I've Been Watching- Pope Cody
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Summary: You met J on an ordinary Tuesday, quickly befriending him. Six months later, you're spending more time at the Cody house than your own apartment. J is easy to love. Craig is chaos. Deran keeps everyone laughing. Baz always seems to be looming over them all.
And Pope? Pope barely speaks. He only watches.
J warned you to stay away from him. You tried to listen- you really did. But every stolen glance became another step toward something you never should have wanted.
Tonight, the house is quiet. Everyone leaves.
You're alone with Pope...
And he's been waiting for exactly that.
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Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Dark Romance, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Smut, Obsessive/Possessive Behavior, Dubious Consent, Coercion, Manipulation, Stalking, Voyeurism, Power Imbalance, Psychological Manipulation, Rough Sex, Breath Restriction (hand-over-mouth), Biting, Bruising, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Praise Kink, Jealous/Possessive Themes, Canon-Typical Violence, Reader Discretion Advised, Your Honor, I can fix him (I cannot), And A Collectively Ignored Warning From J.
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Author's Note: Hey y'all... Guess who's back with some darker shit? Auggie is! 🤭 Listen, if Pope Cody looked at me like that, I'd also make poor decisions. BUT—in all seriousness, please don't date men like this in real life !
I wrote this based on Season 1 Pope Cody—less medicated, freshly out of prison, and... well... not exactly thriving. But who knows? Maybe Reader can fix him! Or maybe her survival instincts have simply left the chat. Either way... y'all know I love writing a walking red flag.
As always, please mind the warnings, and I hope you enjoy the read! Love y'all! 🩵
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You met J on a Tuesday in late August.
The heat was oppressive, making the asphalt shimmer and your shirt cling to your back. You were walking home from work, cutting through the residential streets two blocks from your apartment, when you saw him crouched on the sidewalk next to a bike, frustration written all over his face.
He was young, maybe early twenties— with dark brown hair and a lean, wiry build. Tank top and board shorts. He had that California beach-kid look, but there was something sharper underneath.
His phone was dead in his hand, and he was staring at the flat rear tire, like it had personally betrayed him.
You slowed. "Need help?"
He looked up, squinting against the sun. His eyes startling blue and assessing, deciding whether you were worth trusting. Then his expression softened.
"Yeah, actually. You wouldn't happen to have a pump, would you?"
You did. In your car, parked a block over. You jogged back, grabbed it, and helped him get the tire inflated.
He was grateful, and when he asked if you wanted to grab a beer as a thank-you, something in you said yes even though you didn't know him.
The bar was a dive two streets over. Dark wood, neon signs, the smell of stale beer and fried food. You sat in a corner booth and talked for hours. He was easy to talk to—funny, self-deprecating, smart in a way that felt unpolished.
But there were gaps in the conversation… things he didn't explain.
A phone call he took outside that made his jaw tighten… how his eyes tracked the door every time someone walked in…
You got the sense he came from a different world than yours. Something rougher.
Something you couldn't quite name.
But he was kind to you… so when he asked for your number, you gave it.
...
That was six months ago.
Since then, you'd been around the Cody house more and more. J invited you over often.
Pool days, dinners, late nights when Smurf was out. You liked the chaos of it. The way the brothers moved around each other like a pack.
Deran with his sharp humor… Craig with his reckless energy… Baz with his quiet authority…
And Pope
Pope who barely spoke. Pope who watched everything. Pope who made you nervous in a way you couldn't explain.
...
"Don't go around Pope," J said once, early on while were helping him in the kitchen.
"Why?" You asked.
J's face went serious. "Just don't... I mean it." The tone made your stomach drop, but you didn't push. You listened—
But that didn't keep you from looking.
...
Pope was damn good-looking. Big, muscular, the quiet type… and his stare—
God, his stare. He was always looking at people so deeply. Studying them.
It was scary, sure…. Intimidating, yes…
But to you, it was interesting. He studied everyone around him like he was memorizing their weaknesses.
You knew you should look away. You tried to look away. But something about him, his energy dark and magnetic, kept pulling your gaze back to him like gravity. Your eyes not having a choice.
You'd catch yourself staring and force your eyes down, your heart hammering. Stop it.
But then he'd shift in his chair, or the light would catch his jaw, and you'd be looking again. Helpless. Compelled.
It terrified you the way he made you feel reckless, J's warning echoed in your head every time you were near him.
You ignored it anyway. You knew better.
You could feel the danger radiating off him like heat. His presence primal and violent, simmering just beneath his skin.
But knowing better and being able to stop were two different things—
Every time you told yourself this is the last time, you came back. Every time you swore you wouldn't look, you looked. He was a pull you couldn't resist, a current dragging you under, and the worst part was—
You didn't want to resist anymore. You studied him.
You never went near him, never spoke to him directly… but you noticed things.
The way he held his beer, loose grip, like his hands were used to holding other things— heavier things.
How he tilted his head when someone lied, predatory. Calculating the situation, then calculating his next move.
You watched his jaw clench when Smurf pushed too hard, with violence barely contained.
And sometimes, just sometimes—
You felt him watching you back.
You told yourself it was nothing. Told yourself you were imagining it.
You weren't.
...
It was a rare occasion, a reprieve from the usual feelings in the house. The kind that only happened when Smurf was out of town. When the house shifted into something looser and unguarded.
The boys and you all grabbed some beers and headed out for pool time in the back. The afternoon stretched long and easy, burgers sizzling on the grill, the smell of charcoal and summer heat thick in the air.
Deran manned the grill with a joint between his fingers, flipping patties while Craig splashed around in the deep end trying to dunk Baz. J floated on a raft, sunglasses on, texting Nicky.
You sat on the edge with your legs in the water, bikini still damp from earlier. Some rap song you didn't know played low from the Bluetooth speaker near the lounge chairs. The bass thrummed steadily underneath the laughter and splashing.
Pope was on a sun chair, shirtless, swim trunks low on his hips. He hadn't gotten in the water yet, just sat there, beer in hand, watching.
You felt his eyes on you more than once, but you didn't look back. You kept your focus on the water.
On Craig's terrible jokes.
On the way the sun dipped lower and lower, turning everything gold… on anything else.
...
As the sun set, everyone slowly dwindled away.
Baz climbed out first, toweling off. "Gotta get back for Lena," he said, grabbing his keys. He clapped J on the shoulder and left.
Deran disappeared down the hall next, muttering something about finding his stash.
Craig got a text and grinned. "Amber's place," he announced, pulling on a shirt. "Catch you later!" He was gone before anyone could respond.
Then J's phone buzzed, he frowned at the screen. "Shit." He sat up, swinging his legs off the raft. "Nicky's pissed. I gotta go."
Your stomach dropped.
J looked over at you, hesitant. Worried. "You okay staying here?"
You nodded. "Yeah. Of course. It's fine."
J threw a worried glance at Pope— a warning glance. The message that said be careful.
Pope ignored it, sipping his beer. His eyes were fixed on you now and you still haven’t noticed.
"Okay..." J said slow and reluctant.
"Stay as long as you'd like. Call me if you need anything." He emphasized the last part. Anything.
He left. And then it was just you.
And Pope.
-------------------
Pope had been watching you for months. Not the way normal people watched… the same way he watched his marks, his targets.
He noticed you the first time J brought you around. You moved carefully through the house, smart enough to sense danger, but not smart enough to leave.
You smiled at Smurf, polite but distant. Survival instinct you didn't even know you had.
He noticed the dresses— little sundresses that hit mid-thigh. Those bikinis when they had pool days. How you'd tuck your hair behind your ear when you were nervous. Saw the soft skin of your inner thighs stretch when you sat… the curve of your throat when you laughed…
He cataloged it all.
He noticed the way you looked at him.
You thought you were subtle. You weren't— Cute.
He'd spent years reading people, reading their tells, their weaknesses, their wants. And you?
You were easy, too easy.
He'd catch you staring when you thought no one was watching. Your eyes would flick to him across the kitchen, across the yard, across the living room.
Then you'd look away fast, as if you'd been caught doing something wrong. You had been.
Pope didn't do anything about it at first. He just watched back and studied you.
But with you it was different.
With you, he wanted more. Wanted to know what you were thinking when you looked at him like that. If you understood what you were doing…
Wanted to know if you knew how dangerous he was.
You didn't…. that much was obvious.
...
J warned you off.
Pope overheard him when he brought you over the first day.
"Don't go around Pope." Good advice. The best advice you'd ever get. You should've listened.
But you kept coming back… kept wearing those dresses… kept looking.
So, Pope kept watching. Kept memorizing… kept waiting.
He knew where you lived. Knew your little routine. How you walked home from work every Tuesday and Thursday. That you stopped at the coffee shop on the corner. He knew you lived alone.
He'd driven past your apartment three times. Never stopped, just looked.
Just confirmed—
He told himself he was being careful, making sure you weren't a threat to the family... It's just surveillance.
It wasn't.
It was obsession.
Tonight, Smurf was gone. The house felt different without her, a little lighter, looser. Everyone was relaxed, laughter and drinks shared around the table.
Pope sat on his lounge chair and watched you sit by the pool.
Your legs in the water and that tight bikini top tied around your neck with the strings delicate against your skin... soft thighs pressed together tight, squishing the plush expanse of soft skin … the water slowly dripping down your calves, the droplets caressing each curve…
You glanced at him once— just once— then hurriedly looked away.
He imagined his hands on those thighs. Imagined the bruises his fingers would leave and the sounds you'd make.
His jaw clenched, hands tightened on the beer bottle.
The same hands that had broken bones, same hands that had held a gun to a man's head two days ago.
The same hands that wanted to touch you so badly it made his chest ache.
He'd been patient. Months of patience. Controlling himself because he had to. There were always people around.
Because Smurf would notice…
Because J would know…
But tonight everyone was leaving. One by one, they filtered out until it was just J left. And you.
J got a text. Pope knew what it was before J even looked at his phone. Nicky. Always Nicky. He almost feels bad for the kid. J was stressed, torn. He looked at you, then at Pope.
Pope didn't react. Just sipped his beer, kept his face blank. The same face he used when he was working. When he was hunting.
J left.
Now it was just the two of you.
Pope leaned back in his chair. The sun was almost gone now, just a sliver of orange on the horizon. The sky turning purple and pink. The music still played. Some bass-heavy track he didn't know the name of.
You sat there, legs still in the water. You hadn't moved since J left, but your shoulders were tense now. You knew.
Pope finished his beer, set the bottle down on the concrete with a soft clink.
He shifted in his chair, antsy. That old feeling crawling under his skin. The one that meant he needed to move, needed to act. Needed to do something or he'd lose his mind.
It’s the feeling he got before a job.
Before violence.
He'd been still long enough. He'd been careful long enough. He'd been patient long enough.
He stood.
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You realize you're alone with Pope.
The sun is nearly gone. Dusk settling heavy and warm. The music is still playing quietly now, just a murmur of bass and lyrics you can't make out.
You leave your legs in the water, keeping your eyes down, watching your feet kick gently as they make small ripples.
You feel him watching you. You don't look. You can't.
If you look, it'll be real.
If you look, you'll have to acknowledge that you're alone with the one person J explicitly told you to stay away from.
Your heart pounds, your skin feels too hot. There's a knot of fear in your stomach that you try to ignore. Try to rationalize.
It's just Pope. It's fine.
You're fine.
You hear him shift, the lounge chair creaking under his weight. You hear the glass of the beer bottle clink against the stone.
Silence. Long, heavy silence.
You risk a glance. Just one.
He's staring right at you.
Your breath catches. You look away fast, but it's too late. You felt it.
The weight of his gaze, that intensity, and the emptiness behind them. He wasn't just looking.
He was hunting. Dissecting.
The way a predator watches its prey.
Your hands grip the edge of the pool, the concrete rough under your palms. Your pulse is hammering in your throat. A car passes on the street beyond the fence. The music shifts to another song, water still lapping gently against your legs.
You hear him stand.
Your pulse spikes. Genuine fear shoots through you. You keep your eyes down.
Don't look. Don't look.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Measured.
He's moving toward you.
Your chest rises and falls too fast. You try to steady your breathing, but you can't. Fear and something else—something you don't want to name—coils tight in your belly. Arousal mixing with terror in a way that makes you dizzy.
The footsteps stop.
He's close now. You can feel him.
The heat radiating off him. The presence. Danger.
Don't look.
...
"You don't talk a lot." his voice breaks the quiet. Low. Emotionless.
You look up. Shit.
He's standing above you now, shirtless with swim trunks low on his hips. His body all muscle, tension, and barely-contained violence. As always, his face is unreadable.
But his eyes, his eyes are locked on yours. Intense and unblinking. Empty in a way that makes your stomach drop.
"You don't either..." you say quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
He nods in agreement. "I like that."
You smile, shy. You don't know what else to do. Your body is screaming at you to run, but you can't move.
"You don't talk a lot..." he says slower this time, "...But you do look." He takes another step forward.
Your stomach drops.
"What...?" You breathe.
"You look at me." His head tilts, eyes narrowing. "...Too much."
Oh god. He knows.
"I—"
"Why?" You can't answer. Can't think.
Your eyes focus in front of you once again, unable to meet his gaze.
He's too close. Too intense.
He sits down next to you close. So close your thighs are touching. The heat of his skin against yours makes you dizzy. It makes you want to pull away and press closer at the same time.
His hand reaches over and grabs your thigh.
"Pope—“
"What?" He says it like it's nothing. Like this is normal.
His eyes now fixed on your thigh. Watching the way his fingers dig in, squeezing. Tight. Too tight. The fat of your thigh pooling around his grip. It hurts.
You can feel the strength in his hand. The same strength that could break bones.
A gasp escapes your mouth.
He stills, eyes snapping to yours.
Your chest rises and falls rapidly. His gaze is unwavering, watching your reaction like he's studying it. Memorizing it.
Then his hand lifts. You look down and see the redness from the pressure. The indent of his fingers marks, leaving bruises forming already.
You're too distracted to stop him—
His hands clamp down on your hips, and he pushes you forward into the pool.
You crash under the surface. Water rushes over your head, into your nose, choking you. Panic spikes, you kick up, gasping as you break through.
"Pope, What the fuck?!"
He's already in the water.
He comes at you immediately, arms snatching you up and wrangling you against him like you weigh nothing.
His front flush against your back. You kick and thrash, but he's too strong. Impossibly strong. His arms lock around you like steel.
"Pope. What the hell are you doing?" Panic in your voice.
"Shut up. Stop moving."
You listen, softening in his hold.
The flatness in his voice makes you freeze. Genuine fear courses through you.
This is wrong. This is dangerous. But your body—your traitorous body—is responding. Heat now pooling low in your belly.
The arms wrapped tight around you start to loosen.
His warm breath is on your neck, your ear. You feel his hands move up your belly. Under the curve of your breast, then back down to your hips. A possessive touch.
He presses fully against you, every inch of him claiming the space. You feel him against your lower back, hard.
His hands wander your body slowly, exploring.
The same hands that have hurt people.
The same hands that have killed.
You don't know that.
"Pope—“
"Shut it."
You whine at his grabby touch. The sound does something to him, causing him to pause. A shaky breath leaves him, the first sign of emotion you've heard.
He twists you around roughly by the waist, his hold aggressive. You're facing him now as his big hands grip your shoulders hard enough to bruise. He stares at you.
You shrink in his gaze. Terrified, and turned on in a way that makes you hate yourself.
"You keep staring at me," Pope finally says.
"I-I'm sorry, Pope—“
"You keep staring." His grip tightens. "Months. You've been staring at me for months."
Silence. His eyes flicker to your lips.
"What do you want?"
...
Your eyes widen, heat floods your cheeks.
"Pope— we should—"
"What. Do. You. Want." His voice raw as the grip tightens on your shoulders, painful now. You can feel his fingers digging into muscle causing your body to react. You try to suppress it, but you moan.
He looks taken aback. Shocked. Then something shifts in his eyes. Something dark. Obsession.
His hands loosen as they softly trail up to your neck. The contrast terrifying. Gentle after violence. You're stunned.
Then to your hair, he’s grabbing the claw clip to take it out. Now throwing it over his shoulder, back to the stone ledge.
His eyes scan over you, taking you in now. His hands reach up to play with the soft framing pieces of your hair. Tender in a way that feels wrong.
"Pope, what are you doing?"
He doesn't answer. His eyes just keep flicking from your eyes to your hair, then your lips, toying with the strands. Studying you.
You feel your thighs clench together, seeking relief. You shouldn't want this, you should be scared.
You are scared.
But you want it anyway.
His body looms closer to yours. Your legs touch under the water now, inching closer. He drops his hands finally from your hair.
"You keep staring at me," He says softly. Dangerously soft.
"I'm sorry..." You say, feeling out of breath.
"You wear little dresses and bikinis around the house..." His eyes drop to your breasts unashamedly. "....You think I don't notice?"
"I— Well, I guess..."
"Who are you doing that for?" His eyes narrow, shooting back up with an edge to his voice. Something threatening.
"N-no one."
"Not J?" There's danger in the question.
Your brow furrows, shaking your head slightly, trying to understand where this is coming from. "No, Of course not. J has a girlfriend. No..."
He studies you, searching for lies. "Pretty sure that's why him and Nicky are fighting tonight..."
Your eyes widen. "What?"
...
"So you really know nothing? Have no feelings for J?" His hands tighten on your shoulders again, warning.
"No... Of course not."
He nods quietly, satisfied. His body moves closer to you.
"You've been waiting for this..." He says, matter of fact, eyes intense.
"You've been watching me. I've been watching you." The way he says it makes your blood run cold. I've been watching you. Not just at the house. Everywhere.
You don't understand. You just nod, feeling your face heat up.
"You wear this for me...?" His finger picks at the bikini strap, then lets it snap back to your skin, sharp and stinging. His eyes drop to your breasts.
You can't respond, horrified, thrilled. The realization crashing over you
—He knows.
He's known all along. Every glance. Every dress. Every time you looked at him, thinking you were being subtle.
He was watching. He was always watching.
"Answer me." He growls, snapping you from your thoughts.
"I—"
"Tell me the truth." His voice gravelly.
You can't find words, your throat closes. All you can do is nod. A small, desperate movement, because anything else would shatter you.
Pope's expression never changes. He just nods back, shoulders looking a little less tense. As if something's been confirmed for him. Decided.
"Good." His eyes drop again. He licks his lip, biting it.
"If you're wearing it for me- then I'll take it off for you." It's not a request.
His hands slowly raise to the straps. You grab his hands before he makes contact.
"Pope—"
His eyes meet yours. Flat, waiting.
There's a warning in them. Don't fight me.
Your breathing is unsteady. You should say no, you should leave.
You should run.
"Okay..." You say, dropping his hands.
His hands place on your shoulders. Firm grip as he brings you against the wall of the pool, cornering you in. Your back pressed into the stone, his torso pressed against yours, caging you in. Trapping you.
His eyes are dark as he scans over you. There’s a hunger behind them.
His hands now ease up your shoulders, to the back of your neck, tugging the tie free from your bikini top. He lets it drop.
You gasp as it does; instinct making you reach to cover your breasts—
His hands catch yours before they can, fingers wrapping around your wrists with deep pressure.
"No." The word is flat. A command that leaves no room for argument.
You shudder, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the temperature. His grip loosens suddenly, and you feel the rough pads of his thumbs rubbing slow circles against the inside of your wrists where your pulse hammers.
The gentleness after violence makes your head spin, making you dizzy. You nod because you can't speak. Can't think past the feeling of his hands on you.
His hands let go.
Then drop to your breasts. Rough, claiming palms cupping the soft weight of you like he's memorizing the shape and feel, the way you fit in his hands.
You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it.
He takes his time, doesn't rush. His thumbs brush over your nipples, already hard from the cool air. From fear. From want.
You feel the sensation rush straight down to your core.
He rolls the sensitive buds between his fingers and tugs, testing how much pressure makes you gasp. How much makes you whine. Learning your body like he's studying a map, and cataloging every reaction.
"Pope..." You whine, breathless.
He's mesmerized, eyes locked on his hands touching you. Watching the way your flesh responds to him. The way your nipples peak darker under his attention.
He nods, almost to himself. "I know... I know..." His voice is rough and strained. Barely controlled.
Like he's holding himself back from something violent. Something consuming.
His hands trail down over the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, settling on your hips with bruising force. He pulls your legs around him, your body flush against his.
Now, you feel the hard length of him pressed between your thighs—separated only by fabric. Your breath hitches. A sharp, broken moan escapes you. Your hands fly to his arms, grabbing onto the solid muscle there.
The same arms that have held people down. Choked them. Hurt them.
The same arms now holding you like you're something precious and breakable and his.
His eyes snap to yours at the sound, dark pupils blown wide. The noise you made undoing something in him.
"Fuck," He pants, you feel the word against your skin, more than hear it.
Then his mouth is on you.
His head lowers, mouth finding your nipple and taking it in, teeth scraping the sensitive bud. You cry out before you can stop yourself.
His hand closes over your other breast. Pinching, rolling. Just testing how much you can take while his mouth works the first, sucking and biting the sensitive skin.
Your hands claw at his arms, holding on like you're drowning.
His other hand grips your hip tight and possessive. Deep purple marks already blooming in the shape of his fingers. He uses that grip to grind you against him hand, relentlessly.
The friction even through your bikini bottoms steals your breath. Your vision whites out.
Too much. Not enough.
"Pope—" His name breaks in your throat.
"Pope, Oh my God—"
The words barely leave your mouth before he's rutting against you, hips rolling in a rhythm that's filthy and raw. He whimpers against your breast—actually whimpers—the sound muffled and broken. So at odds with the violence in his grip.
Pupils blown so wide, his eyes look black. Empty and hungry. He bites down on your nipple, hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to make you shriek loud, now echoing—
His hand flies up and clamps over your mouth, cutting off the sound. Cutting off your air.
"No—" He warns against your wet skin.
"Can't do that or we'll get caught."
Your eyes go wide, chest heaving against his, trying to pull in air through your nose.
Your hips shift against him, seeking relief. Seeking friction. Seeking anything. The movement pulls a deep, guttural groan from him that you feel vibrate through your whole body.
"Don't wanna get caught out here like this, now do you?..." His voice rough, breath hot against your ear.
"....Don't want them to see you like this. See what you let me do to you. See you spread open for me in the pool like this.”
You shake your head no against his palm frantic and desperate.
A wide smiles grows on his face, not reaching his eyes. Something dark and predatory.
"Good girl."
His palm lifts from your mouth and you gasp in air shaking, before his hand slides down between your legs. Now, cupping you through your bikini bottoms. The pressure makes you moan. You feel him twitch against you in response.
"Can I pull these off..." His eyes flick between your face and where his hand cups you. It's not a question, more like a promise.
You nod.
"Say yes." His voice rough and demanding. His fingers press harder against your clit through the fabric. You nearly sob.
"Yes, Pope..." You whine. His warm hand still cupping you, pressing hard, and rubbing slow circles that make your thighs shake around his waist.
"You want me...?" He asks, voice uncertain for a moment, a crack in his control.
He applies more pressure, watching your face with careful focus. Memorizing every micro-expression. Every hitch in your breath. Every flutter of your eyelashes.
Looking for confirmation, for proof that you actually want this. That you actually want him. Not just fear. Not just the situation. Him.
"Say it."
"Yes- yes! Pope, I want you-!"
The last thread of his restraint snaps. His mouth crashes into yours, hungry. Teeth clashing, tongues sliding. He bites your bottom lip hard enough to break skin and pulls. You taste copper, mouth full of the mix of metallic, chlorine, and the beer he was drinking earlier.
Both his hands fumble with the ties of your bikini bottoms at your hips, rough and impatient. Now shaking slightly, like he can't quite control his own hands anymore.
You're moaning into his mouth, the sound swallowed by him. Your hands find his hair, tugging hard, pulling a groan deep from his chest. Sound so raw and broken, it makes you clench around nothing.
The bikini comes free, fabric floating away in the water, leaving you completely exposed. Completely bare. Completely his.
He pulls back just enough to look to take you in. His eyes are dark and hungry in a way that should terrify you
It does. Somewhere deep in your brain, where the survival instinct still lives. Your hands rest on his biceps, feeling the muscle flex and tense under your palms.
He doesn't touch you, just watches. Watches your chest rise and fall with rapid, shallow breaths. Watches the way you tremble in his arms. Watches you shake with fear, want, and need all tangled together into something you can't name.
"I need you, Pope."
His eyes lock to yours. Something shifts in them. Something dark and satisfied.
"Say it again."
"I need you, Pope." your voice breaks.
He nods slow, his hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip, pressing.
"You have me." It sounds like a threat. "You have all of me now."
Then his mouth is on yours again, desperate but more gentle this time. All-consuming. His tongue slides against yours as his hands grip your waist tight, pulling you flush against him. You feel his hard length against your bare center, whimpering into his mouth. He swallows the sound, groaning deep in his chest.
"Pope, please—" you gasp when he pulls back.
"I know... I know..." He breathes against your lips. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closed, his chest heaving.
"You sure?" There's an edge to the question, like he's giving you one last chance to run.
"Yes— God, yes—"
His eyes open. Dark and empty as he studies your face. He nods once.
His hand slides down between your bodies, fingers finding you under the water. You jolt at the contact, gasping. He watches your face as he touches you, rough circles that make your thighs shake around his waist. Learning you inside and out.
"Pope—“ you whine.
"Shh... Need you to be quiet..." His voice rough, riddled with restraint.
"Gotta make sure you're ready for me..." His fingers press hard. "...Gotta make sure you can take it."
You nod frantically, hips rolling against his hand. He adds pressure, causing you to bite your lip to keep from crying out. His other hand grips your hip, holding you steady against the pool wall, trapped.
"That's it..." he murmurs. "Just like that... good girl..."
The water laps around you both, warm and isolating. The music still plays faintly from the speaker. A car passes on the street beyond the fence. The world keeps moving while you're pinned here, trembling under his touch.
No one knows where you are.
No one can hear you.
He slides a finger inside you, rough. Your head falls back against the concrete edge.
"Oh, God—"
His hand clamps over your mouth again, harder this time.
"What did I say?" His eyes intense and warning. You whimper against his palm. He adds another finger, stretching you. Your eyes roll back.
"You want everyone to know? Want them to come out here and see you like this? See what you're letting me do?"
You shake your head no, tears pricking your eyes from the overwhelming sensation.
From fear. From pleasure.
"Then be quiet." He punctuates each word with a curl of his fingers that makes you see stars.
You nod desperately. He removes his hand from your mouth slowly. You bite down on your own lip, tasting the familiar copper again.
He watches. Obsessed. Then he pulls his fingers out, causing you to whine at the loss.
"I've got you..." he says voice softer, but no less dangerous. His hand wraps around himself under the water, positioning. You feel the head of him press against you, causing your breath to hitch.
"Breathe..." Then he's pushing in. Not slow or gentle. Claiming.
Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp. His length, stretching and splitting you open. The water makes everything slick and smooth, but you still feel every thick inch. He watches your face the entire time, jaw clenched, breathing hard through his nose. Watching for pain. For resistance.
"Fuckk—" He hisses when he's fully seated inside you, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"Fuck— You feel... So fucking tight..." His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, enough to hurt.
"Been thinking about this... Been watching you... Knowing I'd have you like this..."
You can't speak. Can't think. You just hold onto his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust. His hands grip your hips so tight you know there'll be bruises tomorrow. The thought makes you clench around him.
He groans, low and broken. "Don't— don't do that or I won't last..." His voice strained.
"Pope, please move—" You beg.
He obliges.
He pulls out almost completely, then thrusts back in, hard and brutal. You bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cry.
He does it again. And again. Finding a rhythm that has the water sloshing around you both, splashing up onto the deck. Claiming you.
"So fucking perfect—" He mutters against your neck, voice wrecked.
"Knew you would be... Been watching you... Thinking about this... About having you... About making you mine..."
You moan softly, and he kisses you, swallowing the sound. His hips snap against yours relentless. One hand slides up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, causing you to arch into his touch.
"Pope— P-pope, I'm- mhm"
"I know... I can feel it..." His voice animalistic. "Let go... I've got you... I've got you now..."
His hand slides between you again, fingers finding your clit, circling it in time with each thrusts. You feel yourself climbing, higher and higher.
"That's it... Come on..." He breathes against your ear, voice dark.
"Wanna feel you... Wanna feel you come on my cock... Been waiting months for this..."
You break apart in his arms, biting down on his shoulder hard enough to draw blood to keep from screaming. Your whole body trembles, clenching around him.
He groans deep, hips stuttering, now losing rhythm.
"Fuck— w-where-" he gasps, his hands tighten on you.
"Inside— I'm on the pill... Please-"
That's all it takes. He buries himself deep and stills. His whole body going rigid as you feel him pulse inside you, the warmth filling you. His face buried in your neck, breathing hard. Small sounds escaping him that sound almost pained.
You hold him, your legs still wrapped around his waist. The water settling around you both.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Time feels strange.
Finally, he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are different now, satisfied. Vulnerable.
He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheekbones softly. The contrast terrifying.
"You okay?" He asks quietly.
You nod. "Yeah... you?"
He nods back, then kisses you, gentle this time. Sweet. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours again.
"We should..." you start
"I know."
But neither of you move.
He's still inside you, your legs still wrapped around him. The water cool now against your heated skin, the night air settling heavy and thick.
"Pope..." you whisper
"Yeah?"
"...What happens now?"
He's quiet for a long moment. His hands slide down to your waist, holding you gently as he slowly pulls out. You both wince at the loss. He sets you down, your feet finding the pool floor. His hands don't leave your waist.
"Now..." He says, eyes searching yours. "...Now you're mine." he says it like it’s a fact.
"You understand? You're mine now."
You should probably be scared. Should probably run. But you just nod.
"Okay."
He nods, satisfied. His hand releases you reluctantly as he reaches for your bikini bottoms floating at the pool's edge. He hands them to you, watching as your trembling fingers fumble with the ties.
You can feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement, every small shake.
Your top comes next. He helps you secure it around your neck, fingers brushing your skin in a way that feels almost reverent. Almost gentle. The touch makes your chest ache.
Soft against your skin. Tender.
When you're both decent again, he just stands there looking at you. The weight of what just happened settling between you like a cage.
...
"J can't know." He says finally. It’s an order.
"I know."
"No one can know." eyes intense, slightly threatening. "This is between us. You understand?"
"I know, Pope."
He nods, then pulls you against his chest, arms wrapping around you tight. You rest your cheek against his heartbeat, the sound steady and strong. It’s the heartbeat of something dangerous.
Above you, the stars are coming out. The music still plays. Somewhere in the house, a door closes.
You stand there in the water, held by him as the world keeps spinning around you.
You don't understand what you've just done. Not yet. But it's starting to creep in, slow and cold, like water seeping under a locked door.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispers
—You don't actually know him—
You don't know what he does when he leaves the house at 2 am, coming back at dawn with blood on his knuckles.
You don't know why Deran and Craig go quiet when he walks into a room.
You don't know why J's voice went serious when he warned you—
'Don't go around Pope'- like it wasn't advice…
More like survival.
...
You remember the way Pope looked at a guy at a bar once, just looked, and the guy left. Pale and shaking.
You remember the scar on Pope's ribs, the one he never explained.
You remember Baz saying once, casually, over beers,
'Pope's got a body count, man. Don't fuck with him.'
Everyone laughed, but it wasn't a joke... was it?
…
What did you just let him do to you?
Your breath catches, chest tightening.
He's still holding you, still watching. You can feel his eyes on the top of your head even though you can't see his face.
Studying you, assessing, the way he's been doing for months.
This wasn't spontaneous, it wasn't passion.
He planned this.
He waited until everyone left, until you were alone. He waited until you had no escape, no witnesses, until there was no one to stop him.
He's been watching you, learning you. And tonight, he decided it was time.
You were always the target.
The realization hits you like a punch to the gut.
He doesn't love you.
He doesn't even know you.
He just... wants you. Wants to own you, the same way he owns everything else in his life.
Through control, through fear, through force.
And you let him. You practically begged him.
You think about leaving, about pulling away, running. But his arms are still around you, tight and unyielding.
You don't know if you can leave. You don't know what he'd do if you tried. You crossed a line tonight, a line you didn't even know existed.
And now you're on the other side of it. In his world, in his grip, in his possession.
There's no crossing back. This is permanent.
You're his now. And the worst part?
The part that makes your skin crawl, your heart race, and your breath come short—
Is that some small sick part of you wanted this. Wanted him.
Even now. Even terrified...
You don't understand what you've just done.
But you will-
You will.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
