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Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
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.
Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.
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.
Summary: Pope Cody finally finds a way to convince you to quit your job
warnings: established relationship, a wee bit of dirty talk, handjob (female receiving, fingering), p and v penetration, no condom, pope really fucking you good hehe
author note: hiiii this is my first post very excited to share! i am thinking of making this a series so very curious any feedback i get :)
wc: ~1.3k
Pope Cody hated that you worked.
In his own perfect world you wouldn’t lift a finger, let alone travel to the coffee shop every morning, Monday through Friday to open up and start brewing people some coffee.
Granted if it wasn’t for the coffee shop, you two would have never met. On a day where he couldn’t sleep he spent a long time walking, and he managed to find this coffee shop along the beach. It was terribly early, 6:00 AM and already a small crowd had formed outside. Jesus, do these people actually need coffee? He thought to himself. And then he saw you. Smiling at the register, laughing, the way your smile crinkled the sides of your cheeks. How your hair perfectly framed your shoulders and moved with you as you made each drink with such care.
The lump in his throat grew. Catching another glimpse of you, taking all of you in. How perfect your breasts sat. How perfect your waist was shaped for his large hands to grab onto. How unbelievable your jeans accentuated your ass. His mind wandered far and wide, to all the dirty, perverted scenes he could think of while trying not to get hard through his own jeans.
“Hi!” You interrupted his thoughts, making his face hot and red with a little embarrassment and anger that none of those thoughts were real. He stared into your eyes, sending you a shiver that was far from concerning. You yourself had noticed him too. Felt his hot burning stare everytime you moved. His brown curls, the freckles scattered across his toned arms, the way he gripped his jacket to show off the strength in his knuckles. Everything about him was incredibly sexy.
“Just a black coffee.” He calmly took out several bills and slid them to you. You noticed the bills. Woah, way too many bills. You counted only five dollars and gave the rest back to him.
“Nah keep it.” Without thinking he grabbed your wrist, slowly ran his hand over your knuckles before giving back all the bills. You had to stop yourself from biting your lip as you felt his hot touch. You poured his coffee in a cup and gave it to him. Again another burning, lingering, aching touch between you as your fingertips met in the exchange.
He walked away without saying another word. That was a couple of months ago. Now he’s in your bed almost every night. At around 5 AM your alarm clock went off. You woke up to his arms tangled around your body. His sweet breath breathing in and out against your ear. You could feel his erection pulsing, poking your back which made your giggle. Every time you thought to yourself. You reached for your phone, pushing his arms slightly.
“Don’t go to work.” He breathed out. It was the same conversation all the time. When you first started seeing each other he showered you with money. Leaving cash around the apartment, weekly letters in the mailbox with cash. While you never judged where that money was coming from, you wanted to still make your own.
“Andrew this is too much.” You’d say trying to give it back all the time.
“I just want to treat you right baby.”
As you started slowly getting up out of bed, his hand gripped your waist and pulled you back in. Smoothly pulling you onto his chest, your thighs straddling over him as your faces are inches apart from each other.
“Andrew please,” you begged. Giving him that little pout that normally makes him fold like a pretzel. But he was determined today, guiding his hands over your ass, squeezing and forcing your hips to rock against him. Your already swollen pussy rubbing against his hard cock, only fabric separating the neediness.
“You don’t want to go to work.” He teased, slowly kissing you. Devouring your lips, sliding his tongue in and swirling it around with yours. He kept up the pace, slowly bucking his hips forward to press into you harder. You let a moan escape. You didn’t want to admit it you really don’t want to go to work if it means he’ll fuck you. You’re addicted to how he touches you. How he makes you cum again and again. The way your walls clench when his big cock stretches you out. You can and could never get enough. And he knew that too.
“Andy…” you start as he’s trailing kisses down your neck. “I-I gotta go.”
But he doesn’t listen. And who are you kidding? You’re letting him. He’s very convincing this way. You feel his hand slide underneath you, finger tips swirling around to feel just how wet you are. Your moans are growing louder, with each circular movement.
“Fuck you’re so wet for me.” Your eyes meet for a second, biting his lip, looking at you. “You get so wet for me.”
Mhm you groan out. You’ve started grinding into his hand, pressing deeper so he can play with your clit. You’re getting needy for his touch. Without any warning he desperately pushes your panties to the side, shoving his finger inside your aching cunt. You let out an even louder moan as his fingers go deeper and faster, curling into your g-spot and sending you over the edge. He loves just how wet you are, how it coats his fingers and leaves a lingering scent of you for the rest of the day. He get harder and harder just thinking about it. Your moans become louder, your body twitching and your hands now holding onto his waist as you’re about to reach an orgasm.
“You’re not fucking going to work.” Suddenly he rips his boxers off, and you feel his cock slide right into you.
“Oh fuck!” You cry out. It’s always an overwhelming feeling, he’s just way too fucking big. He held your waist, pushing you back so he could see the most perfect very of his big, fat cock stretching out his beautiful girl. The sight alone sent him into a frenzy, deliberately sliding you up and down to watch your folds spread, to test how much of him you could take.
“I-oh fuck you feel so good.” You whimper with each feeling of his cock stretching and pushing deeper. He grips your waist even tighter, now with a more aggressive speed. He’s thrusting into you, pounding your walls as you begin to shake.
“You like when I fuck you like that?” His eyes are dark, hazed over with a deep lust that never goes away. He could fuck all day, and this desperate neediness of his cock would never go away. He loved fucking you, but he loved even more knowing you were enjoying it. Your walls started to tighten, sending his head back.
“Grip on my cock just like that,” he cried out.
Your moans grew into pants, whimpering, unable to control yourself as you heard the sound of your bodies smacking into each other. You were going to cum all over his cock.
“Andrew I’m gonna fucking cum,” you cried out.
He sat up to wrap his arms around you. “I wanna hear it. Fuckin’ have everyone know who’s making you cum like this.”
Your orgasm hits you like a train. Violent, explosive, having you scream out his name and completely tremble under his arms. He kept thrusting, finishing inside of you as he moaned and groaned. You could feel yourself getting filled up, with his cock pumping and shoving more of his hot cum.
Catching your breath, you looked at the time. “Fuck this job.” You laughed.
You kiss his cheeks, his forehead, before settling back to look at him.
“I…” he took a breath, “Will fuck you for the rest of the day. If you finally quit that damn job.”
You giggle, kissing his lips. “You sure you can last?”
summary: You accidentally learn on the night of Peter's birthday that it was his birthday, and now it's all you can think about.
word count: 2.8k+
pairing: peter parker x fem!reader
notes: i literally learned this last night that it was peter's canonical b-day and i felt so bad that i didn't have time to properly plan something since i've been busy with summer classes, so insomnia kept me up and i wrote basically a belated birthday fic. yes, i'm parasocial with a fictional character, and no i will not get a life
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, no spoilers for brand new day, just straight fluff, neighbor!reader
By the time you knocked on Peter’s door, you had already reconsidered the cake about six times.
Not because there was anything wrong with it—the cake itself had turned out pretty well, actually, which had been a pleasant surprise considering you hadn’t baked one from scratch in years. It was chocolate with vanilla frosting, slightly crooked around one side because you’d gotten impatient while smoothing it, with blue sprinkles scattered across the top and ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’ written in icing that became noticeably smaller as you ran out of room.
The problem was that Peter was your neighbor, not your friend.
You knew him well enough to say hello in the hallway, borrow a screwdriver from him, and complain together whenever the elevator stopped working, which was often enough that both of you had developed a personal grudge against it. You knew he worked strange hours, usually came home late, and somehow managed to look exhausted at eight in the morning and eleven at night. You knew he lived alone because the walls in the building were thin, and you had never heard another person in his apartment for more than a few minutes.
You also knew, as of yesterday afternoon, that it had been his birthday.
That part had been an accident.
You’d been coming upstairs with two grocery bags when Peter appeared behind you, jogging up the last flight because, naturally, the elevator was broken again. He’d reached around you to grab the heavier bag before you could protest, then carried it down the hall while insisting it was no big deal. “You know, normal people complain when they have to take six flights of stairs,” you’d told him.
Peter had glanced at you while shifting the bag against his hip. “I complained on four.”
“You said, ‘wow, again.’”
“That was loaded with emotion.”
“It really wasn’t.”
“It was for me.”
You’d laughed, and while Peter was smiling back at you, his wallet had slipped out of his jacket pocket and hit the floor. You picked it up before he could bend down, mostly because his hands were full, and his driver’s license had slid halfway out of the plastic slot.
You hadn’t meant to read it, his birthday had simply been right there.
August 10.
You’d looked at the date, then at him and Peter had immediately noticed. “What?”
You held the wallet toward him. “Is today your birthday?”
His expression had changed so quickly that you almost wished you hadn’t asked. It wasn’t sadness exactly, and he didn’t look upset, but there had been a brief hesitation before he shrugged. “Oh. Yeah.”
“You forgot?”
“No, I knew.”
“You said that like I reminded you.”
Peter took the wallet, shoved it back into his pocket, then reached for your groceries again. “I’ve been busy.”
“That’s a terrible birthday answer.”
“It’s not really a big thing.”
You had stared at him for another moment. “What did you do?”
“For my birthday?”
“Yes, Peter. What did you do for the other thing we were talking about?”
He’d smiled a little at that. “Went to… work.”
“And?”
“Came home.”
“And?”
Peter had opened his mouth, apparently searching for an acceptable third activity, then eventually said, “I had cereal.” You’d stopped walking, he made it another step before realizing you weren’t beside him anymore. “What?”
“You had cereal for your birthday dinner?”
“I also had a sandwich earlier.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It was a good sandwich.”
You’d taken your groceries back from him at your door and told him happy birthday before going inside. Peter thanked you, smiled, and disappeared into his apartment like the conversation hadn’t been particularly important.
Then you spent the rest of the evening thinking about it. Now it was the following night, and you were holding a cake outside his apartment, and beginning to wonder whether this was sweet or completely insane.
You knocked anyway.
There was movement inside almost immediately, followed by a strange metallic clatter, then several seconds of silence.
You knocked again. “Peter?”
Another sound came from inside before the lock finally turned. Peter opened the door wearing gray sweatpants and a faded T-shirt, his hair damp like he’d recently taken a shower. There was a bruise beginning to darken along his jaw that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday, although he’d angled his face slightly away from the hallway light as soon as he saw you. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Peter looked at you, then at the cake, then back to you. You lifted it a little higher. “Before you ask, yes, this is because I judged your birthday dinner.”
For several seconds, Peter said absolutely nothing. Then he looked at the cake again. “You made that?”
“I did.”
“For me?”
You frowned. “No, Peter, I regularly carry personalized cakes around the building hoping someone with the right name opens their door.”
A startled laugh escaped him, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Sorry.”
“Happy late birthday.”
Peter stared down at the icing. You had expected awkwardness because Peter was awkward about almost everything, particularly when attention was directed at him, but you hadn’t expected him to look completely confused by the fact that someone had baked him a cake.
That made you tighten your grip on the plate. “If you hate chocolate, this is going to be embarrassing.”
“No, I love chocolate.”
“Okay, good.”
“I just—” Peter stopped, glanced into his apartment, then back at you. “You really baked me a cake?”
“You keep asking that like you think I stole it.”
“No, I know you didn’t steal it.”
“You don't know what I do in my free time.”
That got another laugh out of him, quieter than the last one, and some of the stiffness left his shoulders. Peter opened the door farther. “Do you want to come in?”
You looked past him. You’d never been inside Peter’s apartment before. It was about as small as you expected, with a kitchenette shoved against one wall and a little table near the window. There were books stacked beside a battered laptop, a sewing kit open on the counter, and what looked like several pieces of electronic equipment scattered across the desk.
Peter followed your gaze and immediately stepped sideways to block some of it. “Sorry, it’s kind of a mess.”
“It’s cleaner than mine.”
“That cannot possibly be true.”
“You haven’t seen mine.”
“I've seen you open your door.”
“That is not legally admissible evidence.”
Peter smiled and moved aside. You stepped inside and he shut the door behind you, and you carried the cake toward the table while Peter hurried ahead to clear several notebooks and loose pieces of paper out of the way.
“You don't have to clean because I’m here.”
“I’m not cleaning.”
“You just threw a sock behind the couch.”
Peter froze with one hand still extended. “That could’ve already been there.”
“I watched you throw it.”
“Okay.”
You set the cake down and turned toward him. “Do you have candles?”
Peter blinked. “Candles?”
“Birthday candles.”
“Oh. No…?”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I didn't know I was supposed to keep emergency birthday candles.”
“You’re supposed to have a junk drawer.”
“I have one.”
“Then there should be candles in it.”
Peter opened the drawer beside the sink and both of you stared into it. There were batteries, three screwdrivers, loose wire, duct tape, a roll of quarters, two takeout menus, a flashlight, several small metal components you didn’t recognize, and one packet of soy sauce.
You slowly looked at Peter. “That is the weirdest junk drawer I have ever seen.”
“It has junk in it.”
“It has electrical components and soy sauce.”
“Both useful.”
You reached inside, picked up the packet, and held it toward him. “What emergency requires one packet of soy sauce?”
“I don't know yet.”
“You’re preparing.”
“Exactly.” You laughed and put it back. Peter opened another cabinet. “I might have matches.”
“That doesn’t help unless you want me to set the cake on fire.”
“Probably not.”
“Probably?”
“I’m keeping an open mind.” He found two plates instead, and after a little searching, one fork. You stared at the single fork in his hand and Peter looked at it too. “Okay, I can explain this.”
“I’m listening.”
“I haven't bought more forks.”
“That isn't an explanation.”
“I had more.”
“Peter.”
“They disappeared.”
“How do forks disappear?”
He leaned against the counter. “I think I accidentally threw them away with takeout containers.”
“All of them?”
“Apparently.”
You pointed toward the drawer. “Yet the soy sauce survived.”
“It’s resilient.”
You laughed again, and Peter smiled as he looked down at the fork and there was something unexpectedly nice about seeing him like this. Usually, Peter seemed halfway out the door even when he was standing still. You’d pass him in the hallway and get a quick smile before he hurried downstairs, or you’d find him coming home long after midnight with his hood pulled up and his shoulders tight with exhaustion. Even when you talked, there always seemed to be another place he needed to be. Tonight he was barefoot in his apartment, arguing with you about missing silverware while a crooked birthday cake sat on his table.
You pulled two plastic forks from your pocket. Peter stared at them. “I came prepared.”
“You brought forks?”
“I had a feeling.”
“That’s actually kind of insulting.”
“You own one fork.”
“I didn't know you knew that before five seconds ago.”
“I know you, Peter.”
The words came out casually, but something about them made him quiet.
You hadn't meant anything serious by it; you knew Peter in the ordinary way neighbors knew each other, through little conversations and familiar routines, but his expression softened anyway. You cleared your throat and turned toward the cake. “Sit down.”
Peter obeyed, although he still looked a little overwhelmed when you put the cake in front of him. “You’re not singing, are you?”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good.”
“I could.”
“Please don't.”
“You seem scared.”
“I've heard you singing through the wall.”
Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me?” Peter grinned. “You can hear me?”
“The walls are thin.”
“Oh my God.”
“You really like that one Olivia Rodrigo song.”
You covered your face. “I hate you.”
“No, it’s good.”
You uncovered your face and pointed toward the cake. “Okay, then. Make a wish.”
“There aren't candles.”
“Well… pretend.”
“That feels like cheating.”
“Peter, you celebrated your birthday with cereal, so I think the birthday authorities will make an exception.”
He looked at you for a moment before turning his attention toward the cake.
You expected him to joke again, but he didn't, Peter closed his eyes, then he leaned forward and blew gently across the top of the cake, sending several blue sprinkles sliding over the frosting.
“There.”
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
“What'd you wish for?”
Peter gave you an incredulous look. “I can't tell you.”
“Why?”
“Then it won't come true.”
“So you believe in birthday wishes but didn't celebrate your birthday?”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain nonsense.”
“You made me a cake.”
“Don't change the subject.” Peter picked up the plastic knife you’d brought and hesitated over the frosting. “You can cut it.”
“I know.”
“You look nervous.”
“It has my name on it.”
“That's generally how birthday cakes work.”
He finally cut into it, although his slice was so narrow that you immediately reached over and made it wider.
Peter glanced at you. “I was going to eat that.”
“You were going to eat half an inch of cake.”
“I can get more later.”
“No, you're having a birthday-sized piece.”
“That isn't a measurement.”
“It is tonight.”
You transferred the slice onto his plate and handed him one of the forks.
Peter took a bite, then another while you waited. He noticed. “What?”
“Well?”
His eyebrows lifted. “It’s really good.”
“You don't have to lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You're very polite.”
Peter took another bite, much larger this time. “Would I be doing this if it was bad?”
“Yes. You're exactly the kind of person who would eat terrible cake because you were afraid of hurting someone’s feelings.”
“That is a very specific accusation.”
“And an accurate one.”
Peter pointed his fork at you. “It’s good.”
You smiled and cut yourself a piece.
For a while, the two of you sat at his little table and ate cake while talking about nothing particularly important. You complained about the landlord, Peter told you the washing machine downstairs had started making a noise that sounded expensive, and you informed him that apartment 3F had apparently gotten a cat despite the building’s pet policy.
Peter looked genuinely interested in that. “The orange one?”
“You've seen it?”
“It sits in the window.”
“His name is Dennis.”
“Dennis?”
“I didn't name him.”
“No, Dennis is good. I like Dennis.”
“You've never met Dennis.”
“I've seen enough.”
Eventually, your eyes drifted back toward the bruise on Peter’s jaw and he noticed immediately, but you didn't ask where it came from. Peter seemed prepared for the question anyway, his shoulders shifting slightly, but when you only took another bite of cake, he relaxed. “You work tomorrow?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“What time?”
“Early.”
“Then I’m leaving you the cake.”
Peter looked at what remained. “You don't want any?”
“I've had some.”
“There’s almost a whole cake.”
“You’ll manage.”
“I live alone.”
“That was sort of the point.” His expression changed again, although this time you understood it a little better. You set your fork down. “I didn't mean that in a sad way.”
“No, I know.”
“I just figured birthdays probably suck when you're by yourself.”
Peter looked at the cake between you. “They're fine.”
You tilted your head. “Peter.”
He sighed. “Okay. They suck a little.”
“A little?”
“A medium amount.”
“Better.”
He smiled faintly and ran his thumb along the edge of the plastic fork.
You didn't know anything about Peter’s family. You'd heard him mention an aunt once, months ago, but never again, and you had never seen parents, siblings, cousins, or friends coming through the building. There were no photographs sitting around his apartment either, at least none you could see. You didn't ask about that. Instead, you reached across the table and tapped the cake plate. “Well, next year you're not having cereal.”
Peter looked up. “Next year?”
“Yes.”
“You're planning my birthday a year in advance?”
“Someone has to.”
His smile grew. “What if I move?”
“I'll find you.”
“That sounded threatening.”
“It was meant to.”
Peter laughed under his breath, then looked down at the cake again. “You didn't have to do this.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know, Peter.”
“No, I just…” He paused, and for once there wasn't an immediate joke waiting behind the hesitation. “Nobody's done something like this for me in a while.”
Your chest tightened, but you refused to make the moment heavier than he wanted it to be, so you nudged his plate toward him. “Then eat another piece.”
Peter looked at you. “You're very bossy.”
“You have one fork and no birthday candles so clearly you need supervision.”
“That feels unrelated.”
“It isn't.”
He smiled, picked up the knife, and cut himself another slice.
You stayed longer than you planned. By the time you finally stood, there were only a few pieces of cake left, Peter had somehow convinced you to help him investigate the mysterious missing-fork situation, and you had learned that his kitchen cabinets contained an alarming amount of instant coffee.
Peter walked you to the door even though your apartment was directly across the hall. You stepped outside, then turned around. “Happy birthday, Peter.”
His hand remained on the edge of the door. “Late birthday.”
“I'm extending it.”
“Can you do that?”
“I just did.”
Peter smiled, and this time it didn't look like the quick, automatic one he usually gave you in the hallway. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome.” You started toward your door before remembering something. “Oh, and Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“If I hear you eating cereal for dinner tonight, I’m coming back.”
He leaned against the doorway. “How are you going to hear that?”
“The walls are thin.”
Peter laughed.
You went inside before he could answer, closing your door behind you. Across the hall, Peter stayed where he was for another moment before returning to the table. The apartment looked the same as it had earlier. His backpack was still beside the couch, his suit was hidden where nobody would find it, and the police scanner on his desk would probably start pulling him back toward the city before the night was over.
But there was a mostly-eaten-cake sitting in the middle of his table with his name—previously—written across the top, a pair of plastic forks beside it, and blue sprinkles scattered over the cheap wood.
Dinner with the Cody’s and playing footsy with Andrew under the table (you are NOT together) and he’s confused and has those big pleading eyes and pressed tight lips because he thinks you’re touching the wrong brother (maybe Craig is right next to him idk let’s not think too hard about table placement) even tho he likes you and wants you SO bad he wants you SOOOOO bad :(
and he’s trying to move his leg out of your way but you just chase him with your toes with a big smile on your face, looking right at him.
And his mind is racing because WHY would you be touching HIM! Why are you smiling all pretty with big soft eyes at HIM! Why does it seem like your foot reaches higher and higher up his leg ???? And oh no he’s kinda hard and he gets all clammy idk
He just abruptly gets up from the table and declares that he’s done!!!! (done eating) and he goes to his room where he can sit straight up on his bed with his hands nervously flexing at his sides and his dick painfully hard
when you sneak away you find him all squirmy and nervous and you lock the door behind and you ask him why he left and he’s like “did you know you were touching me?”
and you’re like yeahhhhhhh duhhh???? You’ve been flirting with him for weeks??? You thought he would like it??? But you’re so sorry if it made him uncomfy :(
but he’s just baffled (and still hard) that it was HIM that you were PURPOSEFULLY flirting with and he asks again why???? And you’re like ??? Cause you’re hot and always polite and not like. A rabid horny animal like his brothers????
but he kinda feels like a horny animal with the way you got him all hot and bothered and unable to even sit at a dinner table…………
but also he definitely cannot and DOES NOT WANT to say no when you sit on his bed and offer to FINALLYYYY give him a little relief :)
IDK???!))!!!!! Andrew being flustered when flirted with and confused about being wanted but also wanting it soooooooo bad :)
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Thinking about Rhett carrying you to bed after you’ve fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him to come home from a week-long circuit
Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader!
Author's note: Just wanted to make a little fluff piece because I've been stressing out all week about my practical lab simulation that's happening today. Writing this really took the edge off, and I hope y'all enjoy <3
The television had gone quiet sometime after midnight, its stale blue light still flickering across the living room without a sound. The cable box had shut itself off hours earlier, leaving nothing but a blank, glowing rectangle that cut through the dark.
Rhett noticed it the second he eased the front door open. The hallway stretched ahead of him in near-total darkness, the whole house holding that particular hollow quiet of a place already turned in for the night. Only the television’s leftover light reached this far. Then he saw your slippers abandoned near the edge of the rug–something that should’ve been with you in the bedroom–and finally his eyes settled on the uneven stack of quilts on the couch, with one of your arms hanging limply off the side.
You had fallen asleep curled on your side in a tight ball beneath them with your cheek pressed hard into the cushion instead of the pillow that had slipped halfway off the edge. The shirt you were wearing was his. He knew it by the frayed edges at the sleeves, the ones he had always picked at when he was thinking–removing the stray threads until they unspooled.
The sight of you in it undid every ache that had been riding him since the last chute.
He was exhausted, his body spent from a full week of travel and competition that hadn’t let up once. Arena dust sat thick under his fingernails, and a deep bruise along his ribs had been spreading with every mile of the drive home. His wrist was throbbing steadily inside the brace he had put on before leaving the arena, and the long hours behind the wheel had settled into the muscles of his lower back until they screamed for a mattress to lay down on.
But looking at you made it all recede, even as he toed off his boots and crossed the living room toward the couch.
A mug waited on the coffee table beside your phone–tea that had gone cold hours ago–and three messages from him still glowed unanswered on the screen when he tapped it awake.
Headed home.
Running a little late, lot’s of traffic tonight, think there’s an accident.
Don’t wait up, Sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.
Rhett lowered his head, a tired smile pulling faintly at one corner of his mouth.
“You never listen to me,” He murmured, lifting his hat off his head and setting it carefully beside the mug. Even through the pain he crouched beside the couch, as the floorboards under his boots giving a loud, familiar creak. He sucked in a sharp breath and held still, his eyes snapping at you for any sign that he disturbed your sleep. But you only shifted deeper into the cushion, your face turning further into the plushness of it.
Up close he could see the faint crease pressed into your cheek from the pressure, and the soft furrow that lingered between your brows, like some part of you had kept worrying about him long after sleep had taken you.
Rhett let out a quiet sigh and reached for you slowly, curling his dirt-dusted fingers so the backs of his knuckles could brush along the cool skin of your temple. He eased your hair away from your face so he could see you better–so he could take in the sight he had missed the most this week. His skin was rough, calloused in spots where callouses shouldn’t have been, but his touch was painfully gentle–the way it always was with you.
“Hey, darlin’,” He whispered, watching as your eyelids fluttered at the sound of his voice, even though they remained closed. Rhett dragged his knuckles slowly across your forehead, before bringing his hand down to cup the side of your face–his large palm dwarfing the size of it. You tilted into the warmth without waking–as if you were a sunflower and he was the sun–nuzzling closer like you had been waiting for this contact. He could feel his heart seize at that moment, stopping in the caverns of his chest at the way you responded to him regardless of your alertness.
He had spent the last seven days getting thrown around under bright arena lights, sleeping on narrow motel beds that never held enough heat, eating alone with the television running just to fill the silence. Every night without fail he would call you from a parking lot or those cheap rooms, pretending the sound of your voice was enough to make the distance bearable for him, but it had never been. Because nothing compared to walking into this house and finding you waiting for him like this–even if it was against his wishes.
“Should be in bed,” He said, though there wasn’t any real scolding in the comment. You made a quiet sound, a small hum, and your outstretched hand shifted until your fingers brushed his bicep beneath the soft cotton of his button-up. As if you were testing to see if what you were feeling was real, your touch slid down the length of his arm, closing loosely around the hard plastic of his wrist brace–though your fingers couldn’t touch.
“Rhett?” Your voice was thick with sleep, and he could hear the confusion lacing the edges of it, and his throat tightened at the relief he could sense beneath it.
“Yeah, baby,” He answered, stroking the soft skin under your eye with his thumb, “It’s me.” He confirmed. Your eyes opened only halfway, peeking out through your lashes, and for a long moment you just looked at him, completely dazed, as though you needed to make sure you weren’t still dreaming. Then your mouth curved into a small smile.
“You’re home.” He nodded once, his hair falling out of it’s slicked back form while doing so.
“I’m home.” You hummed at that, as your eyes slipped shut again, but your fingers began to absentmindedly rub along the thick plastic of the brace, like you were trying to keep yourself from falling back to sleep.
“Took you forever.” You murmured.
“I know…”
“I tried to stay awake…Wanted to see you…” The words came out drowsily and soft as you made futile attempts to fight against the exhaustion that was plaguing you. Rhett smirked and leaned in, pressing his chapped lips to your forehead. He stayed there long enough to breathe you in–the faint scent of your honey shampoo and all the other hair products you piled on after a shower, mixing with the spicy, pine and woody cologne that he owned, all of it mixed with the unmistakable warmth of home, of comfort, of love.
“You’re seein’ me now,” He replied, easing back just enough to look down at you, noticing that your eyes were still closed.
“Barely.” You muttered, and a soft laugh escaped him.
“Well it would help if you would open your eyes, but I can tell you’re too tired for that…So let’s get you to bed, sleepin’ beauty.” He stood carefully, gathering the quilts tighter around you so nothing would fall as he was walking, tucking the fabric in until you were fully cocooned. Once he was satisfied with his work he slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, then lifted you off the couch slowly, making sure he wasn’t triggering the ache that was still pulsing in his back. Even with him keeping all his injuries in mind, his muscles and bruises still protested, but he ignored every one of them as he drew you close, feeling the heat of your body soaking straight through the fabric that separated the two of you.
Immediately, you curled into him, your cheek pressing against the hard muscle of his chest as you nuzzled closer into him, and without thought, Rhett’s arms tightened around you.
“Did you win?” You asked, the words muffling against the fabric of his shirt.
“Stayed on.” He answered as he began to walk.
“Wasn’t my question.” You shot back, and a small smirk tugged at his mouth at the quiet jab.
“Yeah…Yeah I won.” He said, glancing down to caught the soft smile that touched your lips.
“Knew you would.”
The certainty in your voice made his heart clench. You had never doubted him–not once, not through any of the long sessions of training or the hard falls that you had beared witness to. You had watched him win enough buckles that he made most of these circuits look easy from the outside. But that never stopped the worry in you. The wrist brace along was proof enough that the work he put in took its toll, and you couldn’t yet see what was waiting for you under his clothes. But that would be tomorrow’s problem–you would nurse him back to health when he allowed you. Tonight you just wanted him–his presence, his body, his arms, everything.
Rhett carried you down the hallway with careful steps–mindful of how narrow it was–keeping you tucked securely against him so you didn’t accidentally knock against the walls. The navigation of the dark house was only amplified by the soft creak of the floorboard under your combined weights, and halfway to the bedroom your fingers found the greasy strands of his hair, tangling into them.
“Missed you,” You murmured, and Rhett’s jaw flexed at that, as he tilted his face down to rub his chin against the top of your head.
“Missed you too…So damn much.”
There were things he had never learned to say easily, even after five years of being together. He could take a hard fall without making a sound. He could carry every expectation his family stacked on his shoulders without complaint. Tenderness, though, still sometimes caught behind his teeth like it was too fragile to risk letting out those feelings. But with you half-asleep and warm in his arms, the words came easier.
“Hated wakin’ up without you,” He said quietly, “And I definitely hated comin’ back to an empty motel room.” Your hand slipped from his hair and smoothed slowly down the side of his neck, resting your fingertips over the steady thunder of his pulse.
“You don’t have to now.” Rhett closed his eyes for a brief second and let out a long breath.
“No…I don’t.”
He crossed the threshold into the bedroom, angling carefully around the hefty basket that was stacked high with neatly folded laundry and the sharp edge of the dresser. When he reached the bed he pulled the covers back with one hand without ever letting you go, before lowering you onto the plushness softness of the sheets, putting in more care than he used for almost anything else in his life. But the second his arms started to ease away you made a small, protesting sound.
“I’m right here baby.” He promised, as he began to unravel you from the quilts, tossing them haphazardly on the floor, before crouching down to pull off your socks one at a time. HIs thumb rubbed slowly over the faint indentations each elastic had left around your ankles, kissing the marks, and nuzzling against them, feeling the way your muscles jumped at that. When he was finished he drew the duvet up to your chin and tucked you in, smoothing it around you.
Your eyes opened again the moment he was levelled with you, and he watched concern pull across your face–your brows drawing together, and your mouth parting slightly on a breath. You hadn’t seen the bruise blooming along his jaw when he had been crouched beside the couch, but now that you were in a room that had enough light–from the moon that peeked through the curtains–you were able to identify the purple shadow that stood out beneath the stubble. Your hand came out from under the covers and your fingertips traced the edge of it, watching as Rhett’s eyes closed at the contact and feeling him leaning into the touch even though the sharp pinch of pain made him flinch.
“You’re hurt,” You whispered, your voice cracking a little on the discovery. You wondered how this happened, but deep down inside you didn’t really want to know, especially when you weren’t there when it happened. He looked at you through his lashes, his blue eyes catching the light.
“Just sore…It’s nothin’ to worry about.” He replied, turning his head to press a kiss into your palm before easing back. If the exhaustion hadn’t already settled so deep in your bone you might’ve sat up and followed him–wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him back down so you could hold him. But as it was right now, the attempt died before it even started and you only managed another soft whine.
“Come back…” Rhett let out a short huff of a laugh and shook his head at you.
“Baby, I need a shower.” You mirrored him in those moments, shaking your head against the pillow.
“Tomorrow.” His brows lifted at that.
“Y/N, I smell like a stockyard and I’m covered in dirt.” You only shrugged at him.
“Don’t care, we can change the sheets tomorrow and I don’t mind if you smell bad.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
“You will in about five minutes.” He mumbled, as you shifted under the covers to make room before opening them up toward him, quietly inviting him in the space you made.
“C’mere and I’ll prove you wrong.” There was no demand in your voice–only that soft, teasing affection that always managed to cut every argument out from him–and he gave in with a gruff sigh.
“Alright…It’s your funeral.” He stated, as he worked his belt open and unbuttoned his jeans, letting both of them fall into a careless heap he already knew you would give him hell for in the morning. The buttons of his shirt took longer as he undid them with one hand, before shrugging it off his shoulders to let it join the rest of the clothes. Once he was down to just his boxers he climbed carefully onto the mattress beside you, feeling your body moving in close immediately, dragging the duvet over the both of you. Rhett stretched his arm out so you could fully settle against him, as your leg slipped between his while you tucked your head beneath his chin. His body loosened the second your full weight rested against him, closing both arms around you–surrounding your body and covering you completely–sliding one hand up under your shirt until his palm pressed against the small of your back.
Your fingers began tracing slow, idle patterns across his chest while you breathed him in deeply, letting his scent fill your lungs.
“You don’t smell like a stockyard…You smell sweaty.” You corrected him quietly, pressing your nose against the dark lines of the bull-rider tattoo over his heart and inhaling again on purpose, “Love that smell.” He hummed low in his throat and shook his head once.
“I think you’re so tired that your sense of smell has gone off its rocker.” You glared up at him, a small smirk curving your mouth, before leaning in to press a soft kiss right at the base of his throat, tasting the saltiness of his skin.
“Maybe…But right now…I like it a lot.” Rhett sighed, clenching his arms around your body to embrace you even further.
“I told you not to wait up for me…If you hadn’t you wouldn’t have been so tired, and you wouldn’t be waking up smellin’ like a farm.” He said, and you hummed again.
“I wanted to be the first thing you saw when you got home.” You replied softly, feeling Rhett’s breathing halt for a moment beneath your head, as your eyes began to close again, feeling the heaviness of sleep washing over your body and invading your mind. You could feel Rhett’s hand slowly sliding upward, coming to cradle the back of your head. He gently tipped your face upward towards his and kissed your forehead, then the corner of your eye, then your cheek, then finally your lips. He kept it tender, and unhurried–touches that asked for nothing but made him feel like he was reuniting with you in a far more intimate way, like he wanted to complete it.
“You always are,” He whispered against your mouth, as he allowed you to settle back down against his chest again, and even through the haze of sleep that was about to overtake you, he saw the sleepy smile that draped across your lips before you fell asleep against him–finally in the comfort of your lover's arms.
pairing: Boyfriend!Pope Cody x fem!Reader
summary: Pope spends the day at the mall with his girlfriend, buying everything they need to turn the little beach house he bought in secret into a home of their own.
a/n: No one can convince me that Pope wouldn’t be the best husband and father in the world.
warnings: (secret) established relationship, clingy!Reader, mentions of a blowjob and swallowing cum, reader touches Pope over his jeans in public once, references to murder and Smurf’s abuse, Baz hate (fuck him), past controlling relationship, anxiety and self-loathing, Pope scares a Sephora employee, these two are so sweet they’ll give you cavities!!!
wc: 7962 k
I’d love to know what you thought, so please don’t be shy and leave me a little comment. Hearing from you truly means so much to me .⋆❀°
By the time you left Zara Home, Pope had six bags hanging from his hands and the receipt folded into the pocket of his jeans. You had offered to carry something twice. Both times he had moved the bags before you could reach them, so now you walked with your arm linked through his, pressed comfortably against his side while he checked the list you had written together that morning.
“Sheets, towels, bath mat,” he read, dragging his thumb down the paper while the shopping bags rustled around his wrists. “We got everything.”
You leaned closer to look at the list, although you already knew exactly what was written on it. “We got more than everything. We have four sets of sheets because somebody decided two wasn’t enough.”
“One’ll be in the wash.” Pope tapped the folded edge of the paper against his palm, as though that settled the matter.
“We only have one bed, baby.”
“Yeah, and we’re gonna use it every night.”
He folded the list before he could see what that answer did to your face and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. You tightened your arm around his and kissed his shoulder.
“You liked choosing them,” you said, staying tucked against his side when he began walking again.
Pope shifted the bags higher on his hands. “They’re good sheets.”
“But you checked the stitching on every set.” You ran one finger along the seam of his sleeve, imitating the way he had examined the fabric inside the store.
“Because one of them was coming apart.”
“And then you spent ten minutes touching towels.”
“I wanted the soft ones.”
You slowed, making him stop with you. “For me?”
“For us.”
The answer came easily. There was none of the hesitation that usually appeared when Pope had to talk about something belonging to both of you, no brief tightening of his mouth while he decided whether he was allowed to claim it too. He simply looked at you as though us had been the obvious answer.
Your smile softened. You stepped in front of him and slid your arms around his waist, catching him by surprise. Pope hurriedly gathered the handles into one hand and lifted the bags away from your body before they could knock against you.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, looking down at your face.
“Hugging my boyfriend because he spent ten minutes choosing the softest towels in the store.”
“They had to be soft, sweetheart.” His newly freed hand hovered beside you for a moment before settling against your back.
You leaned away just enough to see him properly, leaving your arms around his waist. “That so?”
His brow furrowed slightly, as if he did not understand why you needed an explanation.
“You use all those oils and creams every night to keep your skin soft,” he said. “Wasn’t gonna buy towels that’d scratch you up.”
Your arms tightened around him. “You thought about that?”
“Yeah.” His hand moved once along your back. “Course I did.”
“You’re soooo sweet.”
“They’re just towels, baby.” Pope glanced past you, discomfort creeping into his face now that you were looking at him as though he had done something extraordinary.
“No.” You rose onto your toes, your arms slipping higher around him. “They’re our towels.”
Pope bent to meet you. His hand pressed more securely against your lower back as his mouth softened beneath yours, holding you close while the bags swayed forgotten beside his leg.
“Yeah,” he said when you pulled away. His eyes remained on yours, his thumb moving slowly over your back. “They are.”
The mall had grown busier while you were inside, pop music spilled from the open stores and people kept cutting across your path without looking. Pope’s shoulders tensed, his hand settling more firmly against you to keep you close. When you slowed in front of another window, however, he stopped beside you and followed your gaze, content to wait while you looked.
“We need to stop at Sephora,” you said, slipping your hand into his and steering him toward the entrance. “I’m out of my lip mask, I need a new blush, and there’s a lip balm I saw on TikTok that I want to try.”
Pope followed without resistance. “The little pink jar?”
“The berry one, yes.” You glanced up at him. “I’ve been scraping the sides for three nights.”
“Get two, then.” He said it immediately.
Your pace slowed. Pope took another step before the pull of your joined hands made him stop and look back at you.
“You like it.”
His eyes moved briefly to your mouth. “Tastes good.”
“Is that why you always kiss me right after I put it on?” You stepped closer, running your thumb across the back of his hand.
“I kiss you every night, baby.” Pope turned toward the store again, but you caught the slight tightening at the corner of his mouth before he could hide it.
You let him guide you forward for another few steps before leaning into his arm. “But you always kiss me twice when I’m wearing that.”
Pope did not answer, but you squeezed his hand as though you already had one.
He had never told you what happened after those goodnight kisses, on the nights when sleep refused to come no matter how tired he was. He would lie beside you for hours with his body held rigid beneath the sheets, listening to the house settle around him while his mind returned to places he had spent the day trying to avoid.
Every car slowing outside made him look toward the window. Every change in your breathing had him checking that you were still asleep, still safe, still there.
Some of the lip mask always transferred to his mouth when he kissed you, and hours later, when the rest of the sweetness should have disappeared, Pope could sometimes find a trace of it by running his tongue over his lower lip.
He did not understand how something made for chapped lips could feel like a balm pressed over whatever bruised part of him people meant when they spoke about the soul. It gave him something gentle to concentrate on when his memories would not leave him alone.
Like as long as he could still taste you, some small part of you seemed to remain awake with him, and the darkness became a little easier to endure.
“I’ll be quick,” you promised.
“You don’t have to be.” Pope adjusted the bags before brushing his thumb across your hand. “Take your time. Look at whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere.”
Your previous boyfriend had never allowed you that freedom. He claimed you only wore makeup to attract other men, forcing you to order everything online and hide the packages because even entering a store like this could start an argument. The excuse had never made sense to Pope. He could not understand seeing you happy and wanting to take it away. He loved watching you get ready and slowly became more comfortable in your own skin. Makeup did not make you more beautiful to him. He simply liked the way you smiled when you felt beautiful.
Your smile softened. You lifted his hand to kiss his knuckles before leading him inside. “Then you can help me find everything.”
Pope followed you inside. “That’s why I’m here, baby.”
Inside, you headed for the Laneige display while Pope stopped beside a Benefit stand. Several testers had been abandoned along the shelf, some without their caps and others returned to the wrong slots. By the time you came back, he had already matched two lip tints to their labels and was turning each tube so the name faced forward.
“Found them.” You held up the two jars of Laneige Berry Lip Sleeping Mask before placing them in the basket. “One for the bathroom and one for my nightstand.”
Pope glanced down to make sure they were both there. “Good.”
His attention had already returned to the Benefit stand beside him. Several testers were lying on their sides, some missing their caps and others pushed into the wrong slots. Pope had matched three of them to their labels while you were gone and was turning each tube until its name faced forward.
You kissed his cheek, smiling when he barely paused in what he was doing. “How much of this have you reorganized?”
“A couple of them… They have numbers, see?” Pope showed you the small label on the tester in his hand, then pointed to the empty space bearing the same one. His brow drew together as though the system should have been impossible to misunderstand. “People just don’t put them back right.”
You picked up a lip tint that had been abandoned on its side and held it over the first empty slot you saw. “Does this one go here?”
“No.” Pope’s eyes moved along the row. “Two over.”
You shifted it one space. “Here?”
He reached across you and moved the tube one place farther to the right. “There.”
You watched him turn it until the label matched the others. Pope did things like this almost without realizing: straightening bottles while he waited in line, returning something to the exact place he had found it, wiping down a counter even when the mess was not his. You knew the impulse did not always feel gentle to him. You had seen how something left crooked could hold his attention until he corrected it, how disorder seemed to settle beneath his skin and make it impossible for him to relax.
That was not the part you loved, you loved what Pope did with it.
Even here, in a store full of strangers who would never know he had helped, he replaced caps and returned testers to their proper slots because somebody had arranged the display and somebody would have to fix it after closing. Pope noticed that labor. He respected clean spaces, organized shelves and the people responsible for maintaining them. He would never make another person’s job harder simply because he could walk away before they saw him do it.
People often mistook his silence for indifference but you had learned that Pope cared about far more than he knew how to say.
You rested your head briefly against his shoulder while he fastened the cap on another tester. “What would this store do without you?”
“Throw everything wherever they want, apparently.” He returned the tube to its numbered space and reached for the next one lying out of place.
He fastened one last cap before taking the basket from you. When you moved toward the next aisle, Pope gathered the shopping bags and followed with his free hand resting against your back.
You stopped in front of the Summer Fridays display.
“These are the balms everyone keeps talking about on TikTok.” You picked up one of the tubes and turned it around to show Pope the label.
He studied the display before looking at the tester in your hand. “What’s different about them?”
“Mostly the scents, apparently.” You returned the tube to its slot and reached for another. “They’re not supposed to be quite as good as my olehenriksen ones.”
Pope’s brow furrowed. He glanced from the rows of Summer Fridays balms to your face, already imagining you opening one at home only to discover that it did not live up to all the videos you had watched.
“If they’re not as good, you sure you wanna risk getting one?”
The concern in his voice made you smile.
Pope hated watching you look forward to something only to be disappointed by it. It did not matter whether it was a plan being cancelled or a bakery running out of the cake you wanted. He would remember the change in your expression long after you had forgotten about it, quietly resenting whatever had caused it as if it had let him down too.
“I think I’ll survive the risk,” you assured him, smoothing one hand over his chest when his frown remained. “Everyone says these smell much better. And considering how often you kiss me, I thought you might appreciate that.”
Pope’s attention followed your fingers before settling on your mouth. “The other ones make your lips shiny.”
“Juicy,” you corrected.
His eyes remained on your lower lip. “Same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing.” You stepped closer, smiling when his gaze followed the movement of your mouth. “But you agree they make my lips look juicy?”
“Yeah.” Pope shifted the basket to his other hand, his voice lower than it had been a moment ago.
“How juicy?”
His eyes moved slowly across your lips before lifting to yours. “You know.”
“I’d still like to hear you say it, baby.” Your finger caught briefly on one of the buttons of his shirt, waiting.
Pope held your gaze for another second, then reached past you for one of the testers. He turned it over in his hand with more concentration than the label required, ending the conversation before the heat rising into his face became any more obvious.
“Which one are you getting?”
“I thought we could choose one each.” You leaned your hip against the display and watched his fingers work the cap loose. “I’ll choose the one I like, and you can choose one you want me to wear only when I’m with you.”
His fingers went still around the tester. When he looked at you again, the caution had disappeared from his face.
“Only with me?”
“Yes.” You stepped closer and lowered your voice, although nobody nearby was paying attention. “One balm for whenever I feel like wearing it and another that belongs to you. Something I put on because I know you’ll be the one tasting it.”
Pope’s eyes returned immediately to the balms. This time he studied them with real interest, taking in every shade and label as though the display had changed while he was looking away.
“So I get to pick whichever one I want?”
“Whichever one you want.”
He looked back at you, making sure. “And you’ll only wear it with me?”
“That’s the idea.”
Pope set the basket down beside the shopping bags, freeing both hands for the decision.
“What if I choose one you wouldn’t pick for yourself?”
“I’ll like knowing you chose it.” Nudging him toward the beginning of the display. “Besides, you know me. You’ll pick the right one.”
Pope glanced along the entire row again. The corner of his mouth lifted before he could suppress it.
You had already chosen Pink Guava before entering the store. It was the shade that had appeared in the TikTok saved on your phone, and the sheer pink stain it left across the back of your hand only confirmed that it would be coming home with you.
“This one’s mine.” You dropped an unopened tube into the basket and held out your hand for Pope to inspect. “What do you think?”
“Looks good.” He looked at the color, then at your mouth as though trying to imagine it there. “You already knew which one you wanted.”
“I did.” You stepped aside and gestured toward the rest of the display. “Now you get to choose yours.”
He read every shade name before opening its tester, taking the responsibility far more seriously than you had expected. Vanilla barely held his attention. Pink Sugar made his nose wrinkle, and he returned Iced Coffee after one careful breath.
Then he opened Cherry.
The scent was sweeter and stronger than the others. When you held out your hand, Pope drew the tester across your skin, leaving a sheer red stain beside the Pink Guava swatch. His thumb remained beneath your wrist after he finished.
He stared at the color, his mind went to your mouth first.
Pope pictured the Cherry balm leaving a faint red print on his cheek, another beneath his ear and several more down his chest as you worked your way lower. You would take your time because you knew what tenderness did to him—how quiet he became when you touched him as though there were nowhere else you would rather be.
Then you would kneel between his spread thighs.
Your glossy lips would press to the head of his cock, leaving a soft red mark against the flushed skin. You would look up before kissing him again, lower this time, your tongue following the slow drag of your mouth while one hand wrapped around the base.
Pope could already feel the restraint it would take not to push into you. He would let you set the pace, watching the neat prints blur as you worked your way back to the tip and took him between your lips.
His fingers would slip into your hair. He never knew how to let you touch him without reaching for you in return. He would cradle the back of your head, thumb moving beside your ear as your cheeks hollowed around him. When he reached deeper, a small sound would catch in your throat and your eyes would begin to water, but they would remain fixed on his.
Even in the filthiest version of the fantasy, having his cock in your mouth would be another way of loving him. There would be no disgust in your expression and no hesitation when saliva gathered at the corners of your lips. Only your warm hand stroking what you could not take, your tongue beneath the head and those soft eyes watching every piece of control leave him.
He would come with your name caught somewhere behind his teeth, his hand tightening in your hair as his cum spilled across your tongue. You would keep him in your mouth until the final pulse passed, then draw back and look up at him.
Pope would forget how to breathe when you opened your mouth.
You would show him the mess he had left there, white against your tongue and the fading Cherry tint around your swollen lips. Then, without looking away, you would close your mouth and swallow. His eyes would follow the movement of your throat, transfixed by the knowledge that something of him had disappeared inside you because you had wanted it there.
By the time you smiled, the color would have faded from your mouth.
Pope would pull you up before you could wipe your chin. He would hold your face between both hands and kiss you deeply, tasting Cherry and himself on your tongue. You would make that quiet, pleased sound he loved and settle into his lap with your arms around his shoulders, understanding that he needed the closeness as much as the release.
The thought made him hard inside his jeans.
He had spent most of his life believing there was dirt beneath his skin. He could wash the blood from his hands, burn the clothes he wore during jobs and stand beneath the shower until the water ran cold, but the feeling remained. Smurf had used his body to frighten and hurt people for so long that Pope sometimes struggled to remember it could be good for anything else.
Then you touched him and somehow, Pope had never felt cleaner.
You kissed every scar without asking where it came from. You held his face while he moved inside you and looked at him as though the pleasure he gave you mattered.Your hands made his body feel like it belonged to him again. It could give you pleasure. It could hold you without hurting you. It could make you reach for him instead of recoil.
Pope sometimes wondered whether this was the relief people felt after confession.
They entered carrying everything ugly they had done, spoke it aloud and left feeling lighter because someone had heard the truth without turning them away. Sex with you felt like that. You saw how desperate he could become, how badly he needed you and how little control he sometimes had left by the end. Then you pulled him against your chest and kissed him as if he had confessed nothing shameful at all.
“You really like that one, baby.”
Your voice dragged Pope back into the middle of Sephora. He realized he was still holding the Cherry tester, his fingers clenched around the tube.
“It’s good,” he said, but his voice came out rougher than he intended.
You studied him. The color had spread beyond his ears now, warming his cheeks and continuing down the side of his neck. When you stepped closer, Pope avoided your eyes and pretended to examine the red mark on your hand.
“You’re blushing.”
“It’s warm in here.”
You moved behind him and slipped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Were you thinking about where Cherry might leave marks?”
Pope swallowed. “Maybe.”
“On your cheek?” You pressed a kiss there. “Your neck?”
Your lips brushed the skin beneath his ear. Pope’s grip tightened around the tester.
“Or somewhere lower?”
One of your hands moved down his stomach. When your palm reached the front of his jeans, you found him already hard. Pope caught your wrist, but he did not pull you away. His fingers closed around you while your hand remained pressed over him.
“Baby,” he breathed.
You rubbed your palm over the shape of his cock once, feeling it harden further beneath the denim. “Were you imagining my red lips around you?”
Pope’s face turned completely red. His eyes moved toward the nearest aisle, checking whether anyone had noticed, before returning to your reflection in the display mirror.
“You know I was.”
The admission removed the last of the teasing from your expression. You kissed the back of his shoulder and left your hand beneath his.
“Then maybe Cherry should be yours.”
Pope looked down at the tube, seriously considering it, before glancing at the remaining testers.
“I still have three left.”
Your smile returned. You moved your hand back to his stomach and gave him enough room to continue. “All right. Keep going.”
Pope carefully returned Cherry to its proper slot before reaching for the next one.
Toasted Marshmallow had almost no color, only a few fine gold flecks suspended in the balm. Pope expected another scent sweet enough to make him return it immediately. Instead, he went still as soon as he opened it.
The warmth of it brought him back to the beach house after dark. He imagined opening the front door and finding the oven cooling, the scent of whatever you had baked still clinging to the kitchen. There would be something covered on the counter for him and a note beside the plate telling him which container to put in the refrigerator.
Sometimes you would be waiting on the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, looking up from your book as soon as you heard his key in the lock. On later nights, Pope would find you asleep beneath a blanket and the television playing quietly in an empty room. You always left a lamp on for him.
Pope smelled the tester again.
Cherry had left him hard, still too aware of the front of his jeans and the hand you had pressed there. Toasted Marshmallow made him want the rest of the night. He wanted the bath you had planned, the new towels waiting in their bags and your body leaning against his chest while the water cooled around you. He wanted to put the balm on your mouth himself and taste something that reminded him of coming home.
Pope closed the tester carefully. He picked up an unopened Toasted Marshmallow and placed it beside Pink Guava in the basket, although his fingers remained curled around the tube.
“This one.”
You moved around him to see what he had chosen. “Toasted Marshmallow?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to Cherry?” The question was gentle, accompanied by a knowing smile.
Pope’s face warmed again. He kept his attention on the tube and rubbed his thumb over the printed name. “I like this one more.”
You opened the tester and smelled it yourself. The scent was warm and familiar, closer to something that belonged in your kitchen than a makeup display.
“Because it smells like cake?”
“Sometimes.” Pope shifted his weight. “Or pie.”
You looked from the balm to him, understanding beginning to soften your expression. “It smells like the house when I’ve been baking.”
Pope nodded.
“You mean that smells like home, baby?”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah.”
You moved closer and laid your hand over his. “Then Toasted Marshmallow is yours.”
Pope looked down at your joined hands. “You meant what you said?”
“About what?”
“Only wearing it with me.”
There was something almost uncomfortable in the way he asked, as if he needed the reassurance but disliked how plainly his voice revealed it.
“Yes, baby. I meant it.”
Pope nodded, his gaze dropped to your mouth before moving back to the balm.
“You’ll wear it when we’re at the house?”
“Whenever you want me to.”
His brow furrowed. “No, I mean—” He stopped and shifted his weight again, the shopping bags rustling beside his leg. “Tonight.”
You waited, giving him time to finish.
“When we take a bath.” Pope rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. The color had spread from his ears into his cheeks again, although nothing he was asking for should have embarrassed him this much. “Could you wear it then?”
“For you?”
“Yeah.” His eyes returned to your lips. “For me.”
The quiet need in his voice made your chest tighten. Pope could walk into a room full of armed men and make them listen but asking you for something tender was different. He looked as though wanting it this badly had left him exposed.
You slipped your arms around his waist. “Yes. I’ll wear it for you in the bath.”
Pope’s hand settled against your back, but the uncertainty remained in his face.
“And…” He glanced toward the other shoppers before lowering his voice. “Can I put it on you?”
Your smile softened. “You want to?”
He nodded.
“Then you can.”
“With my finger?”
The question came out so earnest that you had to press your lips together to keep from smiling too widely. Pope noticed anyway, and his brow tightened.
“What?”
“Nothing.” You stroked your hand over his chest. “You can put it on with your finger. Then you can kiss as much of it off as you want.”
Pope swallowed. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, lingering there.
“You promise?”
“I promise, my love.”
“Okay,” he murmured, some of the tension finally left his shoulders.
You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Are you happy with your choice?”
Pope drew you closer.
“Yeah.” He glanced once more at the balm in the basket. “I’m happy, sweetheart.”
The Rhode display stood near the front of the store. You crouched to check behind the remaining Pocket Blushes before pulling out your phone.
“The website still says they have Sleepy Girl.”
Pope looked over your shoulder. “Ask somebody, baby.”
An employee was unpacking boxes from a cart nearby. Her name badge read ALLISON. She rubbed her temple before reaching for another package.
“Excuse me,” you said. “Could you check whether you have any more of the Rhode Pocket Blush in Sleepy Girl? The website says there are a few left.”
Allison glanced at the empty slot and shifted the box she was carrying against her hip. “If it isn’t out, we don’t have it.”
“It still shows as in stock. Could there be some in the back?”
“Our inventory is wrong all the time.”
“I understand. It’s just that sometimes new products haven’t been put out yet—”
“We don’t have it,” she cut in, looking toward the clock above the register. “Choose another shade.”
Your fingers tightened around the basket. “But the others turn orange on my skin.”
“They’re all blush. It won’t make that much difference once they’re blended.”
The bags touched the floor behind you.
Pope came to stand at your side. “She asked you to check.”
Allison turned toward him. “I heard her.”
“Then check.”
Allison shifted the box higher against her hip and released a tired breath through her nose. “I’ve already explained that if it isn’t on the shelf, we don’t have it.”
“You didn’t even look.”
“I work here. I know what we have.” She reached for another product on the cart, attempting to return to her task.
Pope placed his hand over the box before she could pick it up. Allison’s gaze dropped to his fingers and then travelled slowly back to his face.
“The website says you have it,” he said.
“Our inventory is probably wrong. I still have all of this to put away.”
“Then it shouldn’t take long.” Pope removed his hand from the box, but instead of stepping back, he moved closer. “We’ll wait.”
Allison’s shoulders pulled tight. “Sir, there won’t be any.”
Pope held her gaze. “Go look. Then come back and tell her that.”
Allison opened her mouth again. Pope moved half a step closer, leaving little room between her and the cart. He kept his hands at his sides, but his voice dropped enough to make her grip tighten around the box.
“Go check.”
Allison’s eyes flicked over his face before she set the box down. “Fine.”
She disappeared through the stockroom door.
Only after it closed did you put the basket aside and take Pope’s hand. His fingers remained stiff around yours.
“Andrew, come here.”
You drew him away from the cart and back toward the Rhode display. Pope followed, glancing once over his shoulder at the stockroom.
“I love when you stand up for me,” you said, running your thumb over his knuckles. “You know I do.”
“She was talking to you like you were stupid, baby.”
“I know. She was rude.” You moved closer and rested your other hand against his chest. “But I think she was already having a terrible day before we walked over.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“It doesn’t.” You explained. “I just don’t think it was about me. Her coffee’s gone cold, she keeps looking at the clock and she has half the store left to unpack. I think I asked the wrong person at the wrong moment.”
Pope’s jaw remained tight. “She still shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
“No, she shouldn’t have.” You kissed the underside of his chin. “And you didn’t have to let her.”
His hand settled against your back, though his attention stayed on the stockroom door.
“You’re not mad at me?”
“Of course not, baby.” You stroked your palm slowly over his chest. “I’m glad you came over. I only think you scared her more than you meant to.”
“I wasn’t going to do anything.”
“I know that.” You kissed him softly. “But she doesn’t know you.”
Pope looked down at your face, some of the tension finally leaving his fingers.
“When she comes back, maybe apologize for the way you spoke to her,” you murmured. “That’s all.”
He rubbed his thumb against your waist. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll apologize.”
You smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
Allison returned carrying three Sleepy Girl blushes. She avoided Pope’s eyes as she placed them in the empty slot.
“They were still in one of the shipment boxes,” she said. “They hadn’t been stocked yet.”
“Thank you for checking.” You picked up one of the small boxes.
Pope looked at Allison. His jaw shifted once before he spoke.
“I’m sorry about before.”
She glanced at him, visibly surprised. “It’s fine.”
“No.” Pope looked briefly toward you, then back at her. “It wasn’t.”
Allison rubbed her palm against her trousers. “I’m sorry too. It’s been a long day, and I took it out on you.”
You gave her a small smile. “It’s okay.”
Pope nodded toward the blushes. “Thanks for looking.”
Allison returned the nod, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
You held up the box for Pope. “This is the one.”
He placed it beside Pink Guava and Toasted Marshmallow in the basket. “You want another?”
“One is enough.”
Pope checked your face before gathering the bags again.
“Anything else?” Allison asked.
“No, thank you.”
At the register, Pope arranged the two Laneige masks, Pink Guava, Toasted Marshmallow and the Sleepy Girl blush on the counter. When you opened your purse, he caught your wrist and guided your hand away from it.
“I can pay for my makeup, baby.”
“I’ve got it.” He kept hold of you while passing his card to the cashier.
“You already bought everything for the house.”
“These are for the house too.”
You picked up Pink Guava. “This is going in my purse.”
Pope took the tube from you, returned it to the counter and tucked you against his side. “Your purse comes home.”
The cashier lowered her head to hide a smile. You stared at Pope while he entered his PIN.
“That isn’t how house purchases work.”
“You need all of it, sweetheart.”
“And apparently that means you need to pay for it.”
Pope returned his wallet to his pocket and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Yeah.”
There was no point arguing once he had decided. You slipped your arm through his and rested your head against his shoulder while the cashier packed everything.
“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Pope asked, looking down at the products before the cashier placed them inside the bag.
You laughed softly. “Yes, baby.”
You slipped beneath Pope’s arm as you left Sephora, talking about unpacking the last kitchen boxes and washing the new sheets before putting them on the bed.
“Kitchen first,” you said. “Otherwise we’ll leave everything in bags for a week.”
“Bed first.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to sleep in it tonight.”
You looked up at him, smiling. “We could do both.”
Pope drew you closer and kept walking. He had spent the entire afternoon waiting for something to go wrong. Every vibration of his phone made him expect Smurf’s name on the screen, followed by questions about where he was and why he had been gone so long. Only Deran knew about the two of you and the house by the beach, and Pope had told him because someone needed to know where to find you if he failed to come home after a job. Deran had promised to keep his mouth shut, but the secret still made Pope feel exposed because nothing in his life had ever remained his once Smurf discovered it.
His arm tightened around you without warning.
Your sentence trailed off. You turned within his hold and laid your palm flat against his stomach, feeling the tension beneath his shirt.
“Baby, are you okay?” You searched his face when he did not answer immediately. “Is it getting too loud? We can leave if you need to.”
Pope noticed the worry gathering between your brows and loosened his arm.
“No. Sorry.” He covered your hand with his, keeping it against him. “Keep talking, sweetheart.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.” His thumb moved over your knuckles. “I don’t want to leave. Tell me what you were saying.”
You studied him for another moment before kissing his chest through his shirt. Pope pressed his mouth to the top of your head, and only then did you settle against his side again.
“I bought bath salts,” you continued, slipping your arm around his waist. “So we can unpack the kitchen, make the bed and then have a bath like you wanted.”
Pope’s hand began moving slowly over your back as he listened.
“But you’re not allowed to pour in the entire bottle of bubble bath this time.”
“It wasn’t the entire bottle.”
You tilted your face up to him. “Baby, it was nearly full when I gave it to you.”
“There was some left.”
“Enough for one very small bath, honey.” You held your thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart.
Pope watched the gesture, the corner of his mouth beginning to lift. “Still wasn’t the whole bottle.”
Then a small shop beside the exit caught his attention. A rotating stand of Jellycat bag charms stood near the door, little animals, fruit and flowers hanging from metal clips while their thin cord legs swung beneath them.
Pope stopped.
You felt his hand tighten around yours. “What is it?”
He nodded toward the display. “We need keychains for the new keys.”
Your face lit up. “We absolutely do.”
Pope let you lead him inside and set the shopping bags beside his feet while you crouched in front of the stand. You had barely turned it once before a green shamrock caught your attention.
“Wait.” You lifted it from its hook and touched one of its dangling feet. “They all have legs.”
Pope glanced at the other charms. “Yeah.”
“How have I never noticed that?”
You turned the stand again, laughing when a sun, a ladybug in tiny black shoes and several pieces of fruit swung into view. Then you found a lemon and picked it up, making its little legs walk across your palm.
“Look at him. He has somewhere important to be.” You held it beside your cheek and smiled at Pope. “Should this one be mine?”
Pope watched you, completely mesmerized.
For years, he had believed that was the life he deserved.
Smurf might have been the one who decided who had to die, but Pope had been the one to kill them. Being useful to her did not make him innocent.
Eventually, he had begun to think there was nothing inside him worth saving: no soul, no heart...
Because a man with either would have stopped long before Pope ever did and he had put too much ugliness into the world to complain when none of the good parts reached him.
Baz had made that clear years ago.
They had been in Smurf’s garage after a job, Baz drinking and still carrying the confidence that made everyone else gather around him. Pope no longer remembered what started the argument. He remembered Baz laughing over the mouth of his beer bottle and asking what Pope thought was going to happen to him.
You think some woman’s gonna marry you? Have a kid with you? You?
Baz laughed again when Pope said nothing.
Nobody wants to wake up next to you, Pope.
Pope had hit him. Baz had hit back, and Smurf had blamed Pope for the broken cabinet without asking about the blood running into his mouth. None of it stayed with him as clearly as the certainty in Baz’s voice. Perhaps Pope had hit him because he already believed him.
Nobody would choose him.
Nobody would build a life with him.
His future had seemed like one long, cold day beneath a sky that never cleared, every morning leading back to another night inside Smurf’s house. Pope had stopped expecting anything else because hope only gave people something else to take from him.
Now you were kneeling in front of a display of ridiculous plush keychains, laughing because a lemon had legs. Pope looked at you and, for one brief moment, the store disappeared.
He imagined somewhere far from Oceanside. Another mall in a town where nobody knew the Cody name. You stood beside him, older but still laughing at everything. A little girl reached for a plush toy while Pope held her beneath the arms so she could see the top row.
She had his dark hair, gathered into two uneven pigtails he had tried to make himself. His freckles covered her nose. Everything else belonged to you: your eyes, your soft cheeks, your lips already turning into the same smile you wore whenever you knew Pope would give you whatever you asked for.
He could see himself buying the toy even after you reminded him she already had too many, he could see the little girl hugging it to her chest while Pope carried her back to the car and perhaps one day the small bedroom in the beach house would hold a crib until they found somewhere farther away.
The thought should have frightened someone like him, right?
Instead, Pope wanted it so badly that his chest hurt.
“Baby?”
You were standing now, the lemon still in your hand. Pope blinked and found you watching him.
“You went somewhere.”
“I’m here.”
You put the lemon back and came closer, rubbing your hand over his chest. “You were looking at me like you wanted to say something.”
Pope reached behind the sun and removed the sunflower hanging partly beneath it. He held one charm in each hand.
“I thought we could get these.”
Your eyes dropped to them. “The sun and the sunflower?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re perfect.” You took them from him and smoothed the sunflower’s soft yellow petals, smiling down at the two charms, making their little cord legs move against your palm before looking back at him. “Why these two, honey?”
His thumb caught beneath one of the sunflower’s petals. He had known what they meant when he took them from the display. Explaining it with you standing in front of him was different. He rubbed the soft fabric between his fingers, keeping his eyes lowered.
“Sunflowers turn toward the sun… They keep looking for it.” He shifted his weight and glanced toward the entrance, then back at the charm. “Doesn’t matter where it moves. They turn so they can still see it. They don't like the dark.”
You watched his fingers worrying at the petal. “And you want to be the sunflower?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Pope swallowed. He had already told you enough to make the answer obvious, but you waited for him to say it. Your free hand slipped into his and squeezed, giving him something to hold on to while he tried.
“Because I always know where you are,” he said. “Even when I’m not looking at you, I know.”
“And where am I, baby?”
“Here.”
His fingers tightened around yours before guiding your hand to his chest. His heart beat hard beneath your palm, each uneven thud pressing through the thin fabric of his shirt.
You had felt it countless times before. Beneath your cheek while you slept, racing against your ear when a nightmare tore him awake, gradually slowing whenever you climbed into his lap and held him until he remembered where he was. But this felt different. Pope was keeping your hand there deliberately, offering you the frantic rhythm as though it could explain whatever his mouth could not.
For one suspended moment, he felt more yours than he ever had.
He had chosen you. He had taken the parts of himself he kept hidden from everyone else, the frightened ones, the damaged ones, the ones he believed made him impossible to love, and placed them beneath your palm without knowing whether you would hold them gently.
“And if I can’t find you,” he continued, his thumb pressing into the back of your hand, “I look.”
You traced one slow stroke over his shirt. “So you’re the sunflower.”
Pope nodded. His attention dropped to the two charms, and he worried the edge of one soft yellow petal between his fingers.
“And I’m the sun?”
“Yeah.”
You waited.
His jaw shifted. He looked toward the entrance, then at the floor, visibly regretting how far he had allowed the conversation to go. Still, he did not let go of you.
“Because it was dark before you,” he said at last.
Your breathing faltered.
“In my head, I mean.” Pope frowned, frustrated with himself already. “It’s always been loud in there. Telling me this things.”
“What things?”
He rubbed his thumb against your knuckles. “That I’m bad. That I ruin everything. That none of this is gonna last because I don’t get to have good things like this.”
Your chest tightened, but you stayed quiet.
“They’re still there,” he added quickly, as though he needed to make sure you understood that you had not repaired him. “You didn’t make them go away— but they’re not always as mean anymore.”
His words were so quiet that the noise of the store nearly swallowed them.
Pope’s brow pulled tighter as he struggled to explain. “Sometimes there’s something else too. Something that says maybe I can come home. Maybe you’ll still be there when I do. That I’m…” He paused, swallowing again. “That I’m not only what they say I am.”
Your thumb stilled above his heart.
“It sounds like you sometimes,” he admitted. “Not really your voice— I know you’re not in my head.” His cheeks warmed as he rushed to clarify it, but his fingers held firmly to yours. “It just says the kind of things you say to me.”
The pressure behind your ribs became almost painful.
Pope had lived for years with Smurf’s voice buried inside him, joined by Baz’s laughter and every terrible thing he had ever come to believe about himself. You had never imagined that somewhere among them, your love had begun answering back. Not loudly enough to silence them but enough to make the darkness a little less certain of itself.
“You made everything lighter,” Pope murmured. “My life. All the stuff in here.”
He lifted your joined hands slightly against his chest.
“So I keep turning toward you.” His eyes dropped to the sunflower again. “Because you’re my sun.”
The words settled somewhere so deep inside you that you could not respond.
His pulse continued beneath your palm, hard and alive and entirely unguarded. You thought of all the years he had spent convinced that nobody would choose him, only for this man to stand before you now and confess that your love had become the kindest voice inside his head.
Your vision blurred.
Pope noticed immediately. The sunflower slipped from his fingers, swinging by its tag as both hands rose to your face.
“Hey. What happened?”
He searched your expression, alarm sharpening every feature when the first tear escaped.
“Was it what I said?” His breathing quickened when you could not answer fast enough. “It was too much— I shouldn’t have said it.”
“No, baby.”
“We can pick different ones.” He reached for the little sun in your hand. “Forget it.”
You caught his wrists before he could take it from you. “Andrew, look at me.”
“I made you cry.”
“I’m happy.”
Pope froze, his palms still cupping your cheeks. “You don’t look happy.”
“I’m overwhelmed.” You turned your face into one of his hands and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm. “Because nobody has ever given me anything as beautiful as what you just gave me.”
“I only said you were the sun.”
“You told me that loving you has made the inside of your head a little kinder.”
His mouth tightened. “Sounds stupid when you say it like that.”
“It doesn’t.” You leaned into his touch, a wet laugh catching in your throat. “It means more to me than I know how to explain.”
Some of the panic eased from his face, though uncertainty remained in the careful way he held you.
“You meant it, didn’t you?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“Then don’t take it back.”
“You’re sure?”
“Completely.” You kissed the base of his thumb. “But I need you to say it again.”
His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Because this time, you’ll know the tears don’t mean you hurt me.”
Pope hesitated. His thumb swept beneath your eye, catching the wetness there before it reached your cheek.
“You’re my sun.”
Your face crumpled all over again.
He was not the collection of terrible things he had survived and the worse things he still blamed himself for.
He was Andrew.
Your Andrew.
His eyes widened. “Sweetheart—”
You laughed and threw your arms around his neck before he could panic a second time.
“Still happy, baby. I promise.”
Pope held you tightly, one hand cupping the back of your head while your laughter softened against his neck. When you finally leaned away, his gaze moved between your eyes and paused on your wet cheeks.
You kissed the worried crease between his eyebrows before looking down at the sunflower dangling from his fingers. One of its petals had folded beneath his grip, so you carefully smoothed it back into place.
“My sweet, grumpy sunflower.”
Pope frowned. “No.”
“No what?”
“You’re not calling me that.”
“But it’s perfect.” You lifted the sunflower beside his face, smiling when his frown deepened. “You’re sweet, you’re grumpy, and you just admitted that you spend your life turning toward me.”
Pope reached for the little sun in your other hand, but you hid it behind your back.
He held out his hand, palm open. “Give it back.”
You closed your fingers around the little sun and tucked it safely behind your back. “You gave it to me.”
He stepped closer and slipped an arm around your waist, trying to reach past you while you twisted away with a laugh. “I’m reconsidering.”
“That isn’t how presents work.” You turned, rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I’m going to call you my sweet, grumpy sunflower every day for the rest of our lives.”
Pope stopped reaching for the charm.
“The rest of our lives?” he asked.
Your teasing softened. “Yes, baby. That’s the plan.”
His hand settled at your waist and drew you a little closer. “Okay.”
Your smile widened. “You’re accepting the nickname already?”
“No.”
“Then what was the okay for?”
Pope looked at the sun hidden behind your back and then at the sunflower resting against his chest.
“For the rest of our lives.”
You caught his face between your hands and kissed him before either of you could become emotional again.
Pope went still beneath your palms. Then both arms closed around you. One hand spread across your lower back while the other cradled your neck, drawing you firmly against him.
He kissed you slowly. His mouth was warm and slightly unsteady beneath yours, softening each time your thumbs stroked his cheeks. The faint salt of your tears lingered on your lips, and Pope kissed it away before returning for another kiss, then another, as though the first had not been enough.
Your fingers slipped into the short hair at his temples. An uneven breath left him against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your back while the kiss deepened. His thumb moved slowly beneath your ear. He took his time with every gentle press of his lips, holding you closer whenever your fingers moved through his hair.
When you finally began to draw away, his hand tightened softly at your nape and brought you back for one last lingering kiss.
Pope kept his forehead against yours after your mouths parted. His eyes remained closed, his breathing uneven while your fingers continued moving through his hair.
You brushed your nose against his.
“I love you, my grumpy sunflower.”
“Love you too.” His thumb moved over your cheek as the corner of his mouth finally lifted. “But you’re not calling me that in front of Deran.”
Okay when I said fat baby Jack abbot x frat Robby I was under the influence of many things some being a singular tiktok edit that called him a fat chungus boyfriend and I stand by that
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