Pope Cody Soulmate Strings
@t4medicroe, as I messaged, it turns out I DID write a soulmate Pope Cody ficlet, and then I never got farther than this. The hyperfixation has passed, but still super happy to share it!
Summary: What if Pope Cody had a red string leading to his soulmate?
Tags/Notes: Soulmate AU, soulmate strings, oral sex
Word Count: 3,224
None of the Cody brothers have ever admitted if they have strings. Pope told Smurf he did once, not long after his appeared, but Julia said he was lying to sound cool, and Smurf always believed her over him.
He’s grateful for Julia’s jealous announcement when they were thirteen now. As he grew up, he realized the fact that he had a red string should be kept to himself. His soulmate would be his own, the one thing he could truly call his. Not like the things in the vent in his room, the house he lived in, or his job.
Not everyone had strings. No one knew if that meant only some people had soulmates, or only some people were lucky enough to have a literal guide wire to them. Pope had never known anyone who’d actually met their soulmate either, but he paid attention to the stories. As a young teen he’d daydreamed about it suddenly connecting to Cath, or some other beautiful woman on the beach, and the jealous and shocked looks of his brothers and mother when they found out. As the years went by though, Pope came to understand how unlikely it would ever be. Odds were already low he’d ever be physically close enough for the red string to lengthen, and Smurf barely let any of the family have anything without her say-so. She certainly wouldn’t abide Pope having his soulmate.
The small hope finally died after three years in prison, innumerable terrible things done in the name of family and self-protection, decades of being alone weighing on him, and finally Baz yelling in his face that no one would ever have his child. Pope didn’t believe he’d ever get his soulmate. He could get anything he wanted with a little effort, but he’d never get what he deserved, because he didn’t deserve one.
#
Red strings go one way until they don’t. That’s how Smurf had explained it when he was ten years old, and that was still how she explained it to Lena. Innocent, sweet Lena, who was too young to have strings yet but, because Baz didn’t keep track of her TV habits, was asking questions. Pope quietly leaned against the hallway wall to listen in the twilight of a spring evening at Smurf’s house.
“Soulmates are your perfect person. Made just for you,” Smurf cooed, making Lena giggle. “One person gets a red string pointing straight out of their heart when they’re old enough, and then they’re supposed to go follow where it leads. If the string gets longer, then they’re close. The first time they touch their soulmate—poof! The other red string appears. And then they’re connected for all time.”
“Forever?” Lena asked, childish awe in her voice.
“Forever,” Smurf confirmed. Pope felt something in his chest twinge, and he looked down at his red string, which disappeared six inches from his chest.
“Then why did Mommy leave? Can’t Daddy follow the string?”
Pope’s mind went blank. He didn’t want to remember.
“Most mommys and daddys don’t have strings, Lena-roo,” Smurf explained gently. “Your parents didn’t. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Oh.”
“Even with a string it’s no guarantee, baby,” Smurf continued, her cynicism turning her voice saccharine sweet. “Life changes people. You have to be real careful who you trust. Not every soulmate match is happy.”
Pope pushed thoughts of Cath aside, shoving it under the mental rug with everything else, gaze far away. He remembered Smurf saying something similar to him and Julia when they were young; that soulmates weren’t fairy tales. In reality not ever match made it. Pope didn’t really want to believe it. Smurf didn’t have strings. He did.
He glanced down at his short string again. Then again, maybe it was people like him that counted towards those matches that didn’t make it. What if everything that was wrong with him was wrong for his soulmate? What then?
#
A couple weeks later, while rinsing blood off his arms from the latest job in the motel shower, Pope tilted his head back to wash his hair, and when he looked down again the red string was long. So long it disappeared through the tile.
The hot water turned cold because he stood there for so long staring, unable to understand. His red string was always short, fading away into nothing. It didn’t stretch a foot away from his chest. It was never so solid in color that it looked like he could touch it.
His blunt fingers passed through the invisible string, and something lurched in his chest.
He wasn’t supposed to have this. He was not a good man. He was fucked in the head. Smurf and his family would eat his soulmate alive. He had a record. He’d hurt people. Any happiness he had was stealing it from someone else.
Pope’s fist clenched over his chest like his heart hurt, but did he even have one? If he never followed these strings would they fade? Or would the strings always be there, waiting for the final connection? Would his soulmate know somehow, even though she didn’t have them? What would you feel like? Look like? What did you do? Were you in a relationship? If he never found you would you find someone else? Someone less than perfect, like a soulmate should be? Were you as broken as him?
Pope covered his eyes with his hand and hunched over, flipping off the cold water and choking back a wounded animal noise. He wasn’t supposed to have this. This was dangerous. But he wanted it—so badly it felt like his heart might burst. His soulmate would be his. Made for him and he for them. The one person who would always choose him first. He could have a new family. A better one.
The image of Smurf and her razor sharp smile floated before him and Pope made a fist, standing up in the shower. The safest thing, the smartest thing he could do, would be to never meet his soulmate. Never invite the slightest attention to them or indicate he had strings, let alone that they had lengthened, so Smurf would never know. But that’s what Smurf would want. Him at her beck and call, always alone, tied to her and his brothers only. Even in her ignorance she would be getting what she wanted, and Pope had enough of that.
Mind made up he got dressed and ready to meet his soulmate.
#
You were surrounded by boxes in your new rental, which was a lot tighter of a space than you were hoping for and a bit further from the beach than the realtor had implied, but it was new and far away from everything else. This was a fresh start. You were determined to make the best of it.
Today and tomorrow were settling-in days so you could unpack boxes and clean, and then the day after you had an interview at the local ER for a nursing position. Hopefully you could start that job soon, because your savings were being drained every day that you weren’t working, and breaking your last lease and paying moving costs had eaten into them a lot. You were still gonna splurge on pizza tonight though. You’d been lugging up boxes for two hours, and now you were cleaning out the inside of the fridge because whatever cleaning service this landlord had used was not as thorough as you were.
The knock on your door was unexpected and sharp, just two raps. You almost banged your head on a shelf in the fridge out of surprise. Maybe it was a neighbor? Nervous, your gaze flicked to the box with all the security cameras you’d had at your last place. Maybe setting those up should have been your first move.
The peephole required you to stand on your toes, and on the other side was a man you didn’t recognize. The fisheye, slightly cloudy view made it hard to see anything beyond his face, which was handsome but unsmiling. Was this one of Cameron’s buddies? There was no way he’d already found you, but if he had… You reached for the chain on the door, only to realize the second part where it should hook to was missing. Someone had replaced the front door and not included the second half. The chain dangled, useless.
“Hello?” he called. You peeped back through, and the man was still standing there, head cocked slightly to the side. You frantically considered your options. You couldn’t live your life hiding, and odds were this was a neighbor who saw you moving in. Maybe he had a jello or a casserole or something his wife had made for you, or an invitation to dinner? Maybe it was the building super, come to check that everything was okay.
You took a deep breath and unlocked your door, cracking it open. “Hi?”
The man on the other side wasn’t particularly tall, but he had thick arms and broad shoulders. His short-sleeve shirt was buttoned up all the way to the top and he wore heavy boots. He didn’t smile when his gaze locked on you without blinking.
Pope had been planning out what to say as he drove the streets of Oceanside, following the twists and turns of the roads as the red string led him north along the shore. Forty minutes outside of his hometown, in a stretch of slightly rundown apartments, it started to arch up until he pulled into the parking lot and watched the string disappear into a second floor unit. He’d sat in his truck for a good twenty minutes, watching the string move back and forth slowly as his soulmate walked around their apartment, pumping himself up for this. Pope wasn’t charming like Baz, he couldn’t flirt like Craig, and the Deran hair-flip was beyond him. He felt nervous, a rare sensation for him, but the red string was a reassurance. This was his soulmate. They didn’t want charming Baz, flirty Craig, or surfer-hair Deran. They’d want him.
But when you opened the door all the words he’d planned out disappeared. You were beautiful: dressed in relaxed clothes, barefoot, hair in a messy bun, holding a spray bottle of vinegar in yellow rubber gloves. Your big eyes took him in, confused and pretty, and fuck Pope was gone. Soulmates weren’t fairytales his ass.
“Do you live next door?” you asked, struggling to break the stare of this man and completely failing. His hazel eyes were captivating, holding you in a way that was making your belly flip. You were not going to fall for a man with good looks within literal hours of moving. The last time you’d been nice to a good-looking man he’d become such an intense stalker you’d had to get a restraining order and flee northern California entirely.
“No.”
Your hand tightened on the vinegar bottle, and that’s when the man finally blinked and offered his hand. “Andrew. I’m from Oceanside.”
You automatically started to extend a rubber-gloved hand, then realizing you were still wearing it, shucked it off as you opened the door a little more. “Is that nearby? Or the other building?”
He reached forward to grab your hand. His was warm and dry and engulfed yours completely. He had a lot of callouses that were rough against your fingers and his forearms were huge with veins the nurse in you salivated over. A flurry of butterflies filled your stomach that you desperately tried to squelch. He was staring hard at you now, not answering your question, and just as you moved to take your hand back you saw something shimmering and forming in the air.
A red ribbon the width of one finger and paper thin melted out of nothing in a straight line from his chest to yours. Your gasp was audible and you squeezed his hand tight, dropping the vinegar spray bottle.
“Is that—? Are we—?” You stuttered, unable to stop staring at the ribbon that fell into place between you, like it had always been there. Invisible but real.
“You see it?” Andrew asked, a thread of nerves in his voice, and you looked up, making eye contact again. He had beautiful hazel eyes, fine cheekbones, and a mouth you could tell wasn’t prone to smiles. He looked serious, anxious. Gods, you’d never thought— His face started to get blurry as your eyes welled up.
“A red string,” you choked out, and when you tugged on his hand he awkwardly folded into you. His cheek pressed to your head as you pressed yours to his chest, right where the string went in. He was solid and warm, and real. You swallowed back a sob, happiness and relief and bone-shaking awe overwhelming you. His arms circled around you and you could feel the tiny tremor that ran up and down his back. You swore there was a hum in the air, something electric and magnetic.
“Yeah, a red string,” he repeated hoarsely, voice full of wonder.
You bit your lip hard so you wouldn’t sob all over your soulmate just seconds after meeting him, eventually pushing back to really look at him. Andrew clearly worked out but came from some rough background, his shuttered expression and the edge to his body language said that, but there was hope there too. His grip on your waist was as gentle as if he were holding glass, and you didn’t feel afraid anymore. “Come in? I just moved here. How far do you live?”
“Oceanside. It’s south, 40 minutes or so.”
Andrew picked up the discarded yellow glove and vinegar bottle as you rambled about your hometown and followed you inside. He took in the boxes and the cleaning implements with an impassive face. “You need help?” he asked.
#
Soulmates really were everything you could possibly want.
You were probably jumping the gun but it felt that way. Andrew probably had OCD, but that was okay, because you loved a clean and organized house. Hell, you’d thought about branching out into home organization until your father had talked some sense into you about salaried jobs and benefits.
He was meticulous about cleaning out the fridge and then the kitchen cabinets as you opened boxes of lamps and bedding, and together you unpacked enough to get you through the next few days. He moved the couch effortlessly to where you pointed, and you swallowed dry watching his biceps work. When he opened the next box and saw the box of security cameras he just stared at you.
“I moved because this guy was stalking me,” you murmured softly, taking one of the cameras from his hand. “Those are from the last apartment. Just in case.”
“It’s a good idea,” Andrew said bluntly, gaze riveted on you until you blushed. “I’ll set them up. If he comes around, tell me. I’ll handle him.”
Your heart skipped several beats as Andrew started examining the space for the best angles.
As you worked he told you about his three brothers, niece, and nephew, briefly mentioning he worked in real estate, and if you wanted a better place he’d help you find one. Neither of you said it out loud, that maybe it would be a shared place, but when you asked about his home he mentioned something about a motel.
“What happened to your place?”
“Sold it,” he said shortly, stopping cold in the hallway, a drill for the camera in his hand.
“Without having a new one ready?” You asked softly.
Andrew stared at you, and you held his gaze for long seconds. His eyes were perfectly blank, empty. He was inside there, you knew it, but he wasn’t looking at you. “I was in prison.”
You put down the lamp you were holding and crossed to him, grabbing his big hand. “For what?” You murmured.
“Bank robbery.”
“Did you do it?”
“Yes.”
You blew out a breath and squeezed his hand in both of yours, and he didn’t blink, stare searching yours. When everyone said a soulmate would be perfect, they didn’t mean without flaws. They meant those flaws complimented you. Your jagged puzzle edges fit together. Of course you’d have an ex-con for a soulmate. An instant heart attack for your overbearing step-mother, and just the guy to deal with Cameron, your stalker.
“Thanks for telling me. I— I’ve never told anyone this, but I slashed my best friend’s ex’s tires. Only three of them. He was beating her, and you get a discount at the tire shop if you have to replace all four.”
Andrew’s mouth opened, and something flickered in his gaze.
“Thing is, he knew that too. So I recorded him slashing his own fourth tire and then sent that to the police. When he tried to file an insurance claim he got arrested for insurance fraud.”
For a beat no one breathed, and then Andrew dropped the drill and lifted his hand to your cheek, the fingers shaking.
“Fuck you’re perfect,” he mumbled, and then he was kissing you. It was all-consuming fire in your veins as he backed you hard to the hallway wall, crowding you in as he kissed you like you were his oxygen. You groped his shoulders and triceps as your tongues tangled, groaning at the firmness of him, the sheer muscle and strength. You were going to christen the bed of this apartment before you’d even put sheets on it.
“Andrew, fuck—”
“Can I?” He asked, mumbling against your throat, kissing his way down your body. “Can I taste?”
“Yes, yes!”
You sunk your fingers into his curls as he slid to his knees and yanked your shorts down, hungry mouth pressing to your panty-covered sex. He paused there, breathing you in, and then he tugged your underwear down and lifted one of your legs over his shoulder.
His mouth was hot and insistent, nose nudging your clit as he ate you out like it was his last meal. Your head thunked against the wall as you rocked against his face. You’d never been eaten out like this, you’d never had such thick fingers pulling your slit apart or heard such desperate moans as he sucked on your clit before his tongue was back inside you, slurping messily as your panting grew faster.
“Andrew, shit, I’m close, please, Andrew.”
He groaned deep in his chest, expression damn near worshipful, and one blunt finger pressed inside you as his lips tightened on your clit, and then his tongue was flicking so hard and fast you cried out, legs shaking.
“Oh my god, oh my god, Andrew fuck I’m, I—”
Your voice hitched as your orgasm slammed into you, hips desperately grinding into his mouth as he just kept sucking and licking at your clit, fingers pumping into you, until you almost collapsed and he had to catch you. You thought he’d lower you to the ground, but Andrew stood up, cupping your ass as you yelped, legs over both his shoulders now, and he walked you to the bedroom, slowly lowered you down on the unmade bed.
“Andrew, that was so good. Let me—”
“One more,” he muttered, eyes blazing bright as he looked up at you from between your legs, lips and chin glistening. “One more.”
