⋆𖦹𝓜𝓲𝓛𝓛𝓪𝓹𝓮𝓭𝓮☆⋆

You looked up at him as soon as you spotted the breadth of his torso in your eyeline, and Pope’s lips parted. Your gaze fell on him and he briefly wanted to take the time to count your eyelashes. They were pretty. and Pope felt bad for even dropping in on your day, even more when your head tilted and the corners of your lips pulled up into a soft smile. 

Pope, who had very little in his adult life been struck by anything, was struck so thoroughly dumb by you that he had to run his tongue along the back of his teeth and look at the sad velvet rope, the regulation pens on their beaded chains, the exit. He had to look anywhere else that didn’t involve you, your pretty smile, your blinking lashes, your hair gone loose and lived-in through the day. 

“You can take a seat, sir.” you said and you sounded so kind, too. That was a lot harder. He was okay with some grubby old man he could rob blind and forget about by the parking lot. 

You gestured at the chair with an open-handed motion, and Pope had to lock his jaw against this ridiculous urge to apologize before he’d even tried to rob you. 

Pope – too hesitant to be a criminal – folded his big frame into the chair and hated how, from down here, you seemed lit from a slightly better angle, the light finding a peaceful place under your jaw. His eyes flickered over the name tag, lingering a little too long at the small heart drawn-on beside your name.

He flattened his hand on the counter and anchored himself to it. He was here to do a job, he had to remind himself. If he didn’t do this right, the money he’s already got in his duffel would mean nothing. 

You eyed him, the smile still playing over your lips. “Sir?” you said, and he realized that you were waiting for him to speak. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. “We can get started with your name and account number.” 

“I don’t –” He was already messing up. If he was doing things right, he’d have half a bag full of cash already by now. Maybe a gun pointed at you, but he didn’t very much like the thought of that at all. The correct thing to say now was nothing, and to slide you the note. “No account,” he breathed out.

Your fingers stilled in the air over the keys, and your voice lilted into something cheerful. “Oh – let’s get that opened for you. I just need your name and ID.” 

You reached, so vividly and helpful, to the little stack of forms by your keyboard, slid one free, and uncapped the pen. Pope’s mouth opened as he watched with mounting horror at his entire plan go sideways. 

“No. I don’t –” He shook his head quickly. He didn’t need a form. He needed you to be afraid of him, ideally about ninety seconds ago, and instead you were filling out the top line in neat little handwriting, tongue tucked to the corner of your mouth in concentration. 

Stop. He didn’t need an account. All finances ran through J, anyway.

“Last name?” you asked him, pen poised, looking up at him with your stupidly fucking kind and patient eyes.

“I’m not–” His jaw clenched. Opening an account. Doing a single part of this right. He shook his head again, as if to snap him back into himself. Should he just open a fucking account and get this over with? Or walk out and go someplace else?

“Put the pen down,” he settled on saying, each word sounding like it had to run through a maze to get out of his teeth.

Your hand went still at his voice, and Pope watched the cheery nature slowly drain out of your face as you looked at him properly for the first time. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he forced himself to say, nodding once sharply. Suddenly he was mad at you.

Did you not watch the fucking news or something? He’d robbed six banks in a row just now with the sun still up. Scratch that, he was Pope Cody and seventy-five percent of Oceanside had been scared of him since he was a teenager, and the other part would’ve been scared of him the second they saw his face.

“Hands on the counter where I can see ‘em. Keep smilin’ and nobody’s gotta know anything happenin’ here but you an’ me.” 

Your eyes flickered over to your coworkers around the space, bottom lip tugging between your teeth, as you followed his instructions.

Pope hummed with warning, shaking his head subtly. “Eyes on me.”

Your eyes immediately came back onto him, obedient little thing. Your pulse ticked at the side of your throat and your bottom lip came loose from your teeth in the middle.

Your voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper as you said, “Is this –?” 

He raised a brow, chin tucking down as he waited for you to finish your sentence. You didn’t, almost like you were too afraid to voice it. As if pointing out the obvious would’ve given him the idea to do it if he wasn’t already.

“A robbery?” he said, leaning in to match your whisper, trying to force threatening but being caught in the middle when he got just an inch closer to your face. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” you whispered back, and your eyes went huge. “‘Cause pranks aren’t allowed, you know.” 

Pope – not out of any particular want – shifted, tugging the hem of his hoodie up an inch with two fingers that belonged to a man worse than he was feeling like right now, to let you see the flat back grip of the gun holstered against his hip for two seconds in total. He dropped the hem then, feeling the pads of his fingers burn when he watched your body shrink in your chair, the last of your hope draining out of your face.

It worked, thank god. Pope watched your features stiffen up as real fear entered your face. 

You nodded quickly, clearing your throat as your eyes went down to your hands on the table. “What am I supposed to do?” you asked, quietly. 

Pope made a small sound in his throat, sounding just as distressed as you. He hadn’t meant for that. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to kill it, eyes rolling back slightly. He needed to will himself back into his body right now.

Could he make you do this and see you again? He wasn’t even sure you’d even want to be caught dead with him, even if he wasn’t threatening you. But he’d have been lying if he said you weren’t the prettiest thing he’d seen in a long stretch of ugly years.

He should have let his mind stop at pretty. You were a pretty girl, it was bad timing, and he should’ve just left it. How many times had Pope thought about a pretty woman and never acted upon it? He was pretty sure it was a hundred-percent rate recently.

He was holding you at gunpoint, basically. Yet he wondered if you were the sort of girl who’d sit and let a kid like Lena talk your ear off. If, maybe, he could come out of this and pick you up when you got off your shift to apologize.

“Are you going to shoot if I ask for help?” you asked when he said nothing, and Pope threw his head back slightly, shaking his head.

“Yeah – yes.” 

The honest answer was no, never, not at you. He was pretty sure it’d be difficult for him to pull the trigger on you even if Smurf stood behind him holding a gun to his head.

You were like a deer, one of those that steps out onto the blacktop at night and just stops, caught dead in the wash of headlights, too dumb-lovely to bolt. People were supposed to swerve for things like that, people like you. Everybody knew that. You wrecked the car before you wrecked that deer; it was practically the law.

“Is this –” you tried carefully, voice quieting down to a whisper again, “– your first time doing one of these?” 

“No,” he bit out quickly. “Fuck. No.”

He’d done six right before this, but he couldn’t very much tell you that. You weren’t Marco he’d brag to just to scare you worse.

You tilted your head slightly, like a dog and also like something out of those nature documentaries. Like those big wet-eyed things that stared down the lens before they wrecked some poor sap’s whole life. I should fix my hair, he dumbly thought. Then shook it away. Then pulled the hood down off his head before he could think better of it. 

Your eyes widened as they snagged on his mess of hair. He was sure it was a mess, he’d had his hood up for hours. Did you like it? He felt like he was fifteen and you were leaning on the locker next to his.

He shoved a hand back through the mess, made it worse, knew he made it worse, and couldn’t stop. He wanted to come back to this bank someday.

“Okay,” you murmured, mostly to yourself, and glanced back down at your hands that were still firmly planted on the table. “Do you want to do this?” 

He nodded stiffly. 

“Or,” you started, slowly moving your hand to slide the A4 account form closer to him, “you want to do this?” 

Pope looked down at the form. “That’s not –”

“It’s really easy,” you whispered, already uncapping the pen. “I’ll need your name, and something with your address. You got your ID on you, sir?” 

“You gonna report me?” he murmured, voice coming out so small. Somewhere between the door and the chair, he’d unconsciously set down the career criminal and birthed whatever-the-fuck-this-was.

Your eyes flickered up to meet his, head tilting again.

“Report you for what?” you said, feather-soft and so fucking sweet. “Opening an account?” 

“Yeah,” was all he could muster out.

You held the pen further out patiently. “S’all you’re doing here, isn’t it?” 

He could feel how much you were letting him off. How could he not take that? He felt the whole bad morning go loose in his chest. He could just hit another place or find another job with his brothers to make up for this deficit, right?

“S’pose it is,” he gruffed out, hands moving to his back pocket to thumb the wallet open before he could talk himself out of it. This was so, so stupid. He slid his ID across the counter face-down, then looked up at the ceiling as he flipped it up. “Photo’s bad.” 

“I can work with that,” you murmured. He forced himself to look at you, and you set the card down and picked your pen back up. Your tongue ran along your bottom lip for a split-second. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Andrew.”

He nodded quickly, ignoring how his eyelids fluttered when you said his name with an upward lilt, and watched as you filled out his form for him, reading the information off his ID.

“So, I gotta come back?” he said.

You glanced up. “Sorry?”

“For the –” He nodded at the form, the literal proof of the mess of this job. “The card. It comes in the mail or comes here?” 

“It can come here,” you said slowly, that smile starting again at the edge of your lips. “If you want –”

“I want.” 

Your brows lifted, your mouth curving, and he felt the need, urgent and doomed, to fix it.

He needed to say something that made him sound like a man who did this all the time, picked up cards, talked to pretty girls, wasn’t currently sweating under his hoodie under the blasting AC of the bank. 

“I mean,” he started, trying again. “It’ll be easier to pick up. For me.” 

“Uh-huh.” You smiled and glanced at the address on his ID that was nowhere near here. “It’ll take two weeks.” 

He nodded, but slumped back in his seat. “That’s a long time.”

You clicked your tongue as you started typing something into the computer. “You can always come check if it’s in.” 

He rolled his shoulders and forced himself to sit back up. “You get a lunch break?”

You paused your typing, and glanced at him with the smallest of pouts on your face. “I do. Eat lunch, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You –” He closed his lips, then nodded. “Me, too.” 

You waited, then nodded, more to yourself than at him. Then you tore out the bottom of a paper in your notepad, and Pope’s eyes almost lit up. 

“This is where I eat lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” 

You slid it across the counter, and Pope turned the little piece of paper in his hands. It was a cafe name, which wasn’t your number. “You’re not gonna give me your number –?”

“I don’t give my number to men who threaten me with a gun,” you said, almost primly. It sounded like a real rule you’d kept, but he was sure this was a first for you, too. He’d simply have to respect your rule. “I can’t stop you from being at a cafe. It’s public. D’you like coffee?” 

“I like it,” he said. “I drink it black.”

“Good to know.” Your fingers were resting on the keyboard now, the two of you stalling at the same speed. 

He should go. You did have a job to do, after all. He tucked the scrap of paper into the pocket where the empty bag of money sat, forgotten, worthless to him now. “Tuesday,” he said with finality.

“Or Thursday.” You smiled. “I’m patient.” 

Maybe you could meet Lena, and you’d understand why he was doing what he did. He was fairly sure you’d understand it. He was going to keep hoping that you understood at least some of it now; he’d know if he was behind bars by the end of the day.

You hadn't been working at The Drop for more than a month when you finally crossed paths with the infamous Andrew "Pope" Cody. A quiet, brooding, and intense man who nearly everyone you spoke with said that if you saw him, you should tuck tail and run the opposite direction, because nothing good would come if that man were hanging around.

Deran, Pope's younger brother and owner of the bar, had brought Pope in to clean after the bar's health rating was what he called "a reflection of the vibe". You had rolled your eyes and told him anything less than an 'A' was not ideal.

Pope's main role was to obsessively clean and fix things around the bar—while you unashamedly watched—until there was nothing else to clean or fix while you and the other servers and bartenders prepared to open.

He wasn't as mean and scary as everyone made him out to be; his stare was intense, sure, but it did not scare you. His gaze seemed more watchful than anything. He looked at a room like he was preparing himself for something to happen, rather than gearing up to start something.

In the week he had been there, Pope had barely spoken to you, save for the one-word greetings you got; that was, until one day you had arrived at the bar earlier than intended, and you two were the only people in the building. Pope was tinkering with something in the kitchen, and you were busying yourself with slicing lemons and limes for bar prep when a loud crash startled you out of your state of monotonic action that the mindless prep had put you into.

"Goddammit!"

You heard the exclamation and rushed to see what had happened.

"Pope?" You call out. "Are you alright?" You ask as you cross the kitchen threshold, before your eyes catch the bright red trail of blood dripping from his fingers as he holds his hand to the top of his forearm. "Oh my god, what happened?" You asked, tone slightly panicked.

"Nothing, s'okay," Pope grumbled.

"I don't think so. Let me take a look at it."

He looked up at you skeptically, eyes squinted, eyebrows furrowed.

You knelt beside him. "Come on, let me see." Slowly you reached out to him, careful, as if you were encountering a skiddish street dog who was ready to snap out of fear. "M'not gonna hurt you."

Pope let out a shallow breath before uncovering his arm to reveal a long scratch from almost wrist to elbow; blood still slowly flowing out.

"How in the world did you manage that?" You tisked as you stood to grab the first aid kit hanging near the door to Deran's office. You came back quickly and opened the box, finding the alcohol wipes.

The only word the man next to you supplied was "sink," with a jerk of his blood-covered thumb pointing to the giant industrial sink he was leaning against.

"This is gonna hurt a bit." You told him as you began to wipe away the blood with the alcohol saturated cloth—he didn't so much as flinch. "So, the sink did this to you?"

"Yeah."

"And how did that happen?"

"Was cleaning behind it, loose panel."

"Ahh, then you might want to get a tetanus shot; that thing is pretty rusty." The scrape isn't as bad as you had originally thought once all the blood is wiped away. You rummage through the kit trying to find the antibacterial ointment and gauze. "We don't need you losing an arm, especially like this—we'd have to make up a lie—say it got chewed off by a shark so it sounds cooler." Your little joke makes you chuckle, and you can even see Pope's usually tight-lipped scowl turn up at the corners for a moment.

"I'll be fine." He's staring at you now, hazel eyes dark as he inspects you, then your work. He follows your fingers as they nimbly wrap his arm in gauze.

Gently patting the gauze where you secured it, you stand on your feet. "There ya go, good as new."

Pope grunts as he joins you on his own two feet. "Thanks."

From that day onwards, you noticed Pope watching you—more than usual—eyes locked onto you like a honing device. You didn't mind; you enjoyed it, the prickle on the back of your neck as his eyes bore into you. Then it moved on from the staring across the room to him sitting at the bar, having small conversations with you when there was a lull in customers, and soon he began walking you to your car after closing.

"You know you don't have to stay to walk me to my car, right? I'm a big girl. I can handle myself, Andrew."

Pope liked it when you called him by his name and not the moniker everyone else used; it made him warm inside after he had politely told you to stop calling him Pope. He knew you were right; you could handle yourself. He had seen you handle a bar fight or two in the past few weeks, but he still felt this burning need to watch after you, to keep you in his eyesight in case you needed help. At first he had told himself it was just returning the favor, but it quickly became something more.

He found himself outside your home on nights you didn't work. Sitting on the uncomfortable wicker porch furniture, pistol clutched in his hand. He would leave by the time you or your roommate, Natalie, awoke.

One night, all that watching paid off.

Two sleazy men who couldn't take no for an answer came waltzing into the bar. They were tall and stocky, and flirted with you for the better part of an hour. Hands would wander before you swatted them away, saying in a strained voice, "I won't ask you again, please stop touching me."

The men just laughed and turned back to their conversation when you walked away.

"Do you want me to handle it?" Came Pope's rough voice from the bar.

You shook your head before meeting his gaze. "Nah. I've got it under control." And you had believed you did when you said it—but now, you didn't think you did.

The men had asked for another round of beer, and as you turned to leave, one of them had slapped your ass. You spun on your heel in an instant, hand thrown out to slap the one closest to you, the one with his hand halfway to your bottom.

"What the fuck did I say?" You yelled. "Stop fucking touching me!"

The bar went quiet, save for the upbeat music playing from the bar speakers, and the men became red-faced with anger. The two of them stood to their full height. The one you had hit grabbed your wrist so harshly that you thought there might be a bruise there in the morning.

"I'm a paying customer. I can do whatever I want." The alcohol on his breath wafted over you, making you scrunch up your nose.

You tried yanking your hand away, but that only made him tighten his grip. "Let go of me," you growl.

"And what are you gonna do if he doesn't?" The other man asks.

The words never get to leave your mouth as you feel a foreboding presence behind you.

Andrew stood there, shoulders back, chest puffed out. What he lacked in height against the two men, he made up for in the sheer size of his muscles and the fierceness in his glare.

"She's not gonna do anything, I will."

"Oh," the man holding you chuckled, "you gonna sic your guard dog on us?"

You cut your eyes to Pope. He waited, fists clenched by his sides, body rigid. It only took one nod from you before he stalked his way forward, tore the man's hand from you, and pushed you behind him.

The next few moments were chaos as Pope swung on the man who had grabbed you. You watched, mesmerized, as hands flew and blood was spilt. Pope had the guy on the ground in seconds, fists beating into his face.

The second man just stood there, in what seemed like shock, as he watched.

When the man under Pope was unconscious, Pope turned his sights onto the other.

"Whoa, dude, I-I don't want any trouble." The man threw his hands up in surrender.

"You should have thought about that before you put your hands on her," Pope all but growled.

The guy's eyes widened, and he began to speak. "I didn't touch her, I swear; it was just him." He pointed to his unconscious friend.

Pope glared at him. "Don't bullshit me, I saw you. Both of you. Your hands were all over her."

You couldn't lie; you liked this gross display of masculinity. It had your knees wobbling and thighs clenching as you watched on in amazement at how Pope could wear these men down. Bad thoughts were running through your head as Pope lunged for the guy, large hands grabbing for his neck and forcing him down in front of him; then somehow he got the man in a chokehold. The man's face was growing more red by the second, and his fingers pulled desperately at Pope's locked arms.

"Please-" the man choked out, "I'm- I'm sorry."

That was when you finally stepped in. Laying a gentle hand on Pope's shoulder, you squat down to be level with him. "I think that's enough; he said he was sorry."

Pope's eyes cut to you and back before he visibly softens, his arms go slack, and the guy falls forward out of Pope's grip. You turn to him and seethe, "Get you and your fucking friend out of here."

The guy coughs as he lugs his friend into his arms and practically drags him toward the door, muttering, "fuckin' crazy asshole," as he goes.

Although his body had relaxed, Pope was still simmering, his breathing coming in ragged breaths.

"Hey, look at me," you cup his face in your hands. "Andrew. Can you look at me?"

He opened his eyes; he couldn't remember closing them. But you were standing before him, and that was all he needed to feel closer to normal.

"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up." You tug him with you to the office; Deran wasn't here, thankfully, because what you were about to do, you would not like him to bear witness to.

Pope follows you slowly and lets you push him onto the couch. He waits patiently as you grab the first aid kit for the second time since you'd met him.

"Thanks for that," you begin wiping the blood from his knuckles and a scratch on his neck where one of the assholes had grabbed him. Thankfully, no real punches had landed on Pope's face, and the worst of his injuries were his split knuckles.

"That was nothing."

You look up from doctoring his hand. "Oh, it was definitely something. I've never had someone defend me like that."

Pope gives you a look, eyes flitting between your own and your lips. "I'll always defend you."

"Oh yeah? You wanna defend me like-." You take a moment to recall what one of the men had referred to Pope as "-like my guard dog, Andrew?" You could feel, more than see, the full-body shiver that ran through Pope. "You wanna protect me from all those bad men out there?" Your words come out with a sultry lilt.

He nods, tongue peeking out to wet his lips.

Pope lets out a light chuckle as you climb into his lap, forgetting all about his bloody hand. "I think I'd like that."

"You wanna take care of me, Andrew?"you breathe out, body pressing against his. You can feel the hardness pressing into the heat between your legs.

"Yes." His voice is scratchy, almost raw as it comes out. His eyes were blown wide, pupils totally engulfed by the black of his irises. He always looked good, but lust had him looking absolutely sinful.

"So take care of me then." You can't help but buck your hips against his growing bulge and moan softly when the seam of your jean shorts presses into your clit.

Pope's fingers come to grasp your hips, guiding you into him. He leans up, his lips pressing into yours. The two of you move in tandem, lips smacking against one another, tongues pressing together. He groans into you, a matching one escapes you, and one of his hands reaches up, fingers threading in your hair and tugging lightly.

"Fuck, Andy-"

Pope feels like his heart stops, the soft press of your body against the hard ridges of his own. The sounds you made in his mouth were like heaven; he couldn't get enough. He pulled your hair again, trying to make you give him those pretty little noises again.

"Take your clothes off," he demands.

It takes you no time to stand from his lap, kick off your shoes, and shuck your pants down your legs. Pope's fingers play languidly with the hem of your shirt. You pull it over your head slowly before unhooking your bra and tossing it at him with a smile. He catches it before placing it neatly on the arm of the couch.

He pats his leg, gesturing for you to sit. "Come 'ere."

Gradually, you straddle his thigh; the rough texture of his black jeans feels so good against you.

"Want you to get off on my thigh, baby."

And so you do as he says. You settle down onto him and let your hips rock against the thick, corded muscle of his thigh. The feel of Pope's hands is hot on your skin as they track up your thighs, to your waist, and over your back.

"So soft," he whispers, almost like he is speaking to himself.

You break out in goosebumps as his fingers continue to trail over your body. He reaches for your neck and pulls your face down to his and kisses you breathless. "Ahh-" you gasp when he flexes his thigh. Your hips work fast, grinding your clit into him. You could feel how wet his pant leg had become, and it made you tremble. "Feel so good," you moan into his mouth.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm." You wrap your arms around his neck, playing with the dark auburn curls at his nape. "M'not gonna last," you whine, and you feel your body surging closer and closer to the edge. Then, with a particularly harsh graze of your clit against the denim, your head flinging back and a whine pushing from the back of your throat. You come fast, body shuddering against Pope.

"That's it, such a good girl," Pope mumbles against your skin, lips kissing and sucking at your neck, tongue lathing over the deep purple bruises he created.

Your breath eventually evens out, and you bite at Pope's earlobe. "Want you inside me." With deft fingers, you begin to undo his pants.

His cock is straining against the zipper as you pull it down. Your hand gently releases him from the confines of his boxers, and you can't help the gasp that escapes you. His cock is mouth-wateringly thick. "Please, Andrew, wanna feel you."

Pope grunts, and he picks you up and tosses you onto the couch. He hovers over you. "Gonna treat you so good, baby, take such good care of you."

"Please," you beg.

Pope kisses you fiercely before reaching for his cock and lining himself up. Inch by lovely inch, he presses into you until he bottoms out. "God, fuck. You look so good like this, beneath me."

"Mmm, want you to ruin me," you keen, body arching into Pope'sas he snaps his hips into you.

Each thrust felt like he was trying to open you, taking you apart little by little. You couldn't stop the delicious ache that grew in your belly and the sob that flew from your lips.

Pope reaches for your face; his fingers cover your mouth. "Shhh- bar's still open; don't want anyone else hearing those pretty noises you make for me." His hips start to move faster, pumping into you at an insatiable speed.

You hold fast to his shoulders, nails scratching his skin even though his gray t-shirt. "Off," the word is muffled under Pope's hand as you tug on the article of clothing. You needed to feel his skin against your own, wanted to know how it felt for the heat of his body to invade yours.

Pope lifts his hand from your mouth, only stopping his thrusts to doff his shirt. Muscles ripple under freckled skin as he readjusts. Pope grips the backs of your thighs, pushing your legs a little wider, and plunges back in.

Skin slapped against skin, accompanied by the euphoric melody of whimpers and moans from the two of you.

"Fuck," Pope sighs as his advances against your cunt begin to falter, his rhythm no longer a steady drive but a jerky push to the finish line. "M'not gonna last long." His face plummets into your neck, hands releasing your legs.

You nod in agreement with him, "Me either."

Your body locks up, back arching, as you feel your cunt spamming around Pope's cock. He moans into your neck as his hips finally sputter to a stop. The two of you lay there silently, basking in the bliss of the moment. Your muscles twitch with exhaustion.

The two of you lay there, breath evening out as you come down from your highs. The weight of Pope atop you is comforting, even if he's almost cutting off your oxygen supply.

Your fingers dance lazily in his hair, pushing back the speckled gray curls from his forehead. He looks at you with wide eyes; they shift over your face quickly as he takes in your blissful expression.

"Jesus Christ-" an amazed sigh leaves you. "That was, ha… holy shit." You didn't have the words to describe how you were feeling. How you missed the sensation of the knot in your stomach as Pope stretched you out on his cock.

Pope leans into your mouth, tongue slipping past your lips. He tastes ambrosia sweet, addictive in the best way. "It was good?" He asks, a hint of insecurity lacing the words.

Your fingers now play with the curls nesting at his nape as you look up at him through your lashes. "What makes you think it wouldn't be good?"

He hesitates, pulling back from you more. Shaking his head, he mumbles, "It's just been a while."

You can tell it isn't something he wants to delve into deeper, so you leave it alone and change the subject quickly. "Hey?" He hums in response. "Do you want to get out of here? I'm sure Tommy wouldn't mind closing without me."

Pope nods, "Okay."

He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.

“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now. 

You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”

“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”

“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back. 

He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual. 

The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could. 

It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong. 

“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.” 

The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours. 

The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him. 

His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face. 

That had been one year ago. 

After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account. 

So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)

Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought. 

Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine. 

When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.

Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend. 

Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero. 

He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.

Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night. 

A promise was a promise. 

Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.

“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.

He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that. 

He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully. 

“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?” 

He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable. 

“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”

You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer. 

“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.” 

The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.

“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused. 

“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks. 

“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes. 

“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”

“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.” 

“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”

“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully. 

You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him. 

“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement. 

The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions. 

Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday. 

Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.

Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room. 

Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins. 

And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out. 

“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…” 

The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence. 

“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”

“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”

“Message already sent.”  

He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am. 

He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you? 

Oh fuck. 

You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–

“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.

The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now. 

He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and– 

“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him. 

You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful. 

“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?” 

You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.” 

The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch. 

He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.

You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams. 

This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago. 

It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it. 

“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?” 

“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”

You nodded, turning toward the workstation. 

“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment. 

“EV?” 

The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light. 

“Online.”

“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.” 

“Beginning diagnostic.” 

You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye. 

Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe. 

This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him. 

But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head. 

There was only you. 

Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor. 

Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment. 

The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again. 

That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes. 

He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly. 

This was wrong. So wrong. 

His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.

He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you. 

What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–

“Diagnostic complete.” 

Your heads snapped toward the screen. 

“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.” 

“What biotoxin?” You frowned. 

“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.” 

Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was. 

The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.

He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead. 

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–

“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.” 

“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier. 

It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything. 

“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants. 

That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–

He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer. 

“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”

He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.  

Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.

You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual. 

“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment. 

His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.

Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse? 

“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.” 

He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed. 

“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.  

You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat. 

The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin. 

“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.

White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth. 

“No.”

His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up. 

“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.” 

His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that. 

The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable. 

His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions. 

Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.

His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric. 

Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.

He hated it.

He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain. 

“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side. 

“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”

“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”

“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely. 

“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?” 

“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”

“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”

“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles. 

The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second. 

One second enough. 

“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”

The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest. 

“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”

He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be. 

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.

He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.

You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs. 

His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly. 

You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals. 

He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence. 

Too hard. 

Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure. 

It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out. 

“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”

“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.” 

He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it. 

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’

Fucking hell. 

“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”

You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him. 

His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with. 

“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide. 

“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?” 

You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed. 

His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation. 

Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.

It wanted more.

His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you. 

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly. 

“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm. 

“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”

“Breathe,” you reminded.

His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down. 

Just take her, man, she’s right there–

Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch. 

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life. 

“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”

See? She wants it. She needs it so bad. 

He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.

Fuck it.

In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core. 

His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses. 

“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”

You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw. 

“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”

You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you. 

“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”

His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand. 

“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” He whispered.

You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull. 

“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air. 

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you. 

“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air. 

You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away. 

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”

Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours. 

“Can–can I–?”

You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs. 

Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert. 

His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life. 

“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”

He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound. 

“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”

His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right. 

“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”

Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers. 

“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“Not stopping, baby.” 

He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts. 

“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”

“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–

“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”

The plea undid you.

You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there. 

It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him. 

You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you. 

Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up. 

He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him. 

You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact. 

The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you. 

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger. 

You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first. 

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.  

Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand. 

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately. 

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”

You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.

He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.

You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him. 

When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver. 

He could feel it coming. The change. 

You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away. 

His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal. 

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.

That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out. 

“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.” 

He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”

A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–

“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused. 

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”

That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face. 

Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now. 

Good. 

He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room. 

His bed.

He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”

You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth. 

Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets. 

“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you? 

Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him. 

He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it. 

“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”

Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk. 

“Peter…” 

“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”

Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so. 

God. He was never going back. 

“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.” 

He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again. 

“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”

“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”

“Need what?”

“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”

He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up. 

“Yeah?” 

Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him. 

He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine. 

But something made him stop. 

“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”

The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through. 

“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”

You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again. 

He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands. 

The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”

“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow. 

“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”

He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect. 

Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper. 

He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back. 

“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”

He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again. 

What? What is–

The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back. 

“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”

He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color. 

“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“

“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”

The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again. 

“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again. 

“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”

His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.

“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”

“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…” 

He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up. 

You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you. 

“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”

The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you. 

When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin. 

Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths. 

You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–

“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.” 

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened. 

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”

“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath. 

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking. 

“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.” 

“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead. 

“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”

He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet. 

“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”

There it was. He said it. No turning back now. 

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you. 

“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”

“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation. 

You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again. 

Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did. 

There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined. 

Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth. 

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

“But it’s your favorite part,” you complain, glancing back at the TV where the T-dogs wage their synchronized, melodic abuse all over Kenickie’s new ride. “You like cars, don’t you?”

The snort it earns you makes you grin. “Cars, yeah,” he concedes, shifting around in his perpetual restlessness. “...John Travolta gyrating his hips all over them, less so.”

You pretend to click your tongue at him. “The way yours are rusted over, you should be taking notes. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two.”

Eddie whips his arm off of his eyes and uses it to throw you a firm gesture. “First of all, my hips are fully functional,” he contends. “Just because I don’t swing ‘em around like that, doesn’t mean I can’t.”

You tilt your head, bat your eyelashes at him a couple times. “I’ll believe it when I see it, stud.”

He smiles at you until his dimples pop out, warm eyes crinkling—hesitating the way he always does when you beat him to his own game and he isn’t quite ready for it. “...Secondly, sweetheart,” he goes on, determined to see his kvetching through, “this is the third time this month. I don’t even wanna think about how many times in the last year. If I was ever gonna learn anything at all from this movie, you’ve beat it into my head so hard, it’s probably killing off brain cells.”

“No one’s forcing you to sit here and watch it with me,” you remind him without pity. “You’re welcome to go hide in your bedroom till it’s over any time you want.”

“Can’t,” he insists flatly. He stretches both arms along the back of the couch, and the hand closest to you starts tapping idle rhythms. “I’m on standby.”

“What for?” 

“Well, what if you get thirsty?” he suggests. “Or…you need a foot massage?” He brings one hand back to wrap it over the top of your foot and give it a squeeze.

“Yeah, you wish,” you laugh, worming your foot out of his grasp to kick his hand away and setting it back on top of the other.

“Or,” he continues on, bending one arm to prop his head up, gravely serious, “what if all these gyrating hips and pink ladies get you all riled up, and you’re overcome with a desperate, excruciating need to make out with someone? I’m supposed to just leave you here to suffer?”

“Oh, wow,” you sigh. “You’re saying you’d really do that for me, Eds?”

His hand flies earnestly to his heart. “I really would.”

“Even with tongue and everything?”

He sputters over a couple syllables. “I— Well— If that’s what it takes.”

“That’s sweet, Eddie,” you tell him with your eyes glued to the screen. “That’s real sweet. Now would you please shut the hell up? If I miss Beauty School Dropout because of you, you’re done.”

Eddie slumps deeper into the couch, claws both hands down his face and groans. “You’ve only seen it three million, four hundred and fifty-seven thousand—”

“Quiet!” you shout over him, reaching over sightlessly to flap your hand in his face. 

Though pouting egregiously, Eddie fulfills your request. The fidgeting can’t be helped, but he stays quiet during Beauty School Dropout, doesn’t say a word throughout the dance competition (though he does, as always, give in to an irresistible compulsion to participate in the hand jive once or twice), and makes it a couple minutes into the night at the drive-in before the agony of boredom wins out once again. 

“...I just got the best idea,” he announces. You know that tone of voice, and it’s nothing but trouble.

“Yeah, and what’s that?” you mutter. The glance you toss finds his smile twitching wider, and that’s more than enough. “Nevermind, don’t tell me.”

“One, we turn off Grease,” he goes on anyway.

“Not a chance.”

“...Okay, then, we mute Grease.” 

You dig your heel down into his thigh, and Eddie grunts. “I’d rather mute you.”

He lets out a big, inconvenienced sigh. “You’re really twisting my arm here, but fine—and don’t ever try and tell me I can’t compromise. Out of the kindness of my heart, we’ll just…turn the volume down a couple notches.”

You’re only loosely paying attention to him. “Okay, and then what?”

“Two,” he continues, holding up two guiltless fingers, “we take all our clothes off.”

“Pass.”

Eddie sags forward in your peripheral. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“Third, we see how fast we can hide the damn salami,” you finish for him with faux irritation. “That’s the second time I’ve heard it this week, Eds.”

You can feel him grinning at you. “So you understand how I feel.”

You reach over to flick him in the side of his head, and Eddie grunts, flinging himself sideways with the force of the blow. 

“...What’ll you do for me then?” you ask lightly, eyes back on the screen.

Eddie twitches in his contorted position. “Huh?”

“If I say yes and we take our clothes off, what’re you gonna do for me?”

He straightens his spine as fast as you’ve ever seen him, and you have to suppress a snicker. Then, he starts leaning in your direction. “...What do you want me to do for you?”

He says it in that creepy voice he sometimes slips into to gross you out, so you raise your foot and plant the ball of it on his head, shoving him back into his space and pulling a giggle out of him at the same time. 

“You’re rotten,” you tell him, crossing your legs again. “...What about my laundry? You gonna do my laundry?”

“Yeah, I’ll do your laundry.” He’s smiling a little too wide. “How long?”

You squint at him. “...For a month.”

“Sure.”

“And the dishes, both of ours, for a whole month.”

“Done,” he promises. “Easy. I’ll mop all the floors, too. Vacuum.”

You’re starting to like the sound of this. “And you’re gonna drive me wherever I want, whenever I want.”

“Sweetheart, I already do that.”

Oh, yeah, he sort of does. “...Yeah, but now you gotta do it like a chauffeur.”

“I don’t know what that means, but absolutely. No problem. Your wish is my command.”

“...Tempting, Eddie,” you hum. “Very tempting.”

“Think so?” He starts gravitating towards you again with hearts in his eyes and a big, goofy, expectant look on his face.

“I do,” you say with a nod. “...So it’s a shame I’m not in the mood.”  

It cuts his strings—Eddie deflates, folding over himself with an anguished groan that makes you giggle. “You’re a tease,” he accuses.

You really are, but you know he loves it. Nonetheless, you give him a consoling rub on his shoulder. “Better luck next time, honey.”

When the movie finally ends, the leading lovers flying inexplicably towards the heavens in their cherry red hotrod, Eddie reacts with such profound, ecstatic relief that it’s probably the closest he’s ever come to genuine religiosity in his life.

“Thank fucking God,” he breathes, both arms raised to the sky in worship before they droop back down to rest behind his head. 

“Enough, you drama queen,” you scold, but your mind is still caught up in something else. “...Y’know, we’re a lot like Sandy and Zuko, if you think about it.”

Eddie scoffs pretty harshly for a guy who claims to hate this movie. “You know full goddamn well that we’re Kenickie and Rizzo.”

“No, no, cause listen,” you insist, holding up a finger. “I used to be such a good girl before I met you.”

Eddie’s eyebrows fly skyward. “You’re crazy.”

“I mean, I never would’ve touched a cigarette in my life if it weren’t for you, first of all—”

“I never offered any, babe. You’re a sneakthief.” 

“—and plus, you were a dirty, rotten scoundrel before I whipped you into shape.”

He pulls a monumental face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You were a total heartbreaker.” He just keeps staring at you, wildly clueless and almost as offended. You raise your eyebrows at him very pointedly. “...That poor little girl from the theater club, with the polka dots, and the—”

Halfway through the sentence, Eddie explodes into misery, smacking both hands over his ears. “Stop, stop! Don’t remind me!”

“You stood her up!” you shout, happy to rub it in even harder. It isn’t very often you have him cringing at anything, shameless as he is. 

“Stooop!” He threads his finger into his hair, tugging at the roots in distress. “How was I supposed to know that she was asking me out?!” 

“She slipped a love letter into your locker, you dope.”

“It was a normal letter, okay?” he insists, rubbing his hands down his face. “I thought she just wanted to buy. And besides, I was a little…romantically preoccupied back then, if you recall.” 

It’s funny the way he talks about his crush on you in the past tense; as if he doesn’t still wave it half a foot in front of your face every single day of his life. “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you tease.

“This is what I get, huh?” he laments. “You stand up one girl, by accident, and you’re doomed to a lifetime of torture and heartache.”

“Poor Eddie,” you coo with mushy sympathy. 

“‘Poor Eddie’ is right.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” you say. “One of these days, I really will let you rub my feet.”

He snorts at you, but catches something evil in his eyes a second later. He takes one of your feet and starts to lift it towards his face, flipping your stomach on its head.

“Stop it, you sicko.” You try to jerk it out of grasp, but his other hand wraps around your ankle. “What are you doing?”

Finally, with the most awful grin you’ve ever seen, he starts to stick his tongue out with an obnoxious “ahhh.”

“No!” you beg, horror in your eyes. “No, Eddie, don’t, that’s completely disgusting. I swear to God, I— No, cut it out! Eddie, cut it out!”

-

thanks for reading! feedback is always welcome 💞 likes, comments, + reblogs would be much appreciated!

eddie munson absolutely adored you. every girl in hawkins knew it. some even envied it. not because they wanted him for themselves, but because of the way he looked at you. the way he smile when you walked into a room. the way his voice softened when he said your name.

you were his opposite in every way that mattered. while eddie lived in black denim, battered jackets, and the faded logos of metal bands, you showed up in sunshine. bright yellows. soft baby blues. peppermint pinks. you were all warmth and laughter, a walking burst of color in his otherwise monochrome world. and he couldn't get enough of it.

your personality was just as luminous. bubbly in a way that wasn't forced, cheerful in a way that made people want to be near you. but eddie was the one you chose. on his worst days—when the weight of being eddie “the freak” munson pressed down on his shoulders, when the town looked at him like he was already guilty of something—all it took was you pressing a kiss to his cheek, leaving a glossy lipstick print behind, and chirping, "hi, eds!" his whole world realigned. the tension bled out of him, and he’d crack a smile before he even realized he was doing it.

he made it his mission to keep you as happy as you made him. happier, if he could manage it. when he went thrifting for his usual rotation of battle vests and band tees, his eyes would wander to the racks he'd never touched before—the ones full of color. he’d pick through floral prints and pastel sweaters and anything with a pop of brightness, imagining how it would look on you. he didn't care what shade it was, as long as it had life in it. you could walk out in lemon yellow one day and powder purple the next, and every time, he'd stop mid-sentence, his rings tapping against the steering wheel, and just watch you. mesmerized. like you were the only thing in focus.

the way his hand found the small of your back, the way he'd tug a strand of your hair and grin, the way he'd defend you with a ferocity that surprised even him—it all said the same thing: you were his favorite person. his good thing. his bright spot in a world that had never been particularly kind to him.

he lived for the moments he spent with you. it was a fact that puzzled his friends but made perfect sense to him: no matter how high-energy or delightfully bubbly you were, you never wore him out. where other people drained his battery, your presence seemed to supercharge it. he just couldn’t get enough of you.

he took pure joy in spoiling you, willingly trailing behind you into crowded boutiques to help you hunt for the brightest clothes you could find. he would happily carry your bags, hold your hand on the walk to the ice cream parlor, and listen to you chatter about anything and everything.

but you never let it be a one-way street. you noticed every single one of his niche interests. whenever you spotted a vintage cassette tape he was missing or a faded metal/rock tee in a thrift store window, you bought it without a second thought. you knew the map of his heart just as well as he knew yours.

one morning at school, you practically floated down the hallway. catching sight of his familiar denim jacket at his locker, you skipped right up behind him, your bright skirt swirling around your knees.

"eds! eds! i got you a little somethin'!" you chirped cheekily. you leaned against the locker next to his, beaming a dazzling smile that instantly made the crowded, dingy hallway fade into the background.

eddie turned around, a helpless, breathless grin breaking across his face the second he looked at you. you were like a burst of pure sunshine. "i already told you, honey," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, affectionate register reserved only for you. "you don't gotta keep getting me things."

"oh, hush. lookie!"

his chest ache with a sudden wave of warmth.

you unzipped your backpack and carefully pulled out a pristine copy of the final installment of the fantastic art of frank frazetta.

eddie froze. his jaw practically dropped, his dark eyes blowing wide as he stared at the fantasy art book in your hands.

"i know you have all the other volumes," you rushed out, your words tumbling over each other in your excitement, your hands gesturing animatedly. "and you’re always talking about how much you wanted this last one that came out last year, but you said it was impossible to find around here and—"

he didn't let you finish. overwhelmed by how incredibly lucky he was, eddie stepped forward, cupping the back of your neck with his hand and pulling you into a deep, desperate, and utterly devoted kiss. the metal of the locker clattered slightly behind you, but you didn't mind. you melted into him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, a soft smile tugging at your lips against his mouth.

when he finally pulled back just an inch, his thumb gently traced your cheekbone. you looked up at him through your lashes, breathless and beaming.

"so... you like it?" you teased softly.

"i love it," he whispered, his voice thick with genuine emotion. he leaned down to press a lingering, tender kiss right to the center of your forehead. "and i love you. seriously, sweetheart, you’re the best. how the hell did you even find this?"

"i have my ways," you replied with a playful wink. "you’re always taking care of me, eds. i figured it was my turn to take care of you."

eddie stared down at you, his heart hammering against his ribs. it physically ached how much he adored you. just your presence alone brought an effortless, healing warmth into his chaotic world.

"you take care of me every single day, honey. believe me," he said softly, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest, never wanting to let you go.

he lived to make you laugh. to eddie, your laughter was the absolute best sound in hawkins—light and infectious. he loved triggering it, often leaning in to playfully tug on one of your belt loops, wind a strand of your hair around his rings, or wrap his hands around your waist to hoist you up and twirl you around until you were breathless and giggling.

you were the kind of couple that made the rest of the school roll their eyes, completely shameless about your public displays of affection. if his hand wasn’t enveloped in yours, his arm was draped over your shoulders, or his fingers were idly weaving through your hair while you stood at your lockers. he was a constant flurry of physical devotion, paired with an endless stream of vocal praise.

he noticed every single detail about you, never hesitating to loudly declare how incredible your hair looked that morning, or how much he loved the specific, vibrant outfit you had meticulously pieced together. naturally, you matched his energy note for note.

your eyes would go wide with excitement when you would notice a change in his appearance. you would let out a soft, delighted gasp, your gaze practically scanning him from head to toe.

"wait, is this a new jacket?" you once asked, your voice spiking with that signature, sunny enthusiasm. you grabbed the lapels of the dark denim, smoothing your hands over the fabric. "why didn't you tell me you got it? it looks so cool! and oh my god—did you get new pins, too?"

eddie’s chest would swell, a proud, dramatic smirk playing on his lips as he looked down at your hands resting on his chest. he would hook his thumbs into his pockets, leaning back against the locker to bask in your undivided attention.

another time, you were comfortably sprawled out across his unmade bed, your legs kicking idly in the air as you flipped through a colorful magazine, a vivid splash of bright energy against his dark posters and cluttered shelves.

one the floor below, eddie sat cross-legged with his beloved guitar balanced on his knee. his brow was furrowed in intense concentration, his calloused fingers flying over the fretboard as he tried to nail a complex, blistering metal riff. suddenly, a sharp, sour chord rang out, followed by the heavy thud of his palm muting the strings.

eddie let out a defeated groan, burying his face in his hands as his dark curls spilled forward.

"what happened, eds?" you asked softly, lowering your magazine. your voice was a gentle, curious balm to his immediate irritation.

"sorry, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice muffled by his hands. he looked up, looking thoroughly exhausted by his own perfectionism. "i just... i keep messing this one stupid part up. my fingers aren't moving fast enough."

you smiled down at him from the edge of the mattress, your eyes filled with nothing but absolute faith. "maybe try slowing it down until you get it right," you suggested sweetly, leaning over to rest your chin on your hands. "i know you like to rush the tempo when you get frustrated. just breathe and take it easy."

eddie blinked up at you. it never failed to amaze him how easily you could read him, or how your sunny optimism could instantly defuse his worst moods. he swallowed his pride, giving you a grateful nod. "right. okay, yeah. thanks."

he reset his hands, consciously drawing a deep breath. following your advice, he played the intricate sequence at a fraction of its normal speed. it sounded better. cleaner even. he looped it again, slightly faster this time, his confidence building with every note. by the third repetition, his fingers moved with fluid precision, finally nailing the riff at its proper, thunderous tempo.

you let out a delighted giggle, clapping your hands together. "yay! see, i told you!" you cheered, your face lighting up with pride. "you’re so good, eddie. you don't have a single thing to worry about, trust me. no guy in hawkins can play like you."

eddie froze, his fingers resting on the vibrating strings as he looked up at you. you were glowing, completely invested in his little victory. he was so deeply, hopelessly head over heels for you that it felt entirely overwhelming.

without a word, he carefully unplugged his guitar and set it safely in its stand. he stood up, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, playful intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

before you could ask what he was doing, eddie crawled onto the bed, looming over you. with a swift, gentle tug, he slipped the magazine right out of your hands and tossed it carelessly over his shoulder, where it landed somewhere on the floor.

"eddie!" you gasped, a bright laugh bubbling out of you as he suddenly captured your lips in a deep, intoxicating kiss.

you giggled softly right into the kiss as his weight gently guided you back down onto the pillows. his hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes brimming with pure adoration.

"you’re so sweet, you know that?" he whispered, his chest rumbling with a breathless laugh as he began peppering your face with a barrage of soft, ticklish kisses—your jaw, your nose, your eyelids. "an absolute angel. what did i ever do to deserve you?"

"i love you, eds, but my magazine—"

"shh, i’ll get you more."

he always made sure to show you how much he loved you. especially in the bedroom.

when you were together physically, your pleasure was always the main priority. and he made sure to remind you of that. he’d watch you with those soft brown eyes, learning exactly what made you gasp, what positions had you clutching the sheets, which angles drew out the longest moans from your throat. and once he knew, he would lead you through crescendos again and again until you were boneless and breathless beneath him.

he never resorted to cruelty or manipulation to heighten the experience. there wasn’t really any need for degrading language or forced begging when genuine worship did the trick so effectively. instead, eddie would whisper sweet nothings against your neck as he moved within you—the way you looked right now was "the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen," how lucky he felt to be trusted with this intimacy, promises to do this forever if you'd let him.

his large hands would thread through your hair, anchoring you gently while his hips created a rhythm designed specifically for maximum sensation. soft kisses would trail across your collarbones, along your jawline, at the sensitive spot behind your ear. the sight of you—brows knitted in concentration, lips swollen and parted—was genuinely breathtaking to him. it filled something hollow in his chest, watching you come undone like this, knowing he was the one causing these reactions.

"let me take care of you, yeah?" he'd murmur, adjusting his pace when he felt you tense toward release. "just feel it, baby. i got you. you gonna come for me?"

your fingers would dig into his bicep, nails leaving faint red marks on his skin as pleasure coiled tight and unbearable in your core. "y-yeah, eds. i’m so close."

the words barely had time to leave your mouth before eddie changed his rhythm, driving deeper with increased intensity. his lips found your neck again, sucking gently at the sensitive skin there while his hips established a harder, more demanding pace.

"come for me, sweet girl. let me have it," he would groan against your skin, voice strained with his own building need. his free hand slid down to grip your hip, holding you steady for his increasingly powerful movements. "fuck, you're doing so good for me. so fucking perfect."

his praise—that warm, admiring tone—would always send you tumbling over the edge. a long, broken moan escaped your lips as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your inner walls clenching around him rhythmically. the sight and sound of your climax would trigger his own release almost immediately, eddie burying himself deep with a shuddering groan, face pressed against your shoulder.

for several moments, neither of you would move except for the rise and fall of your chests. eddie would press slow, lingering kisses to your cheek, temple, anywhere his lips could reach. when he would finally pull back, he carefully disengages from your body and toss the condom into the small waste bin by the bed.

he’d collapse beside you instantly, his weight settling next to yours. he wouldn’t move away, but instead shift slightly, resting on an elbow so his gaze would be fixed entirely on you. his eyes, usually charged with intense passion, were now soft, reflective pools of pure affection as he watched you try to regulate your breathing.

"you okay?" he asked softly, his voice a low, comforting rumble. his fingers began to gently thread through your hair, a comforting, rhythmic caress.

you responded with a soft, contented hum—a sound that vibrated pleasantly against your ribs—a clear signal of contentment. "mhm," you breathed out.

"what about you? are you okay?" you immediately countered, a flicker of genuine concern crossing your features. "did i hurt your arm? or maybe your back?"

a warm, pleased chuckle escaped him at the sheer sweetness of your concern for him. he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a feather-light kiss—a promise of more closeness to come. "i’m fine, baby. you know i like the sting."

you playfully slapped his chest, a quick, affectionate tap that elicited a deeper laugh from him. "seriously though," he insisted. "do you need anything? water? or should we raid the fridge?" he would never let you go unsettled after a session.

but most of the time, you would just shake your head, your desire for proximity overwhelming any immediate need. "no, i’m okay, eds. just wanna lay here with you."

his heart would give a clench at your simple request. he’d pull you closer, maneuvering until your head settled perfectly in the cradle of his chest, allowing you to absorb the steady rhythm of his strong heartbeat. "you ever need anything," he murmured close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin, "tell me. i want to make sure i’m good to you."

"you’re always good to me, eddie," you reassured him, feeling safe and cherished nestled against him.

nobody had to understand the connection between you two. it was a bond that defied easy explanation—you, radiant and bright as the morning sun; eddie, a man who would move galaxies just to keep you smiling. somehow, despite the contrast in your natures, the two of you brought out the best in each other.

the world might not have understood it. they might have seen your brightness as a stark contrast to his brooding nature.

but you knew better.

you understood that it was precisely because of your differences that you worked so beautifully together. when life tried to dim your sparkle, eddie was there to fan the flames of your spirit. and when his own demons reared their ugly heads, you were the one constant source of warmth and comfort.

at the end of the day, all that mattered was the love you shared. it was the kind of love that made sense only to those lucky enough to experience it firsthand.