sai ₊˚⊹⋆

ੈ✩‧₊˚ fictional women and associates

[midwestprentiss]

welcome ⋆. 𐙚 ̊

⋆ ˚｡⋆ sai. midwestprentiss. she/her | 17 | struggling stem student

criminal minds, hannibal, b99, succession, house md, the x files, the pitt, interview with the vampire, animal kingdom, films.

masterlist requests are currently open! — requests info

i like: hotchaway, spencelle, jemily, kenstewy, hilson, hannigram, msr, mohabbot, rabbot, barsantos, langdonmel, a lot of other ships… boygenius, the beatles, f1, reading, stardew valley

twitter. ao3. tiktok.

[hierune]

Pope Cody as the Femme Fatale, a character study. ⌖♱

♱ NB. Discussion of trauma, abuse, mental illness, violence, and manipulation. This analysis explores Pope Cody through the literary framework of the femme fatale archetype.

One of the most fascinating things about Pope is that, despite being written as the physically imposing, hypermasculine eldest brother of a Southern California crime family, he occupies a narrative role that has historically belonged almost exclusively to women.

Pope is, in many ways, the femme fatale of Animal Kingdom.

Not because he is feminine, seductive in a conventional sense, or sexually manipulative in the classic noir style, but because he fulfils the same literary function. He is the beautiful catastrophe around whom desire, obsession, guilt, and destruction orbit.

He is the person everyone believes they can save, fix, possess, or understand, only to discover that loving him inevitably comes at an unbearable cost.

The traditional femme fatale is often misunderstood as simply "the sexy woman who ruins men." In reality, the archetype is defined less by gender than by narrative gravity.

The femme fatale is someone whose existence destabilises the people around them. They expose hidden desires, force impossible choices, and become the object onto which others project fantasies of salvation or redemption. They are rarely the sole cause of anyone's downfall; rather, they become the catalyst that reveals what was already there. Pope performs this role almost perfectly.

Nearly every significant relationship in Pope's life revolves around someone believing they can reach the version of him that exists beneath the violence.

Whether it is Baz trying to keep him functional, Julia refusing to abandon him, Lena instinctively trusting him despite everything, Angela attempting to reconnect with the vulnerable boy she remembers, Amy believing his capacity for kindness outweighs his brutality, or J constantly trying to predict him, Pope becomes a figure onto whom everyone projects hope.

They each imagine that if they love him correctly, understand him deeply enough, or remain patient long enough, they will finally uncover the "real" Pope.

The tragedy is that there is no singular, hidden Pope waiting to be discovered.

There is only a man whose identity has been fragmented by profound childhood trauma, emotional neglect, manipulation, and violence. Yet because flashes of extraordinary gentleness exist within him, people become convinced those moments are his truest self. The rarity of his softness only makes it more intoxicating. When Pope smiles, it feels earned. When Pope protects someone, it feels monumental.

The audience, and the characters, begin chasing those moments in exactly the same way noir protagonists chase fleeting glimpses of vulnerability from the femme fatale.

This dynamic is amplified by the fact that Pope is almost impossible to read. Traditional femme fatales conceal their intentions behind charm and ambiguity. Pope conceals his behind silence.

He is emotionally opaque, often staring longer than is socially comfortable, speaking in short, uncertain sentences, and responding to situations with an unpredictability that keeps everyone around him perpetually off balance. His unpredictability creates the same narrative tension as the classic femme fatale's mystery. Nobody, including the audience, can ever be entirely certain whether Pope is about to comfort someone, walk away, or kill them.

His physicality also contributes to this inversion of the archetype.

Femme fatales traditionally weaponise beauty; Pope weaponises vulnerability. Shawn Hatosy's performance constantly communicates contradiction. Pope is physically enormous, intimidating, and capable of horrific violence, yet his posture often resembles that of someone trying to make himself smaller. His movements are hesitant. His eye contact lingers with almost childlike uncertainty.

He frequently appears less like a predator than a wounded animal waiting to determine whether it is safe to approach. That vulnerability becomes magnetic. It invites protection even as it warns against it.

One of the defining characteristics of the femme fatale is that people mistake proximity for understanding. Because they have seen moments of intimacy, they believe they know the whole person. This is exactly what happens with Pope.

Amy believes she has seen the man beneath the criminal. Angela believes she remembers the boy beneath the trauma. Baz believes he understands how Pope thinks. Smurf believes she controls him entirely. Each of them confuses access with comprehension. They mistake fragments for completion.

Perhaps nowhere is Pope's role as the femme fatale more evident than in his relationship with Julia. Julia sees Pope with a tenderness no one else quite manages, but even she cannot ultimately rescue him from Smurf's psychological control. Their bond is arguably the emotional centre of Pope's life, not because it is romantic but because Julia represents the one relationship untainted by calculation.

She sees his fear before anyone else does. She understands the suffocating environment in which they were raised because she is trapped within it too. Yet even that love cannot overcome the years of manipulation inflicted by Smurf. Like so many protagonists who fall in love with the femme fatale, Julia believes love itself might be enough.

The tragedy is that systemic abuse is rarely undone by affection alone.

Smurf herself functions almost as the noir detective pursuing her own femme fatale. She spends Pope's entire life attempting to preserve him in a state of dependence, simultaneously fearing and encouraging his instability because it guarantees his loyalty. She cultivates his emotional isolation while presenting herself as the only person capable of understanding him.

The result is that Pope becomes less a son than an extension of her own psychological needs. In classic noir, the femme fatale often exists as an object of obsession. Pope occupies that position repeatedly throughout the series. He becomes the emotional centre around which other people's identities begin revolving.

Even his violence aligns with the archetype in unexpected ways. Femme fatales often do not destroy people directly; they expose desires that already exist, allowing others to ruin themselves.

Pope's violence frequently functions similarly. His actions force characters to confront moral boundaries they would rather ignore. Loving Pope requires compromises. Excuses. Rationalisations. Every person who remains close to him must eventually ask themselves how much brutality they are willing to tolerate because they have seen glimpses of the frightened boy beneath it.

In that sense, Pope does not simply endanger people physically. He destabilises their ethics.

What makes Pope particularly compelling is that, unlike many femme fatales, he is not consciously manipulating anyone. He is almost painfully sincere.

His capacity for destruction stems not from calculated seduction but from emotional dysregulation and an overwhelming need for connection that he lacks the tools to sustain. This is what makes him so devastating. Traditional femme fatales often know exactly what effect they have on others. Pope rarely seems aware that people organise their emotional worlds around him at all.

He does not realise that his smallest moments of kindness become life-changing for those around him because kindness is so difficult for him to express consistently.

His relationship with Amy illustrates this beautifully. Amy does not fall for Pope because he is charming in the conventional sense. She falls for the possibility she glimpses within him. She sees a man capable of tenderness despite everything that has happened to him. That possibility becomes irresistible.

Yet possibility is not reality.

One of the oldest lessons embedded within the femme fatale archetype is that falling in love with potential rather than the person standing before you almost always ends in heartbreak. Amy loves who Pope might become, while Pope remains trapped inside who trauma has forced him to be.

Even visually, the series often frames Pope in ways traditionally reserved for women within noir and melodrama. The camera lingers on his expressions rather than his actions. His face becomes the emotional landscape through which scenes are interpreted. Close-ups capture minute shifts in his eyes, tiny hesitations in his breathing, almost imperceptible changes in posture.

Rather than presenting him solely as an active force driving the narrative, the cinematography frequently turns him into an object to be observed, interpreted, and desired emotionally. He is watched. He is analysed. He is endlessly read by both characters and audience alike.

Ultimately, Pope demonstrates that the femme fatale was never truly about femininity. It has always been about narrative function. It is about becoming the person through whom everyone else's desires, fears, guilt, and fantasies are refracted.

Pope occupies that role almost perfectly. He is not the cold manipulator in the shadows but the wounded centre of gravity around which everyone else begins to orbit. He inspires impossible hope, unbearable loyalty, and profound destruction, often simultaneously.

People do not love Pope because he promises happiness. They love him because every so often they catch a glimpse of the frightened, gentle boy hidden beneath decades of violence, and they convince themselves that if they could just reach him one more time, they might finally save him.

Like every great femme fatale, Pope leaves those who love him transformed—not because he intended to, but because loving him demands sacrifices they never imagined they would be willing to make.

[midwestprentiss]

this was born from my brain and you said it beautifully oomf

[natsgirl222]

secret relationship marveycore ft. my first marvey edit in A YEAR wow lmao

[hey-im-okay]

There is genuinely no straight explanation for what’s going on with Harvey and Mike

[midwestprentiss]

asks open .ᐟ

my asks/requests are open for oneshots or drabble requests!

what i write for: currently in love with the pitt and animal kingdom so i’d love if i got asks for this! my other fandoms are criminal minds, hannibal, succession, and house md (also iwtv and the x files but i’m less knowledgable about these)

things i will write: x reader, headcanons, drabbles, short ship works, other things

things i won’t write: heavy nsfw. also, i reserve the right to not respond to a request if i’m not comfortable writing it

pls ask away at “ are you not mystified ” and i’ll try responding as soon as possible :p

[midwestprentiss]

request timemememe i have a Little motivation so i’d love to write some quick stuff

[o4x4h]

bitch just kiss him

[midwestprentiss]

jack abbot and a filipino partner

self-indulgent hcs from a filipina girl

— when jack first visited the philippines after he got married to a filipino nurse, he was very concerned about the sheer number of people calling him an "afam." he asks you if he should worry. you say no. it doesn't help. your niece calls him lolo.

— jack abbot is an adobo warrior, to the disappointment of his partner who prefers sinigang.

— he asks you to translate whatever princess and perlah are saying about him, but you refuse. "ang sungit naman ng asawa mong yan!" and it doesn't sound like a compliment.

— ever since you started living together, he takes off his shoes before entering the house and you help him with his prosthetic.

— your german shepherd rescue is named brownie.

— he has a lunch box all the other staff are jealous of, but rarely enough time to eat it. you have to shoo him to go eat his rice meal and a small bag of flat tops or werther's caramels.

— karaoke dates are great. he's not a great singer himself, but he likes hearing you sing the classics—alanis morissette, celine dion, theme songs from old shows you got him to watch on his days off.

— he adopts the little habit of calling you "boss" because you did it to him in the early days of your relationship.

— his favorite teleserye is please be careful with my heart.

— you put a little bottle of white flower in his backpack for when his head or muscles hurt during the day.

— he tried calling you "mahal" at some point but couldn't pronounce it the way you taught him, so you just laughed and said it was okay to just call you sweetheart.

— everyone stares at him in naia LOL

MAHAL KITA JACK ABBOT :pp this was so fun

[thebellekeys]

leave him alone that's my emotional support grumpy middle aged white man with a layered past and zero bitches who's also really good at his job

[k9priest]

♰ THINKING ABOUT dad!harvey specter.

notes: harvey is oh so special to me; he has been for the longest time. i'm a girldad!harvey truther and i will die on this hill !!

˖ ۫　♱ dad!harvey who can never really say ‘no’ to his kids. he tries so hard to stand firm, but one pout and suddenly he’s buying ice cream at nine o’clock on a school night like it was his idea all along.

˖ ۫　♱ dad!harvey who wears the little beaded bracelets his daughters make him straight into court without caring who notices. there’s something oddly terrifying about harvey specter destroying someone in litigation while wearing neon beads spelling “#1 dad.”

˖ ۫　♱ dad!harvey who is always the loudest parent at his son’s sports games. suit jacket abandoned somewhere on the bleachers, yelling encouragement like his kid just made the winning shot in the NBA finals.

˖ ۫　♱ dad!harvey who lingers in the kids’ bedrooms far too long after bedtime because he hates missing parts of their day. every night turns into “five more minutes,” until you have to practically drag him back downstairs.

˖ ۫　♱ dad!harvey who secretly learned how to braid hair after his daughter complained he only knew ponytails. he acted casual about it afterwards, but looked unbearably smug the first time she asked him to do it again.

˖ ۫　♱ dad!harvey who keeps every crayon drawing his kids ever made tucked into his office desk. clients expecting intimidating corporate lawyer harvey instead find poorly drawn stick figures labelled “my daddy.”

˖ ۫　♱ dad!harvey who swears he hates animated movies, yet somehow gets more emotionally invested than the kids do. absolutely denies tearing up every single time.

˖ ۫　♱ dad!harvey who gets ridiculously proud whenever his kids copy his habits. the first time one of them points dramatically during an argument, he has to hide his grin behind his coffee cup.

[midwestprentiss]

oh(ld) man harvey 😕😕😕😕😞😞😞😞😞

[midwestprentiss]

heal thyself ✴︎ 2

samira mohan (the pitt) x pope cody (animal kingdom)

ch. 1 - also on ao3 @ midwestprentiss

wc: 2.9k

a/n: i lowk hate this and it’s super slow but trust the process… thank you to everyone who showed love and gave me ideas on chapter 1! i hope to have motivation to keep writing this

Samira stared at the bloodstains on her gloves.

Some kids at the skate park a few blocks from her clinic had gotten into a fistfight over pot, and it had become her problem, like usual. One of them had the interesting idea of bringing both parties into her small clinic, and she’d treated both of them while they stared daggers at each other through her neck as though she didn’t exist.

She slipped the gloves off and balled them up, one in the other. She dropped them unceremoniously in her bin and pondered heightening her toxin disposal measures.

The sun shone above the clinic, its rays angry and unforgiving in the hot California summer. She’d given up on wearing undershirts under her scrubs a long time ago. This wasn’t the ER. The AC hummed its vague little tune up above her desk, doing its best to ease the dry heat. As Samira washed her hands at the sink, the door chime tinkled again. She looked up, letting out a huff. It hadn’t even been ten minutes since the skater kids had left the clinic.

“Dr. Samira?”

She recognized that voice. The small girl who came in here two weeks ago with her stuffed bunny and guard dog of an uncle. Lena. 

Samira dried her hands on a paper towel, turning toward the waiting area. Moisture still clung to her hands, unmanicured and rough from her constant washes. Lena stood near the entrance, clutching the same stuffed rabbit from last week, its big patchwork ears bent unevenly like she accidentally lay on the bunny in her sleep. And sure enough, behind her was the same man from last week. Pope, who looked like the exact opposite of someone who should be in a community clinic on a warm Tuesday afternoon.

“Hi, Lena,” she greeted warmly, sitting down to her level. The girl’s hair was tied in a messy ponytail, some strands plastered to her forehead. 

She looked up at Pope. The same sun-bleached auburn hair, tired eyes hidden between the shadow of a gray baseball cap. His lip wasn’t quite twisted in worry like the last time they’d dropped by the place. Simply a little downturned, the thin line of his mouth tense.

“What brings you here?” Samira brought her gaze back to the kid, assessing her for any injuries. The wound by her head had healed nicely, now with a small scab over it—not picked. Perhaps her parents had told her to take care of it.

“Mr. Bunny is hurt.”

Samira held back a smile, her face straining to remain very serious. She exhales softly as she looks up at Pope, one curious eyebrow raised.

“She has a fever,” he said bluntly, hazel eyes honing in on her.

“Oh.”

She murmured, looking at the girl again. Lena wasn’t pale at all, and her wound healing looked to be normal. Samira’s hand, tanned from a few too many mornings at the beach, pressed gently against the girl’s forehead. Warm, but not in the way she used to encounter in the ER. Her skin felt sun-kissed and soft, not uncomfortably taut the way a feverish kid’s did. 

“Okay, hop on up there for me.”

She’d gotten the stepping stool for the rare occasion a child came in for a checkup. But before Samira could nudge it to help Lena get up on her examination bench, Pope swooped in and carried her, little shoe-clad feet grazing against the cabinet beneath the seat. Her eyes went involuntarily to the man’s arms—they drew attention even if she was sure he didn’t want them to. Thick, tan from the sun. Freckled. A thought entered her mind. He’d be nice to draw blood from.

Samira blinked and looked away, retrieving her flower-patterned pouch from her desk. She slung her stethoscope over her shoulders, walking back to check on Lena. She’d sat Mr. Bunny beside her, his small stitched mouth set in a polite smile. Samira smiled, bringing her stethoscope to the girl’s chest.

For her usual clients, she could get away with just this for an examination. She’d listen to the patient’s heart, check for wounds, and end up with a few bills in her pocket. The clinic had somehow attracted a crowd of shady older people who went to her for routine checkups and medicine prescriptions. She didn’t know what they used her medical advice for, and rather wouldn’t know.

But for Lena and her hovering uncle, she took it slower, like she wanted to.

 “How long?” she asked, looking up at Pope.

“Started this morning.” His low voice carried that same clipped quality she remembered. He crossed his arms over his dark brown shirt, weight shifting onto one hip.  “She said her stomach hurt too.”

Lena shifted beside her uncle, bunny tucked tighter beneath her arm now. “Doesn’t hurt now.”

Samira hummed softly under her breath. “Throw up at all?”

A small shake of Lena’s head.

She nodded to herself, bringing out her thermometer. Why she put in so much effort for this little girl, she didn’t know. It wasn’t about the money Pope had handed her two weeks ago. It wasn’t even about her quiet, endearing stare and her stuffed bunny. Samira dropped some isopropyl alcohol onto a cotton ball, wiping the metal tip of the thermometer.

“Okay, I’m gonna put this under your arm, and it’ll tell me if you have a fever.”

“Will it hurt?”

Samira looked up at Pope. He rapidly averted his eyes from hers, like he’d been staring at her neck the entire time. She chose to ignore the small twinge deep in her ribcage. “She’s never gotten her temperature taken?”

“Never needed it,” he mumbled, large fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. A few deep wrinkles were scattered across the hemline, folded by his hands. When her eyes darted down to the sight, he let go of the fabric. His voice almost sounded defensive.

She let out a sound of assent, returning her attention to Lena. “No, it won’t hurt. It might be a little cold, though.”

Lena nodded solemnly, one small hand tightening around Mr. Bunny while Samira slipped the thermometer beneath the girl’s arm. Her shoulders lifted instinctively at the cool metal.

“Cold,” Lena informed her gravely.

“I warned you.”

Samira smiled faintly to herself, glancing toward the small timer on the acrylic screen of the thermometer. The room settled into that peculiar kind of quiet it always seemed to carry. Cars swept by outside, their engines rumbling angrily as if announcing their drivers had someplace else to be. Wood clicked under Lena’s heels as she kicked gently against the cabinet.

Pope stood a few feet away, unwilling to let his niece out of his vicinity even for a minute. He didn’t pace, feet planted firmly on the tiled ground. His gaze was pointed at something on the ground. When she followed his line of sight, it landed on the loose tile she’d half-heartedly kicked down into place after she tripped on it. 

After a few unfortunate encounters at PTMC, Samira knew when a parent lied. She memorized the way voices would rise when questioned, the exact cadence of we’d never do that! Our kid would never do that! And whatever attachment Pope had with his niece wasn’t that. He was quiet. Calm, even. More focused on what was in the doctor’s clinic than what the doctor would say. His stormy demeanor reflected in Lena’s—the inevitable way a loved one picked up on someone’s mannerisms. 

“You take care of her often?” Samira probed, tilting her head slightly.

“Sometimes.”

Silence hung in the sterile clinic air, Lena looking up at the two adults like their quiet would be the answer to all her big questions. 

“...Her mom works,” Pope added after a second. 

“Ah.”

Before he could ponder whether to respond, the thermometer beeped shrilly under Lena’s arm. Samira gently took it, turning the screened face up. 100F. Warm, but just below a fever. She looked up at Pope at the same time Lena did. He shrugged, broad shoulders hunching ever-so-slightly.

“Not a fever,” Samira said, wiping the tip of the thermometer with cotton again. “A little warm, though.”

Lena looked oddly disappointed. Maybe she was imagining it, but Samira smiled and patted her shoulder with a gentle hand. She set the thermometer aside and leaned down slightly, resting one hand against the edge of the examination bench. Pope crossed his arms back over his chest, glancing up at the AC.

“This isn’t related to your head, so we’re in the clear. Where did your tummy hurt?”

“In the middle,” Lena said. She patted her abdomen with a small hand. “But it was gone very fast.”

“What did she eat for breakfast?”

“Cereal,” Pope answered, voice gruff. “...I couldn’t cook, had somewhere to be.”

“It’s okay. Cereal is the breakfast of champions.”

Lena cracked a smile, her warm brown eyes lighting up in a rare happy expression. Nothing, Samira thought, could pull at her heartstrings like making a kid like this smile. Her attendings had always told her she was good with the elderly. Somewhere slow, gentle, where treatments were routine, and she could sit down to listen to long stories about apple pies and grandchildren.

She was in California now and saw everyone. Including these kids in need of her help.

“I had nice cold milk too,” Lena added helpfully.

“Okay. It might just be a bug you picked up from school.”

“But we’re on vacation…”

“Germs don’t take vacations, sweetie.”

Lena looked up at Pope. The man nodded, his hard-set expression loosening in something Samira chose to interpret as satisfaction. His eyes then returned to the floor, and the cursed yellowing tile she felt self-conscious about now. The clinic wasn’t exactly the nicest place, but it was what she could afford after moving her entire life across the country. Yellowing around the edges from years of wear and probably nicotine use. The landlord kept promising she’d let Samira refurbish, but never followed through when she asked about it.

“I keep meaning to get that repaired,” Samira said.

“Hm?” Pope looked up.

“The tile.” She pointed downward. “One day I’m gonna trip over it hard enough to…” She makes a little gesture with her hand, tapping the side of her head with the heel of her palm. Lena laughed, seemingly all better just from the sight of the doctor.

“You should fix it,” Pope said plainly.

“I should fix a lot of things.”

The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them from tumbling out on their own accord. Bad habit. She’d vowed to stop talking so much to patients and their companions since the day she’d run her stupid mouth about her father. Pope stayed quiet, the silence solemn rather than uncomfortable, as it had been when that had happened.

Samira cleared her throat lightly, returning her attention to Lena. “Anyway, you’re not sick, Lena. Maybe it’s just hot, and you drank cold milk on an empty stomach. But I’ll give your uncle some medicine that can make you better if you feel worse.”

The girl nodded, trying to step down from the bench. Again, before Samira could kick the little stepping stool to catch her feet, Pope carried her back down, setting her gently on the floor.

“Are you sure?” Pope asked, his face hardening back into the mask he always seemed to wear.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have a bathroom, Doctor?” Lena’s little voice said tentatively, setting Mr. Bunny on the blue plastic chair closest to her uncle. Pope’s fingers twitched slightly, pinky lifting as if he were in half a mind to touch the worn toy. 

“Mhm. Over there,” Samira pointed at a wooden door in the corner of the clinic, robin’s egg blue paint chipping off slightly. Lena trodded to the bathroom, leaving the adults to linger in each other’s silences again. 

Something about Pope made Samira want to talk too much. Words rose up in her throat, questions tightening against it while she turned around. Where are her parents? Where are you from? What do you do for work? She swallowed them all, keeping them locked in her chest where they could fester safely. The girl was a kid, probably doing okay in whatever elementary school she went to. But Pope? He could be dangerous, for all she knew. A dealer. A thief. A criminal. Someone who could lie through his teeth and make it seem like breathing. And yet she opened her mouth anyway.

“Lena’s with you a lot?”

Pope nodded, his head tilting slightly. His hand went to pat down the side of his curls, the faintest hint of gray peeking at his temples. The crisp sound of scissors cutting into the material broke the quiet, Lena’s medicine dropping neatly on her desk. When Samira busies herself with scrawling Lena’s information in her logbook, Pope clears his throat.

“I can help fix your…” He left the sentence unfinished, like he thought she’d know what he meant.

“My what?” 

“Whatever,” Pope mumbled, looking down at something. Oh. The tile.

“My floor?”

“Your office.”

“You’re a handyman?” Samira asked, finally turning to look at him. She folded her arms over her navy scrubs, trying to reconcile this awkward version of him to the one who walked through her door two weeks ago.

“Sort of.”

Samira clicked her pen shut, tucking it into her hair. She thought she saw Pope’s eyes linger on the motion, but when she blinked, he was observing the blue-and-white striped curtains that fluttered against the clinic’s window frames. She walked toward him, pressing the blister pack of acetaminophen against his loosely closed fist. 

“If she does develop a fever, take one of those. One in the morning and at night. And they’re chewable.”

Pope nodded blankly, closing his hand around the medicine and tucking it into the pocket of his worn denim jeans. He shifted on his heels, a quiet breath escaping him. A slow swallow went down his throat, seemingly lingering before he could get himself to talk.

“Do you… treat injuries?"

“That’s actually what this clinic’s mostly for. I get a lot of injuries. All the skaters, surfers, that crowd.”

He nodded again, rubbing his hand over his mouth. Before he could say anything else, Lena emerged from the bathroom and plucked a paper towel from Samira’s box.

“See, Uncle Pope? I wash my hands.”

“Great job, munchkin.”

Samira’s lips curved up into a smile.

As Lena picked up Mr. Bunny from the plastic chair, Pope pulled out his wallet again. Brown leather, unassuming, tattered at the edges. He thumbed nimbly through the sparse bills inside, keeping an eye on his niece. Samira held up a hand. She couldn’t accept these payouts from what seemed to be a normal family. Sure, she’d gotten hundreds from men who asked her not to blab to authorities, but Lena was just a kid.

Pope met her gaze, thumb pausing at the edges of his cash. He pulls out a crisp fifty and a slightly wrinkled twenty, folding them into threes before handing them to her. 

“I… less is okay.”

“No, take it.”

“I—” The look he gave her shut her up quickly. “Thank you?”

He nodded, hand enveloping Lena’s small one. The girl swung her arm forward and back, but his barely moved. His hand stayed still and steady at his side, heavy but curling around hers. Samira caught a glimpse of a large burn mark on his broad palm, healed and scarred over as if it didn’t exist in the first place. 

“If you need it, here's the clinic phone.”

Samira scrawls the landline down on a small piece of green memo pad, handing it to him. “For Lena, or if you need anything else.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Pope answered, still unmoving despite Lena’s attempts to tug him toward the door. He folded the memo and put it in the same pocket he’d tucked the blister pack into. 

“Can we get ice cream?”

“We need to get you lunch first. You have medicine for if you get bad again.”

Lena looked up at Samira after she pondered Pope's statement. “My Uncle Pope is always sad and won’t let me get ice cream.”

He let out a noncommittal huff, finally moving from his spot in the center of the clinic. He shook his head, protesting Lena’s passionate declaration.

“Your Uncle Pope is smart, and you should listen to him,” Samira said. “He’ll get you ice cream after lunch.”

The girl nodded, holding Mr. Bunny loosely in her little hand. Samira smiled quietly to herself, sliding Lena’s file back into the drawer beside her desk. The metal tracks stuck slightly before giving way with a disapproving creak. Another thing she should fix. Maybe she’d take him up on his offer and see if he did a decent job with metal. 

“Bye, Doctor,” Lena said, pausing at the doorframe.

“Bye, Lena. Stay healthy out there.”

“Thanks, Dr. Mohan,” Pope said gruffly.

“Please, call me Samira.”

He nodded, bringing his cap down to shield his eyes. When the door shut, the silence fell upon the clinic again and the two had disappeared into the hot Oceanside summer. Everything settled around her, back to what they should be. Cars passing by, surfers yelling in the far distance, the AC humming as it strained to cool her little office. The loose tile sitting crooked like it had since the day she moved her things in. 

Samira stared at it for a long moment.

Then quietly, for reasons she couldn’t entirely explain, she nudged it back into place with the toe of her shoe.

tags (pls inform me if you want to be added or removed!): @silverbecca @gudakdalee @lenectarine @thisismeena @chasingthepoguelife

[seadoesnotchange]

yum😋

[trippingonthelight]

pope cody domesticity... pope cody waking up with u early in the mornings when the light is still grey... pope cody easing behind you at the coffee maker while waiting for your morning brew, resting his head on your shoulder and encircling your waist, his body still warm from sleep... pope cody putting his hand under your sleepshirt just to feel your skin and hold you closer, fight the day off a little longer... pope cody.... pope... cody...

[midwestprentiss]

texting pope cody ⋆˚꩜｡

— andrew is an inconsistent texter. he’ll leave you on delivered and maybe read for hours—not his fault, they had to use the burner for a bit—and comes back after a while. he texts and calls until you reply or he comes home.

— when you’re at work or he’s away pope sends you random pictures of what’s going on in his day, but he unintentionally makes them feel far more ominous than they are. he will send a picture of the open ocean and think that suffices as an “update,” while you worry about where the fuck he is.

— he responds to your random questions with utmost patience, no matter how stupid they might be. when you ask him if he would still love you if you were a worm, he sends a thumbs up and a “Yes 👍” back.

— you ask him to update you whenever he’s on a job. he types in simple texts, using the few seconds be has so you know he’s okay. “here.” “safe.” “going home.”

— he’s not too affectionate when texting. he doesn’t see the point. he doesn’t shy away from calling you his, though. he replies to your messages in his normal, deadpan cadence, and he doesn’t understand why you find it so adorable.

— pope doesn’t keep up with current trends, since he finds events and news a better use of his time. but when he overhears something new from someone else, he’ll take the time to ask you about it since he’s too embarrassed to ask anyone else.

— he doesn’t shy away from double texting. he will text you multiple times an afternoon and deflate if you don’t answer. nothing too lovey-dovey, maybe some simple updates. a picture of where he is. a pin request. multiple missed calls if you’re gone too late.

— when he’s away, he texts you an “I love you” every night even if you’re already asleep when he manages to get a hold of his phone—not the burner one, the you one where he could finally talk to his favorite person.

and if we put it all together…

man i just finished the ak finale ok let me be happy. also lmk if you love me and want to be on my taglist for pope hcs and writing.

reqs open ! — info

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

You've Given Me All I've Ever Dreamed

Andrew "Pope" Cody x wife!reader—in which, it's Mother's Day and he wants to celebrate you, the mother of his children, because you've given him everything he's ever wanted. (And he helps his kids make breakfast)

Tags: @boutiquw and @nini4good — I saw the post that you made and the comment left and wasn't sure if you guys wanted to be tagged if someone made this, so I thought I would. Sorry, if you didn't want that.

TW: Tooth-rotting fluff, Pope being teary because he didn't think he'd ever have what he dreamed of or that he deserved it but here he is!

A/N: I know it's a day late, but I was busy with my family on Mother's Day, so I thought I'd write it today. Also, Pope's crime free job is a chef because I can

The countertop is a mess, flour dusting the surface, drying egg on the edges, crusting into a layer all its own, small handprints cutting through the chaos to reveal the dark granite underneath. And Pope wouldn’t have it any other way.

            “Daddy!” he hears his daughter cry, voice high-pitched in that delicate child’s way, the one that made him cry when she first said dada, when she babbled and he realized just how perfect and fragile she is. Just how much she’ll depend on him before needing her not to provide and protect for her anymore. 

            “What is it, sweet pea?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at her, this perfect little child who looks so much like you. 

            “Mommy likes chocolate not fruit,” she says, her small hands going to rest on her equally small hips, everything about her tiny and frail—although, as you frequently tell him, perfectly normal for her age. But he still sees her as the little baby who you held in your arms, asking him if he wanted to hold her and he asked you what if I hurt her? And you had looked at him, your eyes locked on his, stare unwavering, faith held true and replied you won’t. 

            “Does she now?” he asks her and she nods once, the movement exaggerated as the sounds of metal clanging, hitting the floor resounds through the room. 

            “Sorry, Dad,” your son says, his voice soft in the quiet chaos of the kitchen. “It slipped.” And Pope turns as he flips a pancake over—the breakfast food your daughter, Julie, decreed was appropriate for Mother’s Day. 

            “Don’t worry about it,” he says to his son, your oldest child, the one that made Pope the most afraid because he didn’t want to make him like him. He worried that it was inevitable, that it was the way he was raised and the way he would end raising his son. You had looked him dead in the eye, one hand coming to rest on his cheek and the other taking his hand, pressing it against your stomach, whispering “you’re here and you’re afraid of fucking him up which means you care, Andy. And all you really need is to care and we can go from there.”

            “But what if it woke, Mom up?” he replies, one eyebrow arching in a gesture that is so you that Pope wants to laugh. He was so worried about his little boy becoming just like him when he should have realized that he would be just like you, just as kind and stubborn and fierce. 

            “It won’t have,” Pope says, flicking the burner off and sliding the pan off of it, the stack of pancakes resting on the plate with coco powder to dust on them since fruit served with them is, apparently, not allowed. “Your mom can sleep through a hurricane.”

            “No, she can’t,” Julie says, her tone like that of a giggle, as if she’s always laughing. Which is the real miracle, Pope thinks, that she can just live and laugh and feel joy. He’s been able to give his children that—a childhood. “You wouldn’t let her.”

            “But if I wasn’t there, she would,” he counters as he opens a drawer, pulling a sifter from it and carrying it and the stack of pancakes to Julie, who snagged the coco powder and lifts the red lid, scooping it into the sifter, a bunch sifting out onto the counter before she gets it over the pancakes, slamming her hand against it until it empties upon the plate. 

            “No,” your son, Chris, says. “We’d wake her up…with our screaming because…hurricane.” Pope can’t help the laugh that escapes, the one he’s still getting used to letting out, letting free. He’s still used to locking his feelings up, his thoughts and emotions—locking up who he is. 

            “Fine, fine, fine,” Pope says as he pulls open a cabinet, grabbing out the bamboo fold-up tray that you had insisted on buying for when the kids were sick and couldn’t leave their beds easily. “Gang up on your ol’ dad. That’s fine.”

            “It is,” Chris says, turning from the counter with the whipped cream he was busy making, had insisted on when he heard you mention it last week that you should make some homemade whipped cream soon. “It’s Mother’s day not Father’s Day, you have to wait a few weeks.”

            Pope can feel his throat thickening as he looks at his son, his precious, beautiful, perfect son with your eyes and his curls, but a personality all his own. A boy who is raised without the threat of violence hanging over his head, rather one who just gets to be what Pope never got—a kid. 

            “Every day is Father’s Day for me, Chris, because every day, I’m your dad. Just like every day is Mother’s Day for your mom. She didn’t even want us to make a thing of this year, you know,” he tells them, pulling his son against him into a hug, one where he crushes him close, holding back the tears that want to fall when he holds him, his growing son, the little boy who broke him when he said dada because of the absolute trust and faith. 

            And then little arms wrap around his neck, Julie’s arms locked tight, his daughter and his son in his arms, a life he never thought he’d get. A chance he’d never thought he’d have until you walked into his life, smiling at him like smiling was so easy. 

            And in you, in the family you’ve given him, he’s found that. 

            “Okay, okay, enough, Dad,” Chris says, pulling out of Pope’s embrace, smoothing his hair and straightening up, making himself all neat as he grabs the tray and holds it out for the food, Julie clambering off the counter, taking one side of the tray, Chris the other. “Let’s get this to Mom before she wakes up—and not from the noise but from out baby sibling.”

            “Good plan, kiddo,” Pope says and he guides them down the hall, quietly cracking the door open, observing your still-sleeping, ever perfect form, the swell of your belly visible in the dim hall light. “Go on in,” he whispers and the kids waste no time, scampering in, the tray slanted because of the differences in their height—Chris at eight being far taller than Julie at five. 

            “Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy!” Julie cries, her voice shrill in the quiet of the room, her voice enough to bring you from sleep and Pope watches as your body tenses, eyes flying open and you sit up, taking in the sight. He can see the exact moment you relax, when you realize that nothing is harming your children, rather that they’re here for you. 

            “Breakfast in bed? Really? I said I didn’t want anything,” Pope hears you say, his heart swelling because your attention is firmly on your children, not him. It’s what he loves the most—the way you care for them. 

            “But you’re our mommy,” Julie says like that explains everything and to her, it probably does. She’s very much like you, feeling like if she understands it, everyone else must too. 

            “Mom,” Chris says and it’s him that draws you forth, has you smiling a sad and teary smile. “Let us celebrate you please. You work hard enough, can’t we give you a day off?” Pope can hear the sniffle you try to hide and the kids probably don’t notice but he notices everything about you. 

            “Okay,” you whisper and then you take the tray from their hands, shaking your head as you do, setting in on your lap, one hand touching Julie’s cheek and the other ruffling Chris’s hair—something he lets only you do now that he’s older. “Did you guys make this or did you make Daddy do all the work?”

            “I was the kitchen manager!” Julie squeals, bouncing on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around your neck as Chris shrugs. 

            “I helped, but Dad did most of it,” he says and that’s when you look over at Pope, the smile changing from that of a mother, to that of a wife. One very much in love. 

            “Thank god,” you whisper, your tone shifting to a teasing lilt. “Now, I know it’s edible.” And then Julie squeals and Chris rolls his eyes, the two clambering onto the bed around you, holding you close. 

            “What we cook would be edible,” Julie counters and Pope is delighted to hear you laugh, the sound the most beautiful things he’s ever heard and he’s heard both his children speak for the first time, been called dad and heard I love you. 

            And yet, your laugh is still number one. Because it’s what made him fall in love with you, the way you laugh so freely, so loudly. So perfectly. 

            “Of course, pumpkin,” you tell her and there is no teasing in your tone now, instead only the soft assurance of a mother. “But Daddy has more experience. You need to learn to cook, but if you want to, I’m sure Daddy will help you.” And he watches as Julie turns to him, eyebrows rising in a way that is not you but him, that hopeful yet stern cock of a brow. 

            “Will you, Daddy? I want to be able to make something edible for Mommy,” she says and all he can do is nod, his throat thick as he observes the scene, walking over and crawling onto the bed, sitting beside Chris only once you beckon him, exasperated that he isn’t there. 

            And he could stay there all day, in that haze of laughing and talking and teasing and cuddling, his hand joined with yours behind the kids back. But the kids are still kids and soon they’re climbing off the bed, ready for the next thing. Today? Gifts. 

            “Can we give you our presents now?” Julie asks, her hands on her hips at the foot of the bed, eyebrows now raised in a way that is infinitely you, impatient to the last. 

            “Presents?” you ask, tone just slightly irritated as you turn to look at Pope, accusation sitting there, the kind that makes him want to laugh because it’s so unhostile. So sweet. 

            “Yeah,” Julie says, “we made them in school!” And then Pope can see the changing in you, the way you’re bottom lip sticks out, the way you’re still unused to the love your kids have for you, the celebration they want to give you. 

            “Maybe later, kiddos,” Pope says, one hand coming to brush your hair from your face, smoothing it away, his hand lingering and resting on your cheek. “Mommy needs a little break right now. Why don’t you guys go and get everything set up and we’ll come out when Mommy’s ready.” 

            “I guess,” Julie says and then she’s off, Chris following only after he’s huffed dramatically at the way your hand comes to rest on top of Pope’s. He’s very much against parental displays of affection as of his eighth birthday—and it’s too soon for Pope to tell him that those displays of affection are what led to him being here at all. 

            “I can’t believe you, Andy,” you huff as you fall back against him, the tray resting at the foot of the bed, your back against his chest. “I say I don’t want a fuss and you make a fuss.”

            “It was the kids,” he protests, but there’s no real weight behind it because he did want to make a fuss of it, of celebrating you because to him you are the most miraculous person to ever exist. You are the one who loves him now as Andrew Bishop and the one who loved him when he was Andrew Cody. You are the one who loved him when he thought there was nothing loveable in him, when he thought he was worthless—you are the one who showed him he was wrong. Not by loving him enough for the both of you but by loving him enough that he could learn to love himself. 

            “I know it was you too, Andy,” you say, no real heat in your tone, only contentedness and happiness. “You’d make a big deal out of me existing.”

            “Because you’ve given me everything I’ve ever dreamed,” he tells you and his throat is thick again, eyes lining with tears but luckily he doesn’t need to see you to know what you look like. He would know you with his eyes closed. He would know you if he was blind and deaf because he knows you and that goes past any of the senses of his body. It is down to how he feels. 

            Because he loves you. With all that he is, he loves you. 

            He loves you for giving him a chance, for seeing the good in him when no one else could or would, for trusting him, for marrying him and giving him a family and a way out but most of all for telling him when he told you he was terrified that his son would turn out just like him “I would be proud if they turn out like you, Andy. You’re perfect and I love you so if our kid takes after you…I’ll be the proudest mother in the world.”

            He loves you for being you and being his. 

            “It wasn’t hard. You’re the one who got us out, who got us here. You’re the one who did the 360-life flip from crime to a job as a chef,” you say and he just buries his face in your neck, drinking in your scent as the tears flow down his cheeks, hot and searing. 

            “You loved me through all my fuck-ups,” he whispers and then you pull away, sitting up so you can face him, your eyes beautiful and fierce as you look down at him. 

            “I loved you through your mistakes because our mistakes are not us, Andy. Our mistakes are just that—mistakes. You are not what you did. You are not what that bitch tried to make you think you are,” you cry and that’s when he notices that you’re crying too and then he’s taking you in his arms, holding tight to you, kissing you until the tears turn to giggles and you’re laughing in his arms. 

            “You’ve loved me through everything, even when I didn’t think I deserved it so please,” he whispers, “let me celebrate you and the miracle of you and our family. Of our children out here and the one still growing. Okay?”

            And he relaxes when he hears you whisper “okay,” relaxed enough that he can pull back and kiss you again, properly, hard and fast and fierce. 

            “You’ve given me everything I’ve ever dreamed,” he whispers and this time, you say nothing to argue or wheedle out, simply replying, “it’s what I dreamed of too. With you.”

            And then there are open0handed slaps on the bedroom door and Julie’s voice yells out, “hurry up! I’ve waited all week to give you this! I want to see your reaction!” And then the two of you are laughing as he helps you out of bed and into your blanket hoodie—the only robe you favour since there’s odd belt configuration for your bump. 

            “Remind me again why I dreamed of this,” he whispers, his tone teasing as Julie slaps the door again, his words making you laugh hard, the sound still the most beautiful thing in the world to him as you lean against him for support. 

            And he doesn’t need your reminder because this, a real family, someone who loves him for him is all he’s ever wanted. 

            And it’s exactly what you’ve given him. 

            You were right, he would like to just celebrate you existing, period. Because you’re a miracle. His miracle. 

            You’re everything he’s ever dreamed of. 

[midwestprentiss]

i’m ill this is beautiful 😕😕😕

[midwestprentiss]

i jusf finished animal kingdom and i think i’ll never be the same again

[frankensteinshouse]

POPE CODY IN A HOODIE IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, SAVE US.

[midwestprentiss]

popemira nation is apparently larger than i thought since i already got some sweet comments and reblogs on my ao3 and posts here … in the words of shawn hatosy, i’m happy to be part of your disorder

me writing them face reveal