i love those old men

“What the fuck?” You asked with no anger in your words, you were confused and curious about what prompted that action from your boyfriend. Pope put one knee on the bed and let himself fall forward, collapsing on top of you and trapping you under the weight of his muscle. You let out a small exhale of air as Popes body settled on top of you and you pulled your arm out from under him to wrap both around his torso as he pushed his face into your neck. You held him close and both of you laid there in comfortable silence.

This was what Pope loved about being with you, how comfortable he was. He’d admit it was a bit awkward at first because he’d never been with a man, he wasn’t sure how to act. Hell, Deran had to be the one to tell Pope he was in a relationship. Pope had been friends with you first and he enjoyed spending time with you so much his family barely saw him. Pope hadn’t realized the feelings he had for you was love but he really should have, considering how much you occupied his thoughts and how he felt fiercely about wanting to protect you and take care of you. A day where he got to see you was the best day and days without you were boring and tedious. He talked about you constantly, you were Popes favourite subject, and he liked to make you smile. He should have realized he liked you romantically with how often he stared at your arms or the back of your neck or the sliver of skin at your waistband whenever you stretched. Thoughts of you had Pope blushing and Deran had to smack his brother upside the head to realize his feelings weren’t platonic.

Life with you was easier, easier than Pope would have guessed. Pope sometimes felt like he really had to preform with women, had to contort himself into a version of himself that was easier to swallow. He felt like there was a role he needed to play - protector, provider - and he was weak if he didn’t do those things. With women he second guessed everything he said or did, worried he’d scare them away or hurt them somehow. It wasn’t that Pope wasn’t worried about accidentally hurting you but he didn’t think over every little interaction with you. You and Pope shared similar interests and it was easier for Pope to just be himself with you. Pope could be soft with you, he could break down and show the parts of himself that were pulling apart, he didn’t have to be brave all the time. He wasn’t concerned about hiding any part of himself. With you his brain wasn’t working on overdrive all the time.

Like just now, he’d be worried about crushing or hurting a girlfriend if he collapsed on them the way he did with you. Instead he could just drop after his bad day and not overthink every little movement around you. He felt safe enough with you to know you’d catch him. You’d let him lie here until he felt like telling you what was going on.

And that’s exactly what you did. You held him and pressed a kiss to his head and waited for your presence to calm Pope down. It didn't take long, it never did, and all the noise of the day melted away.

The only time Popes mind was ever quiet was with you.

dividers by @ strangergraphics

taglist:

“What the fuck?” You asked with no anger in your words, you were confused and curious about what prompted that action from your boyfriend. Pope put one knee on the bed and let himself fall forward, collapsing on top of you and trapping you under the weight of his muscle. You let out a small exhale of air as Popes body settled on top of you and you pulled your arm out from under him to wrap both around his torso as he pushed his face into your neck. You held him close and both of you laid there in comfortable silence.

This was what Pope loved about being with you, how comfortable he was. He’d admit it was a bit awkward at first because he’d never been with a man, he wasn’t sure how to act. Hell, Deran had to be the one to tell Pope he was in a relationship. Pope had been friends with you first and he enjoyed spending time with you so much his family barely saw him. Pope hadn’t realized the feelings he had for you was love but he really should have, considering how much you occupied his thoughts and how he felt fiercely about wanting to protect you and take care of you. A day where he got to see you was the best day and days without you were boring and tedious. He talked about you constantly, you were Popes favourite subject, and he liked to make you smile. He should have realized he liked you romantically with how often he stared at your arms or the back of your neck or the sliver of skin at your waistband whenever you stretched. Thoughts of you had Pope blushing and Deran had to smack his brother upside the head to realize his feelings weren’t platonic.

Life with you was easier, easier than Pope would have guessed. Pope sometimes felt like he really had to preform with women, had to contort himself into a version of himself that was easier to swallow. He felt like there was a role he needed to play - protector, provider - and he was weak if he didn’t do those things. With women he second guessed everything he said or did, worried he’d scare them away or hurt them somehow. It wasn’t that Pope wasn’t worried about accidentally hurting you but he didn’t think over every little interaction with you. You and Pope shared similar interests and it was easier for Pope to just be himself with you. Pope could be soft with you, he could break down and show the parts of himself that were pulling apart, he didn’t have to be brave all the time. He wasn’t concerned about hiding any part of himself. With you his brain wasn’t working on overdrive all the time.

Like just now, he’d be worried about crushing or hurting a girlfriend if he collapsed on them the way he did with you. Instead he could just drop after his bad day and not overthink every little movement around you. He felt safe enough with you to know you’d catch him. You’d let him lie here until he felt like telling you what was going on.

And that’s exactly what you did. You held him and pressed a kiss to his head and waited for your presence to calm Pope down. It didn't take long, it never did, and all the noise of the day melted away.

The only time Popes mind was ever quiet was with you.

dividers by @ strangergraphics

taglist:

“What the fuck?” You asked with no anger in your words, you were confused and curious about what prompted that action from your boyfriend. Pope put one knee on the bed and let himself fall forward, collapsing on top of you and trapping you under the weight of his muscle. You let out a small exhale of air as Popes body settled on top of you and you pulled your arm out from under him to wrap both around his torso as he pushed his face into your neck. You held him close and both of you laid there in comfortable silence.

This was what Pope loved about being with you, how comfortable he was. He’d admit it was a bit awkward at first because he’d never been with a man, he wasn’t sure how to act. Hell, Deran had to be the one to tell Pope he was in a relationship. Pope had been friends with you first and he enjoyed spending time with you so much his family barely saw him. Pope hadn’t realized the feelings he had for you was love but he really should have, considering how much you occupied his thoughts and how he felt fiercely about wanting to protect you and take care of you. A day where he got to see you was the best day and days without you were boring and tedious. He talked about you constantly, you were Popes favourite subject, and he liked to make you smile. He should have realized he liked you romantically with how often he stared at your arms or the back of your neck or the sliver of skin at your waistband whenever you stretched. Thoughts of you had Pope blushing and Deran had to smack his brother upside the head to realize his feelings weren’t platonic.

Life with you was easier, easier than Pope would have guessed. Pope sometimes felt like he really had to preform with women, had to contort himself into a version of himself that was easier to swallow. He felt like there was a role he needed to play - protector, provider - and he was weak if he didn’t do those things. With women he second guessed everything he said or did, worried he’d scare them away or hurt them somehow. It wasn’t that Pope wasn’t worried about accidentally hurting you but he didn’t think over every little interaction with you. You and Pope shared similar interests and it was easier for Pope to just be himself with you. Pope could be soft with you, he could break down and show the parts of himself that were pulling apart, he didn’t have to be brave all the time. He wasn’t concerned about hiding any part of himself. With you his brain wasn’t working on overdrive all the time.

Like just now, he’d be worried about crushing or hurting a girlfriend if he collapsed on them the way he did with you. Instead he could just drop after his bad day and not overthink every little movement around you. He felt safe enough with you to know you’d catch him. You’d let him lie here until he felt like telling you what was going on.

And that’s exactly what you did. You held him and pressed a kiss to his head and waited for your presence to calm Pope down. It didn't take long, it never did, and all the noise of the day melted away.

The only time Popes mind was ever quiet was with you.

dividers by @ strangergraphics

taglist:

“What the fuck?” You asked with no anger in your words, you were confused and curious about what prompted that action from your boyfriend. Pope put one knee on the bed and let himself fall forward, collapsing on top of you and trapping you under the weight of his muscle. You let out a small exhale of air as Popes body settled on top of you and you pulled your arm out from under him to wrap both around his torso as he pushed his face into your neck. You held him close and both of you laid there in comfortable silence.

This was what Pope loved about being with you, how comfortable he was. He’d admit it was a bit awkward at first because he’d never been with a man, he wasn’t sure how to act. Hell, Deran had to be the one to tell Pope he was in a relationship. Pope had been friends with you first and he enjoyed spending time with you so much his family barely saw him. Pope hadn’t realized the feelings he had for you was love but he really should have, considering how much you occupied his thoughts and how he felt fiercely about wanting to protect you and take care of you. A day where he got to see you was the best day and days without you were boring and tedious. He talked about you constantly, you were Popes favourite subject, and he liked to make you smile. He should have realized he liked you romantically with how often he stared at your arms or the back of your neck or the sliver of skin at your waistband whenever you stretched. Thoughts of you had Pope blushing and Deran had to smack his brother upside the head to realize his feelings weren’t platonic.

Life with you was easier, easier than Pope would have guessed. Pope sometimes felt like he really had to preform with women, had to contort himself into a version of himself that was easier to swallow. He felt like there was a role he needed to play - protector, provider - and he was weak if he didn’t do those things. With women he second guessed everything he said or did, worried he’d scare them away or hurt them somehow. It wasn’t that Pope wasn’t worried about accidentally hurting you but he didn’t think over every little interaction with you. You and Pope shared similar interests and it was easier for Pope to just be himself with you. Pope could be soft with you, he could break down and show the parts of himself that were pulling apart, he didn’t have to be brave all the time. He wasn’t concerned about hiding any part of himself. With you his brain wasn’t working on overdrive all the time.

Like just now, he’d be worried about crushing or hurting a girlfriend if he collapsed on them the way he did with you. Instead he could just drop after his bad day and not overthink every little movement around you. He felt safe enough with you to know you’d catch him. You’d let him lie here until he felt like telling you what was going on.

And that’s exactly what you did. You held him and pressed a kiss to his head and waited for your presence to calm Pope down. It didn't take long, it never did, and all the noise of the day melted away.

The only time Popes mind was ever quiet was with you.

dividers by @ strangergraphics

taglist:

“What the fuck?” You asked with no anger in your words, you were confused and curious about what prompted that action from your boyfriend. Pope put one knee on the bed and let himself fall forward, collapsing on top of you and trapping you under the weight of his muscle. You let out a small exhale of air as Popes body settled on top of you and you pulled your arm out from under him to wrap both around his torso as he pushed his face into your neck. You held him close and both of you laid there in comfortable silence.

This was what Pope loved about being with you, how comfortable he was. He’d admit it was a bit awkward at first because he’d never been with a man, he wasn’t sure how to act. Hell, Deran had to be the one to tell Pope he was in a relationship. Pope had been friends with you first and he enjoyed spending time with you so much his family barely saw him. Pope hadn’t realized the feelings he had for you was love but he really should have, considering how much you occupied his thoughts and how he felt fiercely about wanting to protect you and take care of you. A day where he got to see you was the best day and days without you were boring and tedious. He talked about you constantly, you were Popes favourite subject, and he liked to make you smile. He should have realized he liked you romantically with how often he stared at your arms or the back of your neck or the sliver of skin at your waistband whenever you stretched. Thoughts of you had Pope blushing and Deran had to smack his brother upside the head to realize his feelings weren’t platonic.

Life with you was easier, easier than Pope would have guessed. Pope sometimes felt like he really had to preform with women, had to contort himself into a version of himself that was easier to swallow. He felt like there was a role he needed to play - protector, provider - and he was weak if he didn’t do those things. With women he second guessed everything he said or did, worried he’d scare them away or hurt them somehow. It wasn’t that Pope wasn’t worried about accidentally hurting you but he didn’t think over every little interaction with you. You and Pope shared similar interests and it was easier for Pope to just be himself with you. Pope could be soft with you, he could break down and show the parts of himself that were pulling apart, he didn’t have to be brave all the time. He wasn’t concerned about hiding any part of himself. With you his brain wasn’t working on overdrive all the time.

Like just now, he’d be worried about crushing or hurting a girlfriend if he collapsed on them the way he did with you. Instead he could just drop after his bad day and not overthink every little movement around you. He felt safe enough with you to know you’d catch him. You’d let him lie here until he felt like telling you what was going on.

And that’s exactly what you did. You held him and pressed a kiss to his head and waited for your presence to calm Pope down. It didn't take long, it never did, and all the noise of the day melted away.

The only time Popes mind was ever quiet was with you.

dividers by @ strangergraphics

taglist:

Pope finds you sitting on the low concrete step out back with your legs folded to one side. Delicate and stunned-looking in the harsh afternoon lift. A figurine dropped by accident and left there because nobody wanted to be the first to check for cracks.

You haven’t been drinking, he knows that much. You don’t really drink to begin with. Not in excess, anyway.

He scans you to find the problem. Head. Fine. Chest. More than fine. Stomach. Normal.

Knees.

Your knees are scraped raw.

The marks are not serious, technically. But serious enough that the skin has split open into two wet little blooms, blood bright against the grit, dust clinging where it shouldn’t. It runs down your shins in thin, crooked tributaries, and he hates it. 

Hates the sight so sharply it feels like a physical punch. Hates that the world got its hands on you for five seconds and already made a mess of what it shouldn’t have touched. Someone like you who is so pure and untouched.

Pope stops where he is.

His hand closes at his side. Opens again. That is his first correction. The second is his face, which he makes blank, or tries to, because you’re already looking up at him, head snapping back too hard, and his mind supplies the sound of it hitting the door before it happens. 

It doesn’t happen. Still, his jaw tightens. Careless with yourself, he thinks. 

You swipe at your face with the heel of your hand, and say, “I’m fine.”

No, you’re not, he wants to say. Who the fuck taught you to say that so fast?

Instead he takes a few careful steps toward you, keeping his face still, keeping everything locked down, even as the agitation climbs up the back of his neck.

If he gets close enough, he’ll be able to see it clearly. Where the damage starts. Who he’s supposed to blame.

“What happened, kid?”

You sniff once and straighten your back. Brave little thing. Ridiculous little thing. “Nothing.”

Pope doesn’t respond. His eyes stay on you, molten enough to become a thing in the yard, another source of heat in the sun, and he can feel himself doing it only after your fingers move to your mouth. One neat pink nail presses into the swell of your lip, picks at it, worries the softness there.

He wants to tell you to stop. Wants to take your hand away from your mouth. Wants too many things, which is usually the first sign that he should do nothing at all. So he waits for you to fold.

He knows the first answer was bullshit. Flimsy as tissue paper and he lets it tear on its own.

“I tripped,” you admit finally.

“Where?” he asks.

Your lashes are wet when you blink up at him, clumped together in little dark points, and your mouth does that small uncertain thing, twitching at one corner like you’re embarrassed to explain yourself.

“By the pool,” you say. “There was, like, a crack. Or something.”

He knows the crack. He can see it without looking, some warped seam in the concrete by the shallow end, something everyone steps over, steps around, ignores because it’s just part of the house being what it is. Broken things everywhere. Broken people too. 

But you didn’t know to look for it. You move through the Cody house like bad things are theoretical, like the ground itself wouldn’t dare rise up and bite you. It did anyway. 

Pope lets out a slow breath through his nose and drops into a crouch in front of you. 

Bad idea, probably. Everything is worse down here. It’s inflamed, scratches packed with dirt, blood drying in jagged lines.

You don’t like that part. The mess. He can tell by way your hands twitch helplessly in your lap, like you want to wipe it away, clean it up, make yourself presentable again, but the pain is winning. 

Your dress, meanwhile, is perfect. Some pink little sundress cut high over your thighs. No wrinkles or stray staining.

From where he is, he could see up it if he tried. He doesn’t. He keeps his eyes where they belong, on the blood, on the damage, on the part of you he can pretend is the only thing he wants to touch. For now. 

You try to pull your leg back the second he reaches for your ankle, some quick little prey-animal flinch that might’ve worked on someone less ready for it.

Pope catches you easily. His hand wraps firm before you can get very far. Not hard enough to hurt, not gentle enough to suggest he’s asking.

“Quit that.”

“It stings,” you protest.

“Yeah,” he says flatly. “That tends to happen when you eat shit.”

Your bottom lip wobbles. You gather it back up so quickly it almost disappears, smoothing the expression off your face like a ripple flattening on water, and Christ, you’re pretty when you cry.

It’s a rotten thought. He knows that. He knows that, and still his body reacts before morality can catch up, because his body is old violence and bad wiring and appetite with a pulse. 

He drags his thumb down the line of your calf, feather-light, careful to avoid the scrape itself, as if gentleness in one place could cancel out the ugliness in another, as if he could make himself clean by touching you like you’re made of glass. 

“You cryin’?” Rhetorical. More of an indictment.

“No.”

“You are.”

“‘M not.” A tear slips free and runs down your cheek as you say it.

Pope watches the trajectory, the thin shine over warm skin. He wants to lean in and taste it. Salt. Flesh. Proof. He kills the urge under the toe of his boot.

You stare past him, surely furious with yourself for the anatomical betrayal.

He lets out a short, humorless breath that almost passes for a laugh and shakes his head. “Tough girl, huh?”

You nod right away, stubborn as hell. “Mhm.” 

Another tear comes down. That settles it. Pope looks at it, then at you. Tough girl. Sure. Tough like a rabbit holding still under a hawk shadow. 

“C’mere,” he says.

“Why?”

“So I can clean it.”

Your eyes widen immediately, suspicious now, all that fragile toughness collapsing into practical fear.  “Is it gonna hurt?”

“It’ll hurt more if I don’t.”

He’s not actually sure that’s true, but he doesn’t know how else to sell this to you. He just knows he doesn’t want you leaving gravel in there and calling it day.

This patio has probably seen every kind of gross substance known to man. Beer, mud, oil, spit, ash, drugs, blood. A dozen things he doesn’t want in your skin. Enough random bacteria to make him think infection before anything else. Enough that he can already picture your knees tomorrow, swollen and pink and you still insisting it’s nothing.

It seems convincing enough for you because you let him pull you up, though you hiss when your knees straighten.

Stiff little steps. Swallowed noises. A terrible attempt at limping in a way he won’t notice, as if Pope has ever missed anything in his life, as if he might tease you for it. 

He probably will, a little, because sometimes teasing gets you moving better than sympathy does, but not much. 

Inside, he sets you on the bathroom counter and starts digging through the cabinet for peroxide and gauze. The bathroom is too small for both of you. It shows in the way he can clearly inhale the flowery perfume you have on. Sprayed at the base of your throat and insides of your wrists, most likely.

When he turns back, you’ve gone very still, hands braced on either side of your hips, shoulders pulled up nearly to your ears, eyes fixed on the brown bottle like it might lunge at you. 

“I don’t like that.”

“No one likes it.” 

You pull a face, and your foot kicks forward once, restless and nervous. Your heel brushes his side. Barely. An accident. Pope feels it through his shirt like a warning shot. You retract your foot immediately. 

“Well, I like it less than most people,” you mutter.

He steps in between your knees before you can fuss any more, the cap twisting loose between his fingers. 

“I think you’re being a little bit of a baby,” he says, then, before you can get offended, adds, “which is fine.” The cap clicks against the counter. “You can sit there and look at me like I’m about to torture you if that helps. But I’m still gonna clean it.” His eyes flick to your mouth, to the pout already threatening there. “You can do that too. Still not gettin’ out of it.”

You seem to consider pushing back one more time, then don’t. 

“...Kay,” you say, barely above a mumble. Giving in. Like you’ve made up your mind, like you’ve already accepted he knows what’s happening next better than you do and you’re fine with that. 

He isn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Hold still.”

The peroxide strikes the raw skin and you jolt under his hand, a soft whimper escaping before you can swallow it back, your eyes pinching shut like that might save you from the burning.

Pope gets a hand around your thigh before you can yank it your leg back, a quick learner when it comes to your habits.

“Easy,” he says, tipping the bottle back. “You’re alright.” Another careful pour, less this time. Another little flinch. “You’re doing good, doll. Almost done with the worst of it.”

Your lips push out further, eyes going a little softer and shinier. You shift toward him, knees parting just a little more around where he stands, one hand coming off the counter to catch at his side, then his shirt, then just staying there.

He wipes away the last of the pink fizz and dirt in slow passes. 

“There. See? Survived.” He reaches for the bandaids, peels one open with his teeth, and smooths it over the first scrape with the flare of his thumb. Then the second, just as careful. “Wasn’t so bad.”

“Easy for you to say.” Your hand stays bunched in his shirt, fingers curled into the cotton like you forgot you were holding on or decided not to care. 

Pope looks down at it for half a second too long, then back to the bandaid before it can become anything. The corner of his mouth pulls, barely. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right. Sorry, kid.” He presses the left bandaid down where it’s already trying to peel at the edge.  “Next time watch where you’re going, yeah? Makes my life easier.”

Your nose wrinkles. It’s cute. Freckles dotted across the bridge, fanning outward in a constellation of sorts. “Sounds like victim blaming to me.”

“You can be a victim and careless with your well-being at the same time.”

You cock your head at him, considering this, “So… are you done now?”

“Mhm. Done.” His hands settle at your waist and lifts you back off the counter, steadying you once wobbling feet hit the floor. 

You look up at him then, and your mouth softens into a small, toothless smile. It’s already too much for him. Already better than the pinched-up expressions you’ve been wearing since he found you outside. 

He almost makes the mistake of pointing it out. Before he can, you rise to your tip toes, light hands still at his sides for balance, and press those pretty lips to his cheek, just off his mouth. 

When you pull away, your teeth find your lower lip and you look at him from under your lashes. “Thank you, Andrew.”

He wants, suddenly and stupidly, to tell you not to thank him for things like that, not for basic shit, not for cleaning blood off your knees like it’s some grand gesture. But then again maybe in your life it is. Maybe that’s the part that makes something protective rise in him. 

So all he says is, “Yeah,” low and rough, like the word cost him a little. He keeps a hand at your waist a second longer than necessary before he lets you go. Watches you walk away. 

Later, when you’re distracted somewhere inside the house, he goes back out and finds the crack by the pool.

He fixes it the next day. 

A/N - popping my pope cody fanfic cherry!!!!!! yipee

The Cody house can be a very uncouth place to be.

Loud in every way possible, in volume and temperament too. Filthy-mouthed. Mean for the pleasure of it.

Craig says something disgusting every third sentence just to hear himself say it, just to get a laugh, just to see who flinches and who doesn’t. Deran’s no better when he’s in the mood to needle. And Smurf, when she wants to, can make a whole room feel dirty with one lifted eyebrow and six words.

Pope has never minded crude things. Never saw much use in pretending to. This place is what it is. He’s used to it. This is his life. This is simply the way he grew up.

But now you’re here, Smurf’s latest little acquisition, her new ornament to polish and put in the window.

Another pretty doll in her crooked collection. All polished and docile and good manners, brought in to handle the things Smurf considers beneath her. Logistics. Errands. Paperwork. Loose ends. The harmless-sounding parts, at least on the surface. 

Pope can’t decide how much you actually know. About any of it, really — where the money comes from, whose hands get dirty, which names to never mention again.

He bets you don’t ask, though, and Smurf must love that. Probably loves that you move through the work the way you do everything else: sweet and unassuming, smiling vacantly like you’re still asleep, floating somewhere in the middle of the ocean, eyes closed, nothing beneath you but endless dark water.

Open-hearted, oblivious, too easy and good to survive here.

So now the vulgarity of the Cody house grates on him. Makes him tense. Makes his shoulders bunch up near his ears. 

“So this chick tells me she can take it, right? Says she can handle anything. Five minutes later she’s cryin’, tellin’ me it’s too good.”

You stand against the fridge, spoon paused midway to your lips, yogurt abandoned as Craig’s drunk slurred chatter hangs in the air.

Pope watches closely, your expression a cloudy haze, eyes soft and curious and unaffected by words that should shock you into silence.

Pope’s fingers twitch at his side, the urge rising like nausea to shake you awake, to wrench you away to somewhere safe. 

He stays rooted instead, his muscles aching from the strain of keeping still as your curious voice cuts through the air.

“Why would she be crying?”

Craig looks at you blankly, his mouth hanging open as incredulity colors his face, like he’s never encountered something quiet so baffling.

A clueless girl in the Cody kitchen. It’s almost funny. It’s definitely not funny to Pope.

Deran, at least, thinks it’s funny, he makes a garbled choking sound and swivels away, a strangled laugh breaking through his arm. 

Craig continues to gape, finally managing a long breath, punctuated by hard edges: “Are you fuckin’ serious?” He tries again, mouth twisting into a smirk as he attempts an explanation, “I mean sometimes people cry when they’re gettin’ fu —”

Pope moves before his brain can catch up. His body knows something his mind hasn’t yet processed, and one second he’s pressed flat and invisible against the wall; the next he’s behind you, palms cupping over your ears. 

Your startled intake of breath dies softly under his touch, your confusion vibrating delicately against his fingertips.

“Don’t,” he growls, gaze sharp, locked onto his sibling’s stunned face. “You finish that sentence and you’ll spend the afternoon putting your jaw back together.”

Craig shakes his head. “The fuck's wrong with you? She's a grown woman. What, you think she's gonna burst into flames if she hears the word sex?” 

Pope’s eyes darken, narrowing into slits as he tightens his hold ever-so-slightly around your ears. 

“Maybe she will. Either way, you won’t be around to see it.”

Craig lets out a low laugh, running his hand through his hair like this whole standoff is just another joke, palms upraised like he’s dealing with a wild animal.

“Alright. Relax. Whatever you say, man.” 

Pope watches him retreat out of the room, Deran trailing not far behind him, likely to finish his story elsewhere.

And that’s fine. As long as he stays over there and out of ear shot of you.

The tension lingering in his tendons only just starts to loosen when he’s out by the pool.

He feels your hands reach up to pull his wrists away from your ears, fingers tentative around his rough palms. Rough palms that make him notice just how soft you feel, petal-pink nails sinking into the course terrain of his own skin.

The contrast is jarring. Scarred knuckles, raised veins, and a web of old cuts meeting hands that have never know real violence.

You pivot in his space, turning to stand toe-to-toe with him. 

You smell like whipped vanilla and candied pears. He forces himself not to lean closer, not to draw in another desperate breath because he wants to pin the scent down, memorize it, peel it apart note by note until he knows exactly what clings to your skin and your hair and your clothes.

“What was that for?” you ask.

Pope looks at you. “You don’t need Craig ‘splainin’ things to you.”

“Does that mean you’d rather explain things to me?”

Is that what he meant? Pope isn’t sure, and the uncertainty bothers him more than he wants to admit. The idea of you coming to him with your honest confusion, earnestly asking him to explain the gritty specifics of things he can hardly voice — no, that sounds like a terrible idea.

You have to know the basics, surely. Isn’t that enough? Pope thinks so. He thinks, really, the less detail you know, the safer your carefully maintained sense of self remains. The longer you stay wrapped in that protective bubble, unblemished by knowledge you shouldn’t have, the better.

Pope doesn't want to be the one who breaks it open. 

“I’m no good at explaining things like that,” he says finally. “Just don’t need Craig putting ideas in your head either. Or anyone else for that matter.”

You take a small step back, and Pope feels like he’s finally getting air into his lungs again. It’s short-lived. You scoop another spoonful of yogurt into your mouth, pretty lips pursed around the spoon, before you tilt your head and look at him thoughtfully. 

“Then… how am I supposed to learn anything?” you ask.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, aware of the incremental tightening of his pants. Fucking pathetic, he thinks.

He clenches his jaw tight before speaking. “You don’t need to know everything. Some things you’re better off not knowing, yeah?”

Your brows knit together. “But wouldn’t it be better if I at least knew —”

Pope cuts you off sharper than he intends. “No. You heard me. Drop it.”

You look away from him, nodding as your shoulders sink a little. “Right. Sorry.”

The frown on your face settles like a shadow Pope desperately wants to wipe away.

It sits wrong there, out of place, disturbing, even. He realizes, abruptly, that he hates seeing you even the tiniest bit upset. He’s not used to it; your smiles come so easily that your unhappiness feels tangible, something he’s placed there.

Something he’s responsible for. It’s rare to see your features drawn up like this. 

God, he’s really fucking this up, isn’t he?

He’s always been a little awkward, always a little too blunt, and no good at smoothing things over. He doesn’t know what comes next, doesn’t understand how to mend whatever he’s broken. Maybe that’s always been the problem, that hollow feeling at the back of his brain, the missing part, the empty gap everyone else seems born knowing how to fill.

“Shit, listen, kid,” Pope clears his throat, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean anything by it, alright? I just meant Craig talks a lot of bullshit and there’s stuff said around here that you really don’t need to learn. But —” He sighs, glancing down at his knuckles. “You’re an adult. If you wanna know things, it’s your call.”

You lift yourself onto the counter, legs swinging gently as you bring another distracted spoonful of yogurt to your mouth. 

“So if I do decide I wanna know something…” You pause, eyes turned up to the ceiling as if testing the air, probing at an unknown territory. “You’ll tell me about it?”

“Yeah,” Pope says slowly. 

He can’t quite meet your gaze, his eyes tracking the linoleum pattern like it’s the most compelling thing in the room. He knows he has no real choice in the matter. Better he’s the one who delivers the hard truth rather than you seeking answers elsewhere. With someone else.

“So…” you say slowly, voice dipping into something quieter, almost shy now. You lift on foot onto the counter, unthinking, the fabric of your skirt slipping upward. Soft pink underwear flashes at the edge of Pope’s vision. “Why exactly was that girl crying — with Craig?”

He takes two steps towards you, broad shoulders angled slightly to shield you from the rest of the room should someone walk in.

He keeps his eyes steadfastly fixed on your face, even as his fingers curl tense at his side, nails biting deep into his palms. 

It’s torture, but he doesn’t glance down. Not even for a second.

He hesitates at your question, searching for words that fit just right. He’s not sure he’ll find them, but he forces himself through it anyway.

“Craig was, uh — he was tryin’ to say she was crying because the sex was good, I guess. But, it’s not always just that. People cry for all kinds of reasons during sex. Could be physical, emotional, whatever. It’s complicated sometimes.” He pauses again, clearing his throat. “People have complex reactions to physical stuff like that.”

“Have you ever —?” Your teeth press carefully into your lower lip. He can see the follow-up question forming in your eyes. “Have you ever cried, you know… during?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, uncomfortable already. “Happens.” 

The word feels too small for it. Happens. Like it’s the same as catching a cold. 

“Oh.” 

And then his brain takes a turn and he’s picturing you. A common theme. You with glassy and wide eyes, dark mascara streaking down your cheeks in inky lines as he pounds inside you.

He can almost hear your breath catching, a soft sob, the slick slide of tears along your face for him to kiss away. 

Given your question, Pope doubts you’ve ever felt something so intensely vulnerable. Probably never cried during sex.

Maybe you haven’t even had sex, though he tries not to assume things. Still, it seems likely, given your blushes, your hesitations, the way your eyes widen at even the most indirect innuendos. You could have some scattered experiences, maybe, fragments of intimacy without ever fully grasping how it all works. 

He doesn’t like the sudden flare of possessiveness he feels; he doesn’t want to imagine anyone else ever seeing you like that. 

Pope clears his throat, banishing the image away. “So, uh, did that… answer what you wanted to know? You satisfied now, or?”

Your fingers move to twist the hem of your skirt. You look up through your lashes.

“Yeah,” you murmur finally, a little unsure and entirely too sweet. “I mean, I think so. For now.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You let me know if that changes, then.”

Craig’s voice cuts through the kitchen before either of you can say anything else, his footsteps heavier than usual as he strides back inside from the glass doors.

Pope reaches out and pulls your leg down, adjusting the hem of your skirt in the process.

His skin burns from where he touched you. 

“I’m tellin’ you, if she can’t fit both —”

Pope interrupts him by stepping forward, giving him a swift shove against the wall. Hard. Craig smacks shoulder-first into the wall with a loud thunk.

“Jesus, Pope. What’s your damage today?”

Pope steps back with a neutral expression, shaking out the tension in his knuckles. “Just doing everyone a favor.”

He avoids your eyes, heat still burning up the back of his neck.

A/N - this reader series will be a lil different than my usual i think... will end up being pretty dark and twisty!!! read at your own risk! and to reiterate!! if you don't like, don't read!