You and Me
Pope Heyward x Kelce little sister!reader
Summary: You and Pope meet when your brother and his friends beat him up. You were there to nurse him, since then you have been in a secret relationship.
Warnings: angst, nsfw, smut (not very detailed)
A/N: Here is a lil sum I wrote a while ago. I’m clearing up my drafts. Enjoy lovers🫶🏾🫦
You only ever saw Pope Heyward in passing at kegger you didn’t want to be at, bonfires your brother Kelce insisted you come to, school events where the Kooks lingered on one side and the Pogues on the other. But even through those stolen glances, Pope lingered in your mind.
You never talked. Not until that day.
When Kelce, Rafe and Topper jumped him out behind the marina, laughing while Pope struggled on the ground. You didn’t even know it was going to happen. You showed up late, already regretting being there and found him slumped against the dock, lip split, face bruised.
“Are you okay?” you whispered, kneeling beside him after everyone left.
He didn’t look at you at first. “Yeah I’m fine.”
You touched his shoulder, gentle. “You’re not.”
That’s where it started.
You sneak him into your house and nursed his wounds that night. In your room. The soft light of your vanity the only thing illuminating Pope’s face as you dabbed antiseptic onto his busted lip.
“You know who I am, right?” you asked.
His voice was low. “Yeah. Kelce’s sister.”
“And you know I could get into serious trouble for this.”
He stared up at you, chest rising with shaky breaths. “Then why are you doing it?”
You shrugged. “I don’t like seeing people hurt or helpless.”
He smiled through the pain. “Guess that makes you the first Kook with a conscience.”
It was all secrets after that.
Late night texts. Quiet drives with the headlights off down backroads where no one would see you. Meetings on the pier when the island was asleep. You kissed him for the first time under a flickering streetlamp, heart hammering in your chest.
He cupped your cheek, tentative. “You sure?”
“I want to,” you whispered, standing on your toes to meet his lips.
That night, you didn’t go home.
You made love in the backseat of his car. His hands trembling with want, yours gripping his shoulders like he might vanish. And in the morning, when the sun bled over the horizon, he showed you the picture he took of you eyes locked, skin pressed together, love written across your face.
He slipped it behind his phone case. “I want to keep you with me. Always.”
You kissed his chest. “You already do.”
You became his protector. A silent shield. You warned him when Kelce or Topper were looking for trouble, gave the Pogues heads up whenever Rafe was spiraling. JJ thought it was luck. Kiara said it was divine timing.
Pope knew the truth.
“Why do you do this?” he asked one night.
“Because I’m not like them,” you replied, tracing a fingertip across his jaw. “Because I love you.”
But the party changed everything.
An unspoken divide, Kooks on one side of the dock, Pogues on the other. You stood near the bonfire with Sofia and some of the other girls, drink in hand, pretending not to search the crowd.
Pope was across the lawn, trying not to stare. Trying not to need you.
JJ nudged him. “Dude. You’ve been looking over there for five minutes. She’s hot, but she’s Kelce’s sister.”
“I know,” Pope muttered.
Topper caught wind and scoffed. “Careful, Heyward. She’ll gut you in your sleep.”
Rafe added, “Or worse, Kelce will.”
That’s when Ruthie walked up, smug as hell.
“Pope Heyward,” she smirked. “Why are you lookin’ at my girl like that? Don’t tell me you’ve got a crush on Y/N.”
You whipped your head around. “Ruthie—”
She ignored you, shouting across the fire, “Hey! This Pogue’s got a thing for Kelce’s sister!”
The crowd erupted in chaos.
Kelce’s drink slammed onto the table as he stormed toward Pope. “You’ve got a what?!”
You bolted through the smoke, shoving between them. “Kelce, don’t—!”
But it was too late.
Kelce’s fist hit Pope. JJ hit Topper. Rafe went for John B. It became a blur of fists and screams. Kiara and Sarah pulled at shoulders, tried to separate them. You pushed your way towards Pope, saw him on the ground with blood on his cheek.
“Get off him, Kelce!”
He ignored you.
You grabbed his arm, trying to pull him off — and that’s when it happened.
He turned, flailing and his hand cracked across your face.
You fell. Hard. Your cheek stung, your vision blurred. Someone screamed.
Pope saw red.
He tackled Kelce. Punched him again and again until JJ and John B grabbed him, dragged him off, his fists still swinging at the air.
“You don’t touch her!” Pope roared. “You hear me?! You don’t ever—”
“Come on, man!” JJ snapped. “Let’s go before the cops show.”
As they pulled him away, Pope turned back, blood dripping from his mouth. He saw you on your knees, dazed. Sofia and Kooks surrounded you, asking if you were okay.
But he didn’t come to you. He left.
At the Chateau, the silence was heavy.
John B handed Pope a towel. “You alright?”
“No,” he muttered. “Not even close.”
JJ lit a cigarette, tossed it to the ground, stepped on it. “You wanna tell us why you went full psycho back there?”
Pope sat down, elbows on his knees.
“We’ve been together. Me and Y/N.”
Kiara blinked. “Wait—what?”
“It started after Kelce jumped me. She patched me up. We’ve been seeing each other ever since.”
JJ stared. “Dude…”
“I thought we could make it work,” Pope said, voice cracking. “Even if it was a secret. But after tonight… after what he did to her, what I did, maybe this whole thing was a fantasy.”
He pulled out his phone. Opens his phone case. Looked at the photo. The one of you tangled up in his arms, hair a mess, smile soft.
Then he turned it face down.
The messages started flooding in. One after the other.
Y/N: Are you okay?
Y/N: Please answer.
Y/N: Pope. Talk to me.
Y/N: I love you.
Y/N: Don’t shut me out. Please
He let the phone ring.
Let your name light up the screen.
And didn’t pick up.
Across the island, you sat in your room, ice on your cheek, staring at the same photo, the one he sent you weeks ago, wondering how something so beautiful turned into this.
Wondering if Pope Heyward was ever really yours.
You continue to blow up his phone for hours. Message after message. Call after call. Until your fingers trembled and your voice cracked trying to leave voicemails he’d never listen to.
You sat on your bedroom floor, phone in hand, the bruise on your cheek a ghost of the night before. The one your brother gave you by accident. The one Pope had witnessed, gone feral over, then walked away from.
“Pick up,” you whispered to the phone screen. “Please, Pope. Don’t do this.”
You heard a knock.
Your mom peeked in, followed by your dad. Their faces were tight with worry, eyes darting to your cheek. You quickly angled away, pretending to stretch your neck.
“Honey?” your mother said softly. “You didn’t eat dinner.”
“I’m fine,” you muttered, wiping your face quickly.
“Y/N,” your dad said gently, kneeling next to you. “Is it Kelce? Did he…?”
You swallowed hard. “It wasn’t on purpose.”
Your mother frowned, walking closer. “Was it about a boy?”
Your silence was an answer.
“I just need space,” you whispered. “Please.”
They exchanged a look, your father sighing before placing a hand on your shoulder.
“You can talk to us when you’re ready.”
The next day, the ache in your chest didn’t lessen. You couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. You didn’t know what you were thinking when you got in the car and drove.
But five minutes before close, you were parking outside Heyward’s Seafood.
The lights were still on. You stepped in, the bell above the door chiming gently.
“Evening,” came a warm voice from the counter. Bobby Heyward.
You stiffened slightly. He looked kind, but even kindness had layers. His eyes scanned you once, recognizing the Kookness, the clean clothes, the carefully done hair, the car parked outside too shiny for this side of the island.
He smiled anyway. “We’re just about to close in five, but I could still whip you something up. Hungry?”
You hesitated. “I…yeah. That would be nice, thank you.”
Just as you moved to take a seat, footsteps came from the back.
Pope.
He paused mid step the second he saw you. His eyes locked on yours tired, angry, guarded. His jaw clenched.
His dad looked between the two of you, his smile flickering, fading slowly like a flame in the wind.
“I’ll, uh… go check on the fryer.” He disappeared into the back, but the air stayed thick with what he left behind.
Pope didn’t move.
You stood. “Can we talk?”
He stared for a long second, then exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine.”
You followed him upstairs to his room. It was small but familiar the same room you’d snuck into late at night. The same room where he kissed you like you were everything. The same room where he whispered, I love you.
Now, it felt colder.
He shut the door behind you, but didn’t look at you.
“So,” he said flatly, “what is it?”
You clenched your jaw. “Why are you treating me like that?”
“Because I can’t do this anymore.”
That sliced deeper than you expected.
“What?”
“I don’t think we should be together.”
It felt like he took the air right out of your lungs. Your fists clenched at your sides as you stepped toward him.
“Say that again,” you whispered.
Pope met your eyes that same fire in his and repeated, “We shouldn’t be together.”
You shoved him. “You don’t get to take my firsts—”
“Y/N—”
You shoved him again, harder. “You don’t get to be my first kiss, my first time, my first everything—”
“I’m not trying to hurt you—”
“You don’t get to push me away because of my brother!” you cried, voice cracking. “I am not him!”
You shoved him one last time and this time his back hit the door with a thud. His chest heaved.
And then he grabbed your arms.
You froze until he spun you.
Now your back was against him. His hands still on your forearms. Holding, not hurting.
“Don’t,” you whispered, barely breathing.
But he was already leaning in, voice hot at your ear.
“I tried to let you go.”
You turned your head slightly, his breath ghosting over your cheek. “Then why does it feel like you still want me?”
He said nothing. His grip loosened, just enough for you to turn and face him. His eyes were wild, full of frustration, confusion and something darker want.
Your lips crashed into his.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle.
It was angry.
You didn’t mean for it to happen like this pressed between the door and the boy who shattered your heart only to light it back on fire.
But when his lips crashed into yours again, all that pain turned into heat.
Pope groaned against your mouth, low and guttural, his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt like he forgot where your skin ended and he began. His hands were hungry, sure now palming your waist, tracing the dip of your spine as he guided you backward, lips never leaving yours.
“You drive me crazy,” he muttered, kissing down your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. “Every time I close my eyes there you are.”
Your hands were just as greedy, tugging his shirt off, revealing skin you already knew by touch, not by sight. Tonight, you wanted both.
His lips found yours again just before you fell together onto his bed, limbs tangled, heat rising.
You rolled your hips against him, your voice a whisper against his ear. “You still want to push me away?”
Pope’s fingers gripped your thighs, pulling you flush against him. You could feel him, hard and ready, between you.
“God, no,” he whispered, kissing you with a desperation that bordered on worship.
Clothes disappeared between stolen breaths and fumbling hands his shirt, your top, your bra unhooked with practiced fingers, your shorts slid down your legs, panties following, until nothing remained but skin and tension.
He took a moment, hovering above you, eyes roaming your face, down your body, like he needed to memorize you all over again.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Even when you’re mad at me.”
Your hand curled around the back of his neck, pulling him back down. “Then shut up and make it up to me.”
Pope kissed you like a promise slow and deep at first, then faster, messier, the kind of kiss that left your lips swollen and your chest aching. His mouth moved lower, down your neck, over your breasts, his tongue teasing until your back arched and your hands threaded through his curls.
When he finally slid inside you, it was like coming home.
Both of you let out soft, broken sounds of his name on your lips, yours on his tongue, whispered between kisses and moans.
He moved slowly at first, letting the moment stretch, letting the tension build. His fingers laced with yours as he pressed them into the mattress, his forehead resting against yours.
“I love you,” he breathed.
You whispered it back over and over each word a kiss, each breath a surrender.
The pace quickened, hips meeting hips, your bodies pulling closer, seeking something neither of you could name. His name spilled from your lips like prayer, like promise. He was everywhere his hands on your hips, his mouth at your collarbone, his body pressing you deeper into the bed.
And when you both unraveled, it was together your nails digging into his back, his name broken from your throat, his lips buried against your shoulder as he followed you over the edge.
After, you lay tangled in sheets and silence, your cheek pressed to his chest, his fingers gently tracing your spine.
Neither of you spoke.
You didn’t have to.