Archive of Our Own

Friday nights are for partying for most people — shady bars or neon lit clubs, alcohol being served in droves, dancing and making out with strangers, the whole lot. But to you, this specific Friday is made to sit quietly at home with a book in your lap and a cup of hot chocolate on your bedside table. It's an attempt to recover your depleated social batteries after the busy week you had at university.

Your brother isn't home.

You aren't expecting visitors and you aren't expecting your brother to be back by tonight either. So, when an insistent knocking comes from the front door downstairs, you frown, confused.

Maybe your stupid brother had to come back earlier and forgot his key. Wouldn't be the first time.

Sighing, you close your book and place it on your bedside table as you yell, 'Coming!'

You head down the stairs, rolling your eyes at the persistence and interruption to your relaxing night, ready to give him a piece of your mind for being so impatient.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

When you peer through the magic eye, however, it's not some psycho you see standing outside your house.

It's Andrew Cody.

Your brother's best friend.

And the deplorable state he's in prompts you into quick action; unlatching the lock, turning the key around and throwing the door open so you can stare at the older man in bewilderment. When the barrier between you two is no more, you take in his appearance better. There's a purpling bruise blooming on his right cheekbone and two cuts just above his left eyebrow. His lip is split and cracked, gathering dried blood flakes near the cut, and his curls sit unruly on top of his head. He's also not wearing a shirt.

His torso isn't in better state.

Ugly, dark bruises litter the expanse of his shoulders and chest, with some decorating his abdomen too, painting solid muscle a myriad of purples, blues and faint reds. There's a cut on his chest and one on his right bicep coated in dry blood the colour of furnace brown.

You're no stranger to Andrew Cody and the illegal business he gets up to. Your brother is cut from the same cloth, and you're aware it's how they got to know each other in the first place. So, the bruising and injuries aren't exactly what's shocking — it's more so that somehow, Andrew got hurt. You often find yourself suspending your disbelief that the man can get hurt. More often than not, he stands strong in the face of any and all adversities.

He does a better job at it than your brother, that's for sure.

For a moment, you two just stare at each other, two people who weren't expecting to see one another processing their new shared reality. Pope doesn't even seem phased by the state he's in.

"I need to talk to—" he begins, quiet as usual, cold, but you cut him off.

"Andrew! What the hell happened to you?!"

Your delicate, manicured hands hover over his shoulders before you move around him and gently shove him inside. He huffs, but doesn't dig his heels in. If there's anyone Andrew allows to touch him without protest, it's you.

Always you.

And it's become a habit of yours to seek him out for physical contact, sometimes before you even realise it.

"Nothing," is the dry response you receive to your question, to which you scoff.

"Doesn't look like nothing."

He steps inside your house properly, allowing you to close the door and lock it again.

"Where's Gus?"

Your brother's not home, evidently. It's two AM on a Saturday. He left earlier for a party and didn't tell you when he'd be back.

"He went out, he's probably getting sloshed somewhere— doesn't matter. What happened to you?"

Hardened hazel eyes scan the interior of a house he's familiar with instead of meeting your gaze.

"I should go, then."

You let out an incredulous noise, cross your arms across your chest and shake your head. In that state you're not letting Andrew go anywhere.

'What? Andrew, look at you. No. Let me clean you up and take care of you.'

You make your way to the stairs, gesturing for him to follow, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach and your accelerated heartbeats. You're alone at home with the man you've been yearning for, and all Andrew does is stare at you.

He does that a lot — staring and cataloguing information in a way only Andrew Cody does, as if he can dismantle you entirely and figure out what makes you tick like you're a piece of machinery. You don't mind it.

But this is a different type of staring.

There's a delicate, fragile glimmer in his irises, prompting a question he won't dare voice. He's silently questioning you; wondering why you've decided you're going to help. He's wondering why you aren't brushing off his injuries like a mere inconvenience and sending him on his way to lick his wounds. Why are you offering him kindness instead of a reprimand.

You've noticed over the years that this is just how he operates.

Always the sacrificial lamb, loyal to a fault, immolating himself so that anyone close to him can walk away unscathed.

Nothing but an afterthought.

You've seen him injured before; bleeding, beaten and bruised after business with your brother neither men want you to have any part in. Every time you asked your brother if Andrew was going to be okay, all you received back was a 'Oh, yeah, sure. He's a big boy. He can handle himself.' It's never been enough of an answer to quell your concerns and ease the disquiet, nauseating pit inside your stomach.

'You don't have to,' he finally murmurs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

You offer him a soft, welcoming smile with closed lips.

'I want to. So… c'mon, Andrew.'

There's a beat of silence before he nods and follows you upstairs.

You want to tug your pajama shorts down because they're a little too short and leave the edges of your ass on display, but when you glance behind, you notice Andrew pointedly looking down at his feet.

You can't decide between being disappointed or endeared.

The two of you pass by your brother's bedroom. When you reach yours, you head inside, motioning for Andrew to follow and shut the door behind him. It closes with a soft click.

It's strange to see Pope like this — such an oddly casual sight, looking around your room with curiosity but deliberately keeping his hands to himself behind his back, his shoulders tucked, his footsteps calm and easy, trying not to occupy too much space because it's your room and he doesn't want to intrude. It's a sight you could get used to.

You've pictured it many times before: what would happen if you decided to be bold enough to make a move on him and ask him out, how often he'd be around your room, sprawled over on your bed or sat by your windowsill with a book in hand. Domesticity and romance bundled into one like you've always dreamt of when it comes to Andrew Cody.

You lead him to your wardrobe and offer him a sly little smile when he tilts his head at you in silent confusion.

'There's a little secret here. Old house and all, we have doors in weird places,' you explain as you twist the handle and pull it open.

It reveals a small, narrow corridor that leads into an ensuite bathroom, hidden behind the wardrobe like a passage to Narnia.

'Oh.' Pope breathes out. 'Let me go first.'

You don't question him. There's no one inside your bathroom, but instincts are instincts, and a man like Pope can never shake his off. Between prison and the life he leads, it's only natural. You don't know details of said life. You're not stupid; you're well aware the money your brother makes isn't gifted to him by some divine grace or the kindness of a stranger,

'Alright. Take a seat inside.'

He dips his head and walks in, checking behind your shower curtain and even inside the sink cabinet before nodding at you to follow.

When you do, he's already taken a seat on the toilet lid. His eyes never leave your figure as you move around, grabbing a bowl, a soft cotton towel, antiseptic and gauze. You fill the bowl with warm water, wet the towel and step in front of him, settled between his legs, finally meeting his relentless gaze with your own.

Those hazel eyes hide an infinitude of words he doesn't speak, and you wish you could hear every single one of them.

You gently begin to dab at the cut above his brow, cleaning up the dried blood gathered there. He doesn't flinch.

'Are you gonna tell me how you got beat up?' The question is said in an easy tone, without any underlying accusations what exactly he gets up to in his free time. It's patient, but concerned.

Andrew stays quiet long enough that you think he's going to ignore you again. When he speaks, you've cleaned up the cuts on his handsome face and have moved down to his chest.

'Cage fight,' he murmurs. 'Boxing.'

You let out a surprised noise.

'Boxing? For fun?'

Andrew shrugs. His gaze remains on you, but his hues glaze over. He grows distant as his mind wanders elsewhere.

'No,' he shakes his head gently. 'Not fun, no. Skating's for fun. Boxing's for money… and to let it all out.'

Your countenance remains open, holding that same patience and tenderness it always does when it comes to Andrew. You believe one of the reasons you two get along is that you don't ever judge him for what he does or for who he is.

To you, he's not Pope; he's Andrew, your brother's close friend who picks you up from college after you lost track of time studying at the library and your brother can't come, who always brings you your favourite chocolate when he comes over and asks about the movies you've been seeing, your college classes and your current reads, who loves skating and cleans everything in successive motions of three or five until he's satisfied and can stop counting under his breath.

Andrew is sweet and considerate.

It doesn't matter what Pope gets up to.

'Let it all out?' You hum, continuing to dab away at the scabbed blood in fear he'll stop speaking entirely if this moment between you two truly settles in.

'The rage. The noise in my head.'

He inhales shakily while you nod, setting the cloth aside and reaching for the antiseptic and some gauze next.

You want to lie to yourself and say you're not taking the opportunity to admire how the water and sweat give his pecs an alluring shine, but you're still human. Of course you're looking.

He's clearly bracing himself for a certain reaction out of you, but you remain steadfast.

'That makes sense,' you murmur, 'but isn't there a way to let out your rage that doesn't involve you getting all hurt like this? It breaks my heart to see you in this state, Andy.'

His breath hitches audibly enough that you falter. You worry you've said the wrong thing when he turns his full attention back to you.

'You… worry? About me?' Andrew questions, befuddled.

Your heart breaks just a little more.

You take his chin into one of your hands softly, tilting his head up at you.

'Yes, Andy. I worry very much. Now close your eyes. This'll sting a bit.'

You let go of his chin so you can use your hand as a makeshift shield, and you spray antiseptic on the cut on his brow. Andrew doesn't even hiss.

'Didn't know you worried about me…' he mumbles.

Strong, broad hands come up to rest at the back of your thighs.

For a second, your breath catches in your throat.

You're so very aware of those warm, heavy hands on your skin, calloused thumbs moving up and down in a caress. It's something that's so domestic and sweet that it makes butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Then, you resume your task, trying to calm your radpily beating heart.

'I always do, Andy…' you coo, moving down to spray his cheek next, always careful of his eyes.

'Why?'

The question hangs in the air between you two, heavy, important. If it wasn't important, Andrew wouldn't have asked. Those beautiful sharp eyes find yours and for once, there's no shield keeping the feelings and thoughts at bay. For once, Andrew's fragility and vulnerability is right there on display for you to do as you please, be it break the remainder of his heart or sew it back with your caring hands and tender words.

You lean in without even realising, drawing your face towards his until your breaths mingle and your noses brush. His hands tighten at the back of your thighs just as he lets out a stuttering exhale. Then and there, there's nothing and no one else; not your brother nor Andrew's family. Not the world outside and its responsibilities, not your college nor Andrew's cage fights. There's just the two of you and the weight of his unanswered question.

What you say next could change everything.

But you choose not to speak.

Instead, you lean in and press your lips to his, and the world stops spinning.

He stiffens up for a few seconds, unmoving against your lips for long enough that you take it as a rejection, but before you can pull away, Andrew finally kisses you back.

And though his lips are chapped and split from the fight, and you can taste iron and salt in his mouth, you've never experienced joy like this until now.

His mouth presses against yours more confidently, tongue darting out to lick at the seam of your lips and get you to open up for him, which you gladly do. He's ferverent, yanking you closer until you fall right onto his lap, straddling him. His tongue hungrily presses against yours, claiming you as his, swallowing down your soft moans and emitting little whimpers of his own. He licks into your mouth with abandon, taking everything he hasn't been able to since the moment you two first laid eyes on each other, and you just keep on giving and giving.

Your fingers run over strong forearms, solid biceps and broad shoulders, tracing his trapezius reverently before drifting up into his curls and tangling your digits in his soft hair. When you yank softly, the noise Andrew makes into your kiss is nothing short of desperate. Famished, wounded, needy and grateful all at once, it denounces how unaccostumed to the gentler side of human touch he is — Andrew is always on the receiving end of punches, and you know it, you've seen it; to be allowed to provide him with mutual desire and a touch that is meant to heal instead of injure tugs at your heartstrings.

When he hauls you up to stand with him, your arms promptly wrap around his neck and your ankles lock around his waist, trusting that he won't let you fall. You've always trusted him to be careful with you.

'Fuck—' He pants against your lips, barely allowing space to settle between the two of you before he's kissing you again. 'Mmph—'

He walks the two of you backward, taking his time to press you against the walls of your faux-closet and grinding his erection against your leaking core. The pressure on your clit has slick gathering at your entrance, soaking through your underwear.

'Andy—' you murmur between kisses, 'need you. Need you so bad.'

Your words prompt another wounded, desperate noise to tear from his throat.

'Yeah?' He rasps just as his lips find your pulse point, wrapping around it, tongue flattening against it until you keen.

'Yeah— ohhh— that's it, honey. Want you to make me yours.'

He growls against your throat and brings his mouth to another section of your skin and clamping down with force, leaving a hickey that will stay put for days at minimum. The delicious mixture of pain and pleasure sends electricity directly down to your clit, prompts you to roll your hips into his until the head of his cock bumps against your sensitive, clothed cunt.

'Please…' He whimpers into your neck, shaking his head.

You patiently card your fingers through his curls, scratching at his scalp with manicured nails, letting him take his time.

'Please what, honey?' You coo.

Andrew takes a stuttering breath in.

'Please don't—' he cuts himself off, takes another moment, and you press your lips to his cheek from this angle, prompting another wounded little cry from him.

'Please don't say shit like that if you're not gonna be mine— if you're gonna end up fuckin' off when you see how ugly I get.'

Your heart's acquired several little cracks over the last few months from observing Andrew and how the world interacts with him, but hearing his voice break with anticipated grief and fear of being left yet again is what shatters you.

You shake your head and bring your hands to his face, forcing him to look up at you, and you meet his glossy gaze with your own, full of affection for him.

And him alone.

It's always been Andrew.

Since your brother started bringing him around, you'd lost any semblance of interest in other people, focused solely on this mysterious man and his beautiful curls, craving to spend time around him and hear his voice.

'Andrew, I know exactly who you are. What you do. What you're capable of. It's never changed how I feel about you.'

You hear him inhale sharply. The fingers he's sinking into the flesh of your thigh and ass tighten harsh enough to bruise as he processes your words. It makes you squirm, needy.

'You can't—' Andrew cuts himself off with another sharp inhale. You can almost see the cogs in his head turning, working overdrive to find a reason to push you away. 'You can't say that— can't like me like that, baby, fuck. It's not right.'

You're not having any of it.

You crash your lips together in an urgent, passionate kiss, dismantling the walls he's trying to build between you two with each drag of your tongue against his. He moans into it, squeezes your ass harder, ruts his cock against your clothed cunt until you're both breathless. Your underwear clings to your skin, sticky with how soaked with slick you've already become.

'It is right, Andrew. You are right for me. Okay?' You murmur against his mouth before pecking his lips again. 'I want you— every part of you, including your past, your anger, your jealousy, the shit you don't talk about, I want it all. So don't try to push me away. It's not gonna work.'

Andrew stares at you through wet eyes, carrying enough grief and affection in his gaze to swallow down the world in his pain. His internal conflict lasts a mere moment.

He kisses you again, and time becomes nothing more than a suggestion, fading around you as you focus solely on Andrew and his lips on yours, your hands on his skin, his teeth on your neck and collarbone. Somewhere along the way to your bed, both of your clothes have beem haphazardly discarded, littering the floor, but you don't care because he presses you down onto your mattress and lets the weight of his body encompass yours.

His hard, heavy cock leaks onto your thigh, a tangible demonstration of the effect you have on him. As he marks down your body with hickeys, mouth descending towards your chest, Andrew slots his knee between your thighs, and you cry out when your throbbing clit grazes his hot skin.

'Oh my God— Andrew—'

You rock your hips upward, unabashedly dragging your drooling pussy along his thigh. He growls lowly before bringing his mouth to one of your breasts. His teeth scrape the areola, and pulls a gasp from your lungs. Next, a pink tongue darts out to flick rapidly over your already hardened nipple in a steady sequence of up, down, up, down, left, down, before it swirls around the nub. Electrifying pleasure shoots from your breast down your abdomen, straight to your core.

'Andy—' you whine, desperate and pliant underneath him. 'Just like that—'

Andrew growls against your neck.

'Yeah? Like having your tits played with, sweetheart?' He rasps.

His mouth closes around your breast, locking in to suck on your nipple, while one of his broad hands drift up your belly until it closes around your neglected breast, kneading, index and thumb pinching the stiff bud until you're arching your back and rutting against his thigh with abandon. Each movement tightens that familiar knot in your core, threatening to spill you over the edge.

'Yeah, fuuuck! You're gonna make me come like this—' you pant, and he responds by flexing his thigh against your cunt.

'Mmm, that's it…' he whispers. 'Want you to, honey. I'm doing this for you. So you feel good.'

But you shake your head between your sweet little moans and pleas. You don't want to come like this for the first time with him, no.

You have something else in mind.

'Nonono, I need you inside me, please! Need to come around your cock.'

Your words make him growl into your chest and pull away, climbing his way back up your body so he can properly hold your gaze. There's this animalistic, dangerous glimmer in his eyes, just barely restrained by what's left of his self control, and you want nothing more than to push his buttons until he sets it free.

'I don't got a condom, baby, fuck—' Andrew pushes the words out his mouth, his tone strangled.

It turns you on so much.

To know the risk you're about to take, of letting the man you've been pining for fuck you raw and put a baby inside you, to know you're ovulating and the chances of his seed making home in your womb. To think about putting more of Andrew out in the world in the shape of a little human for you both to cherish and love together.

You want it all.

'Even better—' you tell him, wrapping your arms around his neck, trying to pull him closer, 'what if we make a baby together, Andy? Mmm? You and me. You can slide that fat cock in me and come inside… and in less than a year we'll have a little angel of our own. Doesn't that sound good to you?'

He leans in for a kiss and makes a sound against your mouth, needy and sweet, and nods frantically at your words.

'I want that more than anything… but are you sure?' Andrew croaks through tears that gather at his long lashes and threaten to cascade down his cheeks.

You lean in to kiss his tears away, tasting the salt and sorrow in them.

'I'm sure, my love…' you coo, cupping his cheeks and making a trail of kisses down to his lips. 'I want a baby with you, Andrew. So, give it to me.'

He seals your lips together in an urgent, passionate kiss. Broad, calloused hands move to grab a pillow and lift you, tucking it underneath your hips. When the fat head of his cock nudges at your clit, you gasp and part your legs wider for him, inviting him in.

'Ohhh fuck—' you moan, rocking your hips into his, savouring the way his erection presses up right to the centre of your twitching, swollen, red clit.

You look down to watch precum bead at his slit and trickle down onto your puffy pussy, marking you as his.

'You're so perfect…' Andrew murmurs, panting. 'Got the prettiest pussy I've ever seen, sweetheart.'

He wraps a fist around his thick length and guides the leaking head to your entrance at the same time as he kisses you again.

'If it hurts, you tell me, yeah?'

'Yeah—' you aquiesce, nodding. 'Keep your eyes on me? Please?'

He pulls away just slightly, enough to be able to maintain eye contact while your breaths still mingle together in the small, compact space between the two of you. You gaze right into the interminable forest of his eyes as he breaches your entranceslowly. When the head pops inside, you moan softly and wrap your arms around his neck. You take in the way his eyebrows knit together and his forehead creases.

'Fuck, angel, you're so goddamn tight,' he breathes out, voice strained.

'And you're so fucking big,' you retort, laughing breathlessly.

Gradually and with patience, Andrew eases his whole length inside you, centimetre by centimetre until you're so full that your belly distends under the wright of his girthy cock. There's tears climbing down the sides of your face from how deliciously overwhelming it feels to be completely full.

'Andy—' you whine as your slick walls clench around him, sucking him in deeper.

'Fuckfuckfuck—' The older man rasps, letting his forehead lean against yours. 'So tight and so goddamn wet, baby— fuck. You're perfect.'

You lock your ankles around his waist and yank him closer, pressing him deeper inside you, rocking your hips impatiently.

'Then fuck me, please. I need it now— need you now, Andrew.'

Andrew doesn't need more encouragement than that.

He keeps you exactly as you are, your breathing and soft moans mingling together, and slowly bottoms out, sliding himself back in. As he slides back into your cunt, your body makes a lewd, sopping wet noise that makes him curse.

'Mmm-—' you moan softly. 'Harder, Andy, c'mon.'

He bottoms out almost all the way before shifting his hips and slamming his cock back in, finding that sweet spot inside of you that makes you see stars. Immediately, your back arches, breasts pressing to his chest, pebbled nipples dragging deliciously against your skin.

'Right there, baby?' Andrew purrs at you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you even closer, pulling out nearly all the way before thrusting back inside.

Your eyes roll behind your head as euphoria and warmth gathers in your core.

'Right there— keep going, please—'

He does.

He sets a steady rhythm inside you, pulling out and finding his way back with powerful, focused thrusts that hit your g-spot each time. At times, he alternates the thrusts with rolls of his hips that press his cockhead right to your most sensitive nub, making your slick walls seize around him and try to milk him dry.

The bedroom gets overtaken with the sounds of both of your moans and pants and his groans, along with the lewd noises of your wet cunt being fucked relentlessly, his balls slapping against your ass and the headboard of your bed slamming against the wall.

You've felt pleasure before, of course — often with yourself, occasionally with other people whose names you've erased from your mind by now — but it's never been anything remotely close to this. The way Andrew fucks you incinerates you from the inside you, starting at the epicentre of the matter that makes up your soul and spreading through your spirit until it reaches your body, coursing fire through your veins that gathers straight in your pussy, overwhelming you entirely.

You completely lose sight of yourself, existing solely for Andrew in that moment.

That familiar knot deep in your belly tightens in a way you've never experienced before, catapulting you towards an orgasm unlike any other. Your cunt clenches around his erection, leaking onto his shaft more and more each time he hits your g-spot.

'Ngnn— Andy— Oh, fuck, Andy, m' close—'

Your words only encourage him more.

'Yeah, doll? Me too, shit— m' so fuckin' close, honey— m' gonna put a baby in you soon, yeah? You want that? You wanna be mine forever?'

You nod frantically, pulling him down for a messy kiss that's mostly just sloppy tongue action.

'I do, Andy, I do! I wanna be yours and only yours! Don't stop, please—'

Just when you think it can't get better, Andrew finds a way to fuck you even harder, delivering sharp thrusts that make you see stars.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, seizeing your legs around him, making your cunt squeeze him so tightly he can hardly move for a moment. You cry out his name as you gush onto his cock, his stomach, his thighs, the sheets, everywhere, making a complete mess out of you two, and he fucks you through it.

'Fuck, baby, you squirted— oh God, I'm coming—'

He buries his nose into the crook of your neck and bites down as he lets out a broken moan into your skin. His thick, warm seed spills into you in steady ropes that he pushes further into your womb with each buckof his hips.

The two of you ride it out together until your bodies collapse together, tangled in a heap of limbs.

And then, you guide Andrew's lips to yours in a kiss, slow, deep and tender, sighing into each other's mouths.

'If this didn't make it clear, I need you to know I'm in love with you, Andy.' You rasp, offering him a soft little smile.

Andrew whimpers and kisses you with a passionate devotion that leaves you swooning.

'Just— stay with me forever. Please. Don't leave. I won't be able to…' he takes a deep breath. 'Won't be able to bear it if you do.'

You lift your pinky and take his hand, guiding him to link his pinky with yours.

'I'm never leaving, Andy. I promise you.'

It's a promise you'll do anything keep.

In the morning, your brother walks into your bedroom to tell you he's brought breakfast only to find you wrapped up in Andrew Cody's arms, asleep and undressed, while he keeps watch over you like a guard hound. And as much as he wants to beat the shit out of Pope for hooking up with his sister, something in those sharp eyes makes him pause and leave you two be.

Andrew Cody is serious about you. And your brother isn't crazy enough to fight Pope over something he holds to his chest like it's the most valuable thing he's ever touched.

It's not a battle he's ready to fight.

It's not one he can win.