Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x F!Reader
Your relationship with the oldest Cody brother was delicate. Andrew is a very private, damaged man, but you’ll be there to discover what makes him tick.
18+ M!receiving oral He cries. TW: discussions of OCD tendencies. underlined self harming. painful sexual contact. brief brief allusion to CSA/SA. Smurf mention.
You’d met the oldest Cody as just another nameless invite to some chaotic house party. The novelty wore off quickly, your friends abandoning you to chase after another Cody brother, leaving you by yourself. You’d wandered inside in search of another drink, only to be startled by the motionless man already occupying the kitchen. He’d been quiet, staring at the absolute disaster of the room.
Half drunken bottles lined the counter, BBQ smeared plates piled by the sink, milk left on the stove.
Face pinched in distress, eyes darting around the mess, breathing heavy like he was a minute away from breaking down.
Quietly, as to not startle the imposing man, you moved.
A quick sniff to see if the milk was still good, you returned it to the fridge.
Gently scraping picked at BBQ into the trash, careful not to make that awful screeching sound of utensils against porcelain.
All while Andrew’s dark eyes followed you. Shoulders loosening just a hair with each mess cleared away.
It wasn’t until you grabbed a discarded box of cereal and looked around for its rightful spot that he spoke, “Above the cabinet.”
You met his gaze, seeing a calmness slowly taking over him as you reached to slide the box home, gently arranging them until they matched evenly.
“Thanks.” He barely whispered.
“It’s nothing.” You shrugged. “My mom is—was—the…same.”
Since then, Andrew seemed to be a quiet constant in your life. It was kind of nice, refreshing. He was like a stray cat, drifting in and out of your space, without leaving too much much of a permanent stain.
Anyone could overlook the minuscule details—but you could see the little parts of Andrew he left with you plain as day.
Andrew kept a pair of clean clothes at your place, neatly tucked into the top right of your dresser drawer. A fresh toothbrush found its home in your bathroom cabinet. A singular bar of soap in its designated dish lived amongst your soaps and lotions. A surprisingly sparse amount of shower products for the insanely long showers Andrew took.
You’d learned early on that Andrew wasn’t one to offer a lot of personal information—and you accepted that—considering his time incarcerated, you thought perhaps that had altered his habits in ways you couldn’t understand.
You didn’t mind that he was the only man you’d dated that hadn’t tried to corner you in the vulnerability of a shower—Andrew kept the bathroom door securely locked behind him each time he went in—he was more like a skittish animal than a man most days.
Considering all his…quirks…it didn’t come as a surprise he wasn’t the most overtly sexual partner you’d had, either. Andrew didn’t exactly reject physical contact, but he surely was less likely to initiate. He didn’t pull away or lean closer you when you kissed him. Held you tight to him when you snuggled into his side. Dug his fingers into your hips, while you rocked against his lap.
He was content to let you use his thick thighs to grind on. To fuck you with skilled fingers, play with your clit. To bury his face into your soaked pussy until you were shaking and pleading. But he never seemed to care—or expect—you to do anything in return.
As soon as he got you off, Andrew would almost robotically set about cleaning up—washing his hands, cleaning you off, changing the sheets and dressing you into pajamas—and lay back in your arms as if nothing had occurred at all.
But everyone had their limits.
Andrew had done what he always had—determination clouding his handsome features as he curled his fingers deep inside you, forcing you to cum over and over until you were a sobbing mess of weak limbs—before he shut down, and went to climb off the bed.
But this time, you reached out, wrapping your hand around his thick wrist. Your grip wasn’t remotely restricting, Andrew could have easily shook you off and continued on his routine—but he froze in place all the same, as if your touch alone was enough to immobilize him.
“Andrew?” You called, voice shaky from all the moans he’d worked out of you. “Don’t you…don’t you want me to return the favor?”
“You don’t have to.” He replied. Quickly. Too quickly. “It’s okay—I’m okay.”
He shook his head to himself like he was having a whole separate conversation with himself. Glancing off to the side, towards the bathroom.
“But I want to.” You clambered to wobbly knees, leaning against his shoulder, pressing tender kisses to his stern cheeks. “I wanna make you feel good, too. Can’t I?”
“You don’t have to.” Andrew repeated, softly, a whisper.
“I want to.” You reaffirmed. Gently guiding him to lay down on the bed, you trailed curious hands across the thick, tense muscles of his shoulders, his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palms, down to the waistline of his jeans. “I wanna touch you, Andrew. Will you let me?”
He looked like he wanted to continue to object. Maybe it was the sincerity in your voice, the kindness in your eyes, the fact that Andrew had never felt unsafe in your company that allowed him to agree.
Andrew met your eyes, his gaze reminding you of an animal caught in a snare. Scared. In pain. But resigning to their fate nonetheless. “Okay.”
His breath hitched when you popped his jean button.
Fingers dug into the mattress as the zipper rang loud in the silent room.
Gaze fixed on a corner of the room as you gently worked the harsh fabric down his thick thighs.
Eyes pinched shut when the concerned gasp fell from your lips before you could help it.
Andrew was painfully hard. Completely bare. Not a hair in sight.
You brushed a shaky finger across the splotchy skin, jumping when Andrew let out a pained breath.
“Andrew?” You tried to steel your expression, not wanting him to shut down worse than he was. “What…”
“I’m not clean.” He choked. “She—Smurf—I’m not clean.”
Your heart tightened. You’d barely put together the pieces of the Cody family. Had definitely witnessed how little boundaries the matriarch had with her son. But you would never had thought…
“Andrew, you’re okay, you’re safe.” You stated, voice firm with no room to object while Andrew fought to not spiral. “Andrew you did nothing wrong. You’re not unclean.”
His sobs racked through his body, shaking you and the bed
“Please.” Andrew hiccuped. “Make it go away—I want you to make it go away.”
His pleading broke your heart.
You’d never seen the eldest attack dog so broken down.
What the fuck did Smurf do to these boys?
With enough hesitation to give Andrew time to object, you spit in your hand, and reached for his aching length. His cock jerked the second you made contact. Andrew’s cries stuttered. A twist of your wrist had his back bowing off the mattress. The angry tip leaking cloudy tears.
“I need you to talk to me, Andrew.” You shuffled to kneel between his spread legs. Leaning down until your hair tickled his thighs, warm breath fanning over exposed skin. “You have to talk to me, okay?”
“Okay.” Andrew swallowed hard, adams apple bobbing. “It hurts.”
Then you drew the flat of your tongue along the underside of his full length, taking in Andrew’s sharp gasp. Lazily circling the weeping head, tasting the slightly salty pre-cum.
“Hurts—but…feels good.” Andrew whispered.
You hummed, letting the vibration melt through his crotch. Pressing sloppy kisses up and down the length of his cock. Nuzzling your nose against tender skin. All but worshiping the broken man.
Flicking your tongue over the sensitivity little spot just beneath his tip, giving the head a teasing little suck, lapping up each salty pearl that dripped from him.
“This okay, Andy?” Your flicked your gaze up to meet his. That permanent frown was etched on his face again. But his eyes—they bounced between desire and hesitation, like he wasn’t sure he deserved such tender treatment but crazed it all the same—stayed locked on the sight of you between his legs, like you’d disappear if he dared to blink.
“Feels good.” He corrected, reaching to carefully tuck some loose hair behind your ear.
“Good.” You smiled, and took him in your mouth. Andrew’s jaw clenched tight at the heat suddenly surrounding the raw skin, hips involuntarily bucking at the feeling.
Drool spilled around your lips, dripping down to pool around his base. Unable to take his full length you made up for it with curling your tongue on the underside of his cock with each bob of your head. Obscenely wet sounds of you gagging on his cock mixed with Andrew’s pained moans.
In the corner of your eye, you could see his hands twitching, unwilling to move. You grabbed them, guiding them to your hair, giving him a point look to say, ‘it’s okay.’
Andrew didn’t give any guidance, didn’t alter your decided pace, only gripping at your hair as tight as he fisted the sheets. His head tossed back against the pillow when you snuck a hand down to gently play with his balls, feeling him tightening up the more erratic his subconscious thrusts became.
You tried to keep the steady pace, to anticipate his wild bucking and meet him half way, but Andrew seemed to have completely lost himself on the feeling of your mouth working him over. You almost couldn’t tell if he was moaning or crying anymore, the sound drifting from one to the other, to somewhere in between as his hips stuttered.
Then you took all you could manage, tears burning your eyes, air leaving your lungs as you pressed your nose as close to his pelvis as you could, throat spasming around the intrusion as Andrew thrashed beneath you. Thick spurts filled the back of your throat as you tried to swallow around him and keep up with the flood.
You lurched back, gasping for air, chest heaving in time with Andrew’s.
Andrew didn’t settle—he never really did—but he sunk into the mattress.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” You rasped, climbing off the bed on wobbly limbs.
You made for the bathroom, collecting some wipes Andrew kept in the cabinet, and snatched a tube of aloe gel before returning to Andrew’s side. With a tenderness he wasn’t used to receiving, you wiped away all the drool, the residual cum, your collective mess away from his raw skin. Then smoothed a generous layer of aloe on the burning flesh.
“You’re not dirty, Andrew.” You spoke quietly. Threading your fingers through his hair as he leaned into your lap. “You’re deserving of kindness. Softness. You deserve to be loved. Properly.”
Andrew’s sniffles reached your ears as he curled in to your touch. He never replied. But his shoulders were less tense. His breathing evened out. His fingers traced mindless shapes on your bare thighs.
