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creativitybeware · 2 months ago

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So, you basically set this up for a part 2. Got it

clementine — andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader You’re looking for a bodyguard and Pope is the perfect person for it

warnings: ANGST, bodyguard!pope, descriptions of violence, mentions of blood, mentions of su1c1d4l tendencies, reader’s parents are not good people—her dad is trying to kill her, probably ooc towards the end sorry, mdni, not proofread wc: 3.9k+ masterlist

“$200,000.”

Pope’s eyebrow raises, clearly skeptical. “I’m being paid $200,000 to be security?”

“A personal bodyguard,” Deran clarifies, “But yeah.”

Pope scoffs. “Is this a joke? Who the hell am I protecting, King Charles?”

Deran chuckles. “You’ll see.”

—

Pope doesn’t know why he said yes—well, the biggest incentive is the money, two hundred grand could fix a lot of things. But a job to protect someone? That’s not what he does. He breaks things. Hurts people. Wrecks whatever needs wrecking. Protection feels like the opposite of what he was made for. What makes Deran think he could do this job?

He’s instructed to go to this person’s beach house for further screening. It’s far from his place, about a two hour drive, and he gets there on time as requested; 9AM sharp.

He knocks on the door.

A voice cracks through the intercom: “Full name.”

“Andrew Cody.”

The door opens.

The place is sleek, modern. Ocean view. Infinity pool catching the sun like glass. And there—coming out of the water—is the only person in the house. You walk barefoot across the deck, barely covering your bikini with a robe, wet hair leaving trails across your shoulders.

Pope watches you, sizing you up automatically. At first, he thinks you must be someone’s girlfriend. But when your eyes meet his, level and assessing, he knows he’s wrong.

“So, you’re Deran’s brother.”

He nods. “You’re Clementine?”

You smile, a little wry. “Yeah, Deran calls me that. He tattooed the orange on my hip.” You show him the citrus tattoo poking out of your bikini and offer him to call your real name instead.

“And you?” you ask. “Do you prefer Andrew or Pope?”

“Either is fine.” He shrugs.

“Andrew it is.”

“Deran wasn’t lying when he said you’re intimidating.” You add, “And handsome.”

Andrew looks around your house, only sparing you a glance at your comment. It’s almost too perfect. Marble floors. Strategic decor. Cameras tucked into every corner, wide coverage, no blind spots. You’re expecting enemies, he thinks. Not company.

You hand him a glass of orange juice.

“So, Andrew. You clear on the directive, or do you have questions?”

He ignores the orange juice, putting it down on the counter. “How do you know Deran?”

“Surfing. Beers. Getting drunk.”

He looks at you. That’s not the full truth. You know it, and you know he knows it. But you just sip your juice and let the silence stretch.

“What do you need a bodyguard for?”

You smile politely, curtly. “I’m not telling you until you sign a contract with me. Sorry. Security reasons.”

Fair. Andrew thinks.

“All I can say is,” You add, “People want me dead. And I need someone to watch my six while I get rid of them.”

His eyes narrow. “Why me?”

“My last security team got compromised. I’m handpicking this one myself. Deran’s one of the few people I trust—and he said you’re the best.” You tilt your head, watching him closely. “So are you?”

Andrew takes a breath. “I only know how to hurt people.”

“Good.” You smirk. “I need you to hurt the people who try to hurt me.”

He stares at you — not quite sure what to make of you yet. Andrew is intrigued by your electric personality, your quips, your wit. But he’s also a little wary. He doesn’t know you yet. Doesn’t entirely know what you’re capable of. Heck, he’s not even sure what exactly is it you do, but the fact that you’re throwing around two-hundred grand for one bodyguard? It’s enough to make him stay.

You pull open a drawer, take out a contract and a pen, and slide them across the table.

“Read the terms and sign when you’re ready,” you say. “Payment comes after the job’s done.”

Andrew picks it up, flips through. Buried in the fine print is a clause: if he dies on the job, he waives liability. His lips tighten. Of course.

He looks up at you, a smirk on your face, watching him like you’ve already figured out what choice he’ll make.

He signs the papers and passes them back to you.

“Good to be working with you, Andrew.” You scan the contract, making sure he signed correctly. “You’ll be staying here with me throughout the contract, so you can go back and grab whatever you need. I expect to see you back here tonight.”

Andrew puts down the pen on your coffee table. And just before turning around to leave, he asks, “What makes you think you can trust me?”

You eye him from your kitchen counter, drinking the orange juice he didn’t dare touch while keeping eye contact.

“Maybe I can’t. But I know where Deran lives.”

Andrew isn’t sure if that’s a threat.

Before he has to go back to your place, Andrew tries to learn everything he can about you, but nothing turns up. No criminal record. No gossip. No digital breadcrumbs. Even Deran shrugs when he asks. Andrew doesn’t like working blind, but it’s too late to back out now.

When he pulls into your driveway that night, he’s surprised to see he doesn’t need to knock. The house scans his face and unlocks automatically.

Inside, he hears your voice before he sees you—you're on the phone in the living room.

“I’m trying to make a life for myself. You know this.” You say to the person on the other line.

Andrew spots a few empty beer bottles on the table.

Your voice rises — sharper, angrier. “Why are you still defending him?! Our whole lives, he—” You stop mid-sentence. You’ve caught sight of him in the reflection on the glass wall.

“You can tell him he can saw my head off my body himself.” You hang up and glance back at Andrew, a duffel bag in hand.

“Good, you’re back.” You say. “Ready for briefing?” Your tone is cool, like nothing happened.

Andrew says nothing at first. Just drops his duffel bag by the couch.

You toss him a beer, which he catches one-handed. He cracks it open but doesn’t drink yet.

Then you start talking. Handing him files about people he should look out for. It’s a lot more complicated than he thought.

You tell him everything. Not everything-everything — he knows you’re not reckless — but more than he expected.

Andrew learns a lot about your life then. You emancipated yourself at 15. Built a business from the ground up. Acquired, merged, dismantled. And now? You own multiple companies that directly compete with your father's and suddenly he wants you dead.

Suddenly Andrew feels a lot closer to you. He can understand where your rage is coming from. That kind of fury? That kind of betrayal? It changes people.

“So he’s put a bounty on your head.” Andrew raises a brow. “What if I just kill you now and take the bounty for myself?”

You don’t flinch. You just smirk, lips wrapping around the edge of your beer bottle. “I’d like to see you try.”

Andrew’s lip twitches, he almost smiled. “How much is the bounty anyway?”

“$200,000.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. He wants to say you’re crazy. You both take a drink and leave the night to the silence. Maybe now you understand each other a little better.

You let Andrew get used to his role of being your bodyguard for the first few days, watching how he moves, how he scans a room, how naturally he seems to step in front of you without thinking. You know he can fight, he’s got a very sharp eye, and he intimidates people, but what you need to know is whether he can actually keep you safe when shit hits the fan. So you take him out to bars, shadowy alleys that are just too suspicious—try to engage him in fights he’s not ready for.

So far? He’s passing with flying colors.

He’s just finished taking care of a few guys that jumped you from an alley. No wasted moves. Controlled rage. Efficient. By the time he’s finished, the bodies are barely breathing, slumped in a pile behind the dumpster. He’s panting when he walks back to you, knuckles bloodied, shirt rumpled.

“How’d I do this time?” He asks, catching his breath.

You smile at him. “Amazing as usual.”

You walk with him to the car, and just as he’s catching his breath, you toss in, “Though… I didn’t set these guys up.”

Andrew looks at you, eyes a little wide. “…Your dad really doesn’t play around.”

You laugh at his comment. Because you’ve been playing this game for a long time. “Oh, just wait till you meet him.”

He sighs, getting into the car. “Not looking forward to it.”

You’ve been staring at him the entire way back to your house. And Andrew knows—of course he does, you’re not trying to hide it, he just doesn’t know what to make of it. Not when you’re staring at him like that.

“Quit looking at me like—”

“Like what?” You ask, daring him to finish his sentence.

He swallows, glancing at you. “…You know like what.”

You grin, tearing your gaze away to the road instead and crossing your legs.

Back at the house, you grab the first aid kit before he can even kick off his boots.

“This-This is really not necessary.” Andrew stammers, watching you yank out the alcohol and band-aids.

“Andrew, please.”

Your voice is soft, patient as you start cleaning the scrapes on his knuckles.

He winces as the alcohol hits, and you immediately mumble, “Sorry.”

“Besides, it’s in our contract,” you add.

His eyes narrow, watching as you’re now cleaning his cut lip. “Is it?”

You suppress a smile and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to just leave you if you get hurt, Andrew.” You clarify. “I hired you to protect me, yes, but I have a responsibility to you, too.”

He feels his heart rate pick up. Now he’s staring at you. Not with suspicion. Not with wariness. Just a little surprised because he doesn’t expect to feel anything, and you’re so close.

You’re leaning in, carefully dabbing at the cut on his lip. He keeps flinching back slightly, and the closer you get, the more flustered he becomes.

You bite back a smile. He’s trying so hard to keep it together.

And then, because you can’t help yourself—you kiss his nose.

Andrew freezes.

That pause is all you need to stick the bandage on his forehead before he can shy away again.

“There,” you murmur, pleased with yourself.

Andrew doesn’t breathe until you get up to put the first aid kit where it belongs.

And even then, his eyes stay on you, like maybe he’s starting to realize this job isn’t going to go the way he thought.

You can see him turning slightly pink, and you think that’s enough torture for today. Poor guy’s been beat up twice—once by those guys in the alley, and again by your relentless teasing. Not like you could hold it any longer anyway. If it were up to you, you’d be smooching booties in every room of this house.

“You should get some sleep,” you say, this time more serious. “I know you don’t sleep much, but try anyway.”

You hesitate, then add, “In two days, things are going to get a little crazy.”

You pause. “A lot crazy.”

Andrew stands up slowly. He stops just before bumping into you. He looks down and holds your gaze.

“I can handle crazy.”

You spend the next day preparing for the event. The charity gala hosted by some privileged, overpowered organization is only a charity in name. It’s not about goodwill or giving back. It’s about control. Image. Legacy. And that’s exactly why it’s the perfect place to make your move.

Your father has no idea what’s coming.

You’ve planned every detail. The data, the footage, the timing—down to the moment the room will go quiet. All you need to do now is make sure everyone’s watching. And that you survive long enough to finish the job.

Because you know your father. He always has something up his sleeve.

That night, you can’t sleep. You’ve gone over everything with Andrew. Twice. Maybe three times. He knows the plan. He’s ready. But your mind won’t settle. Your body’s tired but your thoughts won’t let you rest. You finally get out of bed and head outside, needing air.

You sit by the pool, the water just up to your knees and the light reflecting on your face.

You remember the day you left your family like yesterday. A bunch of screams and tears from your mother, while your father basically dared you to run, chasing you with his gun. Your jaw tightens at the memory.

“Can’t sleep?” Andrew’s voice breaks the silence.

You glance over. He sits beside you, feet in the water. He’s not wearing a shirt — just a pair of loose black sweats, skin still damp from a shower.

You blink. “Jesus Christ. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Andrew looks down at himself, then at you, deadpan. “Is it working?”

That earns a soft laugh. The corner of your mouth twitches. “Maybe.”

But your smile quickly falters and he knows you probably have a lot on your mind. “Your plan’s good. Solid. You’ve covered everything.”

“I know.” You sigh. “I just... can’t shake the feeling something’s going to go wrong. That maybe it has to. I don’t know, my entire life is just fucked up.”

He nods. “Here’s to having a not-so-normal family.”

You almost forget he’s a Cody. “At least you all still live together.”

Andrew leans back on his arms. “That’s not necessarily something good. I… I needed a break from them. From Smurf. Deran and Craig noticed. I started to have these… thoughts. Tendencies.”

You let him go on.

“So… thank you. For this job.”

You smile, a little half-hearted, reminded that Andrew’s just doing another job. And soon enough you’ll be on your own. Again.

Day of the gala.

You arrive fashionably—deliberately late. It’s part of the plan. Every piece of tonight is curated to pull the rug from under your father’s feet, and nothing makes a man like him unravel faster than losing control of a room he thinks he owns.

Andrew stands beside you, his hand on your lower back, reassuring you that he’s got you.

Taking a deep breath, you push the main doors open. Your heels click against the marble as you step into the ballroom, head held high. You’re dressed in a statement of war; blood-red silk, backless, a slit cut dangerously high. You look like the kind of woman headlines get written about. The kind people remember. And it’s exactly what you need.

Your father is already speaking on stage when you walk in. It’s some grand monologue—about legacy, loyalty, impact, all those shiny, hollow words he thinks will cover up the blood and money dripping off his empire.

He sees you just as he’s launching into his favorite anecdote. And to his credit, he only stumbles for half a second. But that half-second is everything. The hush that moves through the room as people turn to look at you, and then at him, and then back at you again.

“Don’t stop now,” you call to him. Your voice is smooth, almost bored. “You were doing such a great job bullshitting. Father.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd like a breeze through dry grass.

Your father lets out a tight, practiced laugh into the mic, trying to salvage the moment. “Darling, I thought we agreed this wasn’t your scene anymore.”

“Oh father, please, it’s not my intention to take the light away from you.” You say sarcastically, “In fact, I have a gift.”

Across the ballroom, the projector screen glitches, and your first video begins to play. Grainy security footage. The audio is low but clear.

“Kill him now.”

“But boss, he’s the son of—”

“I don’t care. He took my money. He’s gonna pay for it with his life.”

And then a gunshot. Someone gasps. A few people shift uncomfortably. The video cuts out abruptly.

Then the second clip begins.

Your father again, younger but unmistakable. He pulls a gun and shoots a man point-blank in the head. The body drops like a sack of bricks. He steps over it without flinching.

“Clean it up,” he tells a trembling assistant off-screen. “Burn it all.”

You watch your father from the corner of your eye. He hasn’t moved. Not yet. But his jaw is tense, and you know what that means. He’s calculating. Waiting to see what else you have. You smile. Because you’ve saved the best for last.

The third video starts.

Bedroom footage. Intimate. A little too intimate. Your father again. Naked, whiskey in hand, with a woman who’s not your mother. The woman’s face is obscured, but her unique diamond necklace says more than enough.

Across the room, a woman yanks her necklace off. You roll your eyes when she glares at you.

“I’ve always hated your husband,” your father says in the video, voice slurred. “He’s my best friend, but I’ll kill him if I have to.”

The video cuts out.

You step closer to him, voice lower, almost gentle now. “You always said power was about what you could hide. Guess your grip’s slipping.”

With his entire face now fully colored with rage, your father lunges at you.

You barely register the movement before you hear Andrew’s voice cut through the crowd. “Gun!”

Then everything happens fast. Andrew grabs you hard, pulling you off your feet just as the podium explodes beside your head from a fired shot. Splinters scatter. Screams echo through the ballroom. Somewhere, a chandelier sways violently overhead.

Andrew throws you behind the cover of a table and covers your body with his own. You can feel his heart pounding against your back but his movements are precise, instinctive. You know better than to get in his way now.

Your father’s men are already storming the stage, closing in fast.

“Stay here.” He instructs.

Andrew moves like a storm. He tackles the first guy mid-charge, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut, slamming him into the staircase rail with a crack. Another comes at him with a knife—Andrew ducks the swing, grabs his wrist, twists, and slams his elbow down until the blade clatters to the floor. Then he drives his boot into the guy’s ribs.

You peek from behind the table just in time to see Andrew disarm a man with a gun and pistol-whip him unconscious. Blood spatters across the marble.

Your father steps out from behind the podium, aiming again—and this time, Andrew is faster. He raises his gun, and your father freezes.

Andrew walks toward him, slow and steady. Blood drips from a cut above his eye. His chest rises and falls with each breath, but his hands are steady as ever.

Your father looks up from the barrel pointed at his face and spits on the ground between them. “This is how you’re gonna kill me? You don’t even have the guts to do it yourself?” He’s talking to you.

You emerge from behind the table. “I’m not like you.”

That’s when you hear sirens from outside and the police come rushing in.

“Drop your weapon!” someone yells.

Andrew pauses. Slowly lowers the gun. Lets it fall to the floor.

They arrest your father on the spot, reading out charges you practically wrote yourself—embezzlement, conspiracy, murder. The list goes on and on.

You walk over to Andrew, checking for any serious injuries and finally rest your head on his shoulder. It’s finally over.

“Thank you.” You say to him and he just holds you close.

You step outside after giving a statement to the police, Andrew following closely behind. There’s a few police cars around, red, blue, and white flashing everywhere. And you see an ambulance nearby, and your mother sitting down. She looks small. Fragile. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Her eyes are glassy, locked on some fixed point in the distance that you can’t see.

You approach her.

“Mom.” Your voice barely rises above a whisper. “It’s over. You’re free. We both are.”

She doesn’t look at you.

“We can still go,” you try again. “We can start over. Just you and me.”

She rises slowly to her feet, her mouth trembling. You think she’s going to cry. Maybe fall into your arms. You think—hope—she’ll say your name like she used to when you were little. When you skinned your knees or had nightmares or couldn’t sleep without her hand in yours.

But instead, she raises a hand and slaps you across the face. It doesn’t hurt, but it leaves something ringing deep in your chest.

“How could you do this?” She whispers. “You’re… you’re not my child.”

You don’t even flinch. Your gaze falls to the ground as she walks away from you. Something breaks in you. And for the first time, you don’t know how to fix it.

Andrew is beside you before you even realize. He doesn’t touch you, but his presence is enough to snap you back to reality. Because you can’t be seen crying right now.

You look at him, tears threatening to fall. “Let’s go, Andrew.”

And without another word, you walk to the car together. A silent ride home.

It doesn’t feel like victory.

In your head, getting back from the gala after executing your entire plan meant celebrations—champagne, dancing, a bottle smashed for fun on the marble floor. Something loud. Something indulgent. But this… this feels more like losing.

Maybe there was never an outcome where you won. Maybe you were too blinded by your own ambition to see that from the start.

The front door clicks shut behind you.

The house is dark, save for the soft glow from the kitchen under-cabinet lights. You don’t bother flipping on anything else. Andrew follows you inside but says nothing. The silence is thick, almost suffocating, but neither of you breaks it.

You disappear into your room and return with the duffel bag, putting it on the table. The zipper’s slightly open, and a few stacks of cash peek out. The blood money. The price of surviving tonight.

You pour yourself a glass of whiskey, downing it one go.

You don’t look at him when you say it. “…You can go now.”

It comes out flatter than you mean for it to. Not cold, just… empty. Tired. Like there’s nothing left to give.

Andrew doesn’t move. He watches you quietly. Watches the way your shoulders have lost their proud angle. The way your hands stay curled into fists. The way your eyes shine, too bright, too wet, but the tears haven’t fallen yet.

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your jaw clenches. “You’ve done your job,” you murmur. “You protected me. You survived. You got paid.”

“I didn’t stay for the money.”

You finally lift your eyes, catching his reflection in the window. You’re not sure what you’re looking for. Maybe doubt. Maybe a lie you can call out. But it’s not there.

Andrew steps closer, slow, careful.

He doesn’t say anything else.

Your throat tightens. “I hired you to protect me. You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know.” His voice softens. “But I want to.”

His hands find your waist, turning you so you can hide in his chest and cry.

“So let me,” he whispers. “Okay?”

Your lips tremble and you finally cry into his chest, tears ruining his shirt, your hands clutching him. You let him hold you while your whole world sinks to the floor. Let yourself cry until your body’s shaking and you feel like passing out from sadness, and he holds you nevertheless.

#andrew cody x fem reader #andrew pope cody x reader #andrew cody x reader #andrew pope cody #animal kingdom #my new pookie bear Andy needs to be held

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