S1 Andrew “Pope” Cody x gender neutral street-based sex worker reader
Synopsis: After his release from prison pope can’t sleep, so he drives. Night after night, he finds himself returning to the same street corner and the person waiting beneath the glow of the moon.
Note: Ik this is my 3rd s1 pope fic but it’s just something about him then that draws me in. Sorry for any mistakes, the idea came to while I was falling asleep and my brain wouldn’t shut up until I did something about it. Strike the inspiration while it’s hot.
Warnings: SFW, No Y/N usage,don’t know how to frame it but sex worker themes ( brief descriptions, not explored in depth), loneliness, insomnia, melancholy vibe.
Animal kingdom masterlist
The streets emptied long before midnight.
Storefronts sat dark behind metal shutters, traffic lights cycling through colours for no one at all. The ocean air carried a chill that settled into the cracks in the pavement, while, somewhere overhead, the moon hung impossibly bright, washing the city in silver.
Pope drove because he couldn’t sleep.
His mind was loud and scrambled; the feelings of emptiness mixed with umbilical rage flooded his bloodstream.
Everything had changed; nothing was where it was supposed to be.
So he drove, through the unchanged streets, the only semblance of normalcy he had left. The only place that didn’t look at him differently.
His truck traversed through familiar streets until his foot eased from the accelerator without him thinking.
There you were, at the same street corner, the same patch of pale moonlight spilling over the concrete like a stage no one had noticed.
Some nights you leaned against the street lamp, arms folded tightly as you slightly shivered from the cold night air.
He never saw what everyone else saw. The men leered at you as nothing but a piece of meat to fulfil their depravity.
Pope noticed everything else: the way your shoulders relaxed when no car slowed down. The way you tipped your face toward the night sky between clients, as if the moon was the only thing willing to look back at you.
The way loneliness surrounded you like another layer of clothing.
He parked across the street, engine off, hands resting on the steering wheel. He watched; minutes became nearly an hour.
Eventually you looked straight at him, not startled but curious. Your head tilted slightly, the moonlight carving gently across your face, making you look unreal.
You walked across the street, hips swaying sensually, your shoes echoing softly across the asphalt until you stopped at the driver's side window.
He rolled it down,
“You been here every night”, you stated, not accusatory but as an observation
His eyes stayed on yours “Yeah,” Pope grumbled out
“You looking for company?” you asked, lowering your voice into a softer, sultrier tone.
Finally, he reached into his pockets and pulled out a couple of neatly pressed hundred-dollar bills, folded carefully, almost deliberately, before he held them out to you.
You accepted them automatically, then waited.
“Well?” you asked
“You can stay there”, he replied
Your brow furrowed in confusion “There?” You questioned
He nodded toward the corner you just left.
“I just..” his voice caught for a moment “I just wanted to see you”
His eyes were not filled with hunger and expectation, just honesty so strange it made you feel a bit uneasy.
You looked back at the lonely moonlight beneath the street lamp, then back at him.
“So… you just paid me to stand there?”
Another small nod “If you want”
You laughed under your breath, unable to decipher whether he was frightening or heartbreakingly sad.
“You’re a weird guy”
“I know”
You wandered across the street, settling once more beneath the street lamp.
Neither of you spoke again
The city remained silent
The moonlight climbed higher
And for reasons neither of you understood, neither of you left
saw this tiktok and knew i neeeeeded to write something quick, fast, and in a hurry!!
fauxcest, age gap, uncle!Andrew, niece!reader, nobody is batting an eye except J, reader’s 21st birthday
you love your uncles. all of them, uncle Daren, uncle Craig, uncle Baz, and uncle Pope but you always called him uncle Andrew.
yeah they weren’t really your uncles but still, they treated you like their family and you were close enough to J’s age that they just presumed to treat you like a niece.
it was your birthday!! you’d finally turned 21 and to celebrate Deran had let you use some of the beer from his bar. about eight kegs just scattered inside and outside the house as you prepared for the party.
you’d gone out with J earlier in the morning to go pick your cake, party streamers and whatever else. also they didn’t want you at the house while they were attempting to ‘wrap’ your gifts.
so you basically hadn’t been home all day. being out and not seeing any of your uncles.
you and J got about around one in the afternoon-ish. heading inside with grocery bags, setting them on the counter as you started to unpack. after about fifteen minutes you were all done and headed to the living room where all your uncles and J were sitting.
flashing them all smiles when they started to try and ‘hype you up’ for your big day. in truth you didn’t wanna make a big deal out of it but at the same time you didn’t mind the attention you weee getting.
especially when the words, “come here sweetie, give uncle Andrew a kiss.”
left your oldest uncle’s mouth and floated their way into your ears.
you’d have him a nod because you’d always say yes to him. most thought it was because you feared him but in truth you just wanted to please him. you sat yourself on his lap with arms and his neck and gave him a big ol’ wet one on his cheek.
you’ve got your feet lightly kicking as you look over to your uncle Andrew for any sign of approval.
he shook his head at you and let out a “tsk” under his breath.
“you really gonna call that a kiss? what boys you been hanging out with this time?”
you just gave a small frown, averting your gaze and trying not to answer because you didn’t have one.
his right hand was resting gently on your knee cap while his left was sitting perfectly hidden from the view of his brothers on your ass. or more specifically in the waistband of your shorts and underwear. before lightly pinching the fat of your ass cheek.
you jumped a little and fought back a yelp. “Uncle Andy!!” you said instead.
turning to look at him with a slightly cheeky grin. while Deran and Craig indulged in conversation not even batting an eye your guy’s way. while on the other hand J sat propped up on a mountain of pillows with a watchful gaze. Baz wasn’t even near. he was outside by the pool on the phone with someone important.
even if it was just one person looking you had to keep up a wall because if anyone knew… of you’d be dead.
“what was that for?” you asked him, bright and cheery as you gently leaned forward
“what was what? i’m still waiting on my kiss, sweet girl.”
you rolled your eyes at him before you finally plant a real kiss on him. not all sloppy and wet like the one that you planted on his cheek. but contained and passionate like this wasn’t your first time kissing you uncle on the lips.
you pulled back with a slight smile.
“better, uncle Andy?”
he nodded and you felt so proud of yourself.
please let me know if i should make a part 2 of this. i think i realllyyy like it tbh. anwayyy love you cool cats and kittens lots and lots like polka dots <3
pairing: andrew "pope" cody x j's girlfriend!reader
summary: The first night you meet J’s family, you fall asleep with your head in his lap. But the Codys have a way of taking what doesn’t belong to them, and Pope decides that includes you.
wc: 4.3k
a/n: yes, this was inspired by the pilot. yes, i saw pope carry j’s girlfriend to bed and my brain immediately started chewing drywall. i know j and nicky are 17 in canon, but in this fic j and reader are written to be in their 20s. mind the tags. not beta read.
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, noncon/dubcon, somnophilia, intoxicated reader, reader wakes up mid-assault, hand over mouth, forced silence, physical restraint, threats/intimidation, coercion, forced orgasm, victim blaming, gaslighting, piv, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, pregnancy risk, crying during sex, fear/panic, dissociation/shock aftermath, cheating, touch-starved Pope Cody, Pope being deeply unwell
MASTERLIST
The living room had gone quiet. The kind of quiet that settled into a house after the chaos drained out, leaving only the hollow echo of it. Pope sat on the couch across from them, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between his thighs. The lamp cast his shadow long across the floor, and he hadn't moved in a while.
J was out cold. Head tipped back against the couch cushions, mouth slack, breathing slow and even. The kid had passed out sitting up, one arm draped across the back of the couch where her head had been. Except she wasn't there anymore. She'd slid down sometime in the last hour, her cheek pressed to his thigh, her body curled into a loose fetal position on the worn cushions.
Pope's eyes kept going back to her.
She was wearing J’s hoodie. The gray one with the faded logo, too big on her, the sleeves bunched around her wrists like she’d disappeared into it. Her hair had fallen across her face, hiding half of her from him, but not enough. Not enough to stop the lamplight from catching the soft line of her cheek, the exposed stretch of her throat, the slow, sleeping rise and fall beneath the worn cotton.
He told himself he was just making sure she was comfortable. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he’d been telling himself for the last twenty minutes, sitting there while the TV flickered blue and white across the living room, some half-forgotten show murmuring in the background, the laugh track rising and dying without him really hearing it. His eyes stayed on her, the way the shifting light slid over her face, disappeared, then found her again.
Deran had gone home. Craig had stumbled to his room an hour ago. Baz had left with a half-empty bottle and a muttered goodnight. Smurf had kissed J's forehead on her way to bed, looked at Pope with that knowing expression he couldn't read, and said nothing. The house had gone still.
Pope stood up.
His knees cracked. He crossed the worn carpet in three strides, stopped at the edge of the couch, and looked down at them. At her. J stirred in his sleep, shifted, settled. She didn't move.
He bent down and slid one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She was light. Easier than he expected. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her breath warm on his neck, and something in his chest twisted so hard he had to stop breathing for a second.
She smelled like cheap wine and something else. Something clean. Her hair brushed his jaw as he straightened, carrying her across the living room, down the hall, past the bathroom with its flickering light, to the door at the end.
J's room. His old room. Three years since he'd stood in this doorway.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder. The bed was made—J had done that, probably—a thin blanket pulled tight over a mattress that sagged in the middle. Pope laid her down like she was made of glass. Her head found the pillow, her hair fanning out around her face, and she sighed in her sleep. A soft sound. A sound that went straight through him.
He stood over her.
The room was dark except for the sliver of light from the hallway, cutting across the foot of the bed. It caught her face in profile, the curve of her jaw, the flush still lingering on her cheeks. She was beautiful. Not in the sharp, dangerous way of the women he'd known—soft. Warm. The kind of beautiful that made you want to protect something.
He hadn't touched a woman in three years.
Three years of concrete and steel and the smell of other men's sweat. Three years of counting days, of keeping his head down, of forgetting what a woman's skin felt like. Three years of hunger he'd learned to bury so deep he thought maybe it had died.
It hadn't died.
It was sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring at her, his hands resting on his thighs, his breath coming slow and shallow.
He should leave. He knew he should leave. Get up, walk out, close the door, go sleep on the couch. That's what a good man would do. That's what his twin sister's kid deserved.
He didn't move.
The minutes passed. The light from the hallway shifted as the moon moved across the sky. Her breathing stayed steady, deep, oblivious. She was so trusting. Curled up in a stranger's house, drunk, asleep, wearing his nephew's hoodie, and she had no idea who was watching her in the dark.
Pope reached out.
His fingers hovered over her cheek. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. Close enough that if she moved, she'd brush against him. He stayed there, hand suspended, watching his own shadow fall across her face.
Then he touched her.
Just the back of his knuckles, grazing down her cheek. Featherlight. A whisper of contact. Her skin was so soft it made his chest ache. He traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her chin, the column of her throat. She didn't stir. Didn't even shift.
His hand dropped to the hem of J's hoodie.
The fabric was worn, soft from washing, the hem riding up where the hoodie had twisted in her sleep. Pope’s eyes caught on the small strip of exposed skin before he could stop himself — the shadow of her navel, the gentle line where her body curved into the waistband beneath it. He stared too long. Long enough to know better. Then he the fabric fall.
His hand found the hem again.
This time he pulled it higher. To her ribs. To the bottom edge of her bra, a simple cotton thing, black, unremarkable. The hoodie bunched around her chest and he could see the soft swell of her breasts, the way they rose and fell with each breath.
He stopped. Looked at her face. Still asleep. Still trusting.
He pulled the hoodie up over her head.
It caught on her chin, and he had to tilt her head gently to work it free. She murmured something—a sound, not a word—and his whole body went still. But she didn't wake. Her head lolled to the side, her hair spilling across the pillow, and he was holding J's hoodie in his hands.
He set it on the foot of the bed.
She was wearing a thin tank top underneath. The straps had slipped down her shoulders, and he could see the curve of her collarbone, the hollow at the base of her throat. Her bra was visible through the fabric. Black. Simple. The kind of thing a girl wore when she wasn't planning on anyone seeing it.
Pope's hands found the hem of the tank top.
He pulled it up, slow, so slow, watching her skin appear inch by inch. Her stomach. Her ribs. The underwire of her bra. She shifted in her sleep, one arm coming up, and he froze—but her hand just flopped onto the pillow above her head, leaving her exposed.
The tank top joined the hoodie at the foot of the bed.
She lay there in just her bra and jeans. The lamp light from the hallway caught the curve of her breasts, the soft shadow between them. Her skin looked almost luminous in the dark. He could see the faint blue of veins beneath the surface, the rise and fall of her breathing, the way her lips parted a little more with each exhale.
His hand found her hip. The waistband of her jeans. The button. He worked it open one-handed, the sound loud in the quiet room. She didn't stir. The zipper slid down, teeth separating, and he could see the edge of her underwear—also black, also simple, a thin triangle of cotton covering the place he wanted most.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her jeans and pulled. She lifted her hips in her sleep, just enough, and the denim slid down her thighs, her knees, off her ankles. He dropped them on the floor.
She was his nephew’s girlfriend. That should’ve been enough to make him look away. A girl who'd walked into this house tonight with nervous eyes and a brave smile. A girl who'd gripped J's hand like he was the only safe thing in a room full of sharks. A girl who'd fallen asleep with her head in his lap, trusting him.
Pope's fingers traced the edge of her underwear. The elastic band. The curve of her hip. The soft skin of her lower stomach. He could feel the heat of her through the cotton, could smell the faint musk of her body, could see the way her thighs pressed together in sleep.
He pushed the fabric aside.
His fingers found her. Wet. She was wet. Even in sleep, even without knowing what was happening, her body had responded. He slid one finger through the slick heat, just once, just to feel it, and his breath caught in his throat.
He hadn't touched a woman in three years.
He pushed a finger inside her.
She was tight. Hot. Her body clenched around him, a reflex, and he watched her face—watched for any sign of waking. Her brow furrowed. Her lips parted wider. A soft sound escaped her throat, something between a sigh and a moan.
He pushed deeper. A second finger. She was so wet he slid in easily, her body accepting him, her hips shifting slightly on the mattress. He watched his fingers disappear into her, watched the way her stomach tensed, watched the flush spread across her chest.
Her eyes opened.
For a second, she didn't understand. Her gaze was unfocused, hazy with sleep, trying to make sense of the dark room, the unfamiliar ceiling, the weight on the bed beside her. Then she felt it. The intrusion. The slow, deliberate movement inside her.
Her eyes went wide.
Her mouth opened—to scream, to gasp, to say something—and his hand was there, palm flat over her lips to smother the sound, pressing her head back into the pillow.
"Shh." His voice was low. Rough. A whisper that barely stirred the air between them. "Don't."
Her body went rigid. Her hands flew up, grabbing his wrist, trying to push him away, but he didn't move. He was stronger. He'd always been stronger. Three years in Folsom had taught him exactly how much force it took to hold someone still.
Her eyes were locked on his. Wide. Terrified. Catching the light from the hallway, tears already starting to well at the corners.
He didn't stop moving his fingers.
Slow. Deep. A rhythm that had nothing to do with her fear and everything to do with the heat of her, the way her body gripped him even as her mind rebelled. His thumb found her clit, pressed, circled, and she made a sound against his palm—muffled, desperate, caught between a sob and a moan.
"You're gonna be quiet," he said. "You're gonna be quiet, and I'm gonna take care of you. Understand?"
She shook her head. Tears spilled down her cheeks, wetting his fingers.
He pressed deeper. Curled his fingers. Found the spot inside her that made her back arch, made her gasp against his hand, made her nails dig into his forearm.
"I said," he repeated, his voice dropping lower, "do you understand?"
She stared at him. Her chest heaved. Her body was betraying her, responding to his touch in ways she couldn't control, and they both knew it. The slick sound of his fingers moving inside her filled the quiet room.
She nodded. A small, jerky motion against his palm.
He held her gaze. His fingers kept moving. Slow. Deliberate. A promise of what was coming.
"Good girl."
His fingers kept pumping. Slow. Deep. The wet sound of them sliding in and out of her filled the room, a rhythm that matched the hammering of her heart against his palm. She was crying silently now, tears streaming down her temples, soaking into J's pillowcase, and he watched them fall with something that might have been tenderness if it wasn't so hungry.
"You hear that?" His voice was barely a whisper, rough and low against her ear. "How wet you are for me? That's not fear, sweetheart. That's your body knowing what it needs."
She shook her head against his hand, a desperate denial, and he curled his fingers harder, pressing up into that spot that made her vision blur. Her back arched off the mattress, a choked sound escaping her throat, and he felt her clench around him—tight, rhythmic, involuntary.
"That's it," he breathed. "That's fucking it. Let go for me. Come on my fingers like a good girl."
Her hands were still wrapped around his wrist, but she wasn't pushing anymore. She was gripping, holding on, her nails biting into his skin as her hips started to move against his hand in small, needy little grinds. Her body was betraying her, chasing the pleasure even as her mind screamed no, and he watched the war play out across her face—the furrowed brow, the way her eyes rolled back before she forced them open again.
"I know," he murmured. "I know it's too much. But you're gonna take it. You're gonna take it, and you're gonna come, and then I'm gonna give you something better."
He pressed his thumb against her clit, hard, circling in time with his fingers, and she shattered.
Her whole body seized, a violent shudder that started in her core and radiated outward—her thighs clamping around his hand, her stomach tensing, her back bowing off the bed. The sound she made against his palm was raw, muffled, a broken whimper that went on and on as her cunt gripped his fingers in wave after wave, soaking his hand, dripping onto the sheets beneath her.
He didn't stop. He worked her through it, slowing only when her hips started to twitch with oversensitivity, her breath coming in harsh, wet gasps against his fingers.
"That's it," he said softly. "That's my girl. Look at you. Look how pretty you are when you come."
Her eyes were dazed, unfocused, tears still leaking from the corners. She was trembling, her whole body shaking with the aftershocks, and he pulled his fingers out slowly, watching the way her cunt clung to them, the way she was still clenching around nothing.
He brought his fingers to his mouth. Tasted her. Salty and sweet and warm, and he groaned low in his throat, a sound that was almost painful.
"Fuck," he whispered. "I've been three years without this. Three years without tasting a woman, without feeling one come around my fingers. And you—" He looked at her, his gray-blue eyes dark in the dim light. "You're the prettiest thing I've seen since I walked out of that cell."
She was crying harder now, silent sobs shaking her chest, and he reached down and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his wet fingers, smearing her own arousal across her skin.
"Shh," he said. "Shh. You did so good. But we're not done yet."
Her eyes widened, fresh terror flooding them, and she shook her head against his palm—a desperate, frantic motion.
"I know," he said, his voice dropping lower, almost gentle. "I know you're scared. But here's the thing, sweetheart. I've been locked up for three years. Three years of nothing but my own hand and the memory of what a woman feels like. And you—" He traced his thumb along her jaw, felt her tremble. "You're here. Warm. Wet. Soft. You think I'm gonna stop now?"
She was staring at him, her eyes huge and glassy, her breath coming in ragged little gasps against his palm.
"Here's what's gonna happen," he said. "I'm gonna take my hand off your mouth. And you're gonna be quiet. Not a sound. Not a whisper. Not even a breath too loud. Because if you make noise, if you wake anyone up, I'm gonna have to hurt you. And I don't want to hurt you."
He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a thread of sound in the dark.
"I wanna fuck you. Wanna feel that tight little cunt squeeze my cock. Wanna come inside you so deep you feel it for a week. And you're gonna let me. Because if you don't—" He paused, letting the weight of it settle. "I'll find you tomorrow. And the day after. And every day until you do."
She was shaking, her whole body vibrating with fear, but she nodded. A small, jerky motion against his palm.
"Good girl."
He lifted his hand slowly, watching her face, ready to clamp it back down if she so much as inhaled wrong. But she stayed silent. Her lips pressed together, her breath coming through her nose in short, sharp bursts, her eyes locked on his.
He held her gaze as he reached for his belt.
The clink of the buckle was loud in the quiet room, metallic and final. He worked it open one-handed, then the button, then the zipper—slow, deliberate, letting her hear every sound, letting her know exactly what was coming. He pushed his jeans down just far enough, and his cock sprang free, hard and aching, the tip already wet with pre-cum.
She looked at it. Her breath caught. Her thighs pressed together, a reflexive motion, and he saw the apprehension sharpen in her eyes.
"Yeah," he said, wrapping his hand around the base, stroking once, twice, watching her watch him. "I know. But you can take it. You're gonna take it."
He shifted on the bed, positioning himself between her thighs, pushing them apart with his knees. She didn't resist. She just lay there, trembling, tears streaming, her hands fisted in the sheets beside her hips.
He lined himself up. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, wet and slick from her orgasm, and he paused there, just feeling it—the heat of her, the way her body seemed to pulse against him, the knowledge that he was about to be inside a woman for the first time in three years.
"Fuck," he breathed.
And then he pushed forward.
She was tight. So fucking tight. Her body resisted for a second, a wall of heat and pressure, and then he was in, buried to the hilt in one smooth, wet thrust. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream, her back arching, her nails tearing into the sheets hard enough to pull the cinched corners free from the mattress, and he had to clamp his jaw shut to keep from groaning out loud.
Jesus Christ.
He'd forgotten. He'd fucking forgotten what this felt like—the grip of a woman's cunt, the wet heat, the way it seemed to pull him deeper with every pulse of her body. He closed his eyes, just for a second, just to feel it, and when he opened them again, she was staring at him, her face a mess of tears and terror and something else, something dark and complicated that he didn't have time to name.
He started to move.
Slow at first. Deep, dragging thrusts that pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, watching himself disappear into her, watching the way her body accepted him even as her mind rebelled. The sound was obscene—wet and slick and rhythmic, the squelch of his cock moving inside her, the slap of his hips against her thighs.
"Look at that," he murmured, his voice rough, strained. "Look at how well you're taking me. Like you were made for it. Like this cunt was made for my cock."
She shook her head, a small, broken motion, and he leaned down, his lips brushing her ear.
"Don't lie to me. I can feel you. I can feel the way you clench every time I push in. I can feel how wet you are, how much your body wants this even if your head doesn't." He thrust harder, deeper, and her breath caught in a sharp, silent gasp. "Your pussy knows what it needs. And it needs my cock."
He fucked her harder. Faster. The bed creaked beneath them, a steady rhythm, and he had to focus on staying quiet, on keeping his groans locked in his chest, on not crying out like an animal. She was so tight. So hot. So wet. He could feel himself getting close already, too soon, three years of deprivation clawing at him, and he slowed down, forced himself to breathe, to last.
"Not yet," he muttered. "Not yet. I wanna feel this a little longer."
He pulled out almost all the way, then pushed back in, slow and deep, watching her face. Her eyes were closed now, tears still leaking from the corners, her lips parted, her breath coming in shallow little gasps. She wasn't fighting anymore. She was just lying there, taking it, her body responding to his rhythm whether she wanted it to or not.
He reached down, found her clit with his thumb, pressed hard.
Her eyes flew open. Her mouth formed a silent O, and he felt her clench around him, her body starting to tremble again.
"That's it," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Come for me again. Come on my cock. I wanna feel you squeeze me while I fill you up."
He fucked her through it, his thumb working her clit in tight circles, his hips pounding into her with a rhythm that was desperate now, hungry, three years of want finally finding its release. She came with a broken, silent cry, her whole body convulsing around him, her cunt gripping him so tight he couldn't hold back anymore.
"Fuck—"
He buried himself deep, his cock twitching inside her, and he came. Thick and hot and endless, pulse after pulse, filling her so full he could feel it leaking out around him, dripping down his thighs, soaking the sheets beneath them. He kept thrusting, shallow and slow, riding it out, feeling every spasm of his own release, feeling the way her body milked him dry.
When it was over, he stayed inside her for a long moment, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath harsh and ragged in the dark.
He pulled out slowly. His come followed, a thick, creamy white that slid out of her and pooled on the sheets, mixing with her own wetness. He watched it drip out of her, watched the way her thighs were slick with it, and something dark and satisfied settled in his chest.
He reached down, gathered some of it on his fingers, and pushed it back inside her.
"Can't waste it," he murmured.
She flinched at his touch, a small, helpless sound escaping her throat, and he looked at her—really looked at her. She was a mess. Tears and sweat and come, her hair plastered to her face, her chest heaving, her eyes glassy and distant.
He tucked himself back into his jeans, did up his belt, and stood up. He looked down at her for a long moment, at the evidence of what he'd done, at the girl who'd walked into his brother's house with a brave smile and was now lying in a puddle of his come.
"I'll get you Plan B tomorrow," he said, his voice flat. Matter-of-fact. "I just had to fuck you raw. Couldn't wait. Couldn't help it."
He reached down and pulled the sheet up over her, covering her, hiding what he'd done. The gesture was almost tender, almost kind, and it made something twist in his gut.
She turned her head. Looked at him. Her eyes were raw from crying, her cheeks wet, her mouth trembling around breaths she kept trying to steady. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The room felt too small around them now. Too hot. Too quiet. The strip of hallway light still cut across the floor, thin and pale, like nothing had changed outside this room at all.
“Don’t tell him,” she whispered.
Pope didn’t move.
Her voice cracked on the next word. “Please.”
He looked down at her, at the blanket around her waist, at the mess of her hair against J’s pillow, at the way she couldn’t quite hold his stare without breaking apart again.
“He can’t know,” she said.
Something shifted behind Pope’s face. Not guilt, exactly. Not enough of it. Just a tightening around his eyes, a hard swallow, a flicker of something buried too deep to reach the surface cleanly.
He nodded once.
“I won’t.”
She stared at him like she didn’t believe him.
So he said it again, quieter. Firmer.
“I won’t tell him.”
Her face crumpled for half a second before she turned away, curling onto her side and dragging the blanket up over her shoulder. Not modesty. Not comfort. A dismissal. A wall. A way to disappear without leaving the room.
Pope stood there and watched her back.
The house stayed silent.
J was still asleep down the hall, breathing easy, stupid and unaware in the blue-white flicker of the television. Smurf was upstairs. Craig was passed out. Baz and Deran were gone. The whole Cody house kept holding its breath around them, protecting its own rot the way it always did.
Pope reached for the door.
Stopped.
Looked back at her one last time.
She didn’t turn around.
That should’ve been enough to make him leave faster.
Instead, he stood there for another second, committing the shape of her beneath the blanket to memory, the small tremor in her shoulders, the way she’d begged him to keep the secret like that made it less real.
Then he stepped into the hallway and pulled the door almost shut behind him. Not all the way. Just enough to leave her in the dark. Just enough to leave a thin line of light across the floor.
I did always like the scene of Pope carrying J’s girlfriend to the bed.
I could see dark!Pope feeling reader up while she’s asleep. He has gone a long while without seeing, let alone touching a woman.
Maybe reader wakes up all sleepy and disoriented to the feeling of Pope taking her shorts and panties off in one go. He’d climb ontop of her, his brute hand smothering her gasps while the other traps her wrists above her head.
He sweetly leans his forehead against hers whispering “it’s okay. you’re okay.” while she struggles under his solid weight. His wild dark eyes drink down her wide ones that are brimming with tears.
“Shh. Shh.” He splays kisses across her cheek to her earlobe before giving it a sharp nip.
“So sweet of you to welcome me home like this.” He kisses the top of his hand, pinching his eyes shut as if he’s actually kissing your lips instead of his hand.
His eyes narrow, hard and unyielding. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t hit me.”
He quickly unzips his pants and pulls his cock out, letting it graze against your folds before locking your wrists back in his grip. “Good. You’re so good for me.”
A gasp catches in your chest as Pope notches his bulbous tip at your opening.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be our secret.”
ozzie, this is so 😵💫 i don’t have anything worthwhile to add, but this needs to be shared with the world. dark!pope, you are everything to me
