatosy’s fictional characters mood lately. will be acting on this.

[diemcay]

✷ you're familiar, like my mirror ✷

andrew "pope" cody x female boxer!reader

all parts

summary: You and Pope Cody orbit each other in the same underground fighting scene. A few months ago, you almost made him lose a match.

tags: smurf, fighting, blood, injuries, mention of vomit, cursing, slow burn, eventual smut, no use of y/n, reader is an independent woman and a little mean! that's okay!

word count: 5.6k

note: hope you enjoy. if you don't please don't mention it. i will take it personally 😛

Your biceps are on fire. A familiar burn, but one that lets you know it’s time to wrap this up. You need to take her down for good.

You brace yourself for the right hook you know is coming. At this point in the fight, you start seeing things in slow motion, like you get into some kind of headspace that lets you anticipate not only your next move, but your opponent’s too. The woman across from you is around your size, maybe packing a little more muscle. It should intimidate you, but her movements are slow, and you’ll be damned if you lose on opening night.

She draws her glove back, aiming it straight for your cheekbone. You breathe in, bringing your left glove up to the side of your face. Getting punched anywhere hurts like hell, but you’ve been fighting for so long it sometimes feels as though you're wearing armor. She’s got a heavy hand, that’s for sure — but you take the opportunity while she’s recovering from the exertion of her hook to throw towards the center of her face. You sync your exhale with your punch, aiming for her nose. For a split second, you feel bad that you’re about to break it, mentally cringing at the sound of bone cracking that you’ve heard time and time before this.

It lands, her nose breaks, and that awful crack is the only thing you hear. Resisting the urge to vomit right on the mat, you create distance between the two of you. She staggers back, bringing her glove up to her nose and wincing as she accidentally presses too hard. You keep your gloves up, dancing on your toes at the opposite corner of the ring. As the referee checks in on her, you glance towards your own coach. He’s standing behind you, staring down your opponent and waiting for the ref to call the fight. You try to block out the screaming cheers from the crowd. The warehouse is packed like you’ve never seen it before.

You ignore the stool in your corner. You know if you sit down, you won’t be able to get back up. Not this late in the game. Really, you’ve only been at it with this girl for a few minutes, but it’s your first time back in the ring in a few months. Sure, you’ve been training your ass off, but sparring with someone in Coach Sil’s rundown gym is different than an actual fight. There’s more pressure now that money’s involved. Not that this is anything professional. You’ve been fighting underground for two years now, on and off. You train with your coach almost everyday of the week, but just as an outlet. Whenever you're strapped for cash though, you agree to sign up for paid fights. Ones with a real, betting audience.

Everyone in the crowd of this random warehouse is probably involved in some shady shit themselves. From what you’ve learned about being around this long, most likely a lot of drugs and robberies. Gang activity, that kind of thing. You guess there could be even more dangerous people in the crowd, but you try to mind your own business outside of the ring. 

Finally, the ref finishes examining your opponent’s nose. The crowd is really impatient at this point and not afraid to show it. Yelling, booing, a lot of “Come on, already!”’s and “Take that bitch out!”’s. You crack your neck from side to side, shaking out your arms and trying to loosen up a little before the ref’s decision. As you watch him walk over to you, you already know you’ve won. $2,500. At least a month of rent and a little more to put into savings. Maybe you can get a full tank of gas while you’re at it too. 

The fight finishes like you expected it to. Your right glove gets raised in the air by the ref, for everyone in the crowd to see your victory. People go nuts. Despite being kind of elusive in this underground culture, people have still taken a liking to you. They cheer you on, root for you, smack you on the back as you climb out of the ring and towards the makeshift locker rooms. You smile, a little. Raise your glove for fist bumps and small waves. There’s no denying the adrenaline rush you feel after winning a fight.

You don’t look behind you as you walk into the small cut out room in the large expanse of concrete. Your coach is trailing behind in his signature sweatsuit, one that he keeps zipped almost to his chin. The actual reason you don’t want to turn around is because you don’t want to face the woman whose nose you just broke. You can’t stand the look of defeat when you knock them down. It makes you feel guilty, and guilt is a pestering emotion.

Once your coach starts talking, you’re already undoing your gloves and taking off your wraps, tossing them into your duffel bag that you pulled out from a dented school locker. 

“You did good, kid,” he affirms, “A little slow in the beginning but nothing we can’t work on. You always get quicker the more you fight.”

You answer with your head down, unlacing your shoes as you sit on an unforgiving wooden bench, “Yeah, we’ll work on it.” Coach Sil, who you’ve only ever called ‘Sil,’ likes to talk after fights. Probably because he’s not the one that just got knocked around like a literal punching bag. Even though you’re a strong fighter, the pain is never easy. Manageable, maybe, especially as time goes on, but all you want right now is to get your cash from Markus and go home.

Sil gives you a knowing look. He’s not a soft guy by any means, but he’s known you so long that he trusts the win won’t go to your head. He worries about that with his other fighters – that winning once will distract them from their training. To you, it’s just another fight. Well, that and an extra $2,500 coming your way without having to pick up more shifts at the shitty boardwalk diner.

“Alright,” Sil lets out a breath. Fists posted on his hips, stocky legs grounding him, he reminds you of a super hero. With the LED lights beaming in behind him from the doorway, his silhouette is especially heroic. A sweaty, balding super hero. “You go home, get some rest. Ice that kidney. I’m gonna stick around here and check on the rookies.” 

You nod, heartbeat finally returning to a normal pace. “I’m gonna get my money from Markus and head out,” you respond, standing to shimmy your sweatpants over your boxing shorts. You sling your duffel bag over your left shoulder — not a painless effort, but as your non-dominant side, it did less of the punching tonight.

Sil nods back, pivoting to let you walk out the doorless cut out. Immediately you’re met with a blur of people and noise. You push through the crowd, hand tight on the strap of your duffel bag. You know you must look awful. Not bloody, because she never ended up landing one on your face, but definitely sticky. You don’t even want to think about how you must smell right now, but it doesn’t really matter because the group of men you’re currently trying to get past smell infinitely worse than you ever could.

With a scowl on your face, you notice their awkwardly placed tattoos across their arms. How are there so many of the same dude? This particular group of friends are all wearing muscle tees, some of their armpits showing from pumping their fists as they cheer whoever is fighting. You feel like a sardine, forced to be in close proximity in a sea of underarms. You want to gag. 

As you get closer to the organizer’s table near the exit, some people recognize you. They congratulate you on your win, someone even takes both your shoulders and shakes you with excitement. He’s drunk. You smile at him tightly, just wanting to get the hell out of here. Markus notices you walking up and gives you that charming smile of his.

“Congrats, sweetheart,” he greets smoothly, “Have I ever told you how sexy you look when you’re beating the shit out of someone?”

You drop your head, keeping eye contact and huffing out a laugh. “Yes, actually.”

He reaches into the box of money on the table, taking out a pre-stacked $2,500 cash. Markus is one of the organizers of the underground fighting scene in San Diego. He’s the one that lets people in, takes their cash, and gives out awards to the winners. He’s a pretty big guy, but he always has a bodyguard-of-sorts standing behind him at the table. You know he used to fight at one point, but eventually got more involved with the planning. You guess it makes good money since he’s always asking to buy you dinner.

As you grab onto the stack of cash in his extended hand, Markus looks up at you with puppy dog eyes, not letting the money go just yet, “Well, you proved my point again tonight. When can I take you out?”

Markus is a nice guy. A good kisser, too. You’ve hooked up with him a couple times in the past, usually after a night out with other fighters from the scene. But you don’t think it’s a good idea to get more involved in whatever other activities this crowd gets up to, including him. 

You give him a smile in return, one telling him it’s not gonna happen. “Money, Markus,” you counter, giving the cash a light-hearted tug. He drops his head in defeat, releasing your winnings. Always with the dramatics, he buries his head in his arms onto the table, shaking his shoulders up and down, imitating a sob. You laugh, shuffling his hair and walk past him towards the exit, leaving him to pine after you. The flirting can be fun, in moderation.

As you step outside, the background noise dies out. The alleyway that works as an exit for the venue is mostly dark, with only a couple yellow lamps attached to the exterior of the warehouse lighting your path. There are some people lingering, groups of friends talking about the bets they made, one couple even making out against the brick wall opposite the warehouse. Making your way to the street, you try to calm your heart rate down. You feel like you could tear down an entire building with your bare hands, but at the same time exhaustion is creeping its way over you. This is the most uncomfortable part of fight nights for you, the in-between. 

You pass by conversations, picking up on a few whispers of the other fights. You don’t usually stick around to watch, but once you hear mention of Pope Cody, you slow down your pace. “Yeah, Pope was a monster earlier. I mean, he stepped out of the cage looking like he’d been through hell – all bloody and everything but I won fifty bucks off his win,” a random guy boasts to his friends. You inconspicuously lean on the warehouse wall next to them, close to the road, and pull out your phone. You hope they don’t notice your eavesdropping, or the fact that you have your calculator app pulled up just to listen.

“Dude, right! I didn’t think that he could pull it off at first. That other guy had him pinned for a good minute, but he like totally got a second wind or something.” You hear his friend reply, careful not to be obvious as you peek over to get a glimpse of the men talking. They’re new to the scene, that much you can tell. They’re too clean, too excited – and absolutely too loud. One of the things Sil warned you about before your first fight was to not talk about anything outside of the venue itself. What you and all the others are doing here tonight isn’t exactly legal, and with so many people involved with other less-than-legal behavior, you didn’t want to be the one to catch unwanted attention. These guys to your right did not get the memo. However, you’re more interested in hearing their conversation than you are in telling them to shut the fuck up.

Pope Cody was pretty elusive in the scene, kind of like you. Only people that did business with him and his family knew anything about him. You heard through the grapevine that even then, people didn’t seem to ever get close to Pope. The Codys were one of those gangs that you avoided in the crowd. Not that you knew what type of business they did, but Sil usually steered you away from those he considered ‘distractions,’ anyway.

Just from being in the audience, though, you knew Pope was a strong fighter. That’s what intrigued you about these idiots’ conversation in the alley. You hadn’t seen one of his matches in a while. “And when he pinned that guy and started whaling on him? Dude he was an animal!” The guy with a yellow beanie and denim jacket was too animated with his retelling. He has got to lower his voice! You thought to yourself.

He was going to get him and his friends jumped if the wrong person with too much to lose walked by. But again, this was not your problem. You shake your head and sigh, closing out the calculator app on your phone and stuffing it into the front pocket of your duffel bag. Your money is zipped on the side pocket facing your thigh. Another reason to get out quickly after winning was to not attract any desperate onlookers. You could hold your own, but you’re not in the mood to meet any wannabe muggers. 

Your apartment is about twenty minutes away from tonight’s venue. It’s a two story complex, with each door accessible from the outside. It’s not exactly an ideal spot, but it’s what you can afford without needing roommates. You climb the metal stairs that your landlord painted green the last time there was a vacancy, thinking about all the crime documentaries you watch and what all could go wrong before you’re able to lock your front door. The endless possibilities make you skip a few steps.

Once inside your apartment with the deadbolt offering some security, you throw your duffel bag to the floor and sink until you’re laid flat on your beige carpet. Face turned to the side, you breathe in and out, long inhales and exhales. You are exhausted and you can never help how your heartbeat picks up when you have to come home in the dark. You stare at the bottom of your couch, noticing a stray sock left underneath. You’ll get it later. Your apartment is warm-toned, painted yellow and orange by your various lamps, with patterned fabrics draped across tables as decoration. You like warm colors – they make this one-bed one-bath feel like a home. 

With your heart rate back to a normal pace, your mind drifts to Pope Cody. He does MMA, not boxing. MMA is not your thing, not enjoying the complication of the sport. Boxing makes sense to you. You block, throw, and move your feet as if dancing. It’s not that simple in action, but you’ve grown fond of its routine. Plus, Sil refused to teach you any moves. He said MMA was too animalistic, that boxing was a classic talent. The types of events Markus organizes allows for both boxing and MMA fights – sometimes happening on different nights but since it was the first event of the underground season, it was treated as more of a showcase. 

You wondered when Pope would be fighting next. Something about the way those guys were talking about him piqued your interest. Pushing yourself to your feet, despite feeling like a block of concrete forced to life, you quickly showered and ate one and half sleeves of oreo cookies before returning to bed. The view outside your bedroom window shows the alley next to your building, with lights shining in through various shop signs across the street. It’s your own loneliness that keeps you from sleeping, though. The thought of texting Markus to keep you company makes your stomach turn. You don’t have the energy or feeling of sexiness to hook up with anyone tonight, so you just lay there, hand tucked under your cheek, staring out the window. You can’t help but wonder if Pope Cody’s biceps are still as toned as the last time you saw them.

4 Months Earlier

It was the off-season. As much as the underground scene can be ‘off-season.’ It was mainly the time of the year where a lot of the organizers, including Markus, took some time off to focus on other things. Fighters took the time to train. Sometimes this training includes practice fights, not always for money but this one was. The prize pooled just between the two fighters. 

You were standing in the crowd, significantly smaller compared to more organized events, because it was only promoted to a few people. You had a perfect view of Pope Cody in one corner, noticing his family standing behind his side of the cage. You were technically there in support of his opponent, Jackie, who you knew from the scene. Jackie was an MMA fighter like Pope, but you two had formed a friendship of sorts just from frequenting the same events. 

Pope and Jackie were going back and forth with all limbs. You didn’t care to understand the technicalities of MMA, for all you knew, they were both equally matched. Jackie was tireless, never relenting from his defense. No matter how many blows he took, he was always back on his feet waiting for his opponent to slip up. It was impressive, really. Jackie was the energetic type. Too bad that Pope Cody didn’t really slip. He was a powerhouse with tunnel vision. The way he lost himself in the cage captivated you, like you were the only two people in the room. Pope with his punching, kicking, and lunging. His grunts were the only thing filling the air as he went after the other guy, who in your mind was now irrelevant. Pope was gorgeous – probably the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. His skin, glowing with sweat, wrapped around his toned physique, curved and flexed with each movement he made. His eyes, dark and determined. And you, standing there in his trance. 

Pope had pinned Jackie to the mat, his thick thighs straddling Jackie’s chest. Hit after hit to Jackie’s face, which he was trying and slightly failing to keep covered by his forearms. Each punch Pope threw came with a grunt. It was an effort for you to keep a poker face. You stood behind Jackie’s side of the cage with your arms crossed and a scowl on your face. God forbid anyone see your inner thoughts reflected in your expression. Part of being an underground fighter was the performance. You could never let your guard down in public. 

The cheers from those around you got louder, both sides going crazy for their fighter. You looked over to Pope’s side, seeing who you assumed to be one of his brothers, screaming in support of him. The brother was tall, much taller than Pope, with longer hair. He was attractive, you thought. Not your type, but you weren’t really picky. He was attached to the cage, almost jumping in anticipation of his brother’s victory. Behind him sat Smurf. You knew the matriarch of the Cody bunch only by reputation. You’d seen her at other events, but usually from a distance further than this. She was pretty, with short blonde hair. She wore large sunglasses that concealed how she felt about her son’s performance. 

It took a second for you to realize that you should probably cheer on Jackie. That’s who you were here for, anyway. He was still getting beat on when you made your way to the cage, pushing through excited viewers. He was taking the punches well, all things considered. They didn’t all connect to his face. But in order to win, Jackie would have to get up. He would have to attack. 

You gripped the metal cage, looking at the two fighters from the side. “Get up, Jackie! Get the fuck up!” You put anger in your voice to try and get through to him. You thought he could hear you, based on the fact that he let out a strained grunt in response. 

Pope wasn’t letting up with the punches, though. You forced yourself to look away from him and down to Jackie’s still pinned body. “Come on, Jackie! Get up, for God’s sake!” Your cries mirrored those of Jackie’s other supporters. It was irritating to you how long Jackie was taking. His hesitation always landed him in situations like this. If he would just maneuver his legs somehow, maybe he could escape Pope’s hold over him. You knew he was running out of time with the ref closing in. “Use your legs, Jackie! Flip this motherfucker around!” You tried to think of any useful advice you had. Maybe you didn’t understand MMA as well as you thought, because you were so confused on why Jackie just wouldn’t use his legs to flip Pope over.

The next thing you knew, you were locked eyes with Pope Cody. He had paused his beating of Jackie to turn his head to you. His body was heaving with heavy breaths due to exertion, still atop the other man’s chest. His fists were still clenched, ready to land another punch. His eyes were only on you. You felt like you were the one pinned now. Your hands clenched the cage wire, waiting for his next move. You began to think that even your breathing started to sync with his. You watched as his chest moved with yours. Inhale, exha— 

Jackie socked Pope in the side of the head, knocking him to the side. You gasped as Pope’s body did half a roll towards you, landing on his back. Jackie didn’t wait to return the hits Pope had given him. Once he was straddling Pope, Jackie was quick to aim for his face, alternating between his left and right glove. “Go! Jackie, yes!” You screamed, banging your fists on the cage in excitement. Pope’s tall brother was on the other side of the cage, also yelling. “Come on, Popey! Get him!”

Pope waited for the in between of Jackie’s punches to completely throw the other man off of him. He grunted as he shoved Jackie’s chest, essentially pushing him in the air and hooking his leg around Jackie’s torso. It all happened so fast. Pope used his other leg to pin Jackie back down on the mat with his knee, throwing a final blow that knocked him out for good. It was the hottest thing you’d ever seen in real life, and you’re constantly surrounded by sweaty men’s muscles.

After Jackie regained himself, you helped clean his wounds outside of the cage. The crowd had started to filter out, but there were still some stragglers. Jackie winced as you applied a wet rag to a cut above his eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” you offered in a small voice. You were both used to the injuries, so there was no need to coddle him. Jackie’s eye contact with you made you queasy. The eye you were working on was swollen shut so really he could only give you his puppy-dog look with the other one. He felt bad for himself.

“You did good, Jackie. Shit happens,” you comforted, trying not to put too much pity in your tone. Coach Sil doesn’t do pity after a loss and neither did you. When you touched a particularly sensitive part of his wound, Jackie winced through his teeth. “I almost had him,” he replied, eyes shifting toward his hands, which were settled in his lap. You were reminded of Pope’s stare mid-fight, the one that gave Jackie the opportunity to attack.

You sighed, releasing the rag from your hand to grab Jackie by the shoulders. Despite your attempted gentleness with the movement, he still shuffled in pain. “Jackie,” you started, “You know how this goes. Sometimes you win, other times you lose, but that’s no reason to get all sappy. Pope was just better this time. That’s fine. Use this as motivation to kick his ass later.” Your eyebrows were furrowed without sympathy from you.

Jackie looked up at you and nodded with determination. Thank fuck, you thought. It’s not like it was a major loss, just an unofficial scrap with cash stakes. You didn’t know how much money each of them wagered, but usually these things go for a thousand, at least. You looked over Jackie’s shoulder where he was sitting on a folding chair to see the Codys coming over to collect Pope’s winnings.

“Heads up,” you warned Jackie, jutting your chin towards the approaching family. Jackie stood immediately, turning to face Pope, who was right next to Smurf. She looked pleased, as far as you could tell with her arms crossed and sunglasses covering half her face. “You put up a good fight, Santos,” she started with an almost condescending tone, “My Pope is a real animal in the cage, though. There was nothing you could have done.” You failed to keep a straight face, scrunching your nose at her offense. Trash-talk was typical, but usually it happened between the fighters. Pope stood next to his mother, arms also crossed. You noticed that he was still shirtless. His hard gaze shifted between Smurf and Jackie. His older brother stood behind them both, not paying attention as a beautiful woman walked by.

Jackie reached down to his duffel bag that was laying next to the ring. He pulled out a wad of cash and reached it out to Pope, crossing over Smurf to do so. Pope only unfolded one arm to accept the stack, expression unreadable. “Good fight,” he offered to Jackie. You noticed Smurf’s attention had turned to you.

“I know you,” she smirked, “You're one of Sil’s, aren’t you? You won that fight up near Pacific Beach a few months back.” You could feel her sizing you up.

“Yeah,” you replied, somewhat aware of Smurf’s reputation. You weren’t interested in talking to her for too long. Pope was staring at you now. Like he just remembered you were the one to break his focus during the fight.

“That was pretty gnarly. You shattered that girl’s cheekbone, the last I heard,” Smurf sounded impressed. Her other son, the tall one, started laughing, “Oh shit! Yeah I remember that fight. That chick didn’t even get a good hit on you the whole night!”

Your gaze shifted from the two of them to Pope, who was still staring at you. Normally, if a man was being creepy like this, you would ask what the fuck his problem was, especially since Jackie was there with you. But something told you to keep your mouth shut and get out of there. You looked to Jackie, who seemed like he was waiting for the same opportunity. You couldn’t tell if the two holes being burned in the side of your face from Pope’s stare were real or imagined. 

Jackie read your expression and took the lead, “It was good to see you, Smurf. We gotta get going.” He nodded at Pope, who only angled his head down once in response. Jackie looked to the taller brother too, “Craig,” he nodded, letting you walk in front of him towards the exit.

The brother, Craig, lifted his arm up in goodbye, “Later, man! Take care of that eye!”

As you and Jackie left the warehouse side by side, you turned to look back at the Codys. Only Pope was still turned towards you two, making eye contact with you as you walked away. His arms were still crossed, light reflecting from the layer of sweat across his naked top half. His biceps bulged in their position. Your step faltered, forcing you to look where you were walking and catch yourself on Jackie’s arm as you both turned the corner to the open sidewalk.

“You okay?” Jackie asked, arm behind your back in support. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Weird lady,” you replied, not wanting Jackie to notice why you had tripped.

Present Day

The next week, you’re back in Sil’s gym, training for a weekend fight. You weren’t really desperate for cash at the moment, but it’s something to do other than wait tables. Sil had you warming up on the bag before you sparred another fighter. You liked the bag in the far corner of the gym, away from the front door and the main ring. It was secluded enough that you could focus on your technique without anyone bothering you.

Your attention is on the bag in front of you. Your dancing partner, weaving and bobbing with it like you’re used to. The point isn’t power, but stamina. How long you can go without stopping. Sil is working with a sparring couple in the ring, so you’re left to your own devices. Out of the corner of your eye, you see someone enter the gym. It’s a straight shot from your bag to the only entrance and exit, but you pay no mind to the new figure. It’s not until they start walking your way after scanning the gym do you look all the way up.

Pope Cody is coming towards you. He’s in Sil’s gym and it seems like he’s only there for you. He doesn’t even glance at anyone else as he passes, not feigning interest or acting in the least bit casual about his stride. You don’t stop your movements, but your nerves make you punch with a bit more force as he gets closer. You glance between the bag and Pope, unsure of his intentions.

He stops right next to you, arms to his sides. He doesn’t say anything. Pope just stares at you as you move. You become uneasy with the intimate audience, so you abruptly halt your footwork and turn to face him.

You wait for him to speak first. It’s not like you wanted to be in conversation with him. He should start. One hand on the bag, steadying yourself, you breathe heavily. Both out of nerves and exertion. Pope’s expression is almost indecipherable. Almost. There’s curiosity peeking through, though. He watches you breathe like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. Like he forgot what he came to Sil’s for. You give him an impatient look, raising both eyebrows at him and shaking your head.

He snaps out of his stare, “You were at my fight with Santos,” is all he says. His resting face is a scowl.

You’re confused. That was months ago. Did he come all the way here to state the obvious? “...Yeah,” you reply. Your breathing still hasn’t returned to normal. You notice his physique, of course. He’s wearing a fitted grey t-shirt with black jeans. The shape of his arms and chest are clear through the cotton. It’s distracting. 

He doesn’t seem to notice your fixation on his body. “You called me a motherfucker,” he continues. His face turns into something less menacing, but still intimidating. “I almost lost,” he says.

You give him your own scowl, one of judgement. “You came all the way here because I hurt your feelings months ago?” 

He crosses his arms, “This gym isn't that far and my feelings aren’t hurt,” he counters.

You scoff, turning away from him and back to your bag, continuing your earlier movements. This forces him to take a step back. You take control of your breathing and reply, “Then why are you here?”

He doesn’t move from his spot next to you. “You’re a strong boxer. I was there on opening night. I watched you.”

Your skin tingles and you want to jump out of it. You can’t focus, so you stop and turn to him once again. You’re irritated beyond belief. Irritated and nervous. Nervous and excited. “So? What are you doing here, Pope?” His face is unmoving.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he answers, finally. Not that this gave you any useful information. Just as you open your mouth to answer, Sil calls your name from the ring in the middle of the room.

“Get over here!” Sil calls.

You sigh, turning your attention to Pope one last time. “Look, I don’t want anything to do with you or your family. I’m not interested in whatever business you people get into. I show up, I fight, I leave. That’s it.” You walk past him, making sure to brush your shoulder against his with a little more force than you would use in flirtation. You are not flirting with him. 

You can feel him turn to watch you climb in between the ropes surrounding the ring. Sil can tell you're not fully focused, so he shoves you in the side of your head, trying to knock some sense into you. “Wake up! What’s wrong with you?” You catch yourself, trying to shake Pope out of your thoughts. 

Once you’re padded up, you jump lightly on your feet in preparation. You’re sparring with Sabina today. She’s bigger than you, more muscle mass. A good boxer, too. Sil likes to pair you with people he knows could beat you, just to build resilience. You think it’s helped you cope with real losses.

You and Sabina touch gloves, waiting for Sil to blow the whistle. Others in the gym have gathered around the ring to watch. Pope has too, you notice. He stands behind Sabina’s side of the ring, staring at you with his arms crossed. You don’t even hear that Sil started the match. You’re too fixated on Pope’s stare.

Sabina throws a right hook and knocks you down. You black out as your head hits the mat.