The Bigger They Are, The Harder They Fall
Andrew "Pope" Cody x Reader One-Shot
Word Count: 2K Warnings: Explicit Language, Fighting, Pope getting his ass beat :)
Author's Note: No but, I think Pope would find it hot if a woman could beat his ass. -Thorne
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You glared at the computer screen, fingers flying over the keys as another warehouse layout popped up on the monitor. You marked exits and cameras, highlighting blind spots.
“No,” you muttered to yourself more than anyone at the table. “Mom said don’t waste time on computer science. ‘Go be a doctor, go be a lawyer.’ And what do I do with my sixty-thousand-dollar degree? I help thieves knock over big box stores and then lie on my resume about why I know so much about load-bearing walls and the fragility of bulletproof glass.”
Craig snorted into his beer. “Could be worse. You could be in Leavenworth.”
You blinked, slowly dragging your gaze up to him. “You’re an idiot.”
His brows shot up in offense. “How am I an idiot?”
“Leavenworth is a federal prison. For men. Who violate the UCMJ. In what universe am I any of those things?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. You went back to the keyboard.
“I’m not going to be available next month,” you said, almost casually.
The table went quiet. You could feel every pair of eyes land on you.
Smurf sipped her drink, assessing in that way that looked friendly but wasn’t. “Why not, baby?”
“I have a family thing. A yearly family thing.”
“What kind of family thing?” Deran asked.
“The kind where I sit at a speedway for a whole weekend in Talladega drinking beer and watching grown men left-turn for three hours while trying not to get sun-poisoning.”
Craig made a face. “You mean you’re going to willingly sit on a bleacher and watch cars drive in circles?”
You looked up slowly. “You’d love it. It’s loud, there’s alcohol, half-naked women everywhere. It’s basically your natural habitat. Plus, it generates around two hundred million per race weekend, so it absolutely falls under ‘Potential Cody Target’ on the spreadsheet in my soul.”
“Where even is Talladega?” Craig frowned.
“Alabama,” you said. “About sixty miles east of Birmingham and eighty northeast of Montgomery.”
He stared like you’d just listed Narnia suburbs. “I don’t know where those are.”
You stared at him, deadpan, then shifted your gaze to Smurf. “You just had to pull them out of high school, didn’t you? Couldn’t let them pass basic US geography first?”
“Hey, I dropped out, thank you,” Craig snapped, proudly.
You banged your forehead against the table with each word. “That’s. Not. Something. To. Brag. About.”
You sat back, rubbing your temples. “I am surrounded by dropouts. It’s like I’m reliving my college GAP year.”
“…what’s a gap year?” Deran asked earnestly.
You made a noise like a dying horse. “I can’t with you people. How are you criminal geniuses and total idiots about the real world?”
Your eyes slid back to Smurf. “This is your fault. If you’d raised kids instead of raising criminals, you might’ve ended up with functioning adults.”
“Careful,” she murmured over the rim of her drink, her voice smooth as honey but twice as deadly. “You’re wandering into dangerous territory.”
“Uh-huh.” You flashed her a sweet, empty smile. “Well, unlike you, Smurf, I have contingency plans if I suddenly go missing. And I call my dad twice a week every Tuesday and Saturday without fail, so good luck faking that for the rest of your natural life.”
Her gaze narrowed. Good. At least someone here had functioning neural pathways. You turned back to the laptop.
“I’ll send the layouts to my home computer, print them there, and scrub the backups.” You closed the laptop, slid it into your bag, and rose from the little table under the umbrella. “I’m out. Call if you need anything. Unless it involves physical labor heavier than lifting my phone. I don’t do that.”
Pope, who’d been silent long enough to almost pass as furniture, finally spoke.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and unimpressed. “You just do the easy jobs.”
You froze with the bag strap in your hand, then slowly set it back on the table.
“Easy?” you repeated, turning your head slowly, dangerously. “You think what I do is easy?”
He met your stare, flat and dead. “You sit at a computer.”
Your eyes narrowed. “I map every inch of those buildings and hack security so your dumbass can walk in and not get ventilated. But sure. Let’s call it easy.”
“I’m just saying,” he shrugged. “Your pay days would be better if you actually got off your ass and did something physical once in a while.”
Oh.
Oh.
You stared at him for a heartbeat, then another, then smiled. It wasn’t friendly.
“Okay,” you said softly. “So that’s how you want to play this.”
You reached into your pocket, dropped your phone on the table, then reached up and calmly unhooked your diamond teardrop earrings.
The rest of the Codys watched like a wildlife documentary of two lions about to fight for territory.
“See,” you said, setting them down with a soft clink, “I’ve been treating you like a man with mental health issues. Smurf said, ‘Give him some grace, he’s readjusting after being inside.’ Blah fucking blah.”
You pointed at him. “But you’re a grown-ass man, Pope. Which means you’re about to catch a grown-ass problem.”
He snorted. “You? You think you’re gonna beat my ass? I’d love to see you—”
You lunged.
Your fingers fisted in his shirt, and you shoved with everything you had. His eyes went wide as the front legs of his chair lifted off the deck.
“Aw, shit,” Craig muttered, half-rising as the world tilted.
You and Pope went backward together, chair and all, crashing into the pool with a splash that slapped the tiles.
Chlorinated water roared in your ears. The chair sank out from under him, and you moved like you’d trained for it. Your arm slid around his throat, elbow snug beneath his jaw, forearm locked tight as your other hand anchored at your wrist. Your legs wrapped his waist, ankles crossing sharp.
He thrashed, bubbles clouding the water between you, hands prying at your arm. You only tightened, digging your heels into his ribs, refusing to give him an inch.
“She’s gonna drown him, Smurf,” Deran’s voice cracked from somewhere above, edges sharp with panic. “Smurf!”
She just exhaled like she was watching a cat fight.
Pope’s grip shifted. One hand slid from your arm down to your calf, thumb digging viciously into the muscle through your jeans. Pain knifed up your leg and your hold faltered just enough for him to shove your ankles apart.
Without the lock around his waist, he twisted, catching you around the middle and tearing you off him.
You broke the surface at the same time, and you swung on instinct, fist connecting with his nose with a sickening crack.
Pope lurched back with a snarl, hand flying to his face as blood poured between his fingers and streaked down his mouth. For one long second, he just stared at you, eyes dark and feral with something that definitely wasn’t just anger.
Your stomach dropped. “…oh, fuck,” you breathed, already spinning for the steps.
You’d barely hit the second one when a hand closed in the back waistband of your jeans and yanked hard. You slid backward with a yelp as Pope hauled you up out of the water like you weighed nothing.
His strength was something definitely to be lusted over later when you weren’t in a position to get your ass beat.
His other hand clamped around your throat, not choking, holding, reminding, the feeling firm, controlled, and infuriatingly confident, while your back slammed into his chest. You could feel the solid wall of muscle and braced fury behind you, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.
You drove your elbow straight back into his solar plexus. He grunted, doubling a fraction, but the hand around your throat only flexed tighter. Then he grabbed your arm, spun you around, and shoved you up the steps.
Your back hit the deck, wet wood scraping your shoulder blades. He crowded in close, thighs caging your hips, and pinned your wrists to the boards by your head.
You panted up at him, soaked and pissed, pulse vibrating with adrenaline.
His eyes were a hazel wildfire, anger, adrenaline, and lust, all indistinguishable, face inches from yours. You snarled, baring your teeth, and bit his bottom lip until it bled.
“Stop,” he snapped, tongue swiping his bottom lip, painting the tip of it crimson.
You tried to twist your hands free, shoulders straining. His grip didn’t budge.
You twisted your head, aiming for his fingers. He shifted your hands to one, catching your jaw in his other hand, fingers digging in just enough to hold you still.
“I said stop,” he growled, low and dangerous. “Or I swear to God, I’ll fuck this out of you right here.”
Heat flashed low in your stomach, rage or arousal, you refused to examine which. You shut your mouth and exhaled hard through your nose, chest heaving.
A drop of his blood slid off his chin and landed on your cheek, hot against your cold, wet skin.
“Go ahead,” he added softly, eyes burning into yours. “Test how serious I am.”
“Get. Off,” you ground out.
“Or what?” he asked, leaning in so close you could count his eyelashes and every speck of gold in his dark eyes. “What are you gonna do, princess?”
Rage flared white-hot at his patronization. You snapped your head forward and cracked your forehead into his broken nose.
He snarled, jerking back with another burst of blood. His hand tightened on your wrists, his other curling into a fist that drew back, knuckles white.
You screwed your eyes shut and turned your head away, jaw clenched.
“Andrew.”
Smurf’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
You opened your eyes to see his fist frozen an inch from your cheek, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.
“If she goes to work roughed up,” Smurf said calmly, “the cops are gonna start asking questions. Let her go.”
Pope’s chest heaved. He stared down at you, and this time his eyes weren’t just furious. There was something else there, dark, sharp, and hungry, and you hated the way it jolted through your veins.
“Andrew,” Smurf warned.
He sucked in a breath, then slowly released your wrists.
You ripped your hands free and shoved at his firm chest, wriggling out from under him and scrambling to your feet on unsteady legs. Your clothes clung to you, heavy and dripping, but you refused to fidget.
You marched to the table, grabbed a towel and your things, and threw the towel over your shoulders like a cape.
“You look like a wet—” Craig started.
You lifted a single finger without looking at him. “I just beat the shit out of your brother. You want the sequel?” you snapped.
Craig’s mouth clicked shut audibly.
You inhaled, then exhaled, forcing your voice to level out. You turned toward the gate, then paused and pivoted back to Pope, who was still on his knees on the deck, blood streaked down his face and chest, eyes locked on you like you were a problem he wasn’t done solving—and wasn’t going to stop until he did.
“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” you breathed. “I get off at four-thirty. Don’t be late.”
You didn’t wait for an answer. You stomped through the gate and slammed it behind you, wet footprints bleeding across the concrete toward your car.
Pope slowly pushed to his feet, spat a mouthful of blood onto the deck, and planted his hands on his hips, staring at the wet silhouette your body had left on the deck boards.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Craig muttered. “Zero out of ten, wouldn’t watch again unless I saw her boobs.”
Deran elbowed him. “Dude, shut up.”
Pope didn’t answer. He looked at the outline a second longer, something complicated moving behind his eyes, then turned and stalked toward the sound of your car door slamming, a hot and ugly burning in his chest.
