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
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:Â 3.7k
note: consider me a witch who's been brewing something special in my cauldron just for you â enjoy!
Youâve 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. Youâve 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 carâs air conditioner fixed. Luckily it didnât cost as much as you expected.Â
You needed a break from the fights. Your body is sore enough.
Thereâs 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. Youâre in complete solitude, as if everyone else in the world suddenly vanished from the planet. If you open your eyes, all youâll 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.Â
Laughter. A playground filled with it. Beams of sunlight shining down on the blacktop of the basketball court youâre watching from. Your watch tells you itâs 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 donât register the moment fast enough.Â
The little boy jumps on his fatherâs chest, both of them laughing hard enough to bring you back.
Your eyebrows lower. You have to get to work.Â
Nine hours later, youâre wiping down the counter in your button-down waitress dress. Itâs old-fashioned, but your boss insists that the vintage aesthetic attracts more tourists. Heâs 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.
âWeâre closed,â you call, turning around to face whoever wandered in. Youâre met with a familiar stranger.
âThe doorâs unlocked,â Pope Cody responds.Â
He doesnât make a move to sit down, just standing in the doorway, between the backs of two booths. He looks like heâs been through hell, you notice. He has bruises all around his eyes and a nasty looking cut on his cheekbone. Heâs 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 youâve seen him heâs been in some shade of black. Tonight heâs wearing a lavender button down, which you can tell has been ironed.
You look down to his hands. His knuckles are badly bruised. He mustâve 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 didnât stick around to see if you were going to get up.
You swallow. âWeâre still closed.â
He breaks eye contact with you, looking around the room. His breathing is heavy, like heâs overwhelmed or maybe nervous. He looks unsure of himself. Of what heâs doing here. You should be more freaked out that he showed up at your job, especially because youâve never told him where you work.Â
This is the second time heâs done something like this. Showed up unannounced, for no clear reason. Your instincts tell you to put your foot down. He canât keep doing this.
âWhat are you doing here?â You put a scowl on your face but donât commit to it. âWhy do you keep showing up everywhere?â
Pope doesnât answer right away, avoiding eye contact. Heâs taking in everything on the counter, gaze pausing on something to your left.
âYou did good last weekend. At the fight.â His tone is gruff and low.Â
You force a glare at him, putting emphasis on each word, âHow did you find out where I work, Pope?â
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 heâs trying to decide if he wants to stay or not. Heâs definitely nervous, but why? Youâve never seen him like this. You feel very unprepared.
He gives half a shrug, âI followed you.â
Right, of course. Naturally. âFollowed me when?â
He walks up to the counter, somewhat abruptly, but still doesnât sit down. The shape of his muscles show through his long sleeves.
His eyes are fixed on yours. Youâre 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 youâre cleaning.
âYou work a lot,â Pope grumbles from behind you, breaking the silence.
Head shaking in disapproval, âWhy are you following me?â
âIs that pie?â
What? You turn, shifting your gaze to where his eyes point. Heâs staring at the glass pie stand at the far end of the counter. Thereâs still a few pieces left from this morning.
âApple,â you answer. Heâs 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 heâs not going anywhere without a piece. You donât 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.Â
You donât appreciate being blindsided like this. What worries you the most is why Pope has taken such an interest in you. Youâre not delusional enough to believe it might be personal, not anything like how youâve been thinking of him.Â
The only other explanation would be his family. What could the Codys want with you? You made it clear to Pope that you donât 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. âWhat do you want from me?â
He looks up at you, annoyed. âA fork would be great.â 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. âItâs too starchy,â he complains with a full mouth.
âItâs frozen,â 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.
âCan I give you a ride home?â
You step back. âWhat? Of course not. Why would I need a ride home?â
âWhy not?â
Your mouth is slightly gaping in bewilderment. Fixing your face, you close your eyes and try to conjure up some patience. âBecause I have a car, because I donât know you, and because you just told me that youâve been following me and I donât know why youâre even here to begin with.â
âWell, I already know where you live,â he says, sounding put-out like thatâs the most obvious thing in the world.
âPopeââ
âAndrew. Call me Andrew.â
You give him a hard look. â...Andrew. I need to know why youâre here. Why youâve been following me. What you want with me. I already told you Iâm not interested in any Cody businessââ
âIâm not here for my family.â
Youâre lost. âIs this because I called you a motherfucker? Havenât we already been over this? Look, I was just trying to cheer on Jackieââ
He interrupts you again, flustered with your guessing. âIâm not mad that you called me a motherfucker. Iâm justâ I was just in the neighborhood.â Heâs lying. You never see him this far down here unless it has to do with MMA.
You lean a little closer, âWhy?â
His mouth is twisted as if trying to stop himself from answering. âI like watching you fight.â
You drop your head, shaking it. âSo do a lot of other people. Thatâs not a good enough reason to stalk me, Andrew.âÂ
You take his unfinished plate back to the kitchen, tossing it in the sink for morning crew to deal with. Leaning into your managerâs 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 handâfully willing to lock him in if he doesnât move.
His voice is right behind you as you push open the front door. âWas it bad?â 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.
âWas what bad?â
âYour knockout. At Silâs.â
You turn to him after locking the door from the outside. You tilt your head up only slightly to look at him, âYou donât care. You left.â You canât help the hurt that leaves your mouth with the words. It shouldnât 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. âWere you alright after?â
âYes, I was fine. Clearly Iâm fine. Now leave me alone.â You snap, picking up the pace.
He doesnât listen. He lets silence hang over you too for a couple minutes before continuing, âWhy are you working at the diner? You win plenty of fights. Even without those, you have your degreeâwhy donât you useââ
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. Youâre going to throw up. Keep it down, breathe. You swallow, clenching your teeth.
âWhat did you say?â
Pope looks at you from the side, confused. âI just donât get the whole diner thing. Why donât you teach anymore?â
Anger shines through the hole in your heart.Â
You turn, taking a step towards him and using both hands to push hard at his chest. He doesnât expect it, falling back a few steps off the sidewalk and tripping onto the sand. You get closer to him, pushing him again, âHow the fuck do you know that!â Another shove, again, again.
A man, masked and gloved.Â
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 arenât built for running, you slip out of them and onto the blacktop.Â
Your scream dies at your throat, fear washing over you like it does in your dreams.
âI looked you up. Found your real name, whatâenough.â
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, âLet me go, Pope!â
He does, silently. Hesitating to see if youâll 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.Â
âYou stay away from me,â you huff. âUnderstand? Donât follow me, donât come around the diner.â His signature glare is back, but you can tell now that heâs only processing your words. âIf you show up at Silâs again, I will beat you to death.â 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 donât 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 doesnât work and the tears fall anyway. You know Pope is probably still watching, so you donât dare bring your hand up to wipe your face.
You have no memory of the drive from the beach to your apartmentâunsure of how long youâve spent in the parking lot, engine off, staring at your steering wheel. Youâre all out of tears at this point, breathing shakily. You canât move.Â
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 canât. Your mind wonât 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.Â
Gone.
Everything is too loud.
Finally dragging yourself into your apartment, your shoulders feel like theyâre being pushed down by two giant hands. Youâre drowning, far out from shore. Thereâs no escape from here.Â
Not giving yourself time to think, you decide to start packing a bag. Youâre not sure where youâre going, but you have the sudden urge to go anyway.
No, thatâs 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, itâs not like youâre anyoneâs emergency contact. Thereâs no where to go, not at this hour of the night.
How dare Pope invade your privacy like that. Itâs not even the physical stalking, really. Well, it is, but thatâs 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 Popeâs intentions with the discoveries he revealed to you earlier.
Pope said he wasnât following you for his family. He said itâs because he likes watching you fight. He could be lying. This could be some kind of long-con that Smurf cooked up. You donât 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 donât know anyone like that. You keep to yourself, to your own problems. Maybe youâll talk to Markus the next time you see him. You can ask what he knows about Andrew Cody.
Silâs noticed how bad a mood youâve been in, so heâs taking it harder on you than usual today. Itâs helping. You havenât heard from Pope or seen him around at all. Not that you would, since heâd been following you for who knows how long, without you noticing.Â
Youâre working the bag, sweat flying off you at how much youâve been exerting. Youâve been throwing mostly hooks, feeling comforted by the pressure it puts on your biceps.Â
Sil walks over to you and watches silently for a few minutes. At certain points heâll nudge you, correcting your form, but otherwise he doesnât speak.
Until, inevitably, he breaks your mindless serenity. âYou know, you could just let your boyfriend come inside.â
You only falter for a second and decide to switch to uppercuts, âWhat are youâtalking about, Sil?â
âIâm not getting involved with your loverâs quarrel. But it is hot out today, and heâs been waiting outside for almost an hour.â
You turn to him. âSil, I donât have a boyfriend. Go find someone else to bother.â
âWell, then can you please go tell Pope Cody to stop staring a hole through my wall?â
You sigh, realizing that you were so deep in your training you didnât even consider that it was Pope outside.
Staring back at Sil, âHeâs not my boyfriend,â as you rip your gloves off and throw them to the mat below you. Youâre going to have to kick his ass.Â
Youâve 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. Heâs staring at the entrance from through the passenger side window as you walk out. The frustration in your walk doesnât seem to stir him.
You cross in front of the car, feeling his eyes follow you until you reach his open window. Heâs wearing a black sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. The bruises on his face have only lightened slightly.Â
âGet out of the car, Pope.âÂ
âI wanted to talk to you about the other dayââ
âI donât care. Get out of the car.â
âAre you gonna beat me to death if I do?â His eyebrows raise sarcastically.
You glare at him. âIâm gonna reach through this window and strangle you if you donât.â
His mouth closes in a tight light, huffing out through his nose. âIf I knew it would upset you, I wouldnât have brought it up.â
You shift on your feat, settling your hands on the door ledge. âThatâs not the point, Pope. Youâre stalking me. Digging up shit that doesnât concern you.â You breathe out, rage subsiding to sorrow at your own words.
âObviously Iâm not making myself clear. So youâre going to get out of this car and IâmâŠâ Your heartâs not in it anymore. âIâm gonna beat you up or something, I donât know.â 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. âAre youâŠDo you want to go for a ride?â
You donât look up. âNo.â
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 youâll probably combust on the spot.Â
âTell me something true,â you mumble from your position.
He takes a beat. âWhat?â
You step back, crossing your arms over your chest. Pope keeps his eyes on yours, head titled down. âTell me something thatâs true. No bullshit.â
âWhat do you want me to say?â
âAnything.â
His face stutters. Heâs sizing you up, trying to figure out what angle youâre playing.
When youâre really just grasping at straws.
For a split second, his menacing expression drops into one of vulnerability. âI needed to get out of the house.â
He reminds you of a sea stack way out past the shore. Waves crash into it, but itâs immovable, a constant force. You think heâs 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 donât have the stomach for it right now.Â
âThatâs all? It really has nothing to do with your family orâŠor your work?â
âThey donât know Iâm here. And Iâ I donât want to talk about work with you.âÂ
You hold each otherâs stares. Nodding, you respond, âOkay.â 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 againâusing cruelty in response to his honesty, hoping that it drives him away. OrâŠ
Youâre not sure what an alternative is, actually. Heâs snooping into your past, sending you spiraling about things youâre haunted by. At the same time, you canât keep your mind off of him, he captivates you in a way that no one else has before.
Every crime documentary youâve watched tells you not to get into his truck. Heâs a stranger, heâs stalking you. This could be the stupidest decision of your life. Looking back to him, his hardness is tinged with patience.
âIâm not getting in your car. Stop following me around.â He brings his eyebrows together, barely nodding his head and looking down to his hands in his lap.
âJust, you know. Text me before you want to show up somewhere.â 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.Â
You hand him his phone, waiting for him to unlock it. It takes a second for him to realize whatâs happening. Only when he has his phone back with your number added, does he grumble a response.
âCan I call you? I hate texting.â
Youâre 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.
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:Â 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. Itâs a Friday afternoon, so the place is packed with locals and tourists on the beach. You havenât 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.Â
Itâs 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 thatâs perfectly shaped, falters with her smile, glancing between her son and husband.
The father notices immediately, smacking the tablet with his hand, âTommy, put that thing away,â he scolds. He puts the smile back on his face for you, âSorry about that.â
You laugh it off, âNo worries!â 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 standardâburgers all around. Theyâll order two milkshakes with four straws for dessert.Â
Itâs easy to distract yourself from your knockout a couple days ago with this job. Thereâs too much going on to linger on the embarrassing memory. But when youâre 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
âAre you kidding? What was that!â 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 youâd 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. âSparâ is a strong word. Sil had barely blown the whistle before youâd been knocked to the mat.
The last thing you remembered was Pope Codyâs stare, burning into your own. You hadnât been able to take your eyes off of him as he stood behind Sabinaâs 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.Â
Pope ended up winning the fight anyway, which is another reason why you were taken aback when he came up to you at Silâs that day and then stayed to watch you spar.Â
As you laid on your back in the ring, with Silâs large body hovering over you, you turned your face to the side. You watched as a silhouette that could only be Popeâs head towards the gymâs 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 didnât 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.
âAre you ill? What the hell is the matter with you today?â 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.Â
You only answered with a groan, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to disappear completely.Â
Sil didnât let up. You didnât bother raising your head or attempting to move, accepting the defeat despite everyone in the gym still watching you. Let them watch, you didnât care.Â
âNow answer me honestly, here,â Sil went on, shifting from foot to foot. He looked a little nervous. âIs it that time of the month for you?â
That made you sit up to a ninety degree angle, aiming a punch straight for Silâs protruding gut cased in his tracksuit. He groaned loudly at the hit, holding his stomach in despair as you scolded him, âWhat the fuck is your problem?â You pushed yourself to your feet, anger overtaking embarrassment.
You climbed out of the ring, ripping the padding off from your head and body, âRidiculous!â
Present Day
The hours pass by agonizingly slow, even if youâve 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 youâre so distracted that you start to worry about your performance for the first time since you started boxing.
You donât 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 isnât the knockout or the audience that saw it.Â
Itâs Pope. Itâs 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.Â
Maybe it has something to do with your growing crush on PopeâŠFuck.
You shake your head, trying to expel any thoughts like that. Youâve been doing that a lot lately, but it hasnât 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 canât 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 donât 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 youâre about to have sex. Itâs not that you dislike sex, you just canât help the nerves. Itâs not Markus either, heâs a good guy. Not someone youâd ever be serious with, but thereâs nothing wrong with that. Heâs safe and familiar.Â
Heâs 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.Â
Donât be nervous, you tell yourself, Itâs just Markus. He wants to be here because he thinks youâre beautiful and sexy or whatever. Now lighten up!
âHey pretty,â Markus greets as you get to your front door. Heâs leaning against the wall in a casual, confident way, like he doesnât have the slightest bit of nerves.Â
âAre you ready for this monster dicââ You spin on your heel, aiming your keys toward him like a weapon.
âBe polite and grateful, Markus,â you threaten, âOr Iâll send you and that thing in your pants home.â
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.
âThanks for calling,â he mutters softly, agreeing to your terms and placing another kiss down. Itâs 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 donât 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. Heâs asking for more, you realize. You pull his head down closer, not that you arenât already face to face, and lick the roof of his mouth.Â
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 Markusâs chest, his growing erection pressing into your tailbone. Youâre both breathing harshly.
Markus leans closer to you, muzzling his face into the side of yours. âWhere do you want me?â 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. âBedroom,â you respond finally, âplease.â
He nods into your neck, kissing you there again. He doesnât move, though. Instead, he slides one hand down your front, keeping his other arm wrapped around your waist.Â
âBedroom?â 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.
âYou want me to fuck you in the bedroom?â 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 fabricâyour dress and your pantiesâbut when he starts rubbing small circles with his finger, you almost collapse.
âYes,â you breathe, âahâ please, Markus.â
He pushes his hips into your backside, grinding his erection on you. âFuck,â 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.Â
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. âOh, Godââ 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.
âYouâre gonna cum for me out here, first,â Markusâs other arms tightens around your waist since he notices you need help standing. âYou only get fucked if you can cum around my fingers, baby.â
Your breathing hitches, eyes shooting open at the pet name. Heâs never called you that before. Heâs still working on your pussy and your body is responding the same, but suddenly youâre 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.Â
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. Youâre 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?Â
After a couple minutes, Markusâs head lifts from in between your legs, âHey,â he draws your attention back to him, running his hand over your knee. âYou still with me?â
âYeah, sorry,â you breathe out. âDistracted.â He peppers kisses over your inner thighs, pausing to give you a break.Â
He tries to comfort you by rubbing up and down your legs some more. âWhatâs wrong? Do you need me to do something else?â
You sigh, dropping your head on your pillow to stare at the ceiling, absentmindedly running your hand through his hair. âNo,â you respond, âJustâŠnervous for tomorrow I guess.â
âTomorrow? You mean your fight? Since when do you get nervous about a fight?â
Markus moves up the bed, coming closer to rest his head on your lower stomach, waiting for you to share.
âI donât know. Iâm just feeling weird about it.â
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 doesnât stir at vulnerability.
âSo you wanted a distraction from that?â He asks. You would feel bad for using him, but you know he doesnât care. Markus isnât the type to pressure anyone or any relationship, especially yours.
You donât feel like getting into the pet name thing. You donât quite understand your own aversion to it. âMaybe. I donât know whatâs wrong with me,â you admit, pulling his hair lightly to make him look up at you, âSorry.â
Markus takes your other hand, giving it a squeeze. âNothing to be sorry about. You wanna stop?â
Part of you definitely isnât in the mood for this anymore, the whole âbabyâ 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. âNo, let me try again,â you conclude, pulling Markus up to meet his lips. He goes along, kissing you just as passionately as before. Youâre grateful for his patience. His hand reaches underneath your dress to massage your breast. Over your lace bra, heâs 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.
Youâre trying your hardest to keep your mind on him. Thereâs 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 doesnât notice.Â
Markus holds himself above you in a plank, dropping his hips into yours as he sinks his cock in and out of you. âFuck, you feel amazing.â
âMm,â you hum, feeling pretty indifferent towards the whole moment. Your hands rest on his biceps, rubbing across them gently. Heâs well-built from being a fighter himself, you think. Not really anything special about him, but heâs conventionally very attractive. You mentally chide yourself for casting judgement like that. Itâs not like you donât 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. âHow are you doing? Still stuck in your head?â
You smile up at him, placing your hand on his cheek and give him a small kiss. âYeah, I guess so. You can finish, though.â
He doesnât answer right away, leaning his head into your hand and looking deep into your eyes, thinking.
âYou know," He starts, turning his face to kiss your palm, âSometimes it helps to picture someone else. Only if you want to keep going, that is. Youâre in charge here.â
You drop your hand, confusion coloring your face, âWhat?â
He pauses for another second, âLike, donât get me wrong, I know Iâm the sexiest person youâve ever been with. But if you need to picture me as someone else to get off, thatâs cool too.â
âWhat even made that come into your brain? What makes you think I need to pretend youâre someone else?â
He exhales with a small smile. Still inside of you, he leans down to kiss your neck as he explains. Youâre intrigued, moving your head to allow him more space. âSomething tells me youâre worried about more than just a fight. Itâs not like you,â He brings his face up to meet yours, staring at your lips. âAnd even though I would make a perfect soulmate, Iâm aware you only want me for sex,â 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 thisâŠfantasy. If Markus canât get you off when heâs 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 youâve found attractive. Thereâs only one person that comes to mind, the one person you havenât 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 donât even know him, have barely talked to him. But youâve 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 Markusâs 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 heâs 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.
âMarkus, touch me,â you breathe out, âPlâplease touch me.â Youâre getting so close that everything you say comes out in a whine.
Markus complies, allowing you to think of Popeâs 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. Itâs all too muchâtoo much feeling. You wouldnât 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.
âYou good? Did it work?â Markus asks, laying on top of you. You can tell heâs recovering from his orgasm.
Your breathing is heavy, but your mind is completely blank for the first time all week.Â
âYeah, like really well,â You smile, running your nails across his scalp, âThank you.â
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. âGood, we need you relaxed for tomorrow,â he kisses the top of your head.
Before you succumb to sleep, a question pops into your head. âSoâŠhow often are you picturing me as someone else? And who do you use?â
He laughs, "Gorgeous, Iâve been hooking up with Halle Berry for like a year now.â
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 wasnât even all his fault. Youâre the one that couldnât take your eyes off of him.
On top of that, the whole baby thing with Markus. Thatâs something youâll have to self-reflect on. You didnât 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 didnât feel right, didnât fit you at all. You arenât delicate. You arenât someoneâs baby.
While sex with Markus did help you loosen up, you feel guilty for imagining Pope instead. You donât 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 Silâs? You hope your poker face is strong enough to hide that you got off to him.
There isnât anymore time to think about that stuff right now. Not when youâre getting punched in the kidney. Tonightâs fight is for $3,000. You guess more people showed up after they heard about opening night. Youâre just starting out, feeling good. Despite all your anxiety about tonight, youâre confident that you can beat the woman across from you.
Sil stands behind your corner of the ring, the large crowd cheering behind him. Heâs mentally telling you to attack. So you do. You step out of your opponentâs 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 donât let up, throwing a left jab straight to her face next. She gets one on you, too, but she doesnât 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 sheâs looking a little worn out. Her nose is bleeding into her mouth and sheâs leaning to the side slightly, from pain.Â
Sheâs 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 pauseâalmost. 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.
Sheâs 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. Sheâs down, cradling her head with one glove.Â
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. Heâs very shiny under the grey LEDâs of the warehouse youâre 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 doesnât let you out of his glare. His biceps look amazing in their position, slightly suntanned and freckled. Heâs wearing dark grey and black, and you realize youâve never seen him in bright colors. He chucks his chin at you, and youâre not sure if itâs 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
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 đ
Your biceps are on fire. A familiar burn, but one that lets you know itâs 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 opponentâs 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 youâll 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 youâve been fighting for so long it sometimes feels as though you're wearing armor. Sheâs got a heavy hand, thatâs for sure â but you take the opportunity while sheâs 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 youâre about to break it, mentally cringing at the sound of bone cracking that youâve 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. Heâs 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 youâve never seen it before.
You ignore the stool in your corner. You know if you sit down, you wonât be able to get back up. Not this late in the game. Really, youâve only been at it with this girl for a few minutes, but itâs your first time back in the ring in a few months. Sure, youâve been training your ass off, but sparring with someone in Coach Silâs rundown gym is different than an actual fight. Thereâs more pressure now that moneyâs involved. Not that this is anything professional. Youâve 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 youâve 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.Â
Finally, the ref finishes examining your opponentâs nose. The crowd is really impatient at this point and not afraid to show it. Yelling, booing, a lot of âCome on, already!ââs and âTake that bitch out!ââs. You crack your neck from side to side, shaking out your arms and trying to loosen up a little before the refâs decision. As you watch him walk over to you, you already know youâve 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 youâre at it too.Â
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. Thereâs no denying the adrenaline rush you feel after winning a fight.
You donât 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 donât want to turn around is because you donât want to face the woman whose nose you just broke. You canât 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, youâre already undoing your gloves and taking off your wraps, tossing them into your duffel bag that you pulled out from a dented school locker.Â
âYou did good, kid,â he affirms, âA little slow in the beginning but nothing we canât work on. You always get quicker the more you fight.â
You answer with your head down, unlacing your shoes as you sit on an unforgiving wooden bench, âYeah, weâll work on it.â Coach Sil, who youâve only ever called âSil,â likes to talk after fights. Probably because heâs not the one that just got knocked around like a literal punching bag. Even though youâre 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. Heâs not a soft guy by any means, but heâs known you so long that he trusts the win wonât go to your head. He worries about that with his other fighters â that winning once will distract them from their training. To you, itâs 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.
âAlright,â 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. âYou go home, get some rest. Ice that kidney. Iâm gonna stick around here and check on the rookies.âÂ
You nod, heartbeat finally returning to a normal pace. âIâm gonna get my money from Markus and head out,â you respond, standing to shimmy your sweatpants over your boxing shorts. You sling your duffel bag over your left shoulder â 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 youâre 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 donât even want to think about how you must smell right now, but it doesnât really matter because the group of men youâre 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.Â
As you get closer to the organizerâs 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. Heâs 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.
âCongrats, sweetheart,â he greets smoothly, âHave I ever told you how sexy you look when youâre beating the shit out of someone?â
You drop your head, keeping eye contact and huffing out a laugh. âYes, actually.â
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. Heâs the one that lets people in, takes their cash, and gives out awards to the winners. Heâs 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 heâs 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, âWell, you proved my point again tonight. When can I take you out?â
Markus is a nice guy. A good kisser, too. Youâve hooked up with him a couple times in the past, usually after a night out with other fighters from the scene. But you donât think itâs a good idea to get more involved in whatever other activities this crowd gets up to, including him.Â
You give him a smile in return, one telling him itâs not gonna happen. âMoney, Markus,â 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.Â
You pass by conversations, picking up on a few whispers of the other fights. You donât usually stick around to watch, but once you hear mention of Pope Cody, you slow down your pace. âYeah, Pope was a monster earlier. I mean, he stepped out of the cage looking like heâd been through hell â all bloody and everything but I won fifty bucks off his win,â 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 donât notice your eavesdropping, or the fact that you have your calculator app pulled up just to listen.
âDude, right! I didnât 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.â You hear his friend reply, careful not to be obvious as you peek over to get a glimpse of the men talking. Theyâre new to the scene, that much you can tell. Theyâre too clean, too excited â 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 isnât exactly legal, and with so many people involved with other less-than-legal behavior, you didnât want to be the one to catch unwanted attention. These guys to your right did not get the memo. However, youâre 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 didnât 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 âdistractions,â anyway.
Just from being in the audience, though, you knew Pope was a strong fighter. Thatâs what intrigued you about these idiotsâ conversation in the alley. You hadnât seen one of his matches in a while. âAnd when he pinned that guy and started whaling on him? Dude he was an animal!â 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 youâre not in the mood to meet any wannabe muggers.Â
Your apartment is about twenty minutes away from tonightâs venue. Itâs a two story complex, with each door accessible from the outside. Itâs not exactly an ideal spot, but itâs 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 youâre 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 youâre 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. Youâll 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 â they make this one-bed one-bath feel like a home.Â
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. Itâs not that simple in action, but youâve 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 â sometimes happening on different nights but since it was the first event of the underground season, it was treated as more of a showcase.Â
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. Itâs your own loneliness that keeps you from sleeping, though. The thought of texting Markus to keep you company makes your stomach turn. You donât 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 canât help but wonder if Pope Codyâs 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 âoff-season.â 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.Â
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.Â
Pope and Jackie were going back and forth with all limbs. You didnât 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 didnât 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 â probably the most beautiful man youâd 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.Â
Pope had pinned Jackie to the mat, his thick thighs straddling Jackieâs chest. Hit after hit to Jackieâs 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 Jackieâs 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.Â
The cheers from those around you got louder, both sides going crazy for their fighter. You looked over to Popeâs 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 werenât really picky. He was attached to the cage, almost jumping in anticipation of his brotherâs victory. Behind him sat Smurf. You knew the matriarch of the Cody bunch only by reputation. Youâd 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 sonâs performance.Â
It took a second for you to realize that you should probably cheer on Jackie. Thatâs 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 didnât all connect to his face. But in order to win, Jackie would have to get up. He would have to attack.Â
You gripped the metal cage, looking at the two fighters from the side. âGet up, Jackie! Get the fuck up!â 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.Â
Pope wasnât letting up with the punches, though. You forced yourself to look away from him and down to Jackieâs still pinned body. âCome on, Jackie! Get up, for Godâs sake!â Your cries mirrored those of Jackieâs 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 Popeâs hold over him. You knew he was running out of time with the ref closing in. âUse your legs, Jackie! Flip this motherfucker around!â You tried to think of any useful advice you had. Maybe you didnât understand MMA as well as you thought, because you were so confused on why Jackie just wouldnât 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 manâs 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, exhaâÂ
Jackie socked Pope in the side of the head, knocking him to the side. You gasped as Popeâs body did half a roll towards you, landing on his back. Jackie didnât 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. âGo! Jackie, yes!â You screamed, banging your fists on the cage in excitement. Popeâs tall brother was on the other side of the cage, also yelling. âCome on, Popey! Get him!â
Pope waited for the in between of Jackieâs punches to completely throw the other man off of him. He grunted as he shoved Jackieâs chest, essentially pushing him in the air and hooking his leg around Jackieâs 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 youâd ever seen in real life, and youâre constantly surrounded by sweaty menâs 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.Â
âSorry,â you offered in a small voice. You were both used to the injuries, so there was no need to coddle him. Jackieâs 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.
âYou did good, Jackie. Shit happens,â you comforted, trying not to put too much pity in your tone. Coach Sil doesnât do pity after a loss and neither did you. When you touched a particularly sensitive part of his wound, Jackie winced through his teeth. âI almost had him,â he replied, eyes shifting toward his hands, which were settled in his lap. You were reminded of Popeâs 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. âJackie,â you started, âYou know how this goes. Sometimes you win, other times you lose, but thatâs no reason to get all sappy. Pope was just better this time. Thatâs fine. Use this as motivation to kick his ass later.â Your eyebrows were furrowed without sympathy from you.
Jackie looked up at you and nodded with determination. Thank fuck, you thought. Itâs not like it was a major loss, just an unofficial scrap with cash stakes. You didnât know how much money each of them wagered, but usually these things go for a thousand, at least. You looked over Jackieâs shoulder where he was sitting on a folding chair to see the Codys coming over to collect Popeâs winnings.
âHeads up,â 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. âYou put up a good fight, Santos,â she started with an almost condescending tone, âMy Pope is a real animal in the cage, though. There was nothing you could have done.â 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. âGood fight,â he offered to Jackie. You noticed Smurfâs attention had turned to you.
âI know you,â she smirked, âYou're one of Silâs, arenât you? You won that fight up near Pacific Beach a few months back.â You could feel her sizing you up.
âYeah,â you replied, somewhat aware of Smurfâs reputation. You werenât 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.
âThat was pretty gnarly. You shattered that girlâs cheekbone, the last I heard,â Smurf sounded impressed. Her other son, the tall one, started laughing, âOh shit! Yeah I remember that fight. That chick didnât even get a good hit on you the whole night!â
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 couldnât tell if the two holes being burned in the side of your face from Popeâs stare were real or imagined.Â
Jackie read your expression and took the lead, âIt was good to see you, Smurf. We gotta get going.â He nodded at Pope, who only angled his head down once in response. Jackie looked to the taller brother too, âCraig,â he nodded, letting you walk in front of him towards the exit.
The brother, Craig, lifted his arm up in goodbye, âLater, man! Take care of that eye!â
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 Jackieâs arm as you both turned the corner to the open sidewalk.
âYou okay?â Jackie asked, arm behind your back in support.Â
âYeah. Yeah, Iâm fine. Weird lady,â you replied, not wanting Jackie to notice why you had tripped.
Present Day
The next week, youâre back in Silâs gym, training for a weekend fight. You werenât really desperate for cash at the moment, but itâs 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 youâre used to. The point isnât power, but stamina. How long you can go without stopping. Sil is working with a sparring couple in the ring, so youâre left to your own devices. Out of the corner of your eye, you see someone enter the gym. Itâs a straight shot from your bag to the only entrance and exit, but you pay no mind to the new figure. Itâs not until they start walking your way after scanning the gym do you look all the way up.
Pope Cody is coming towards you. Heâs in Silâs gym and it seems like heâs only there for you. He doesnât even glance at anyone else as he passes, not feigning interest or acting in the least bit casual about his stride. You donât 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 doesnât 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. Itâs 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. Popeâs expression is almost indecipherable. Almost. Thereâs curiosity peeking through, though. He watches you breathe like itâs the only thing heâs thinking about. Like he forgot what he came to Silâs for. You give him an impatient look, raising both eyebrows at him and shaking your head.
He snaps out of his stare, âYou were at my fight with Santos,â is all he says. His resting face is a scowl.
Youâre confused. That was months ago. Did he come all the way here to state the obvious? â...Yeah,â you reply. Your breathing still hasnât returned to normal. You notice his physique, of course. Heâs wearing a fitted grey t-shirt with black jeans. The shape of his arms and chest are clear through the cotton. Itâs distracting.Â
He doesnât seem to notice your fixation on his body. âYou called me a motherfucker,â he continues. His face turns into something less menacing, but still intimidating. âI almost lost,â he says.
You give him your own scowl, one of judgement. âYou came all the way here because I hurt your feelings months ago?âÂ
He crosses his arms, âThis gym isn't that far and my feelings arenât hurt,â 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, âThen why are you here?â
He doesnât move from his spot next to you. âYouâre a strong boxer. I was there on opening night. I watched you.â
Your skin tingles and you want to jump out of it. You canât focus, so you stop and turn to him once again. Youâre irritated beyond belief. Irritated and nervous. Nervous and excited. âSo? What are you doing here, Pope?â His face is unmoving.
âI was in the neighborhood,â 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.
âGet over here!â Sil calls.
You sigh, turning your attention to Pope one last time. âLook, I donât want anything to do with you or your family. Iâm not interested in whatever business you people get into. I show up, I fight, I leave. Thatâs it.â 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.Â
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. âWake up! Whatâs wrong with you?â You catch yourself, trying to shake Pope out of your thoughts.Â
Once youâre padded up, you jump lightly on your feet in preparation. Youâre sparring with Sabina today. Sheâs 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 itâs 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 Sabinaâs side of the ring, staring at you with his arms crossed. You donât even hear that Sil started the match. Youâre too fixated on Popeâs stare.
Sabina throws a right hook and knocks you down. You black out as your head hits the mat.