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headoverhiddles · 5 years ago

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Matrimony - Pope x Reader (Let Me Make You A Martyr) [Part I]

Synopsis: You and a skilled hitman are forced to work together to take out a mutual ‘friend’ through teamwork. But together is the opposite of how Pope works, and he already despises you.

Aka the super filthy, depraved fake marriage au no one asked for :)

Notes: this will be a three parter, with updates every three days! Enjoy!

Tagging: (ask to be added) @peachynun

PART II

PART III

Pope barely lets the guy finish speaking—he’s already rejected the terms, regardless of the pay.

“I haven’t even told you the haul yet,” the man who had come to him, Jack Redman, chuckles. Pope does not share his amusement, which he makes clear through a scathing glare. Pope’s glares had the ability to convey a particular type of anger, so intensely that nobody usually challenged him any further… but it meant Redman’s ass if he returned without a yes.

The two were sitting in Pope’s cabin, devoid mostly of decoration, only the necessities surrounding them. The kitchen table they sat at was low, homemade out of rain-bleached wood from around the area. On their plates, the two had almost finished cuts of red deer meat Pope had offered. It was rare enough for Redman to pick at it, and Pope to devour it.

The propositioner sighs. “She’s a peach. Trust me. Easy on the eyes, all that.”

Despite the bloody mess on his plate, Pope cuts his food with the manners of a King, lifting his fork to his mouth delicately. “She’s a drug runner. I don’t work with drug runners, I kill drug runners.” He has an underlying southern drawl to his voice, a false comfort that eases his targets. Fear always spoiled the hit, just like hunting.

Redman pushes his plate away in exasperation. “She’s a drug runner who has potential. She wants to help you. This could be an opportunity to--"

“I work alone. That’s final.” Pope gets up from the kitchen table, ending the conversation. Redman shakes his head, chasing after the tall, bullheaded hitman.

“Fuckin’… stubborn piece of shit… listen, Pope!”

“I ain’t listening to anything you have to say,” Pope turns, face calm and stern. “I’m done listening. And you’re done talking.” Redman eyes Pope’s rack of guns which he is standing in front of, and swallows.

“Look. My boss is prepared to give you a big fucking bag of dough for this.”

“How big is fucking big?” Pope asks, taking a pistol off the rack and beginning to clean it. Redman keeps his eyes on the weapon warily.

“It’s a lot, man. At least a million dollars is in this for you if you just test the waters, and finish the job.”

Pope purses his lips. “Half for me, half for this slut I’m supposed to carry around?”

“Each,” Redman replies. Pope sets the gun down, and the rag with it. He takes his glasses off, polishes them with his shirt, then puts them back on.

“Three days. That’s all it’ll take. We'll see what happens.”

---

You tuck your gun in your back pocket. You’d never had any real reason to use it thus far, since your job, while dangerous, thankfully never got that physical.

Drug dealing seemed a natural path for you to take. Your parents had both been in the business of the black market, your mother an illegal arms dealer and your father working for your mother. Growing up in a family with a “small business”, it had led you to a code of morals that are currently getting in the way.

Morals that say Daegland Pierce, notorious dealer, needs to die.

Since you and your boss both knew you couldn’t carry it out alone, you had been eager to find someone who could carry out the job with you. Your boss got to talking, and as it turns out, there’s some kind of agreement that’s been made. You’re in the dark about the whole thing with him, but all you really need to know is your role in all of it.

“His name’s Pope.”

“Any file on him?” you ask, crossing your arms. Lane swirls his drink around.

“There’s no file for this guy anywhere. He just… is.”

“How do you know what kind of killer he is?”

“Word of mouth. Everybody knows Pope, and nobody knows him.”

“I’m one of the nobodies, would you mind giving me a little more insight, so I know the guy I’m going to be working with?”

Lane shakes his head. “Ask him yourself. You’re meeting him at the rendezvous point, by Exit 19 on the Tollcross back road. Nothing but farmland out there, ‘til you reach the woods Pierce has shacked up in.”

“These the coordinates?” you ask, tapping a map that had been placed in front of you.

"Wrapped up inside. Quit asking questions, will ya? Go do the job, don’t run your mouth at this guy or he’ll shoot it off, and come back richer for the experience." You go to get up, but Lane stops you. "(y/n). I know you think you're real tough, kay? You ain't shit compared to this guy. He'll rip your spleen out if you get on his bad side. So just lay low, do you gotta do, and don't piss him off."

"What makes you think I would?" you ask. Lane sighs, shaking his head.

"There's gonna be two corpses out there by Friday, I swear to god."

You drive a crappy throwaway VW bug up a grassy back road, studying the map closely. There's an x marked where you're supposed to meet Pope, and you're coming up on it now. You toss the map to the passenger seat, and crane your neck to see from the sunken seat. There's a black car up ahead, with a man leaning against it.

You park the bug, grab the map, and toss a match in, burning the thing out. You walk up to him, and take a look as you approach. He's tall, got glasses, and has cropped black hair. He's got a few tattoos, maybe more, you notice as he lifts a cigarette up, but most are covered by long black sleeves. How he could wear long sleeves in this heat is beyond you, but you're not here to question his attire. He's actually pretty well dressed, if you'd go so far as to admit it. He's not bad looking either, for a man in his early to mid forties.

The bug blows up behind you, and you smirk.

"(y/n)," you say, sticking out your hand. His dark eyes move over to you boredly, taking you in with a vertical sweep. He finally puts his cigarette between his lips, which are curiously dainty, and shakes your hand. Whatever elegance his features hold are balanced out by the roughness of his hands-- his skin is like leather, and his nails are chipped and dirty.

"You know who I am," he says simply, in a buried genteel southern accent.

You take a spot next to him, leaning against the car as well. He glances sideways at you, but doesn't say anything. He just smokes in silence. You wonder if it'll be like one of those miraculous bonding moments, where he'd offer you a drag, and it would be like some unspoken code of respect had passed between you two.

You lose hope for that as Pope continues to do his best to ignore you. You eventually clear your throat.

"So. I've got a plan."

"No. I've got a plan. This ain’t your show, kid."

You frown. "Don't call me kid."

"Okay, sweetheart."

"Don't call me sweetheart!"

"What do you want me to call you then? Cause I've got a few ideas."

You scoff. What a fucking asshole! Still, your boss' warning is present in your mind, so you shut your mouth, and get in the car. Pope drops his butt, snuffs it out carefully with his shoe, and gets in the driver's side.

"I heard we're going to be taking the cabin next to his," you bring up. "Must be nice to live out in the woods. Plus, I bet the asshole's place is nice and furnished. He's loaded to hell." You purse your lips. "Is it a long drive to the cabin?"

Pope doesn't answer. Instead, he turns up the stereo, which is just finishing up Johnny B Goode. Then, an old country song that sounds like a bloodhound wailing to the tune of a two string banjo comes on. It's got some lyrics about preaching the gospel, and you sigh, resting your head against the window.

"This is fucking terrible."

Pope looks ahead. "Mhm."

"You seem like a rock kind of guy, not this."

"'Mhm."

“Not even classic rock?”

"Mmm."

With a huff, you turn to look out the window and let the grumpy older hitman, who apparently only knew how to communiticate by varying grunts, enjoy his lovesick religious whining on the radio.

Eventually, you make it down a dirt path, leaves and branches hitting the sides of the car.

“Welcome home,” Pope says, pulling up at the cabin the two of you would be staying at. You get out, looking around. It’s pretty remote.

"Where's his place?"

"Just down the way a little," Pope replies, unloading some things from the car, "Before you ask, no, we are not going over right now. We're setting our rooms up-- far away from one another-- and settling in for the night."

"And lemme guess, you're gonna pour some whiskey sour and spin 'Solitary Man' on vinyl while scraping your boots on the porch?"

He can't even be bothered enough to muster up a glare. He simply gives you a bored look through those wire rimmed glasses, and walks toward the house. You look around, and when you think you hear a cracked twig, follow him quickly.

---

Pope sets a lantern on the table, and pushes you your plate of food.

"Thank you," you say. It was genuinely nice of him to prepare food for the both of you, something you hadn't expected him to do.

"Uh huh." You eat in silence for a bit, the crickets outside the window your only accompaniment to dinner. It's a nice cabin, in a pretty nice little thicket of forest. You can certainly see the appeal of living out here-- especially as someone in Pierce's line of work.

Pope finally speaks. "So what kind of drugs do you sell?"

"Why? You interested?" You already know the answer, but so far, it’s been fun teasing him. He tents his fingers.

"I don't fuck with drugs. They dull the wits, and I need those to not die."

"Depends on the drug," you grin. He miraculously cracks a small smile, and you go on. "Just homegrown shit. I don't bother with trying to sell party drugs. That scene just gets the cops all over your business." Pope nods. "You ever get cops on you?"

He cocks his head. "Around here? The three good, upstanding police officers who actually care enough to know what's going on beneath their noses are on my payroll. Any marshals or anything are easily deterred."

"You just use your charm and good looks?"

"Believe it or not, I'm pretty good with people," he says. You scoff.

"That's a good one."

He spends a long time staring at you. You can feel his gaze on you as you eat, and it prickles your skin. You can't tell if you like it or not. You wonder if you should say something else. Eventually, he gets up, taking his plate to the cabin's quaint kitchen. You missed your chance.

He cleans his plate, and stops by the stairs. "Why'd you want to come out here to put two people on a one man job?"

"I wanted to see it get done. I guess I... didn't trust you."

"Do you now?"

"What?"

He looks at you over his glasses. "Do you trust me now?"

You sit forward. "I don’t trust anyone but myself."

He nods. "You don’t trust me cause you haven’t seen me do what I do."

You chew on your bottom lip. You hadn't gotten the chance to tell him your plan, and by all accounts, you know he's not going to like it. These three days may be more difficult than you thought.

After slowly finishing the rest of your dinner, you head upstairs to find the remaining bedroom. As you're passing the doors, you catch a glimpse of one partially open. Inside, Pope is lying awake, staring up at the ceiling. You quickly hurry past, hoping he didn't see you, and find the empty bedroom at the end of the hall. Finding it furnished with a few old blankets, you toss a pillow down. You slip out of your clothes to your bra and panties, and get into bed.

You don’t know what to make of the man in the other room. Until you do, you’d better keep him at arm’s length.

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