paring: andrew pope cody/stripper!reader
tags: 18+, starts in s1, erectile dysfunction, lap-dances, second-hand embarrassment, slow burn, implied age gap, no use of y/n. reader has fake names, a large family, and a past (that is catching up). no smut for this part.
wc: 7.5k
an: this is basically my coping mechanism when rewatching animal kingdom and wanting pope to have a friend/get a happy ending. idk, this concept has probably been done before, but I'm having fun with it so...
summary: Who says you can't meet the love of your life in a strip club dressing room after his brother paid another girl a thousand bucks to wish him a happy birthday?
Okay, so he's a bit strange and he might be stalking you and his mother is terrifying and you're really just trying to make enough money for rent and tuition without getting into any kind of trouble, but on the bright side, at least he's not a cop.
Karma - Part 1 - [AO3 LINK]
“…I’m not doing it, the guy creeps me out…”
A strip club was no place for privacy, and the dressing room even less so with half a dozen girls in various stages of undress crammed in at any given time. Some doing a costume change, some taking a snack break, and others sipping, smoking or snorting whatever they could to get enough of a buzz to make it bearable to go back outside. It reeked of hairspray, perfume and weed, with a heavy layer of face powder floating in the air like a built-in grain filter. One girl sat by the sink, blatantly touching up her bikini line, while another tried to pop a pimple on yet another girl’s butt cheek. There were no secrets in a strip club dressing room and it was probably the worst place for private conversations.
Bless Jasmine’s heart, though, she was still trying. Speaking in hushed tones behind the heavy velvet curtain that separated the prep area from the bathrooms. There used to be a partition wall, but the manager never got around to replace it after some girls tore it down during a fight. At least that’s what Pepper told you when she gave you the tour of the backstage area a few weeks ago.
“…just call security and…”
“…bad business, his brother’s a regular and…”
You tried to focus on fixing your makeup — you weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but not even the muffled tunes from the stage could drown out the intense whispers from Jasmine and Trixie. What was Jasmine even doing in here? A statuesque sultry redhead, she was one of the more popular girls in the club. And one of the lucky few who had their own private dressing rooms.
“…do me a favor and…”
“No way. No! I can’t, I got one of my regulars coming in…”
The curtain tore aside, and you tore your gaze back to the mirror, staring at your own reflection like your life depended on it. You had only been here a few weeks and did not have the time or energy to make enemies, especially not now. Trixie, with a jet-black wig and already in her six-inch-heels, strode back to her spot that was next to yours and shook her head while Jasmine was close on her heel.
Jasmine clutched her short silk dressing gown with a white-knuckled fist. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Either give him the time of his life, give the money back,” Trixie suggested as she leaned towards the mirror to put on more plum lipstick, and Jasmine looked sick at the thought, “or find some other girl to do your dirty work.”
Still staring fixedly at yourself in the mirror, you almost missed how both their gazes fell to you. You did, however, catch the way Jasmine kissed her teeth and cocked her head to the side.
“Hey, new girl. Wanna make five hundred bucks?”
----
And that was how you found yourself here, trying to get your breath under control just outside the door to Jasmine’s dressing room. This was insane. This was literally insane. This wasn’t you. You didn’t do this. You weren’t like this. Okay, sure, that was what you had told yourself when you first started dancing, but with dancing, you still had boundaries. They could look, but not touch, and security had your back, and it was a far cry from flashing your tits at some sweaty business men to literally have sex for money.
And yet, you had accepted Jasmine’s offer. She had made it sound so easy.
“The guy’s just back from Pakistan or whatever and he looked pent up like crazy, so he’s probably a two pump chump at most. Easiest and fastest money you’ll ever make. Just remember to make him wear a condom, and it’ll be fine.”
And when you expressed your concerns about not knowing what to do, Trixie had chimed in with advice:
“You know when you give a private dance and have to swat their hands away a few times before they get the message? Yeah, just do that, but don’t swat his hands. It’ll be easy.”
Speaking of hands, you rubbed your clammy palms on the limited real estate of your outfit and wished you had covered up somehow. That you had borrowed Jasmine’s dressing gown to make some kind of slow and sensual reveal instead of waltzing inside dressed as a literal stripper. It felt tasteless somehow, as if being paid money to fuck someone was not.
“You can do this, you can do this, you can do this,” you muttered under your breath, trying to remember all the reasons you had agreed to this. You needed those five hundred bucks by tomorrow. It was the whole reason you had picked up an extra shift tonight, hoping you would get lucky and catch the eye of some high roller. The way the night was going though, you would be lucky to break even. Desperate times called for desperate measures, right? You just needed to get in there and get it over with and deal with the psychological fallout later. It was just sex. Everyone had sex. And lots of people had sex for money. Prostitution was the world’s oldest profession, wasn’t it? Besides, it was just this one time. You needed those five hundred dollars.
The other way to get it by tomorrow was risky — too risky.
Before you could psych yourself out anymore, you closed your eyes, took a deep breath to get into your stage persona, and turned the door handle.
Not sure what to expect — the poor guy could be sitting in there buck naked for all you knew — you opened the door carefully and slipped inside. The loud music from the stage faded to nothing but the bass track when you clicked the lock shut behind you. You had never actually seen any of the private dressing rooms before — it was roughly the size of a shoebox, with two armchairs and a small table crammed in with a vanity and some lockers. Rows and rows of shiny tassels hung over the large makeup mirror and momentarily distracted you before your eyes fell on him.
Him, who sat like a statue on the very edge of the seat of one of the worn-down armchairs. Him, who looked like a still-life painted by someone who had mastered the basics of anatomy, but not human behavior. Him, with short-cropped hair that looked glued to his scalp and a tight scowl on a slightly shiny face, his taut muscles stretching from his down-turned mouth all the way to his rigid collar-bones.
“Who are you?”
His voice caught you off guard. It had a strange lilt to it, like a grown man having minor flashbacks to puberty, teetering between raspy hard and soft every other syllable. You could not decide if he sounded angry or indifferent, and tried to give him a seducing smile to break the ice.
“I’m—”
“Where’s the other girl?”
He pulled on his words somewhat. You couldn’t say if he was blending the r’s or elongating the vowels or had a slight lisp, but it was not in a drunken slur, more as a last remnant of a speech impediment. His lip lifted in something between confusion and contempt and you swallowed, doing your best to avoid flinching at his harsh question. Shit, you knew he would ask that and had even expressed your concerns to Jasmine. She had just waved her hand dismissively and said he would not care which pussy he got as long as he got pussy.
Except he looked very much like he cared. He still sat in that fixed position, back straight, and his knees spread with a hand perched on each one. Not resting, not even remotely close to resting, and not moving anything else than his head and neck as he talked.
“She had to go,” you mumbled and licked your lips, tasting the dryness of your lipstick. “I’m—”
“Go where?”
Again, his question seemed almost juvenile in nature. Like a child that had yet to learn the social cues of communication. Demanding attention and answers at whim, and disregarding the dynamic nature of a dialogue. Or maybe actively disregarding it, treating it more like an interrogation than a conversation. Like a cop?
“I don’t know,” you mumbled again, but this time you hurried to continue before he could bark another question. “Something about a family emergency.”
The guy closed his mouth that had been halfway open in question and slunk back a fraction, skepticism written all over his face. His scowl did not clear at all, and you noticed the way he flexed his fists still settled on his knees. It was becoming obvious why Jasmine had backed out. You had expected some greasy drunkard who had just gotten his tax returns and wanted to splurge on something nice. Not this ticking time bomb whose body language screamed that this was the last place he wanted to be.
Yet, here he was, and he looked both old and capable enough to leave if he so desired. So you just had to assume that he still wanted to get his money’s worth and get on with it.
The brief silence helped ease you back into character and you dropped your voice to a lower octave. “I’m here to take care of you instead.”
The glare he sent you should have sent you running for the hills. Only his eyes moved, staring up at you from beneath his dark brows, and you did not feel naked as much as literally exposed. The very definition of the word. Uncovered, unconcealed, and unprotected. Sure, you wore a skimpy outfit that did not leave all that much to the imagination, but you could have worn a whole-ass duffle coat and it would not have made a lick of difference.
“How ‘bout some music?” you suggested, mostly because it gave you an excuse to turn away from him. To give yourself a small break from the intensity of his undivided attention. You sauntered over to the vanity to find the music box Jasmine had told you about and caught sight of your own reflection. There you were, in your tall heels and revealing costume. With the heavy makeup and clip-in extensions, you looked really frickin’ hot and, most importantly, you did not look like yourself. Because this wasn’t you, was it? This was your alter-ego that spent the nights showing her body off to strangers and she could do absolutely anything she wanted. Including this.
You needed this money.
With that fresh boost of courage, you hit ‘play’ on the device and the room filled with the slow sensual beat that was Jasmine in musical form, perfect for a lap dance. Which was no big deal, you thought, and started moving your hips to the rhythm. You’d done plenty of private dances. No big deal at all.
Just keep telling yourself that, you told yourself as you ran your hands over your curves and tried to imagine being on the stage. You hit the dimmer by the door as you made your way back to the guy, hoping the increased darkness would help both of you loosen up.
The guy did not appear to have moved a single muscle in your absence. He sat so rigid it looked physically painful and you unwittingly tried to keep your touch feather-light as you placed your finger-tips on his shoulder in case you hurt him somehow. In his defence, he did not flinch at your touch, but it was like he made a very conscious effort not to flinch. Only his head moved, twisting on his neck like a cobra to stare at your hand where it laid on the very edge of his shoulder, hardly the most conspicuous location given the theme of the night.
Holy shit, this guy was hot. Yeah, you’d obviously noticed the way his biceps and pecs filled out his shirt, but you were not prepared for the way his skin burned. You could feel it almost simmering underneath his nondescript black t-shirt as you did a walk-around. Trailing your fingertips from his shoulder and to his back, spreading your hands out over his traps like you were giving him a massage, but not daring to apply any pressure. The muscles flexed and bucked beneath your hand anyway, while the freckles on his bare arms danced in tune.
“Relax,” you murmured from behind him, running your palms over his rigid back, like a horse-whisperer trying to calm an irrate mustang. “I’m only here to make you feel good.”
No answer, not that you had expected one, and you went ahead with the dancing. There was an art to it, as you had learned when you started working. Especially the private dances. Giving an illusion of intimacy, flaunting and teasing, making the client think there was going to be more than just fun and fantasy. You knew other girls sometimes did stuff during the private dances, but you had always abided by the club rules and maintained the no-touch-policy from the stage. Some guys tried, obviously, but quickly subsided when it became clear it was either just a dance or nothing.
Except now it was supposed to be everything.
Remembering Trixie’s advice, you kept dancing like normal and made your way to stand between the guy’s spread knees. You writhed and twisted to the beat that filled the whole room and ran your hands over yourself in lieu of burning yourselftrying to touch him, however platonically. Normally, you would maintain eye contact as much as possible, reeling in your catch slowly, but this guy was too intense, and you let your eyes close instead. You dragged your fingers through your fake hair, down your throat and over the swell of your breasts. Not stopping there, but going further down, caressing your stomach and hips, dipping to your thighs before going back up.
You bit your lip, losing yourself in the music, feeling sexy as hell. Your heart beat along with the bass and your skin prickled with the energy rush you always got at this point. Muscle-memory took over and before you knew it, you were popping the clasps open on your top, one by one. You kept it in place with your hands, squeezing your breasts together teasingly, knowing that the reveal mattered more than the prize.
Of course, that was when you made the mistake of looking at his face. He still had not fucking moved at all! Seriously, he was still staring at you from beneath his brows like you had pissed in his beer instead of giving him a lap dance.
The intensity of his expression had you spin around again instead of taking off your top. At this rate, it would be the slowest five hundred bucks you would ever earn. And you still had to earn it, you reminded yourself as you absentmindedly wiggled your ass in front of him. What was this guy’s problem? Nerves? Too drunk to function? Not drunk enough?
You forced yourself to take a step back — it was easier when you didn’t have to look at his face — and pushed yourself into him. Still dancing, you bent your knees and spread your legs until your head was closer to his and gave him a sultry look over your shoulder. “Can I get you anything? A beer or…”
Something stronger? Jasmine definitely had something in here somewhere, and she could definitely spare some to help this poor guy get his money’s worth. Anything to help him relax.
“No.”
The word came out hard and decisive, travelling from his chest into yours, and it would take all the relaxants in the world to make you argue with him.
“Okay,” you said softly and licked your lips again. The silence and his rigidity ate away at your nerves and you found yourself talking while you ground your ass closer and closer to his crotch. Just waiting for him to put his hands on you so you could take things further. “So, what’s the occasion? You just get back from a tour?”
Jasmine had said Pakistan, and while you assumed she meant Afghanistan, you did not want to be wrong in front of this guy. Maybe that was his deal? PTSD or something? The guy had soldier written all over him.
“No,” the guy repeated in the same flat tone that bordered on angry. Again, he did not flinch as you threw your arms up and back around his neck, but you felt the way he swallowed hard. “It’s my birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday,” you practically purred, relieved at the semblance of a normal conversation. You twisted your hips side to side, feeling the harsh denim of his jeans dig into your lower buttocks, almost searching for a tell-tale hardness that would give you an entry point to finish this.
“And I just got out of prison.”
If this had been a movie, the music would have scratched and halted. It didn’t — it kept on playing as before — but you couldn’t help the way you froze on the spot, stuck in the awkward position. Your back pressed against his hard chest, your ass digging into his crotch, and your arms still looped around his neck.
“Oh,” you said, like a complete idiot, but could not will yourself to move. Every alarm bell was going off at the same time and you resisted the urge to downright bolt out of there. “What-what did you do?”
The silence dragged on way longer than it should have, and your legs shook with the effort of staying still.
“Robbed a bank.”
“Oh.” Your knees finally gave in to the strain and you plopped down in his lap, perching on him like he again perched on the chair. “Oh, that’s good.”
“That’s good?”
You did not see his incredulous look, but you sure as hell felt it.
“I mean, not good that you robbed a bank or went to prison for it,” you had no way of stopping the freight train of your blabbing, “but robbing a bank’s not that bad. It’s a pretty straightforward crime, when you think about it. Nothing to worry about.”
Somehow, your body began to move again. Completely on its own, though. Full on autopilot, just like your mouth was.
“There’s not a lot of analysis needed to why someone robs a bank. Don’t need a whole profile or anything. You rob a bank, it’s just about money.”
His voice rumbled close to your ear and in your chest. “Then what’s a non-straightforward crime?”
“You know, something a bit more complicated in terms of motive. Like, say,” you grimaced, wondering why you could not just shut up, “killing prostitutes or something.”
That earned you a low amused snort, and he sounded a bit more relaxed when he said, “Yeah, not really my thing.”
“Good to know.”
The hint of humanity he displayed flooded you with relief. So much that it made you dizzy and stupidly brave again. You turned around to face him, your barely restrained tits practically up his nose, and he instinctively leaned back to give you room. Which you used to throw your leg over his lap and your arms over his shoulders, straddling him with your knees on either side of him in the armchair.
The close proximity sent his warm breath over your face, but you were too close to get a good look at his expression. Which was fine by you and you gently swayed with the music, noting how his hands fell to the side, still not making any effort to touch you.
Conversation had loosened him up slightly last time, so you kept going. “How long were you inside?”
“Three years.” He did not shy away from eye contact, but his jaw rolled when you leaned in toward his face. “And nineteen days.”
No wonder he was so tense. Again, he did not flinch when you brushed your lips against his cheek, hoping against hope that you could make him warm up. You placed small, almost platonic pecks along his jaw, a glaring invitation for him to kiss you if he wanted — he just needed to turn his head a fraction — but of course nothing happened.
“Three years is a long time,” you murmured into the shell of his ear. It was a long time and you would have thought he would at least be a little bit hard by the way you were practically riding him over his clothes. “But I thought armed robberies gave you six. You out on parole?”
“Who said I was armed?”
His voice grated on your insides, the husky and deep texture pushing some hitherto unknown buttons. You pressed yourself even closer to him, drowning yourself in his heat to escape your own nerves. He smelled nice, you idly thought. Clean.
“Unarmed are two.”
“Why do you know that?”
You sensed more than saw his surprise and shrugged. “Half my cousins are either inside now or have been at some point.”
“Yeah? What for?”
“Stupid shit..” You kept riding his lap, hoping to elicit some kind of response, feeling stupider by the second. “Drug charges most of them. Petty theft. Couple of assaults.” Why the hell were you talking about your cousins’ prison sentences right now? You stopped moving mid-ride and used his neck as leverage to keep you aloft so you could look at him. “Can I ask you something?”
His eyebrow twitched as he shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“Is this, uh, doing anything for you?”
“What do you mean?”
“The dancing,” you clarified and waved your hand at the space between you, “and the, uh, dry humping. I can switch it up if you want; try something else? Or is it me that’s not doing it for you?”
His scowl seemed to have deepened during your questions, but there was a flicker of uncertainty somewhere on his face. “It’s not you. I can’t remember the last time I had an erection.”
“Oh.” You were not winning any awards for eloquence tonight and you gently lowered back down into his lap. Again, you tried to stay in character. “I can fix that.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” you asked, absentmindedly noting how rigid his neck was under your hand. He was so blunt you had no ideahow to continue, except in the worst possible way. “Are you on medication or something?”
Internally, you screamed at yourself. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with you? Yeah, sure, insinuate to the seemingly mentally unstable ex-con that he should be on medication, that’s gonna go down well.
“I’m sorry, we just recently did a class on this. Common side-effects of prescription and over-the-counter drugs. It was stuck in my head. I really didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Class?” His face had an almost feline quality to it and he looked like a disgruntled alley cat when his lip lifted in confusion. “What class?”
“I am,” still in his lap, which was a really awkward way to conduct a conversation, “taking classes to get my nursing associate degree. And then I will take the NCLEX exam to become a registered nurse.”
You added the NCLEX part to give some weight to the fact that you were actually studying to be a nurse and you hadactually covered some of this in class.
“Which is why I’m here,” you continued, because the way he stared at you made your insides tighten weirdly, “trying to earn money for the tuition.”
“Tuition,” he repeated as if tasting the word.
“Yeah, like a school fee—”
“I know what it is. How much do you need?”
The guy really did ask questions like a kid. Or a cop. No nuance, no filler conversation, just blunt and straight to the point.
“Uh, well, with books and equipment,” you still sat in his lap, holding on to his neck, not sure how to proceed, “it’s roughly ten thousand dollars.”
The guy tilted his head in recognition before he looked at you again, this time more amused than angry. He sounded almost condescending when he said, “There are lot easier ways to earn ten grand. Faster too.”
Riskier too.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’d make a good bank robber.”
You expected a smile, but he just shrugged, as if to say ‘you never know’ and remained silent.
“You want me to,” you gestured at your awkward position, “keep going? Or should we try something else? I can turn the lights off all the way, if you want. Or on, maybe? Should I touch you or do you wanna touch me or I can get a wig or… I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before. Give me some pointers here, man.”
The hurried admission came without your intention, and you could not exactly blame him for not getting immediately turned on from your clumsy attempts at seduction.
He snorted again, and his lips twisted into something resembling a bitter smile. “Bet all the guys love hearing you say that.”
“Say what?”
“That you’ve never done this before.”
“I-I wouldn’t know,” you stuttered and practically felt how the power dynamic between you shifted. Before this, you had been in control, somewhat, living vicariously as your stripper persona. But somehow you had brought the real you into this. The girl who took night classes and dreamed of becoming a nurse. And you were still in the lap of a literal ex-con somewhere between ten and fifteen years your senior with obvious worldly experience, despite his awkward way of conversing. “I really haven’t done this before.”
“Then why are you doing it now?”
You could not wrap your head around the way he asked you stuff. It was not a hostile question, just genuine curiosity wrapped up in a gruff tone and incredulity.
“Well, Jasmine said she would give me five hundred bucks and I really need the money, so…”
Feeling idiotic, you made a move to get off him, but jolted at the sudden heat coming from him gripping your waist. The first time he had touched you since you came in here. It stopped your disembark, and you felt more like a deer caught in the headlights than ever before as he made a point to stare into your eyes.
“My brother paid her a thousand bucks. You’re getting ripped off.”
He held your stare for a second longer to drive in his point and then removed his hand. Stuck at processing that information, you remained in place.
“So not only am I a whore, I’m a cheap one too, is that what you’re trying to say? Sorry, that was a bad joke,” you hurried to add when his face twisted into a deeper scowl again. “In my defence, I really haven’t done this before, so I wouldn’t exactly know the ratio of pay between pimp and prostitute. Maybe fifty-fifty is fair.”
“Why? You’re doing all the work,” the guy pointed out slowly.
“I’m not really doing anything right now, am I?”
“You’re talking to me.”
“That’s usually on the house.”
The guy did a half-shrug, but said nothing.
“Sooooo, your brother paid for this, huh? Makes sense. Can I ask,” you spoke slowly, trying to find the right words, “if this was a birthday gift you actually wanted or one that was… forced upon you, so to speak?” No reply, and you narrowed your eyes at him. “Am I forcing myself upon you, is what I’m trying to ask? Do you want me to…” You gestured again to where you sat, not really sure which direction you wanted to indicate, and he still said nothing. “Yeah, you know what, I’m just gonna—”
Making up your mind, you pushed off his lap and stood up, which of course caused your already loosened top to finally fall off. At this point, you had practically tried to screwdrive yourself into his crotch, so having your tits out in the open didn’t really bother you that much except for the way he reacted.
If possible, he froze, somehow solidifying even more from his already unmoving position. Nothing moved except his eyes that dragged down towards your exposed chest and you could feel the way your nipples tightened at the newfound attention. Unwavering attention, to be honest, and a rush of excitement spread to your core. Maybe there was still room to salvage this? Make it a good experience for him? The music still rolled in the background of your darkened room and you tried to get your breathing under control again where you stood between his spread knees.
“You know, you can touch me if you want,” you said softly, but refrained from touching him this time. His eyes flickered up to your face for a second, before focusing further south. “I’m yours tonight.”
You practically held your breath, waiting for a reply. Or a reaction. Anything, really, that would help you navigate this situation. And part of you cheered when he raised his hand. Slowly, tentatively, but still deliberately reaching up to run his fingers down the side of your breast. You had to fight to remain still, especially with the scorching heat emitted from his fingertips, but at least this was known territory.
The guy caressed the soft flesh of your breast, grazed his fingertips along your straining nipple and—
And then dropped his hand down and proceeded to glare holes somewhere that was neither your face nor chest. Did he look redder than before? Embarrassed? Embarrassed men usually turned angry, but this guy’d been angry from the get-goso you had no idea what to do here.
“Okay,” you said, as if telling him it was okay. “Not the reaction my tits usually get, but okay.” You ignored the way your skin buzzed from the brief contact and picked up your top to pull it back on. Taking your time with the buttons, you tried to keep your voice light. “We don’t have to do anything, you know? I’ll get you your money back.”
“Keep it.” At least he did not sound angrier than before and his eyes eventually found your face again. “For your tuition.”
It was a truce of some sorts, but it definitely marked the end of anything even remotely sexual.
“This is for rent, actually.”
You kept your tone conversational, almost desperate to not make a big deal of this, to make him feel okay about it, to make this weird tension between you disappear. You walked normally — as normally as you could in these heels — over to the vanity to turn down the music. You also picked up a couple of beers from the small fridge by the door and handed him one that he gave a moment’s consideration before opening.
“My roommate split yesterday, leaving me alone with the rent that is due tomorrow. Or, really, it was due today, but I jumped out of the window so the landlord couldn’t corner me in the hall and harass me about it.”
The guy took a sip of beer, clutching the bottle like a robotic claw. “Shitty roommate.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” you muttered darkly and plopped down on the other armchair. “Before she left, she decided to wreck the place and steal anything remotely valuable. Cleared out my whole stash too, everything I’d already saved up.”
The guy tilted his head and gave you another glare. “Then you should’ve hidden it better.”
You blinked at him, momentarily stunned by the lack of sympathy for your situation. Then again, he did not exactly seem to be the coddling type. “Yeah, that’s on me, I guess. What can I say, I’m an optimist. I like to believe most people are decent human beings.”
He considered this. “They’re not.”
“They can be,” you countered and leaned back in the chair, adopting an unladylike position while he kept his back and legs perpendicular to the floor. Now that the tension was gone, you ventured to study him further. The freckles, the lines to his face, the sharp angle of his jaw and the solid muscle under his t-shirt. Probably not much taller than you — and definitely not taller than you in these heels — but he struck you as the kind of guy who didn’t need size to be intimidating.
“Got your hair cut in prison?” you found yourself asking before you could think it through. Anything to keep the conversation flowing instead of the awkward silence. “My cousins all rocked the same ‘do when they got out.”
“Yeah,” he said, dragging the word out, and then rubbed a hand over the goofy buzz-cut. “It’s shitty, I know. I’m growing it out.”
His voice still fluctuated between hard and soft, almost reminding you of chain smokers who had to force their words out through strained vocal chords. Maybe he was forcing the words out. It would fit with how tense he was otherwise.
“What’s your name?” he suddenly asked, while tilting his head slightly down to stare up at you. Like a lion exposing his throat to indicate friendliness.
“Karma,” you said.
Something twitched on his lips, reminiscent of a smile, but not really. “No, it’s not.”
“It’s my name in here,” you countered with a shrug, referencing the club. “What’s your name?”
“Andrew,” Andrew said without hesitation, giving the room at large his attention. “But people call me Pope.”
“Pope?”
“Mhm.”
“Why? Alright, alright, just asking.” You held your hands up as defence against the look he gave you that showed he would not be answering that question. “So, listen, do yo—”
“Are you gonna be able to go back to school?” Pope cut you off, and the genuine interest of his question momentarily stunned you. “Pay your tuition?”
“Uh. Sure, I guess.” You shifted when his stare did not relent, apparently not satisfied with that answer. “Well, I tried to do the math and lucky me, I’d already paid the advanced deposit so I’m only out five grand. If I pick up a couple more of the week night shifts here — the cash flow isn’t as hot as the weekends, but the house fee and tip-outs are lower so it evens out — and put in a few more hours for my day job and find a new roommate by the end of the month, I should in theory manage to pull through before the semester starts.”
You grimaced at the thought of working away the whole summer instead of experiencing anything this city had to offer.
“In theory, except that I need at least seven hundred by tomorrow to cover the whole rent and it’s been sort of a slow night before this, so I might have to hide from my landlord one more day.”
“Or you can get the full grand from your,” Pope gave you a pointed look, “friend.”
“I doubt Jasmine’s gonna be happy about that.”
“Fight her for it.”
“Uh, no. One, I’m ninety percent sure Jas is banging the manager, so she can get me kicked out of the club. Two, I’m not up to speed on my tetanus shots, and she looks like she’s a biter.”
Pope snorted, and you smiled, happy that you managed to amuse him. “Then how are you going to pay rent?”
“Go out there and shake my ass, I guess. Unless you have any last-minute tips for robbing a bank?”
“Yeah, I do,” Pope said without hesitation. “Don’t get caught.”
You laughed, only vaguely noticing how he didn’t. “That’s great advice. Thanks, I never would have thought about that. Guess I should find a bank robbing mentor who didn’t end up in prison, huh?”
Pope shrugged. “I only got caught once.”
The instinct to laugh died in your throat this time. Was he joking? His posture and tone remained the same, and he was meeting your eyes evenly. Almost daring you to call his bluff — or lack thereof. You just blinked at him and took a hasty sip of beer to hide your confusion.
“We’re finished here,” Pope eventually said. It was not a question, and he rose from the chair in a fluid motion. You had been right, he wasn’t particularly tall, but he carried himself taller somehow. “I should go.”
“Yeah, we’ve been in here a while,” you agreed from your spot in the armchair. “Any longer and your brother’s probably gonna think I’ve roofied you and taken off with the cash.”
Pope’s eyes flickered to his beer bottle.
“Oh my gosh, I haven’t!” You stumbled over your words to get them out as fast as possible. “No, no, just another bad joke, sorry.”
“How much do you make?” Pope asked, yet again giving you whiplash with the sudden turns in the conversation. “Per night.”
“Depends on the night. Usually I’ll clear around three hundred bucks for a regular shift. Maybe twice that on the weekends, but I don’t like weekends all that much. The crowd’s bigger, but so’s the competition. Tonight’s a slow night, though. Maybe a hundred, hundred-fifty.”
Pope nodded as if he was processing this information as part of a bigger picture. “Three hundred a night. Does that go for all the girls?”
“Well, uh… I’m a relatively popular dancer on my shifts,” you admitted slowly, almost to remind yourself that you were pretty hot even if you hadn’t managed to arouse Pope, “so I probably earn above average for dancing alone. But there’s a lot of girls who’s got regulars that spend a lot on them, and then there’s a lot of girls who’s extra… service-oriented and they earn more, obviously. And again, weekends are usually way better.”
Pope nodded again. “How much is the house fees?”
“It’s not that bad here. Flat fees are twenty bucks for a weeknight, fifty for a weekend. Then there’s a five-dollar charge for private dances, ten if it’s busy. And we gotta tip a percentage of our earnings to the DJ and security.”
“How many girls?”
“Anywhere from ten to fifty. Event nights, after big games and stuff, are the busiest. And most profitable. Managers usually raise the house fees to at least two-hundred and you’re lucky to get a spot on the poles without having to fight your way there. Private dances go from five to fifty a pop.”
Pope seemed to consider this. “That’s a lot of cash flowing around.”
“I guess,” you said and shrugged again. “This place does okay, but the real money’s made in the cities where all the finance bros go to blow their stock earnings. The gentleman’s clubs and stuff. I used to work there before, didn’t have to worry that much about rent then, I’ll tell you that.”
“Then why leave?”
You drank more beer, suddenly realizing you had over shared way more information than you had intended. Risky, risky, risky. “It just didn’t work out, that’s all.”
That vague answer seemed to satisfy him, and he placed the bottle of beer on the table. Right next to the unopened pack of condoms. So much for your grand debut as a prostitute, you thought idly and had another sip of your own beer. Then again, some girls got killed after their grand debut, so this wasn’t that bad, really.
The rustling of paper made you look up, and you realized Pope had his wallet out. He flicked through a large wad of bills and pulled out a hefty stack, offering them to you.
“No,” you said on principle, because that looked to be at least a thousand bucks.
“No!”
“Take it,” Pope rasped, but more impatient than angry. “Consider it a bonus.”
You made no motion to accept the money. “For what? We didn’t even do anything.”
Pope looked unbothered. “For a nice conversation.” Again, there was nothing to indicate he was making a joke and you could do nothing but stare at him. “This’ll help you cover the rent and give you a head start for your tuition stuff.”
“And what do I owe you in return?”
“Nothing.”
“Free cash, huh? Yeah, right. Thanks, but I don’t need your money.”
“Yeah,” Pope looked puzzled as he glanced at the room like you had forgotten what had started all of this, “you do. Take it.” His eyebrows rose and his whole face had smoothed out from any frowning, immediately taking years off his appearance. “Go on.”
Brows furrowed, you hesitantly reached out, almost expecting it to be some sort of test. Like he would yank back his hand at the last moment, having confirmed your greed and ingratitude, and would now beat the living shit out of you as payback.
Of course, nothing happened. You took the money and Pope put his wallet back in his pocket.
“Hang on, I gotta walk you out,” you suddenly remembered and rose from your chair before he could leave. “You’re gonna get your ass kicked if security finds you wandering back here on your own. Do you want me to play it up when we go out there?”
“Play what up?”
“Like,” you had a full inch on him in your heels but felt a foot shorter with the way he looked at you, “pretend that we did more than we did, you know? Make your brother think you rocked my world? I can mess up my hair and make-up or something.”
“I don’t care what my brothers think.”
With that, he unlocked the dressing room door and pushed it open, leaving a gap for you to follow. The loud music and smell of beer and perfume hit you full on and sent you right back into character.
You planted a satisfied smile on your face and hurried to grab onto his hand before he could march off. Leaning into him — he was still running hot as hell — you half-whispered, “I kinda have to play it up anyway, sorry.”
At least he did not push you off, but let you lead him back to the general club area where you paused. Feeling other men’s eyes on you both, you made a show of dropping your hip on one side and twirling the extensions that fell over your shoulder. One table with several guys and plenty of girls seemed particularly interested in watching you and you figured that might be his brothers, even if none of them looked anything like him.
“Thank you for your service, soldier,” you said in your best seductive tone. You had no plans of trying your hand at anything more than dancing tonight, but it never hurt to maintain the illusion. Men could spend a lot of money lost in that illusion. Tottering on your heels, you bent towards him to give him a slow kiss on the cheek and took the opportunity to whisper in his ear. “Thank you, Pope. And happy birthday.”
You winked at him, not even bothered by his apparent indifference at your efforts, and sashayed your way to the bar where you had spotted Jasmine.
“Any trouble?” she asked as you leaned back against the bar top and signaled Henry for some water. She sent Pope’s back a wary look where he was walking resolutely towards the table with his brothers. Oh yeah, that guy had definitely been to prison, you thought. He had that walk and everything.
You watched as his brothers — four of them? — laughed and patted his back in typical guy-fashion when he returned and how his body language looked as rigid and uncomfortable with them as it had with you. Small comfort, at least.
“No trouble,” you said with a smile and held your hand out to Jasmine, who grimaced and reached down into her garter belt for the money. “I’ll let it slide this time since we agreed on five hundred, but don’t try to screw me over like that again. Save the hustling for the Johns, okay?”
A venomous frown marred Jasmine’s porcelain features, but she did not have time to reply before the club manager sidled over.
“Hey, Karma, the south pole’s free the next song. You up for it?”
Even with Pope’s so-called ‘bonus’, you still had some ways to go before you were covered for the semester. So you finished your water and smiled. “Sure.”
“Break a leg,” Jasmine called after you, but you did not pay her any attention.
“And here’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” the DJ announced over the music as you trailed your heels over the podium and caressed the pole like a long lost lover, noticing how Pope was not at his table anymore, “she goes around and comes around. Please give it up for… Karma!”
------
I admit, I posted this because I need to connect more with other Pope-girlies. Come scream with me in my inbox. Please.
Other than that, if you like my writing and want to see more? Reblogs and comments make me write faster 💕 Thank you!
I'm kind of new to Animal Kingdom. I'm nearing the end of the third season. My newest princess, Jack Abbot, brought me to Shawn Hatosy, and many tiktok edits later, I'm here. I've lurked on this fic for a while now. Genuinely hand to my heart cannot tell you how many times I've poured over this, but my lowest ballpark estimate is a dozen. At least. At least.
Now one thing about me, I love to yap, I love to gossip. So let's get into it.
When I first started Animal Kingdom, I didn't really know what I was walking into. I religiously watched fan edits of Pope. A weird, strange man? Possibly autistic? A princess haunted and doomed by the narrative? A princess with Posture? Off-putting behavior? AND he has OCD?! Sold. Sold. AND he looks so fucking good in an Ethel Cain edit?! Immediate baby girl. Immediate princess.
I definitely was NOT expecting the dynamic Smurf has between her sons. I was so stunned, I thought I must have been misinterpreting something; there's no way I'm watching this right. It was a hard watch. It was so unsettling. It made my spine feel like concrete. But … no, yeah, she's just like that. I was indeed watching this right. >.>
And as much as I loved looking at Pope, and discovering his character, I was aggressively disinterested in watching the show. I plateaued around like … episode 8 or 9, when I found this fic.
And Karma is just so good. Dude. It's just so good. It reads like a story. You know that feeling when you find something good, and you just float in it? You just keep floating in it? Like if it's a song, you listen to it over and over. You're like, yeah I'm gonna stay here again and again. That's what Karma is to me. That's exactly what this feels like. It's a story, it's a song, it's movement unfolding that I just want to hang out in forever.
Karma helped me connect with the show. I was so disinterested and let down by what I found, that watching it just felt … bad. It hurt my head, I was so disengaged. But reading your take on Pope, here, it was all neurons and connections. It was all, YES, FINALLY, THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR, THAT'S WHAT I WAS MISSING. And as I poured over it again and again, I found the interest to continue on with the show.
I'm nearing the end of season 3, now. It's definitely better. Pope is my shining beacon. I'm watching for him. I know, sorta, what happens in the show; I know I'm not getting a happy ending. I could scream when I think about it. You mean to tell me … Pope isn't gonna A SINGLE MOM WHO WORKS TWO JOBS, WHO LOVES HER KIDS AND NEVER STOPS, take care of Lena? His career of CRIME and THEFT has consequences?! He DOESN'T escape his past?! He DOESN'T escape Smurf?! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO—
I love reading Karma. It's beautiful. It feels very honest. It's like a closeup without filters and you can see every line and pore, and how beautiful everything is underneath natural light. I love how Karma and Pope see each other. I love how they interact. I love how each scene between them brings out more honesty, more depth. Their dynamic naturally brings out more genuine versions of themselves.
Pope is a weirdo and he's the awkward love of my life. He's scary, but he's a princess and a respectful king. He's intense. His gaze feels very cat-like. Steady, unblinking, unwavering, both predatory and kinda harmless, at the same time. Like this wild creature could either just be watching and enjoying a show, OR clocking their next meal. I think it's very romantic.
And I think that romance is captured very wholly in Karma and Pope's interactions. In her point of view, he has such a gravitational pull that he's the only one in the room. Music plays just for them. Everything else fades slightly out of focus. He's there, even when he's not. He haunts the narrative.
And I'm just gonna lay all my cards out on the table right here. Whoever is reading this is my friend, and friends can safely say things and not be judged. I think everything about Pope is cute. I like how goofy and out of place he is, especially in season 1. I like how his short cropped hair makes his ears look big. I like how he moves as if movement is unnatural to him. I like how long his neck is. I like how dry his skin looks. I like how he dresses. I like his freckles. I like his mannerisms. I like his compulsions. And this is all to say, look, it's just cute to me how he has erectile dysfunction. That's just cute to me. I'm just gonna say it and leave it as is and move on. It's just cute to me. That is somehow just straight up endearing to me.
Every time I read Karma, I giggle and blush and kick my feet. I can talk about Pope all day. I can also talk about Karma all day, too.
She's so real to me. I love the mystery of her. I'm so drawn to her secrets. I love how her secrets deepen in almost off-handed, stilted thoughts. It's almost as if they're too secretive for her to even think about. Starting with, [You needed those five hundred dollars. The other way to get it by tomorrow was risky — too risky.]
I love that a girl so earnest (in her interactions with Pope, as they meet beyond their respective masks) can have so many skeletons. She's so cool. I'm so eager to learn more about her. Her history, her past, how it influences her connection with Pope. I love how it hesitates to come all the way out.
This opening scene is beautifully cinematic—
A strip club was no place for privacy, and the dressing room even less so with half a dozen girls in various stages of undress crammed in at any given time. Some doing a costume change, some taking a snack break, and others sipping, smoking or snorting whatever they could to get enough of a buzz to make it bearable to go back outside. It reeked of hairspray, perfume and weed, with a heavy layer of face powder floating in the air like a built-in grain filter. One girl sat by the sink, blatantly touching up her bikini line, while another tried to pop a pimple on yet another girl’s butt cheek. There were no secrets in a strip club dressing room and it was probably the worst place for private conversations.
It feels and sounds and looks all so real. It's a movie. I love the amount of detail you weave into the story.
And god, the way you write Pope. The way you write Pope. The way you write him. The way you make him move and talk. He's so REAL. GOD he's hot. He's Creep by Radiohead, he's Doll Parts by Hole, he's Dust Bowl by Ethel Cain. He's a lot of things by Ethel Cain, now that I'm on the topic.
I like pointing things out. I'm a otter with a collection of favorite rocks. I'm a raven collecting fine treasures.
So I'm taking the entirety of this pearl—
Rows and rows of shiny tassels hung over the large makeup mirror and momentarily distracted you before your eyes fell on him.
Him, who sat like a statue on the very edge of the seat of one of the worn-down armchairs. Him, who looked like a still-life painted by someone who had mastered the basics of anatomy, but not human behavior. Him, with short-cropped hair that looked glued to his scalp and a tight scowl on a slightly shiny face, his taut muscles stretching from his down-turned mouth all the way to his rigid collar-bones.
“Who are you?”
His voice caught you off guard. It had a strange lilt to it, like a grown man having minor flashbacks to puberty, teetering between raspy hard and soft every other syllable. You could not decide if he sounded angry or indifferent, and tried to give him a seducing smile to break the ice.
The utter GRAVITY. BROOOOOOOOOOO THE GRAVITY!!!!!! THE UTTER GODDAMN GRAVITY OF IT!!!!!!!
Sat like a statue on the very edge of the seat ... looked like a still-life painted by someone who had mastered the basics of anatomy, but not human behavior.
Short cropped hair that looked glued to his scalp ... a tight scowl on a slightly shiny face ... taut muscles stretching from his down-turned mouth all the way to his rigid collar bones. That is literally HIM. BROOOO THAT'S HIM.
God. Dude. The way you write him. I'm on all fours, shrieking.
"Who are you?" ... His voice caught you off guard ... had a strange lilt to it, like a grown man having flashbacks to puberty, teetering betweeen raspy hard and soft every other syllable .... you could not decide if he sounded angry or indifferent.
Frankly I'm going to take the rest of this scene, because it's so good—
“I’m—”
“Where’s the other girl?”
He pulled on his words somewhat. You couldn’t say if he was blending the r’s or elongating the vowels or had a slight lisp, but it was not in a drunken slur, more as a last remnant of a speech impediment. His lip lifted in something between confusion and contempt and you swallowed, doing your best to avoid flinching at his harsh question. Shit, you knew he would ask that and had even expressed your concerns to Jasmine. She had just waved her hand dismissively and said he would not care which pussy he got as long as he got pussy.
Except he looked very much like he cared. He still sat in that fixed position, back straight, and his knees spread with a hand perched on each one. Not resting, not even remotely close to resting, and not moving anything else than his head and neck as he talked.
BROOOOOOO THE WAY HE TALKS. He pulled on his words somewhat ... couldn't say if he was blending the r's or elongating the vowels or had a slight lisp, but it was not in a drunken slur, more as a last remnant of a speech impediment. The utter detail. The utter DETAIL. BROOOOO. His lip lifted in something between confusion and contempt.
One thing I love about Pope is that he's so ... bewitching and compelling. He moves, speaks, and behaves so differently from the other characters. It's like he's in his own world. He's so removed from everyone else that he can only mimic rather than inherently exhibit. I find his mannerisms so nuanced and small and weird and cool and unique. AND YOU CAPTURE THE ESSENCE OF HIM SO WELL.
And THAT is such a powerful skill in a writer. You capture the world in such small, profound, and impactful detail. You see things that would ordinarily be dismissed and bring them into focus. It requires such an artistic sense of detail. I find it so beautiful and interesting.
And this here, the heart of Pope: [Jasmine] had just waved her hand dismissively and said he would not care which pussy he got as long as he got pussy. Except he looked very much like he cared.
I find that to be genuinely profound, and to speak so clearly of his heart. It would be easy to characterize Pope as the coldest, hardest, and most indifferent of them all, but it would be foolish. While he's certainly not the warmest, he cares so deeply and intentionally. I would say he's the most caring. (....ignoring that he killed Catherine. Just. Just hear me out. Just ignore the murder.)
And I truly love how this deepens throughout the story. The reveal, the truth, the earnest honesty of Pope, as someone who cares deeply.
I again reference the detail and nuance you bring to Pope. He still sat in that fixed position, back straight, knees spread with a hand perched on each one ... not resting, not even remotely resting, and not moving anything else than his head and neck as he talked.
It's these miniscule details that make Pope, Pope. They sing so loudly and clearly. He's beautiful. He's weird. He has the body posture of a man who has felt relaxed maybe one or two times his entire life. God, I want him to be happy. I want him to be understood. I want him to experience a coming of age film in his thirties with Karma.
When I say this, please know I mean each exact word. The dialogue is incredible. It's incredible. GOD. God it's so good—
“She had to go,” you mumbled and licked your lips, tasting the dryness of your lipstick. “I’m—”
“Go where?”
Again, his question seemed almost juvenile in nature. Like a child that had yet to learn the social cues of communication. Demanding attention and answers at whim, and disregarding the dynamic nature of a dialogue. Or maybe actively disregarding it, treating it more like an interrogation than a conversation. Like a cop?
“I don’t know,” you mumbled again, but this time you hurried to continue before he could bark another question. “Something about a family emergency.”
The guy closed his mouth that had been halfway open in question and slunk back a fraction, skepticism written all over his face. His scowl did not clear at all, and you noticed the way he flexed his fists still settled on his knees. It was becoming obvious why Jasmine had backed out. You had expected some greasy drunkard who had just gotten his tax returns and wanted to splurge on something nice. Not this ticking time bomb whose body language screamed that this was the last place he wanted to be.
You have such a nuanced take on Pope. I really can't say it enough. He's so fleshy and pulpy, it's like I can reach out and poke him. God, the way he talks. The way he talks! It's just so real! It's just so REAL!
It's like you captured his fingerprint in his voice. "She had to go," you mumbled and licked your lips, tasting the dryness of your lipstick ...("Go where?") ... Again, his question seemed almost juvenile in nature. Like a child that had yet to learn the social cues of communication. Demanding attention and answers at whim, and disregarding the dynamic nature of a dialogue. Or maybe actively disregarding it, treating it more like an interrogation than a conversation. Like a cop?
I'm genuinely so gutted by that. It's so real. There's so many layers to Pope. He's so nuanced. He's hardened like he's been in war his whole life, like not once has he ever returned home from it. He carries such deep, unquestioning love for his family. He carries his love like it's a weight, not a burden, but a presence. There's something in him that cries like a hurt child.
That's why I love that description so much. His question seemed almost juvenile in nature. Like a child that had yet to learn the social cues of communication. Demanding attention and answers at whim, and disregarding the dynamic nature of a dialogue. Or maybe actively disregarding it, treating it more like an interrogation than a conversation. Like a cop? That's genius.
It captures everything. His hypervigilance. Born from how he was raised. Born from survival. Born from necessity. Born from genuine curiosity, because I think he's so outside of and removed from the world, an observer rather than a participant, it's hard for him to understand it.
So even though he's blunt, even though he follows his own train of thought and abides by his own wants, reading this still feels very dynamic. It still flows and bounces, while capturing Pope's stiffness and stiltedness. That's very incredible to me.
And I am going to shout out, you mumbled and licked your lips, tasting the dryness of your lipstick. Tasting the dryness of your lipstick. That's just a detail that sticks out to me. It's beautiful. It's real. It feels very honest.
God, I love Pope. I love him. ...You hurried to continue before he could bark another question. “Something about a family emergency.” The guy closed his mouth that had been halfway open in question and slunk back a fraction, skepticism written all over his face. His scowl did not clear at all, and you noticed the way he flexed his fists still settled on his knees. It was becoming obvious why Jasmine had backed out. You had expected some greasy drunkard who had just gotten his tax returns and wanted to splurge on something nice. Not this ticking time bomb whose body language screamed that this was the last place he wanted to be. He ... him. Yeah.
The gravity of him. God, he's like a black hole—
The glare he sent you should have sent you running for the hills. Only his eyes moved, staring up at you from beneath his dark brows, and you did not feel naked as much as literally exposed. The very definition of the word. Uncovered, unconcealed, and unprotected. Sure, you wore a skimpy outfit that did not leave all that much to the imagination, but you could have worn a whole-ass duffle coat and it would not have made a lick of difference.
HE JUST CARRIES SO MUCH WEIGHT. JESUS. The glare he sent you should have sent you running for the hills. Only his eyes moved, staring up at you from beneath his dark brows, and you did not feel naked as much as literally exposed. The very definition of the word. Uncovered, unconcealed, and unprotected.
HE'S BEAUTIFUL. HE'S UNSETTLING. I live for the descriptions of his gaze. It's so visceral.
He's really cute—
The guy did not appear to have moved a single muscle in your absence. He sat so rigid it looked physically painful and you unwittingly tried to keep your touch feather-light as you placed your finger-tips on his shoulder in case you hurt him somehow. In his defence, he did not flinch at your touch, but it was like he made a very conscious effort not to flinch. Only his head moved, twisting on his neck like a cobra to stare at your hand where it laid on the very edge of his shoulder, hardly the most conspicuous location given the theme of the night.
Holy shit, this guy was hot. Yeah, you’d obviously noticed the way his biceps and pecs filled out his shirt, but you were not prepared for the way his skin burned. You could feel it almost simmering underneath his nondescript black t-shirt as you did a walk-around. Trailing your fingertips from his shoulder and to his back, spreading your hands out over his traps like you were giving him a massage, but not daring to apply any pressure. The muscles flexed and bucked beneath your hand anyway, while the freckles on his bare arms danced in tune.
I adore the implications of his behavior. It's so fascinating. His brothers are sluts, and he's an enigma. Touch aversion has me biting my fist. He gives off wounded, feral, distrustful animal. Loud Bark by Mannequin Pussy. I am a loud bark, deep bite. You really do capture him as an apex creature. It makes me blush and giggle.
I love the creature metaphors. Panther, cobra. Stalking, watching, split second from striking. How still and stiff he is. Coiled.
Touch aversion and touch starved go so good together. Goes down like heaven. Burns slowly, too. I'm a big defender of slow burns. The more painful, the better. That being said, if Pope and Karma immediately progress beyond handholding and move in together and create a life away from their ghosts, I would be very, very, very, extremely, super okay with that.
I love how Karma reads and reacts to him, also. Keeps her touch soft and slow, to stave of some threat. Fear of the unknown. I think it's poetic, animalistic. And the way Pope doesn't reject her touch. He doesn't pull away, doesn't push her off of him. I don't think he does in the later chapters, either.
That's so interesting to me. He did not flinch at your touch, but it was like he made a very conscious effort not to flinch. Only his head moved, twisting on his neck like a cobra to stare at your hand where it laid on the very edge of his shoulder, hardly the most conspicuous location given the theme of the night.
God. Did not flinch at your touch, but it was like he made a very conscious effort not to flinch. I feel like I have fangs.
The implications! Yeah, he's awkward. But it goes so much deeper than that. It's like he doesn't know what to do with touch. It's like he doesn't trust it.
And from personal experience, I have a hard time being touched, too. It can often feel like my skin is burning, when I'm touched. I have to consciously remind myself not to stiffen up when someone touches me. I have to consciously remind myself to relax my muscles when hugging. Touch is just generally overwhelming. It's like a loud noise.
The layers! God, the layers. Trying to survive a war-torn childhood and upbringing. The life he was expected to thrive in. He knows what to do with violence. Learned when to expect it, learned to prepare for it, to brace for it, to defend himself against it.
And what does he know of comfort? A hug, pat on the back, from his siblings. Smurf. And how much of that is steeped in violence, also? It's chilling to hear them reminisce about their childhood in the show, like how Smurf encouraged them to fight each other. Love and violence existed in the same breath, the same touch. Comfort was manipulative. A tool to get someone in line. It was weaponized.
And Pope knows that now. He's aware of the cycles. Smurf pitting them against each other. Riling them up. Stoking tensions and alliances where it benefits her. So what does he know of trust?
It's like he's trying to understand her, when he looks into her eyes. How he's rare to look elsewhere. He finds something there, something he seeks out any chance he gets. A touch is a touch. Words are just words. Eyes can be dishonest as everything else, but maybe he finds it to be a weak point in most. The softest and most vulnerable place to attack.
I just find it all to be healing, Pope and Karma. Touch that doesn't burn, doesn't maim. Eyes that don't hide something behind them. Words that don't mean anything other than what they say. Connection that is genuine and real. Not manipulative or coercive or selfish. This is a perfect canon-fix, to me.
Pope finds this a sliver of this—
Normally, you would maintain eye contact as much as possible, reeling in your catch slowly, but this guy was too intense, and you let your eyes close instead. You dragged your fingers through your fake hair, down your throat and over the swell of your breasts. Not stopping there, but going further down, caressing your stomach and hips, dipping to your thighs before going back up.
You bit your lip, losing yourself in the music, feeling sexy as hell. Your heart beat along with the bass and your skin prickled with the energy rush you always got at this point.
Karma, beyond the performance. Later, he will say of it: "It shows, when you dance. You look happy."
Honesty is a bit subjective. They lie outright to each other. They omit. The truth crawls and inches out like a worm. A very shy worm, at that. But they somehow mean what they say, anyway. They see through everything. Pope, who sees something independent of makeup and sex.
Karma, who sees something beyond reputation and creaturesque behavior. The hint of humanity he displayed flooded you with relief. So much that it made you dizzy and stupidly brave again. It's very soft, to me. It's very real.
I go feral over these moments of 'humanity', truly. Any time Karma coaxes out ... well, anything from Pope. A scoff, head tilt, confusion, scowl, amusement, disapproval, uncertainty. Rare smiles.
It's later on, but one of my favorite moments is when Karma absentmindedly asks Pope if he likes to fish. It's like that scene in Fleabag, No one's asked me a question in thirty minutes—(So what do you do?) He's quietly floored by the question, internally. Like it's so surprising she'd engage with him, and that he responds.
I am once again pointing at Pope's layers. The guy really did ask questions like a kid. Or a cop. No nuance, no filler conversation, just blunt and straight to the point. It's very precious to me.
This is so precious to me—
“Okay,” you said softly and licked your lips again. The silence and his rigidity ate away at your nerves and you found yourself talking while you ground your ass closer and closer to his crotch. Just waiting for him to put his hands on you so you could take things further. “So, what’s the occasion? You just get back from a tour?”
Jasmine had said Pakistan, and while you assumed she meant Afghanistan, you did not want to be wrong in front of this guy. Maybe that was his deal? PTSD or something? The guy had soldier written all over him.
“No,” the guy repeated in the same flat tone that bordered on angry. Again, he did not flinch as you threw your arms up and back around his neck, but you felt the way he swallowed hard. “It’s my birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday,” you practically purred, relieved at the semblance of a normal conversation. You twisted your hips side to side, feeling the harsh denim of his jeans dig into your lower buttocks, almost searching for a tell-tale hardness that would give you an entry point to finish this.
“And I just got out of prison.”
If this had been a movie, the music would have scratched and halted. It didn’t — it kept on playing as before — but you couldn’t help the way you froze on the spot, stuck in the awkward position. Your back pressed against his hard chest, your ass digging into his crotch, and your arms still looped around his neck.
“Oh,” you said, like a complete idiot, but could not will yourself to move. Every alarm bell was going off at the same time and you resisted the urge to downright bolt out of there. “What-what did you do?”
The silence dragged on way longer than it should have, and your legs shook with the effort of staying still.
“Robbed a bank.”
“Oh.” Your knees finally gave in to the strain and you plopped down in his lap, perching on him like he again perched on the chair. “Oh, that’s good.”
“That’s good?”
You did not see his incredulous look, but you sure as hell felt it.
“I mean, not good that you robbed a bank or went to prison for it,” you had no way of stopping the freight train of your blabbing, “but robbing a bank’s not that bad. It’s a pretty straightforward crime, when you think about it. Nothing to worry about.”
Somehow, your body began to move again. Completely on its own, though. Full on autopilot, just like your mouth was.
“There’s not a lot of analysis needed to why someone robs a bank. Don’t need a whole profile or anything. You rob a bank, it’s just about money.”
His voice rumbled close to your ear and in your chest. “Then what’s a non-straightforward crime?”
“You know, something a bit more complicated in terms of motive. Like, say,” you grimaced, wondering why you could not just shut up, “killing prostitutes or something.”
That earned you a low amused snort, and he sounded a bit more relaxed when he said, “Yeah, not really my thing.”
“Good to know.”
I love these two together. They're so funny.
This is also precious to me—
“You want me to,” you gestured at your awkward position, “keep going? Or should we try something else? I can turn the lights off all the way, if you want. Or on, maybe? Should I touch you or do you wanna touch me or I can get a wig or… I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before. Give me some pointers here, man.”
The hurried admission came without your intention, and you could not exactly blame him for not getting immediately turned on from your clumsy attempts at seduction.
He snorted again, and his lips twisted into something resembling a bitter smile. “Bet all the guys love hearing you say that.”
“Say what?”
“That you’ve never done this before.”
“I-I wouldn’t know,” you stuttered and practically felt how the power dynamic between you shifted. Before this, you had been in control, somewhat, living vicariously as your stripper persona. But somehow you had brought the real you into this. The girl who took night classes and dreamed of becoming a nurse. And you were still in the lap of a literal ex-con somewhere between ten and fifteen years your senior with obvious worldly experience, despite his awkward way of conversing. “I really haven’t done this before.”
“Then why are you doing it now?”
You could not wrap your head around the way he asked you stuff. It was not a hostile question, just genuine curiosity wrapped up in a gruff tone and incredulity.
“Well, Jasmine said she would give me five hundred bucks and I really need the money, so…”
Feeling idiotic, you made a move to get off him, but jolted at the sudden heat coming from him gripping your waist. The first time he had touched you since you came in here. It stopped your disembark, and you felt more like a deer caught in the headlights than ever before as he made a point to stare into your eyes.
“My brother paid her a thousand bucks. You’re getting ripped off.”
He held your stare for a second longer to drive in his point and then removed his hand. Stuck at processing that information, you remained in place.
It's very precious to me. Karma, earnest: "I'm sorry, I've never done this before. Give me some pointers here, man." The hurried admission came without your intention. Pope, bitter: "Bet all the guys love hearing you say that."
Karma beyond the mask: Before this, you had been in control, somewhat, living vicariously as your stripper persona. But somehow you had brought the real you into this. The girl who took night classes and dreamed of becoming a nurse.
MY HEART—And you were still in the lap of a literal ex-con somewhere between ten and fifteen years your senior with obvious worldly experience, despite his awkward way of conversing. GAAAHHH. WEEWOOWEEWOOWEEWOO.
Pope touches her for the first time. She goes to get off of him, and he holds her in place. That's how bad he needs her to know she's getting ripped off. He's a criminal, so what? He has a beating heart inside of him that is at times full of compassion! Or at least some compassion!
He holds her still and interrupts her, he needs to let her know so bad.
And Pope staring into her eyes. God. Gggggggggghrgrgrgh. That's so important to me. He can hold her with his eyes alone. Gah.
Every word of this—
“So not only am I a whore, I’m a cheap one too, is that what you’re trying to say? Sorry, that was a bad joke,” you hurried to add when his face twisted into a deeper scowl again. “In my defence, I really haven’t done this before, so I wouldn’t exactly know the ratio of pay between pimp and prostitute. Maybe fifty-fifty is fair.”
“Why? You’re doing all the work,” the guy pointed out slowly.
“I’m not really doing anything right now, am I?”
“You’re talking to me.”
“That’s usually on the house.”
The guy did a half-shrug, but said nothing.
“Sooooo, your brother paid for this, huh? Makes sense. Can I ask,” you spoke slowly, trying to find the right words, “if this was a birthday gift you actually wanted or one that was… forced upon you, so to speak?” No reply, and you narrowed your eyes at him. “Am I forcing myself upon you, is what I’m trying to ask? Do you want me to…” You gestured again to where you sat, not really sure which direction you wanted to indicate, and he still said nothing. “Yeah, you know what, I’m just gonna—”
Making up your mind, you pushed off his lap and stood up, which of course caused your already loosened top to finally fall off. At this point, you had practically tried to screwdrive yourself into his crotch, so having your tits out in the open didn’t really bother you that much except for the way he reacted.
If possible, he froze, somehow solidifying even more from his already unmoving position. Nothing moved except his eyes that dragged down towards your exposed chest and you could feel the way your nipples tightened at the newfound attention. Unwavering attention, to be honest, and a rush of excitement spread to your core. Maybe there was still room to salvage this? Make it a good experience for him? The music still rolled in the background of your darkened room and you tried to get your breathing under control again where you stood between his spread knees.
It guts me how normal Karma is towards Pope. Considerate. Listens to him, hears him out. Talks with him. He's stiff, he can sound and look and act angry. And she just rolls with it. Just accepts him.
Later, he'll say, almost apologetic, “That’s just how I am. Does it make you uncomfortable?”
I think Pope is intended to be ambiguous in the show, like you can never quite tell if he's just some random guy or a creep. Like he can go either way? I like to think of him as misunderstood. There's something about Pope wanting to be perceived as safe, like with Catherine and Amy. People see him and they think they see a monster. They see his mannerisms, his speech, his behavior, and other him. They deem him other, and fill in the blanks. They project onto him. They turn him into a creature.
He's CREEP U by Black Dresses. What do you know about my world? Am I just a normal girl? Am I something to be treasured, or destroyed, or pushed aside? What is the reason that you stare? Do I make you feel scared? I'm a building that's condemned with only bugs living inside. Do I creep you out? Do I creep you out?
I know what that's like. I know what that feels like. Being audhd, I can only mask and mimic to a point. It's hard to feel like a person. So much if it is like passing an invisible test. It's something I've never been good at. Neurotypicals can clock it and it's like an ant under a microscope, how small you feel. They can assume the worst of you. They can fill in whatever blank they want. That's one reason I like Pope so much. I understand him a lot. (And YEAH. YEAH HE DID STUFF TO WARRANT PEOPLE NOT FEELING SAFE AROUND HIM. YEAH HE FOUGHT PEOPLE AND DID CRIMES AND STUFF. YEAH.)
I think Pope wants people to be safe around him. He wants the people he cares about to feel safe around him, specifically. And it's not out of some ulterior motive. Not so he can gain their trust and exploit them. He knows what it's like to be around people who aren't safe. He's not like them. He's a caretaker. He's good at protecting. He's good at watching.
So it just means something to me, that Karma meets him as he is (stiff, scary, angry looking), and treats him like he's a person. Of course, there's a big element of safety awareness to it—women are vulnerable to angry men, especially in her line of work. She doesn't have the option to antagonize him. But how she treats him here is how she treats him always. Someone worth considering, listening to, talking to. She takes his comfort and ability to consent seriously. She doesn't make a big deal out of it. Doesn't draw attention to it. Just asks here and there when appropriate. She doesn't treat it like a burden. I just like to think about it.
She treats him like he's human. Like he's a person. It's why the world stops for Pope. Something as innocent and normal as human decency is foreign to him. I just think about it and I feel very soft.
I think it's why his face twists into a deeper scowl, after her joke. That's not what he meant. He doesn't like being misinterpreted, even though he's used to it. I think on a larger scale, just in general, he probably doesn't care or think much of how people perceive him. But he's different up close. He's different with her.
I think it goes into why he will later ask if he can stop by and see her at the strip club, like he's genuinely asking for her permission. He wants to be respectful. He doesn't want to be a sleaze.
This is also important to me—
“You know, you can touch me if you want,” you said softly, but refrained from touching him this time. His eyes flickered up to your face for a second, before focusing further south. “I’m yours tonight.”
You practically held your breath, waiting for a reply. Or a reaction. Anything, really, that would help you navigate this situation. And part of you cheered when he raised his hand. Slowly, tentatively, but still deliberately reaching up to run his fingers down the side of your breast. You had to fight to remain still, especially with the scorching heat emitted from his fingertips, but at least this was known territory.
The guy caressed the soft flesh of your breast, grazed his fingertips along your straining nipple and—
And then dropped his hand down and proceeded to glare holes somewhere that was neither your face nor chest. Did he look redder than before? Embarrassed? Embarrassed men usually turned angry, but this guy’d been angry from the get-go so you had no idea what to do here.
“Okay,” you said, as if telling him it was okay. “Not the reaction my tits usually get, but okay.” You ignored the way your skin buzzed from the brief contact and picked up your top to pull it back on. Taking your time with the buttons, you tried to keep your voice light. “We don’t have to do anything, you know? I’ll get you your money back.”
“Keep it.” At least he did not sound angrier than before and his eyes eventually found your face again. “For your tuition.”
It was a truce of some sorts, but it definitely marked the end of anything even remotely sexual.
Okay. Not the reaction my tits usually get, but okay. LMAOAWEIGJ
It's deeply precious and funny to me, how awkward he is. I just love reading this story. I love how they interact.
Their dynamic just flows. They can be awkward or unsure or silent or uneven, and they still move.
Now. Look. Is she just making normal conversation here? Is she just filling the silence? Is she trying to alleviate the tension in the room? Yes, of course. BUT. BUT. WHAT IF. OK. LISTEN.
Maybe it's because they're destined soulmates, why she keeps talking. Some cosmic, hidden thing. She doesn't cut the interaction here, doesn't say, let's call this a night and go our separate ways since you're not getting what was paid for.
Maybe if this was anyone else, she would have already left the room. But because it's them and they're soulmates and they're going to fall in love immediately and be in love and happy forever, that she keeps the moment going. She knows one day they're going to let go of the ghosts haunting them. She knows one day they will fall asleep and wake up in the same bed, so she keeps the moment going—
“This is for rent, actually.”
You kept your tone conversational, almost desperate to not make a big deal of this, to make him feel okay about it, to make this weird tension between you disappear. You walked normally — as normally as you could in these heels — over to the vanity to turn down the music. You also picked up a couple of beers from the small fridge by the door and handed him one that he gave a moment’s consideration before opening.
“My roommate split yesterday, leaving me alone with the rent that is due tomorrow. Or, really, it was due today, but I jumped out of the window so the landlord couldn’t corner me in the hall and harass me about it.”
The guy took a sip of beer, clutching the bottle like a robotic claw. “Shitty roommate.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” you muttered darkly and plopped down on the other armchair. “Before she left, she decided to wreck the place and steal anything remotely valuable. Cleared out my whole stash too, everything I’d already saved up.”
The guy tilted his head and gave you another glare. “Then you should’ve hidden it better.”
You blinked at him, momentarily stunned by the lack of sympathy for your situation. Then again, he did not exactly seem to be the coddling type. “Yeah, that’s on me, I guess. What can I say, I’m an optimist. I like to believe most people are decent human beings.”
He considered this. “They’re not.”
“They can be,” you countered and leaned back in the chair, adopting an unladylike position while he kept his back and legs perpendicular to the floor. Now that the tension was gone, you ventured to study him further. The freckles, the lines to his face, the sharp angle of his jaw and the solid muscle under his t-shirt. Probably not much taller than you — and definitely not taller than you in these heels — but he struck you as the kind of guy who didn’t need size to be intimidating.
God, they make me laugh. They're so unintentionally funny.
My beloved princess: ...handed him [a beer] that he gave a moment’s consideration before opening ... took a sip of beer, clutching the bottle like a robotic claw ... tilted his head and gave you another glare, “Then you should’ve hidden it better.” Oh my god I love him. I really adore him. He's so funny.
God. You blinked at him, momentarily stunned by the lack of sympathy for your situation. Then again, he did not exactly seem to be the coddling type. “Yeah, that’s on me, I guess. What can I say, I’m an optimist. I like to believe most people are decent human beings.” They're so funny. He considered this. “They’re not.” But they're very thoughtful, too. Honest.
There's something so damn precious and romantic and heartbreaking in that honesty. “They can be,” you countered and leaned back in the chair. She disagrees with his counter. Doesn't placate to keep the peace or inflame his ego. She says her thing. He takes it, considers it, and says his own thing. She takes it, considers it, and says her own thing.
They're almost innately genuine with each other. They certainly have their own secrets and pasts they want to keep hidden. They aren't blabbing about their insides, either. They're not laying all their cards out. They don't immediately reveal themselves, and are quite reluctant to. But it's as if the more time they spend together, honesty is destined to trickle out, even from their first interaction alone.
“They can be,” you countered and leaned back in the chair, adopting an unladylike position while he kept his back and legs perpendicular to the floor. For a job that relies on enticing sexuality, she leans back in the chair, adopts an unladylike position, and observes him. His freckles, his jaw, his musculature, his shirt, his height. His presence.
She's so caught up in studying him, that—
“Got your hair cut in prison?” you found yourself asking before you could think it through. Anything to keep the conversation flowing instead of the awkward silence. “My cousins all rocked the same ‘do when they got out.”
God she asks him something as random as his hair, without thinking. She talks about something close to her, her family. Something that doesn't help her job, doesn't make him like her. Nothing to gain.
HE'S SO FUCKING CUTE, WHAT THE FUCK—
“Yeah,” he said, dragging the word out, and then rubbed a hand over the goofy buzz-cut. “It’s shitty, I know. I’m growing it out.”
His voice still fluctuated between hard and soft, almost reminding you of chain smokers who had to force their words out through strained vocal chords. Maybe he was forcing the words out. It would fit with how tense he was otherwise.
“What’s your name?” he suddenly asked, while tilting his head slightly down to stare up at you. Like a lion exposing his throat to indicate friendliness.
“Yeah,” he said, dragging the word out, and then rubbed a hand over the goofy buzz-cut. “It’s shitty, I know. I’m growing it out.”
His voice still fluctuated between hard and soft, almost reminding you of chain smokers who had to force their words out through strained vocal chords. Maybe he was forcing the words out. It would fit with how tense he was otherwise.
“What’s your name?” he suddenly asked, while tilting his head slightly down to stare up at you. Like a lion exposing his throat to indicate friendliness.
I'm crying, that's so good. Just. Just. Just! Hhhh!!! Whhgrhgh!!! He!!! TILTED HIS HEAD SLIGHTLY DOWN TO STARE AT YOU. LIKE A LION EXPOSING HIS THROAT TO INDICATE FRIENDLINESS.
I—okay. Okay. I'll be okay.
This story gives me zoomies—
“Karma,” you said.
Something twitched on his lips, reminiscent of a smile, but not really. “No, it’s not.”
“It’s my name in here,” you countered with a shrug, referencing the club.
“What’s your name?”
“Andrew,” Andrew said without hesitation, giving the room at large his attention. “But people call me Pope.”
“Pope?”
“Mhm.”
“Why? Alright, alright, just asking.” You held your hands up as defence against the look he gave you that showed he would not be answering that question. “So, listen, do yo—”
Reading her introduce herself reminds me later when Pope is standing outside her door, asking if she believes in signs. Thinking about signs and karma. Signs ... karma ... the sum of a person's actions in current and previous states of existence, viewed as deciding their fate in future lives; law of cause and effect, influencing one's experiences, creating a cycle of rebirth until enlightenment; a natural law of moral causality: positive actions lead to happiness, and negative actions lead to hardship.
Be a shame if uhm ;] ;) her stripper name carried narrative significance ;) wherein Pope takes positive actions that remove him away from Smurf's influence ;) that would be ;) very shameful indeed. ;)
I love a mask theme. I love a reveal. I love a gradual progression. I love growth. I love true identities, true selves, and selves that are presented for public consumption.
So when Karma asks what his name is, and he answers Andrew, immediately, without hesitation, and looks away from her, god. This is such a moment, to me. It carries so much weight. Later, he'll put his number into her phone and save it under Andrew. Later, he'll say this—
“Is this your real name?”
“Yeah.”
“You should try using it,” Pope suggested and handed you the card while the clerk bagged all your books. “It’s a pretty name.”
You shrugged noncommittally. “So is Andrew.”
The sun seemed relentless when the two of you exited the store, trudging over the shimmering parking lot toward the truck. Pope had a book bag in each hand, having completely ignored your offer to take one of them, which prevented any further hand holding. For the time being, anyway.
It was not until Pope had started the car, along with the AC, that he said, “I wouldn’t mind that, you know.”
“Mind what?” you asked, still rubbing your hands with the hand sanitizer that seemed like a standard practice every time Pope got in the car.
“Andrew.”
You paused, hands still folded over each other. “You said that everyone calls you Pope.”
“You’re not everyone.”
Oh my fucking god, I could die for that. BROOOOOOO. THE HONESTY. FUCK THE FEAR OF BEING PERCEIVED! PERCEIVE ME! KNOW ME! GAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!
Andrew, but people call me Pope. The identity of Pope Cody is immediately SECONDARY in her presence. BROOOO THE CINEMA!! THE THEMATIC CINEMA!!! THE SYMBOLISM!!! GAAAAAHH!!!
This always makes me laugh, “Why? Alright, alright, just asking.” You held your hands up as defense against the look he gave you that showed he would not be answering that question. I love my grumpy princess.
I feel like I'm holding a flower—
“Are you gonna be able to go back to school?” Pope cut you off, and the genuine interest of his question momentarily stunned you. “Pay your tuition?”
“Uh. Sure, I guess.” You shifted when his stare did not relent, apparently not satisfied with that answer. “Well, I tried to do the math and lucky me, I’d already paid the advanced deposit so I’m only out five grand. If I pick up a couple more of the week night shifts here — the cash flow isn’t as hot as the weekends, but the house fee and tip-outs are lower so it evens out — and put in a few more hours for my day job and find a new roommate by the end of the month, I should in theory manage to pull through before the semester starts.”
You grimaced at the thought of working away the whole summer instead of experiencing anything this city had to offer.
“In theory, except that I need at least seven hundred by tomorrow to cover the whole rent and it’s been sort of a slow night before this, so I might have to hide from my landlord one more day.”
“Or you can get the full grand from your,” Pope gave you a pointed look, “friend.”
“I doubt Jasmine’s gonna be happy about that.”
“Fight her for it.”
“Uh, no. One, I’m ninety percent sure Jas is banging the manager, so she can get me kicked out of the club. Two, I’m not up to speed on my tetanus shots, and she looks like she’s a biter.”
Pope snorted, and you smiled, happy that you managed to amuse him. “Then how are you going to pay rent?”
God they're funny.
Ya know I'm once again thinking about Karma asking Pope if he liked to fish, and how stunned he was. “Are you gonna be able to go back to school?” Pope cut you off, and the genuine interest of his question momentarily stunned you. “Pay your tuition?” Ya know. Genuine interest and care and attention and earnestness. God. It's like these two are soulmates or something.
It dawned on me like. Probably after the first three or four times I read this, that Pope is probably casing the place out, why he asks so many questions about the strip club. I thought, awww 😇🤭💖 he's really interested in her place of work 😇💖 he's so funny 😇🤭💖
So even if he's a criminal, he's still definitely taking her into consideration, at least. God. Listen, I know the guy murders and stuff, but how could anyone view him as coldhearted?! He's the softest guy around! 😭💖
She's so funny—
“Then why leave?”
You drank more beer, suddenly realizing you had over shared way more information than you had intended. Risky, risky, risky. “It just didn’t work out, that’s all.”
That vague answer seemed to satisfy him, and he placed the bottle of beer on the table. Right next to the unopened pack of condoms. So much for your grand debut as a prostitute, you thought idly and had another sip of your own beer. Then again, some girls got killed after their grand debut, so this wasn’t that bad, really.
God I love her. I love her.
This!!! HEY!!! THIS!!!—
The rustling of paper made you look up, and you realized Pope had his wallet out. He flicked through a large wad of bills and pulled out a hefty stack, offering them to you.
“No,” you said on principle, because that looked to be at least a thousand bucks.
“No!”
“Take it,” Pope rasped, but more impatient than angry. “Consider it a bonus.”
You made no motion to accept the money. “For what? We didn’t even do anything.”
Pope looked unbothered. “For a nice conversation.” Again, there was nothing to indicate he was making a joke and you could do nothing but stare at him. “This’ll help you cover the rent and give you a head start for your tuition stuff.”
“And what do I owe you in return?”
“Nothing.”
“Free cash, huh? Yeah, right. Thanks, but I don’t need your money.”
“Yeah,” Pope looked puzzled as he glanced at the room like you had forgotten what had started all of this, “you do. Take it.” His eyebrows rose and his whole face had smoothed out from any frowning, immediately taking years off his appearance. “Go on.”
Brows furrowed, you hesitantly reached out, almost expecting it to be some sort of test. Like he would yank back his hand at the last moment, having confirmed your greed and ingratitude, and would now beat the living shit out of you as payback.
Of course, nothing happened. You took the money and Pope put his wallet back in his pocket.
I love a recurring bit. I love the start of one. Pope gruffly taking out a wad of cash and flicking through them and Karma protests. It's a cute little game.
Paying her for a nice conversation :[ he's a king. Like, I know that this is still a justifiable business transaction, and he would be scummy if he didn't, but he's still a king to me.
I really melt over how it progresses. Outrageous tips at the coffee shop. Quietly talking over coffee. Confiding in her about testing positive for LSD. She's being nice to him and he wants to pay her for it. :[
This tiny precious sad little baby, dude. Broooo. It really speaks volumes. Love, care, kindness, anything soft, is so transactional. That's how he learned those concepts. That's how he was taught. Love is monetary gain, a score, a win. She's real and honest and genuine with him, and he feels the urge to pay her for it.
Karma: *offers her hand for Pope to hold*
Pope, flicking through bills one handed: I must pay you three thousand dollars
LMAOOWFKWOEFKWOEFKWEFKO FAWK DUDE!!! It's so beautiful and heartbreaking and kind of funny and sad.
My Shaylas—
“Hang on, I gotta walk you out,” you suddenly remembered and rose from your chair before he could leave. “You’re gonna get your ass kicked if security finds you wandering back here on your own. Do you want me to play it up when we go out there?”
“Play what up?”
“Like,” you had a full inch on him in your heels but felt a foot shorter with the way he looked at you, “pretend that we did more than we did, you know? Make your brother think you rocked my world? I can mess up my hair and make-up or something.”
“I don’t care what my brothers think.”
With that, he unlocked the dressing room door and pushed it open, leaving a gap for you to follow. The loud music and smell of beer and perfume hit you full on and sent you right back into character.
You planted a satisfied smile on your face and hurried to grab onto his hand before he could march off. Leaning into him — he was still running hot as hell — you half-whispered, “I kinda have to play it up anyway, sorry.”
At least he did not push you off, but let you lead him back to the general club area where you paused. Feeling other men’s eyes on you both, you made a show of dropping your hip on one side and twirling the extensions that fell over your shoulder. One table with several guys and plenty of girls seemed particularly interested in watching you and you figured that might be his brothers, even if none of them looked anything like him.
“Thank you for your service, soldier,” you said in your best seductive tone. You had no plans of trying your hand at anything more than dancing tonight, but it never hurt to maintain the illusion. Men could spend a lot of money lost in that illusion. Tottering on your heels, you bent towards him to give him a slow kiss on the cheek and took the opportunity to whisper in his ear. “Thank you, Pope. And happy birthday.”
You winked at him, not even bothered by his apparent indifference at your efforts, and sashayed your way to the bar where you had spotted Jasmine.
There is something deeply and profoundly endearing to me in Pope missing social cues. "Do you want me to play it up when we go out there?" ("Play what up?")
"I don't care what my brothers think," and he just bounces! 😭💖
I like a tiny man. I like a short king. Even though he's not really that short. You had a full inch on him in your heels but felt a foot shorter with the way he looked at you. That is very precious to me.
Karma and her real self: "Thank you for your service, soldier." "Thank you, Pope. And happy birthday." I really could take a bullet for that. I really could. God. That's genius.
This really is incredible. This is so good and so cute and so sweet and so real. I love reading this. Ty for sharing!!!
Kisses and love and sunshine and health and happiness to wherever you are ♡♡♡♡
sometimes your distress does indicate you should stop and respect your limitations. at other times it's more of a baby aquatic mammal being introduced to water for the first time thing. Too bad the difference is so hard to tell.
Ok less brooding and moping and analysing and lethargy and melancholy and inertia more ACTION even within the limited field available to me. More leaving the house more discipline more drive more fire more relentlessness more joy!!!!
there's this character dynamic that's not necessarily enemies to lovers, where one or both parties don't initially respect or trust the other person in much the same way that a feral animal sees anyone who tries to approach it first as a threat that's like cocaine to me
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