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Hey, everybody. It’s Logan from @mrs-dr-reid, except on my reading/recommendation blog, where all the fics I love will live (plus my unhinged commentary), so my main can stay solely a writing and shitposting blog.

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[ceriseangels]

You're Just A Man, It's Just What You Do- M.R.

PAIRING: Michael Robinavitch x Pedes Fellow!Reader

WC: 6.5k

SUMMARY: Robby hasn’t spoken to you in three months, since he left for his sabbatical. So why should you care when he walks into a PTMC charity gala with another woman on his arm?

CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, unprotected p in v sex, robby finishing early, oral (f receiving), semi public sex (on a secluded balcony), angst to smut to fluff (? kind of), brendan park and noelle hastings being used as plot devices </3, they're lowkey toxic but also trying, alcohol consumption, very briefly proofread, horribly rushed ending like always, lmk if i missed anything!!

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Low lights dangling from an extravagant chandelier greet you as you arrive at PTMC's annual charity gala. Pairs of eyes burn through you as you make your way through the crowd. It'd mostly men, wearing an eager expression that begs the question— what are you ding here alone? Many of them have their own dates on their arms, and the expressions they wear are much less inviting.

Thus, you're quite eager to find the E.R. table. A wave of relief washes over you as you spot Dana, waving you over, a glass of champagne in each hand.

"I can only hope one of those is for me," you tease, though you're hopeful.

"Right on, darlin'," she croons, passing you the full glass and polishing off her own.

There's a light clatter in your glass, and you spot a small cube at the bottom of the fizzy liquid.

Furrowing your brows, Dana jumps in before you can even ask.

"Sugar cube," she explains, continuing when you still don't get it. "It's an old wives' tale, protects you from the devil, so he doesn't prey on your happiness. Got it from Moonstruck."

You smile, though your heart sinks at the thought of who she's protecting you from. Robby's supposed to be here tonight, the first time you'll see him in three months. He's not here yet, though, his burly frame a blatant absence from your department's many tables.

"You're a godsend," you redirect your focus to Dana, eyes twinkling with what you hope looks like appreciation.

"He's not here yet," Dana supplements, and your cheeks flame.

You couldn't have been that obvious, could you? Nevertheless, you lean into your main coping strategy of the last three months— repression.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I was looking for Park," you say, the defense immediate.

Guilt bubbles in the pit of your stomach, not only for lying, but lying by using the man that's been a rock for you these past few months.

"Huh, didn't realize he joined the E.R.," she quips, your sick tummy twisting. "Ortho's that way, babe," she nods her head to a group of tables across the ballroom.

Your eyes scan the area to find Park, already looking in your direction. Your heart skips at his intense gaze, and though you wish it was out of desire, it's just…average. A plain jolt of someone watching you. Nothing more, nothing less.

Guilt prods at you once more, a fire poker to the ashy emblems of your heart, though it's soon replaced by a buzz— the one you'd kill to gt from Park, the bartender, anyone other than the man who just walked in.

You feel his eyes the second the find you, burning a hole through the back of your head. You're not brave enough to face him, even less so when Dana mutters a pained, "Shit," under her breath.

You keep your eyes trained on Park, who's undoubtedly spotted he-who-shall-not-be-named. A slight crease to his ever-lax brow gives him away.

If you heart had sunk earlier, it's now swirling in an aggressive tide, clamoring for shore. You're finally brave enough to flit your head towards the door. Immediate regret washes through you, as he's not alone.

Your eyes adjust to the sight of Michael Robinavitch with Noelle Hastings on his arm. Your heart's an anchor now, hopeless at the bottom of the ocean.

Your mind latches on to the little details— the ones that bear the evidence of three months away. Shaggier hair, longer beard, kinder eyes.

The sight of him is a car wreck, a nasty, 40-car pile up that sends your hazards flashing. In every universe, he's a nuisance, your biggest distraction.

He makes his way over to the table, a wolfish, proud grin turning your insides. The sight of him turns you inside out, raw, vulnerable, and full of want.

The rest of the room melts away in favor of the man in front of you— the endless chatter of party-goers like a sad song underwater, muffled and melodramatic. His eyes find yours, and it's instant mesmerization.

Everything you'd pushed to the side for the last three months comes roaring back— the love, the desire, the consuming anger, the utter fury. He feels it too, you can tell. The shine of his brown eyes give you deja vu- back to the day he left, the day he let you go.

He pats Noelle's hand, the rest of the ballroom roaring back to life. Your heart pounds, leaking venom with each smack against your ribcage. Eyes darting to where they connect, your body moves before your brain can catch up.

Slamming your champagne on the table, you ignore the stares, the liquid sloshing over the lip of the glass, and walk away. So much for keeping the devil at bay, Dana.

Saddling up at the bar, you lean your forearms on the hardwood, a slight arch in your back. You don't miss the bartender's eyes, the way they drag over your frame, the deep neckline of your dress.

"One second, sweet thing," he croons, your tummy twisting.

As you wait, your eyes scan the other patrons. One so happens to be a man, one you can place to radiology, though you don't know him super well.

"Hi," he mutters, a shy smile on his face.

Your heart picks up at the sight of him, the sudden onslaught of attention a mix of sugar and spice, and absolutely nothing nice.

"Hi," you respond, giving him your name and department.

"I'm Nick Barker," he supplements, offering his hand to shake. "Radiology."

"I thought I recognized you!" You chirp, giving him your own name. "You came and helped us out when we went analog this past summer, you saved our asses."

"Ah, yes, I remember," he thinks back with fondness. "It was chaos down there, I don't know how you guys do that."

"If I had a nickel for every person who's told me that, I'd be able to give my two weeks," you quip, tapping your nails on the bar.

"Isn't that the dream," he replies, and your heart picks up at his sweet smile.

"What can I get ya, gorgeous?" The bartender asks, a sinister smile curling his lips.

"Oh!" You gasp, your gaze snapping back to the bartender.

The heat of their gazes burns through you like a laser, an animal hunted for prey. There used to be a time where you'd revel in this attention, pop your hip and bask in it like a cat would the sun.

Now, all you can think about is-

"Dirty Shirley with tequila," a voice calls from behind you.

Your eyes widen, heart nearly dropping out of your ass at the low timbre rumbling behind you. Whipping your head around, you find Robby, his forearm resting against the bar, mirroring you.

It's instant, the way you straighten your spine, dropping your arm from the wood. Cheeks aflame, palms sweaty, and heart racing, you turn back to the bartender and stumble out a pathetic, "Uhm-yeah, yeah, that."

You feel his smile, cocky and shit eating, from beside you. You refuse to look at him.

"Barker, good to see you," he croons across you, and his voice is enough to bring tears to your eyes.

"Robby, hey!" He exclaims, reaching a hand over to shake his.

You stumble back, incredulous at the clear disrespect. Digging your heels in, you inch toward Barker, desperate to give the false impression that you're there together. The Cheshire grin on Robby's face shows that you're wholly unsuccessful.

"You got a really sweet girl on your team, we were just reminiscing on the Fourth of July, felt flattered someone so pretty remembered me," he says, and your cheeks heat from the attention.

Your eyes lock with Robby's, the mere mention of the Fourth an alarm bell ringing between you two. The last day you saw him, the last day you spoke. The day he broke your heart.

All the hurt comes rushing back, a tsunamic wave of heartbreak. You lean into it— the nastiness, the pride that swells in your tummy at Robby's wide eyes, his flared nostrils.

Adding fuel to the fire, the bartender comes back, placing your drink on the bar for you.

"Dirty Shirley with tequila," he rings out, a slight wink in his right eye. "Enjoy, beautiful."

Robby clears his throat as your hand reaches for his, fingers brushing as you accept your drink.

"Thank you!" You chirp, swirling your tongue around the straw and taking an appreciative sip.

The earthy sting of tequila makes its way through your bloodstream, the throb in your heart ever so sensitive. Damn it, your drink was supposed to repress those feelings, not exacerbate them.

"Well, it was good to see you. Robby." Barker shakes his hand, and, if your eyes don't deceive you, goes slightly pink as he turns to you. "And you, as well, beautiful."

You smile at the compliment, though it sounds grating compared to the names Robby peppered over you in your most intimate moments.

Every man over the past three months has existed in this dichotomy— Robby and Not Robby. The Not Robbys fell short, every single time. This time is no different, and your heart wrings itself out like a dirty dish towel.

Baker's words elicit an ache that you could only wish was born of an aggressive fondness— the lurch in the heart coming home to a pet after a long day, the patter in your chest when you're kissed for the first time.

No, it's none of that. It's darker, more sinister. The gut punch when you're told devastating news, the sickly twist that pools in your stomach when you've told a lie, inflicted damage onto someone else. Guilt wracks you, desperate to be different, to love someone, anyone else.

Then, it's just you and Robby.

His proximity is a toxic waste, exuding between you until you feel green. The soft sniff of his nose, his same old woodsy aftershave, his thick thigh in your peripheral— it's overwhelming.

"You do look beautiful," he mutters, and your heart falls deep into your stomach at his rich timbre. "They're not wrong."

Your heart pulls, and there it is, that tingle, the pang that only seems to appear when you're around Robby. It triggers your deepest endorphins, releasing them through your whole body until you're warm and fuzzy.

"I wasn't doubting them," you quip, taking another desperate sip of your cocktail.

"Good," he replies, his gaze lingering on you a moment too long. Your eyes are focused on the many party-goers, but you can tell. You always can with Robby.

Scanning the party, you lock eyes with Park, a look of concern etched in his brow. That familiar guilt returns, the collision of both men in the immediate vicinity dizzying.

"You come with him?" He asks, pointing his beer in Park's direction.

"Wha-" You whip your head towards Robby, cheeks burning at his small smile. "No, uhm- no. I didn't. I came by myself."

"That's a shame," he remarks, tipping his beer bottle to his lips.

You're stuck on his mouth, closing around the glass, the liquid traveling down his thick throat. You swallow, hard, grabbing your drink and standing.

"Though, I'm no stranger to coming by myself. Story of my life, right?" You joke, letting him choke on the fizzy drink as you walk away.

You make a beeline for Park, swaying your hips as you feel three sets of eyes follow you. A prick of confidence pokes at your belly, a childish glee replacing your sorrow with each sip. Park's got a sardonic smile as you approach, propping your hand on his forearm.

"Hey!" He coos, a soft smile on his face. "How'd that go?" He mumbles, nodding his head back to the bar.

You're feeling a little brave, whipping your head back to where Robby still stands. His eyes are dark, almost mean as he continues to clear his throat. He pumps his fist against his chest, refusing to tear his watery gaze away from you.

You smirk, just a little, before turning your gaze back to Park. He clocks your expression immediately, your soft eyes, supple mouth. It snaps you out of the haze Robby seems to always put you in, and you feel so, so idiotic.

Your mouth twists downward, a sickly feeling bubbling in your stomach as you fight the pounding of your heart. Each beat reverberates one name throughout your whole body— Robby, Robby, Robby.

Tears gloss your eyes, holding your head down to hide it from Park. There's a guilt that never seems to go away when you're with him— an ache born from crying over the same man for months, from his never-ending patience, his arm that always finds its way around your shoulders.

Like now, his soft smile finds you, even when you do everything in your power to avoid it. You can't help but smile back, ears perking to the song that the band strums up. The Way You Look Tonight.

Memories flood your mind— chest to chest with Robby, soft socks on separating your skin from the cold hardwood of his kitchen, the refrigerator light your only company. You hear his voice in your ear, the gentle way he sang each lyric to you.

You allow yourself the briefest moment to wonder if he's thinking about this, too. When you turn, though, you see him, beckoning a gleaming Noelle to the dancefloor, and you're back at square one.

"Come on," Park says, and you snap your head to find his hand extended. "Let's go. Don't wanna see you cry over him anymore. Let's have a good time tonight, yeah?"

You nod, accepting his offer. Your belly is a firepit, sparking and cracking at your indifference to the man before you. You have a lot of love for Park, but not the kind he's looking at you with now.

His eyes shine as he spins you around the floor, warm hands riding along your calloused skin. Your heart twists, lurching and desperate to love him instead. To love anyone else.

If you were a better woman, you'd have accepted his date proposal months ago. Instead, you'd given him a phony excuse, something about how you're not ready for another relationship yet.

He'd been so gracious, has been ever since. Happily biding his time with your friendship, never any pressure to push things further.

You know, though, that his patience is wearing thin, that there's only so many times a man you're not sleeping with can pick up these pieces.

This still doesn't stop your eyes from finding Robby, swaying to the beat with Noelle over Park's shoulder. Instinct pulls you closer to Park, your nails clutching his suit coat as you rest your chin on his shoulder.

He huffs out a surprised chuckle at this, his chest shaking with the action. You smile against him, giving him a light squeeze. The whole time, your eyes burn into Robby.

Your heart lurches at his tall frame, broad and soft and well lived. The smile on his face fills you with enough rage to burn down a small city. This was your song, many moons ago.

His eyes meet yours over Noelle, and the earth stops on its axis. White noise drowns in your ears, the exhilaration of him flooding your fiery veins.

It's embarrassing, how much you missed him— his gaze, his attention, his love. He doesn't deserve it. He hasn't earned it.

Your heart simply refuses to accept this. Refuses to accept that he's dancing with another woman, refuses to accept that it's this song, that he'd do this to you.

This wasn't the Robby you thought you knew. You can't believe how wrong you were.

Sinking your teeth into your glossy lip, your eyes start to well with tears. His brows furrow ever so slightly, and your shoulders shake with a quiet cry.

Park goes still against you, pulling you away from him just so.

"What's going on, hm?" He mutters. "Let me get a good look at you."

You're frozen, unable to tear your eyes off him. Park sighs, and your heart sinks. It's only then you whip your head to him, tears finally spilling over your lash line.

"I'm so sorry," you shake your head, lip trembling with the pressure.

"It's okay, it's okay, I know," he mumbles, pulling you to him.

He palms at the back of your head, shushing every now and again.

"You love him," he admits, pulling you away from him once again. "You always have. I'm not an idiot," he remarks with a sad smile.

"I hate him," you breathe, and he lets out a sardonic chuckle.

"No you don't."

And with that, you're alone on the dance floor, a sort of final chapter in your relationship with Park.

You watch Park retreat to his table, a small fraction of your heart cracking as he goes. You choke on a breath, remembering the real problem at hand.

Whipping your head back to Robby, you find him talking to Noelle— kissing her on her temple and making his way to you.

Panic courses through you, eyes going wide as you act on pure instinct. Flitting your head the other way, you find a large door that leads to a balcony. Darting across the dance floor, you twist the knob and step out into the night.

The early November frost sends a chill down your spine, your heavy breath echoing in the night. Goosebumps prick your skin, your arms flying to protect yourself, soon regretting your decision.

The door behind you clicks, and your heart sinks. Your chin sits on your shoulder, feeling Robby's presence even though you refuse to look at him.

"Take a hint," you choke out, sniffing hard through your nose. "I don't want you out here."

"You should've locked the door, then, sweetheart," he muses, and you feel the sudden urge to deck him in the face.

"I didn't know there was a lock, jackass," you snap, turning to face him. "And how dare you call me sweetheart?" You poise, your finger pointed right at him.

His eyes widen, a cocky smirk stretching his lips.

"We're getting right into it, huh?" He asks, and you roll your eyes.

"You broke my heart, Michael," you insist, his eyes shining with something sad that you can't quite place. "You come back, you order my drink for me, compliment me like nothing's wrong. What do you expect me to say?"

"I don't know," he shakes his head, taking in the view behind you. "I didn't mean to break your heart, honey."

There's a nail in your heart with each pet name, bleeding poison into your belly.

"You have to stop that, Robby," you croak, wiping your damp cheek.

"Back to Robby now, huh?" He asks, and you scowl.

"How can you be so nonchalant about this?" You pose, tossing a hand out in disgust. "We were together for three months, you told me you loved me," you choke, the memory threatening to suffocate you.

"Then, you left. Never told me why, dated Noelle, then took off for three months."

Your voice is small and petulant, words tapering off into a pool of shame.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his own eyes glossy now.

Gritting your teeth, you flit your eyes away. You can't stand to look at him, to take in his tears.

"After all of this— leaving me, coming back and bringing Noelle, chasing me out onto this fucking balcony, you have the fucking nerve to cry?" You're shouting now, thankful for the thick wooden door separating you from the rest of the party.

"You're right," he croaks, running his tongue over his bottom lip. Your eyes follow the action, desperate and hungry. "I'm sorry. I've been crying a lot more since I started therapy. He says it's healthy for me."

Your heart drops, getting stuck in your throat.

"Therapy?" You choke on the words, tears falling at a rapid pace.

A shiver runs down your spine at the revelation, your numb nose sore and uncomfortable. He leaps into action, slinking his jacket off and placing it around your shoulders.

You let him, resigned and sad, but too cold to deny it. He revels in this a little, you can tell by the small quirk in his lip.

"Thank you," you mutter, turning away from him and facing the open greens that greet you.

"You're welcome," he croons, and your heart aches.

You know that voice. The low timbre that rasps in the morning, praises you in the E.R., coos at you in his bed while he drives himself in and out of you.

His eyes burn a hole in the back of your head. His gaze is inevitable, it could follow you across the earth if you let it.

"It's beautiful," you mutter, too wiggly from the silence to let another moment pass.

"Yeah, it is," he's looking at you the entire time he speaks, taking a few steps closer to you.

"You're an asshole," you reply, not daring to look at him.

"So I've heard," he remarks.

"Noelle's probably missing you," you lean forward, arching your back in his line of sight.

He clears his throat, and you smile, your heart rate picking up.

"And Park won't be missing you?" He poises, and you shrug.

"We were never together," you admit, the truth bitter on your tongue.

"But he likes you," he supplements, and your heart sinks.

"Don't remind me, I feel bad enough already," you groan, letting your head fall into your hands.

"Yeah, well, I'm not much better. I took Noelle as a friend. Well, an ex. We broke up a while ago," he shrugs, and you finally look at him.

The sight of him is like a gunshot— rugged and broad and oh, so handsome. It knocks the breath clean out of you, catching in your throat on its way.

"A while ago?" You poise, and he just shrugs.

"Didn't last maybe a week into the sabbatical," he says, now parallel with you against the rung of the balcony.

"And you asked her to be your plus one to this?" you scoff, disbelief coloring your words.

He nods, and you can't help but laugh.

"God, you're the worst!" You chuckle, and he can't help but do so himself.

"Is that really bad?" He asks, pursing his lips.

"Yeah, really bad," you tease, a soft smile playing on your lips.

A foreign warmth spreads between you two, a buzz you haven't felt in months. It's soft, like a homecoming. You've felt at home with Robby for longer than you'd remember.

"Your smile is so pretty, I missed it," he murmurs, and you scoff. "I'm serious. I missed you, so much."

"You're not allowed to say shit like that to me," you snark, and he chuckles. "At least not until you tell me why you left."

He looks down, heavy breaths racking his broad shoulders. The temperature between you two drops again, plunging into ice.

"I was scared," he admits.

You roll your eyes.

"No shit."

"Ha, I deserved that," he scruffs, a sad chuckle leaving his lips. "I was, though. Scared. I know it's a shitty excuse, but you were real. I wasn't ready for it."

"But…you are now?" You supplement, daring to look at him once more,

He's so pretty, you want to throw up.

"I am. If you'll have me," he stands up straight, hands in his pockets.

You ponder his offer, the anger you've carried for months now dissipating at the idea of having him in your arms again. Frustration pricks at your stomach, a burning rage in your stomach.

"You make me feel like such an idiot," you spit, and he shrinks.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to-"

"You don't mean to?" You cut him off, eyes wild. "You break my heart, date someone else in front of my face, take off, come back with her, and I still love you. How am I supposed to feel?"

His eyes shine, and he takes a deep breath before he says, "You love me?"

"Of course I do, Robby!" You flail your arms. "What did you expect?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so fuckin' sorry," he pleas, tears spilling from his big, brown eyes. "You deserve so much better than what I put you through, and I'm an idiot."

"I won't disagree," you deadpan, though your breath is shaky. "Why did you ask Noelle? Why didn't you ask me? If you're so sorry."

"Wasn't as scary. I told you, I'm a fucking coward," he laughs, sardonic and poisonous. "You scare me. I love you, and that fucking terrifies me."

"So, what's different?" You ask, taking a step closer to him, his breath mixing with yours in the cool night air. "You come back, tell me you love me, spin me this whole story about how you're in therapy now, and- and what? I'm supposed to just- fall to my knees and take you back?"

"No, God, no, of course not," he coos, brows furrowing. "I guess- I don't know what's different," he admits with a scoff.

What he does next simply knocks the breath out of you. He sinks to his knees, his hands coming up to rest along your hips.

His touch scorches you, his sad, wide eyes shooting through you like stars.

"I don't know what's different, I can't promise that I'm fixed, or I'm better, I don't even know how much I've really changed," he starts, and you roll your eyes.

He grips your hips tighter, forcing you to look back at him.

"What I do know, is that I love you. I thought of you everyday I was gone. I'm sorry I didn't message you for your birthday, but I went and got you diamonds. They're in the car," he whispers, your heart throbbing at the gift— both the diamonds, and a grown man on his knees before you.

"I'm going to regret this tomorrow," you murmur, crashing your lips to his.

He's smoky, lips soft and smooth as they devour yours, his body slowly rising to full height again.

You positively melt into him, arms wrapping around his neck, leg popping out behind you.

His big hands trail over your skin, eliciting a shiver ripping through your spine. He slides his jacket off of you, tossing it on the patio furniture littering the balcony.

Wrapping his arms around you, he keeps you warm from the chill that permeates your skin. Hands finding your ass, he lifts you against him, dress riding up in accommodation of the large man now between your legs.

His warmth between your legs sends a jolt of heat through you, punching a sweet "oh!" out of you. You squeeze your eyes, clinging to Robby tighter than before.

"Ooh, feels good being back in my arms, hm?" He asks, pressing you deeper into him.

You whine, burying your face in his neck, a quiet nod laced with shame. Your pussy pulses against his tummy, stretched taut over his white dress shirt.

He feels it, you know he can, purely from the shine in his eye, the darker hue to them. It makes you whimper, rocking your hips against his stomach.

He coos, patting the back of your head as he carries you over to the white, acrylic couch set against the railing.

He groans as he sits you both down, wiggling your hips to get comfortable. His eyes shut, he sucks in air through his teeth, and you smile.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" You ask, lacing your arms around his neck once more, rocking your hips against his.

"Hah!" He huffs out, head falling back and eyes squeezing shut as you maneuver above him. "Baby, baby, fuck, feel so fucking good on top of me, y'gotta stop."

"I missed your rambling," you slow your movements, pressing a kiss to his Adam's apple.

"I don't ramble," he grumbles, pinching your ass before giving you another sweet kiss.

You stay there for a moment, at home in his arms, tongues rolling over each other. You'd missed this— his smell, his taste, the way he took his time with you,

A wave of desperation rolls over you, all these sensations hitting at once, and you pick up your hips once more.

"Baby, stop," he orders, gripping you tight.

"Mmph!" You whine, throwing your head back, wriggling in his grasp. "I want you Mikey, please, been so long."

"Jesus fucking Christ," he grits under his teeth. "Alright, up." He motions for you to move with his hands, raising a brow when you pout, stay put on his now hard cock.

"What, you think I'm gonna put you through all this then make you ride me?" He asks, wide eyed. "I'm not a total asshole, babe. Up, c'mon. Bend over the railing."

A rush of excitement rolls through you as you finally listen, a quiet "good girl" echoing in your movements.

Flipping your hair over your shoulder, you rest your chin there, slipping your strap down, the other one following suit. You let the silky fabric fall to your feet, stepping out of it so you're left in a black bra, matching panties.

"Fuck, oh my God," he groans behind you, and you lick your lips as you approach the railing. "God I missed this, missed this fucking body so much."

You hear his breath hitch, a sardonic smile on your lips as he grips your hips with his large hands. He pulls you into him, shoving your bodies together.

Pressing a gentle hand on the small of your back, he encourages you to bend, to rest your arms on the cool metal rail.

"Good job, such a good listener when she wants to be, yeah?" He teases, moving your hair to the side, fastening his grip on the back of your neck.

"Yes, Mikey, God," you whine, wiggling your backside into his fully clothed front.

He chuckles at this, a sweet coo on his tongue.

"Sorry, honey, not super fair of me," he says, and you can hear his jacket being shed behind you. "And it's so cold, too. Left you all alone half naked for me without giving you a thing. So mean, aren't I?"

You shake your head in a playful nod, resting your cheek on your arms so you can look back at him.

He's unbuttoning the bottom of his shirt, exposing his belly, his hairy chest to the cool night air. He shivers, and you roll your eyes.

"Such a baby," you joke, and he smiles, cracking a hand down on your ass.

"Ooh!" You whine, lurching forward at the contact ever so slightly.

He grips the back of your sheer panties, bunching them up, sliding them as far between your ass cheeks as they'll allow.

"Thereee we go," he croons, and you can practically hear the sardonic smile on his lips. "Now you're remembering how to act right, hm?"

Your cheeks burn, head nodding a desperate yes.

"Good girl," he says, smacking your ass once, twice, thrice more before letting the fabric go.

The panties rest between your cheeks, the skin there still sore from his rough hand. His cold hands stroke up and down your back, calling forth a shiver all through you.

"Hands are cold," you mumble, reaching for your panties, yanking them down and sliding them over your heeled feet.

"'m sorry, baby," he rasps, fingers finding your bra clasp. "You can't complain too much when I'm getting you naked, though, no?" He teases, bending over you so his smooth voice is in your ear.

You shake your head against him, leaning back on his shoulder.

"Love you, Mikey. Do you love me?" You ask, eyes big and wide and burning a hole through him.

"Of course I do," he whispers, pulling you in for a kiss.

It's sloppy, rough and messy, not unlike your relationship with this man. He pulls back, just enough to husk against your lips,

"Love you so fuckin' much, can't believe I ever left you," he confesses, placing his big hands over your tummy, squeezing the excess skin there.

He uses the newfound pressure to sink into you, the head of his cock intruding your tight pussy.

"Fuck!" He nearly shouts, throwing his head back as his tip slots inside of you. "God, how did I go without you for three whole months? Even before that, Jesus, I'm a fuckin' idiot, love you so much."

Your nails grip the rail in front of you, knuckles aching from the pressure. A gasp rocks through you as he sinks in another inch, then another, and another.

"I love you, Mikey," you whine, arching your back as he bottoms out inside of you. "Better not leave me again," you demand, craning your neck to look back at him.

The sight that greets you is only one you've imagined in these past couple months. Robby, eyes bright and shiny, full of love, as he slams his hips into you.

"God, I dreamed of this for months, Mikey," you mewl, a fire brewing deep in your belly. "Would rub my clit and think about this, about you."

He groans, picking up his speed inside of you. The slaps his skin lets out against yours is lewd, unmistakable as he moves at full speed.

The tip of his cock nudges your special spot with each thrust, rolling your eyes back in your skull at the building pressure, going limp in his arms.

"Fuck, say more, baby, keep going," he nearly begs, cracking another spank onto your skin.

A strangled noise wrestles itself from your throat, your pussy tightening around him at his actions, his words.

"I did," you whine, squeezing your eyes shut as you take in the sensations, your impending orgasm. "Every night, thought about you and how you made me feel. Even before you left. Sometimes I'd even rub my pussy thinking about you, while Brendan was on my couch."

This confession takes you by surprise, eyes shooting open as that reality crashes down on you. At the same time, Robby snaps.

He growls, throws his head back in a strangled, "FUUCCCKK", his hips stuttering as his cock throbs inside of you.

"I'm sorry, baby," he utters, your pussy still milking his orgasm. "I'm so sorry, fuck. Oh my God, you can't say shit like that to me, gonna make me go fucking insane."

You giggle at this, squeezing extra tight around him, encouraging the last few drops from his weeping tip.

"Fuck, fuck," he presses a hand into his forehead, a disbelieving chuckle on his tongue. "Get on the fuckin' couch and spread your legs. I mean it," he demands, spreading his jacket over the patio furniture.

You clamor over on shaky knees, keeping them apart as Robby settles between them. You lift them up as he does, the spike of your heels resting against his back.

"Mmmm. God, missed this pretty cunt," he exhales, running his nose from hole to clit.

You gasp when it attaches to your bundle of nerves, even louder when he wiggles himself into you.

"Mikey! Please! I wanna cum so bad," you beg, shameless and desperate. Wiggling your hips in his face, you chase the friction that had you so close just moments ago.

"Shhh, shhh," he coos, circling his lips along your clit. "Calm down. I got you, never gonna let you go again, y'hear me?"

You nod, sinking your fingers into his hair as he makes out with your cunt, wet and sloppy and loud. It's lewd, the smacking sounds, the grunts that omit from his lips. You love it.

You tell him so, again, and again, and again.

"Love you, God," you throw your head back, the coil in your belly springing up once again, tighter than ever. "Oh! Love you so much," you whine, flinching as he adds a finger.

"Mmm," he groans against you, vibrations running through your whole body. "Cum for me, please?" He mumbles into you, big, brown eyes boring into yours. "Missed the way you taste, can you show me again?"

He laps you up, plays with your wetness as he continues to slide his long digit in and out, in and out.

He's got you right at the edge, and you allow yourself to teeter there for a brief moment before fully letting go.

Your vision turns to black as your orgasm creeps over you, the earth stuttering on its axis as the high hits you.

It's overwhelming, relentless heat surging through you, trails of fire rippling in your veins.

"Michael!" You cry, lurching forward, grinding your hips into his face.

"Yeeeessss," he drawls out, pulling you closer into him, helping you ride out even more of your orgasm. "Keep cumming, I got you, don't worry about a thing and just keep fucking cumming."

You obey, because of course you do, tiny explosions still reverberating through your body. Your body finally relents, shivering at the smallest hint of overstimulation.

"Mikey, Mikey, 'm good," you giggle, breathless. "I'm good, 's too much, God! It's too much."

He finally lets up, a wave of relief washing over you as you fall back into the couch.

Your eyes focus on the night sky, though you feel his on you. Turning your gaze downward, you think Robby is the happiest geezer you've ever seen in your life.

"Hey, beautiful," he rasps, resting his cheek against your thigh.

"Hi, handsome," you coo, reveling in the shiver that sends down his spine.

"Wanna get out of here?" He asks, placing a kiss to your sensitive skin.

"More than anything," you breathe, turning to find your panties.

"Ah!" He tuts, followed by a light smack of your thigh. "Got 'em right here," he admits, pulling them out of his pocket, and sliding them up your thigh.

"Michael Robinavitch, you are a pervert," you tease, sticky love dripping from your lips.

"Maybe, but you love me," he repeats your earlier confessions, eyes wide and shining.

"I do, love you so much," you murmur, cradling his face in your hands.

"Here's what I want to do," he starts, sitting up on his knees and beginning to redress you.

"What's that?" You poise, a cute smile on your face. He melts at the sight before continuing.

"I want to get you all nice and dressed and comfy again," he says, slipping your dress over your head, your bra going into his back pocket. "I want to take you home," he continues, pulling his own pants back on. "I want to put you in those diamond earrings I got you for your birthday," his shirt follows, shaky fingers buttoning himself back up. "And I wanna fuck you while they glow in the moonlight. You hear me?"

You nod, eyes wide and full of want.

"Good," he smiles, sliding you off the couch and onto your feet. "Go get your stuff, we have many months to make up for."

You've never moved so fast.

[robbyscoffee]

My Baby Is A Monster, But I'm Not Afraid! ⋆˚✿˖° drama queen!reader headcanons

— gosh, is his wife a handful. but jack abbot loves his drama queen! ♡⸝⸝

𑣲 pairing — husband!jack abbot x drama queen!reader

𑣲 content warnings — sfw & nsfw headcanons. r! is a bit of a crybaby. possessive!reader. jack is whipped. sensitive!reader. jack “i’ll pay for it” abbot. spoiled!reader. established relationship. dom!jack. sub!afab!reader. brat and brat tamer dynamics. piv sex. blowjobs. pussy slapping. daddy kink. cunnilingus (r!receiving). r! slaps jack during sex but he’s into it. one sub!jack headcanon. pussydrunk!jack. 3.5k words 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯⋆. ❤︎⁠︎⁠

𑣲 lynnie’s tea — i couldn’t get this concept out of my brain after this little thought i posted so i decided to write some more drama queen!reader. i had so many ideas that didn’t make the cut but . . . this is what i got for now ♡ this is my first time doing headcanons and it was so fun! hope you enjoy :3

lynnie's coffee shop ⋆.˚☕︎ ❤︎ 18+ minors, do not interact!

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐑 ‧₊˚𓈊 𓍲₊ 𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who loooves to ‘ah-ah’ you. You’re trying to do the laundry? Opening your own car door? Holding your own bag? Yeah, no — it’s not happening. It’s not only that Jack doesn’t want you to do anything he’s fully capable of doing himself, but he also knows you, and knows he’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t get your usual princess treatment.

“Ah-ah, sweetheart. You’re not lifting a finger.”

“Ah-ah-ah. Don’t even think about it. Since when do you open your own doors, huh?”

“Ah-ah, give it to me. I bought it, so I’m holding it. Simple as that.”

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who can hardly take you anywhere. You’re a certified complainer and have standards in the stars. You tripped in public? You need to go home as soon as possible. Chance of light rain? Sorry, dinner’s canceled! You ran out of lipstick? It’s practically a meltdown, and the worst of it is how quickly you go from zero to a hundred. Fuck, did you give the man whiplash.

“Sweetheart, s’okay. We can go to another store, even order it online—“

“—but I needed the lipstick now. This is the worst day ever!”

But. . . 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who handles your complaining. He lets you whine to your heart’s content if he can’t fix the issue, and jumps on it quickly if he can. A broken lipstick means a new one’s in your hands as soon as feasibly possible. A slightly off coffee means Jack is asking the barista for a remake. Your feet hurt after a night out? Well, Jack’s giving you his shoes and kicking it with socks until you’re home without so much as blinking. He'll throw the heels on himself if it's that serious.

“Yeah, my wife’s not a fan of the coffee. Maybe a little extra creamer, yeah? Don’t want her killing me now.”

“S’okay, angel, not the end of the world. C’mon, take Daddy’s shoes.”

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who you love to fuck with. When you go out without him in skirts so short, they’re sinful, or deny him sexual engagement with you over the little things. A fake divorce paper you’d flaunt when he so much as slightly irritated you, or a few dry texts to rile him up. If the man hadn’t already grayed by the time you met him, you would have started it for sure.

“That’s your skirt, honey? Where’s’rest of it?” he'd ask in the first instance, his eyebrow cocked to the ceiling.

You’d only smile and spin, feigning cluelessness at his response. “You don’t like it, Jackie?”

“No, sweetheart, it’s nice. It’s just — uhm, where’re you going again?”

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who’s grown used to the theatrics you pull when you’re sick. How the common cold or a cough will virtually incapacitate you. You refuse to leave the house for anything, because nobody can see you when you look like a ‘walking zombie.’ Jack passes his night shifts onto a willing Robby who knows the drill in the rare instance you fall ill, because he has to make it his responsibility to nurse you back to health.

Jack would buy you the most expensive ramen money can afford and spoonfeed you until you’ve had it all, keep your water bottle full, and monitor your temperature if you had a fever. He’ll cuddle you close with a hand on the back of your head while you bury your face into his chest.

“You’re gonna get sick, Jackie,” you protest for the hundredth time, but Jack doesn’t move a muscle. Can’t. Not when he knows how much you need him.

“It’ll be worth it, princess. If you need me here, then here’s where I’ll stay” ❤︎

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who also goes into doctor mode when you’re on your period. He knows the drill — cramps that feel like death sentences, back pain that’s simply illegal. Occasional headaches that linger for hours, and moodiness beyond belief. Jack is always prepared for all of it. On-call for your cravings or pain relief medicine. Ready to play masseuse whenever you need him to. And if he has to, he’ll let you lay on him like you’re trying to sink into his skin, because if according to you, he’s ‘just like a heating pad,' then that's good enough for him.

“I know it hurts, baby, I know. C’mon, I’ll fix you up,” he’ll murmur as he pats his lap with an invitation for you to sit. You’ll settle against him with a painful whine, his warm hands snaking under your shirt and rubbing over your back. “Right here, sweetheart? This where you’re hurting?”

A little nod of confirmation is all he needs to rub his hands into your skin, doing everything he can to soothe his girl. “Relax, babydoll. I’ve gotcha.”

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who gets off on you wearing or using anything he bought for you. Those heels you ordered with his credit card? He’ll take you being eye level with him if it means you're happy. That necklace you’d been eyeing? He feels a jolt when you ask him to put it on for you, and lets his hands linger for a second too long as he ogles the sight of it around your pretty neck. The coffee machine he’d replaced the minute the other had thrown the towel in? Oh, he’s staring from the doorway in the mornings while you play with the new appliance, finding the settings that brew your coffee to flawlessness. The sight makes him stupidly hard, yet the concept of his pretty wife finding appeasement in his wallet can’t help but bring him tranquility.

ֺֺּּׅׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who loves to gossip. He can’t help but feed into your work stories and share ones of his own. He’s your best friend and husband all in one, which means he gets the unfiltered side of you that’s only reserved for his viewing pleasure.

“You know that girl who did a REBOA without an attending? The ballsy kid I told you about—“ for example, “—she’s onto Whitaker and the wife of that burn victim who died last year. Thinks they’re more than ‘farm pals.’”

“Shit, that’s—“

“—messy?” Jack would smile. You always felt proud when he properly used the slang he’d taught you since you’d been together.

You’d nod in approval and do a little clap. “Exactly, babe. Exactly.”

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who can’t stand to see you sad. He’s always known you to be sensitive and is never taken aback when you get emotional, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t get harder to watch every time. You cry to everything — shit, it’s the list of what you don’t cry to that’s short — whether that be when you miss your husband after long shifts and doubles, or when you slightly doubt the bond you share. You know it’s silly to think this way sometimes, but you wonder at times why Jack entertains the mess your mind loves to make.

He’s quick on his feet when you start to cry. He’ll immediately take you into his arms when he finds you sobbing into the pillows in the early mornings when his shifts conclude, kissing your tears away as quickly as they fall. “What’s’mattter, sweetheart? Why’re you crying, honey?”

Jack will sit with you as long as it takes until you talk to him. Even if that means wasting the hours away until you’re finally comfortable enough to be honest with him. “You’re breaking my heart, princess. My wife doesn't deserve it,” he’ll hum, the voice a soothing calm in the storm of your brain. “Talk to me.”

“I…” you’ll choke finally. You’ll bury your face into the crook of his neck with a sniffle, unable to look him in the eye as your unspoken words fill you with embarrassment. “I missed you so much.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jack coos, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I missed you, too, angel. So, so much. I’m here now, yeah?”

You nod.

“That’s right, n’ I’m not going anywhere. Don’t cry, babydoll. You’re too beautiful to cry.”

ֺֺּּׅׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who keeps you pampered. You never run out of anything in the house because the man works overtime to keep it stocked. Your body washes and hair products always mysteriously replace themselves at empty, and Jack doesn’t need to take you shopping for skincare or makeup anymore like when you first dated. He knows exactly what you use, what you stay away from, what makes your skin flare. He knows what lipsticks you’re obsessed with and what products you hate. What’s more, is that every time he goes shopping, he buys you a new product to try.

“Didn’t like that one, princess? No? What about the serum?” He knows far more about skincare and makeup than he did when you first got together, and you can trust that he puts his knowledge to good use.

Jack also takes you on date nights every Friday, and buys you flowers almost daily. Your house is an overflowing garden of roses and tulips, lilies and orchids, and all sorts of flourishing plants. It’s his way of reminding you he’s thinking of you, knowing the gesture always makes your heart soar.

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who loves to compliment you. He doesn’t leave for work without telling you how beautiful you are, and doesn’t even stop when he gets to PTMC. Any mention of you and he’s inserting those honeyed words easily, even when you’re not around to hear them. “My beautiful wife” and “my pretty girl’s at work” and “my very gorgeous girl’s out shopping today.” He doesn’t care that his colleagues are sickened by his sweetness — he’s absolutely enamored with you, crazy and all. What kind of husband would he be to not show that off?

On that note, 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who loves shopping trips with you, especially when you model all the clothes you want to buy. He’s a big fan of running his hands all over you with every piece you try on, telling you how gorgeous you look in everything you wear.

“Looks amazing, sweetheart. Brings out those pretty eyes.”

“My gorgeous wife needs a gorgeous dress."

And, of course, because he has to — “you look adorable, babydoll. Now let’s see it on the floor” .ᐟ

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who doesn’t understand why you still have a job. All you do is complain about it to the point where you’re better off without it, but what confuses him is that you never spend your own money. He won’t let you. Hasn't let you in years, really, and he's not about to start now. He acts almost bored each time you come to him with a new complaint about it, his hands folded neatly in his lap while you pace about the living room or rage from the kitchen, a look on his face so nonchalant, you’re never sure he’s getting the message.

“And this one girl, oh, don’t get me started! She must love getting under my skin, because I swear she—Jack? Babe, are you listening?”

Jack only puts his hands up, the ghost of a smirk on his face. “You know what I’m going to say, babydoll.”

“I am not quitting my job.”

“You mean the job you have no business staying in? Makes perfect sense,” he teases. He knows his girl just wants to maintain some semblance of independence, but that didn’t mean the concept still wasn’t foreign to him.

𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐘 ‧₊˚𓈊 𓍲₊ 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who shoves his face into your pussy frequently. It's one of his favorite ways to have you for many reasons. To shut you up when you loud-mouth him, to keep you satiated until his return from the night shift. To remind you no one knows your body better than him, and that he’ll continue to show you as such.

He loves to hold your legs open while your back rests against the couch, his tongue licking lewd stripes from your aching hole to your clit and back again, watching as you squirm and whine for more. “Yeah, baby?” he’ll murmur between licks, drunk off your scent. “You like this, huh? Love when your Daddy eats your pretty pussy?” Jack will subsequently remove a hand from your leg to shower your cunt in little spanks, his other gripping the flesh of your thigh like a vice.

“That’s it, baby. Tell me whose pussy this is. Tell me.”

You can barely formulate a thought, let alone a fucking sentence, so all you manage is a small S’yours, Daddy, all yours, which is enough for a cocky Jack who smirks in response to your answer.

“That’s right, baby. And no one else’s fucking you like this, huh?”

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who is used to fucking the brat out of you, and has no problem doing so. You’re no stranger to random displays of attitude, like purposely releasing Jack’s hand when you’re shopping together or responding with a snappy Okay when he talks to you. The emotionless text messages when he doesn’t kiss you enough before leaving for work, or the grudges you hold over Dream Jack being a dick to you. Seriously, how can he fix what he broke in a goddamn dream of all things? Either way, it’s easy to get his sweet girl back with his cock down your throat or a bend over the counter. He loves to hear you wail his name while he pistons into you from behind, a hand tight in your hair while he drills into your pussy.

"Jackie, ohmygod, f- feels so good!"

“There’s my sweet girl. No back talk, no attitude. Jus’ my sweet baby.”

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who loves having your mouth on his. The way your hands snake into his curls while you rut against his clothed dick, your mouth glued to his in a messy tangle of tongues and spit. You’re always begging for more like you want to inhale the man. Letting his hands roam wherever they please while you shove your tongue down his throat, the press of the muscle against his own being too tantalizing to resist.

Or the way you’ll pull him impossibly closer while he fucks you in missionary, your legs around his waist as you kiss him sloppily. You pour your fire into it, the pent-up feelings of possession that come about when you marry a man like Jack Abbot, and tongue him as if to communicate You’re mine without having to verbalize it. Jack eats up every second of it without fail.

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who knows you’re not insecure — in fact, you were really the converse, confident enough in your marriage to fuck with your husband whenever you pleased — but he still entertains your shenanigans. He knows you know that he’s not going anywhere, but when it comes to other women in his vicinity, you can’t help but throw a fit.

And so, Jack loves the parts of your display that ring a little true. The possessive gleam in your eyes when a girl stares at him the wrong way, or when you visit his work to find him laughing at some other woman’s jokes. The onslaught of questions that follow over text or when he gets home, the sweet pout that twists your face as you stomp around the house with your arms crossed.

“Well, do you like her? You seem to like her. Why else would you be laughing so hard at her jokes?”

Jack always knows how it goes. He’s either got to reassure you back to loving him, give you your space, or kiss you until you forget. He takes a few steps closer until he can lift your chin with his thumb, smiling down at you. “I only like one crazy girl, and she’s standing right in front of me with the cutest look on her face,” Jack hums. He leans in to kiss your cheek, then starts his descent down your neck. At your little moan, a sign that making you forget must be the answer today, he presses you into the side of the couch with a hand on your waist. “There’s my sweet girl. Gonna take care of her real well.”

And 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 especially loves how moments like that can wind in you riding him senseless, the nails he paid for digging into his wrists while you hold them above his head, all while you use his pretty cock for your pleasure. He hadn’t been one for submission until he married you, but you made it so easy to slip into sometimes, taking your control in a sexy coin flip of power. You shared your dominance with him on the days you were in the mood to do so, and it always made Jack's head spin with lust.

“You’re all mine, right, Daddy? Tell me m’yours, tell me, Daddy,” which Jack likes to meet with a happy smirk and a few jerks into your pussy from below. 

“You’re mine, baby. All mine. Love you so much," he'll practically whimper while you bounce on his cock. "You like fucking your daddy, princess?"

You answer with a sloppy kiss to his lips while your hips work overtime. "Mhm, my pretty daddy. Only mine to fuck."

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who loves to fuck with you. Within reason, of course, because he values his life, after all. He most enjoys locking his card when he knows you’re due for some retail therapy. The seventeen missed calls when he’s working and you’re shopping, be it online or in person, that are about to turn into eighteen if he doesn't answer the phone soon. Or denying you the things you want if it means you’ll get your act together. No coffee runs, no impromptu outings. No touching him, or even so much as looking at him — not until you drop the brattitude.

Mrs. Abbot 👑❤️: jack abbot i’m going to throttle you

Mrs. Abbot 👑❤️: did u lock the card.

jackie ♡: Did I? That’s no good.

Mrs. Abbot 👑❤️: no good??? obviously not babe, i’m out with friends 🤦‍♀️ unlock it pls

jackie ♡: What’s the magic word 🪄

Mrs. Abbot 👑❤️: my husband’s a dead man?

jackie ♡: That’s five words

Mrs. Abbot 👑❤️: please unlock the card.

jackie ♡: Look at you, baby! You do know how to use your words

Mrs. Abbot 👑❤️: i know how to use my FOOT too

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 on that note, also likes to leave you sexually frustrated. It doesn’t matter how many teasing pictures you send him on shift, or how convincingly you beg to have his cock in your mouth. He’s learned how to resist your puppy eyes, especially with the reminder of your earlier bratting. You look adorable every time you do it, whining from your knees while you nuzzle the bulge in his pants, desperate to suck him off.

“Please, Daddy, m’sorry,” you’ll hiccup dramatically, practically on the verge of tears by now, running your hands over his exposed tummy. “I’ll be good now. Just let me suck you, please, please?”

Jack only tsks at you like he’s bored, caressing your hair with condescending strokes. “You know full well, sweetheart,” he hums, “that bratty girls don’t get anything. You wanted to act up today, right? Guess you’ll have to deal with the consequences.”

Jack is almost painfully hard at the sight of your pouty lips, envisioning the way they’ll wrap around his cock when he finally gives you what you’re asking for. But right now, he’s got to be strong, because moments like these are how he keeps his dramatic wife in check.

Anything to drop the brattitude, right?

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 who loves when you rough him up on a possessive streak. When you tug him by the collar of his shirt in public, or yank him in by the belt buckle. When you tangle your hand in his hair during messy kisses, or suck your marks into the skin of his neck.

The man truly discovered a new thing about him the first time you ever slapped him during sex. It was after one of your usual fits, this time about your waitress at dinner who’d unabashedly flirted with him with you there to watch the spectacle. You hadn’t said anything to him about it for once; well, that is until he had his cock burrowed into you in missionary, panting like a dog as you went for your third round.

Your hand lands on his cheek without thinking, the coyest smirk plastered on your face. “C’mon, Jackie. You can fuck me better than that, can’t you, baby?”

The blush that lit his cheeks was possibly the hottest sight you'd ever seen. His thrusts grew sloppy at the rough contact, but he didn't let up his ministrations. “Y- Yes, I can, princess. I can."

“Your cock is stretching me so full, Daddy. S’all for me, yeah?”

“Only you, baby. Only you.”

ֺּׅ𓏽⑅ ♡⸝⸝ 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃!𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 loves his drama queen, and he has no problem showing it! ❤︎

[voidsagent]

Sticky Notes & Scrub Tops - jack abbot x reader

Pairings: jack abbot x reader

Summary: when you start packing lunches for jack, the ED takes notice. not just of the notes you leave, but of the changes in jack too.

Warnings: none really; TONS of fluff, age-gap, established relationship, mentions of the ED, soft jack, mutual affection, & medical inaccuracies.

Word Count: 3k+

Author’s Note: ahhh !! i finally finished this & have ‘just fluff june’ fic out for you guys !! i hope you all enjoy this one !! <3

Jack Abbot was never really the type to feed himself the way a person should eat. He lived off of vending machine food and granola bars. He could cook—he’s actually a very good cook—but didn’t see the point after a twelve hour shift that left him dead on his feet.

But for you? He’d cook a three course meal if you asked. He made sure you had dinner when he was off, waited on you hand and foot.

You did the same for him. But more so; you kept him fed.

You started meal prepping lunches for him to take to work; sometimes just leftovers from the previous night or something you made new entirely the day before while he was at work. Then you started adding desserts and snacks; a donut or pastry from the corner bakery you both loved, homemade cookies or brownies.

You left yogurt and homemade granola, veggie sticks with dip, beef jerky. But the dinners you packed? God, Jack could die on that hill.

He couldn’t explain how happy and domestic it made him feel to open up his lunchbox and find you’d packed him leftovers from the lasagna you’d made. Or chili, or a sandwich that looked like it came straight from a deli. Wraps that were filled to the brim with turkey and lettuce and everything he liked in them. He’d groan every time he took that first bite, leaning back in his chair with a content sigh. Something dangerous playing in his heart.

You—his sweet girlfriend of a few months who lived in his t-shirts and padded around his apartment with a giddy step and had more kindness in your pinky than most people had in their entire body—packed him lunch like it was nothing. Taking care of him like it was second nature. For you, it was.

People noticed, because Jack Abbot didn’t eat on shift unless it was a handful of nuts or whatever stale thing fell out of the vending machine when he kicked it after it ate his money.

But along with Jack eating good, came the changes in his body. Not anything drastic or bad but…he got thicker. At first it was just a little more pull at his scrubs, nothing he couldn’t handle by adjusting his arms a little.

He didn’t get fat or out of shape just; broader, healthy fat lining his muscles. His pecs and biceps always strained against his shirts, but now they looked like they were seconds away from busting the seams open. His ass got rounder, cheeks slightly more plush that you grabbed every time he kissed you; making him yelp a noise of protest. Every. Single. Time.

Don’t even get started on his torso. Layered with a slight pudge at the bottom when he wore his belt, abs and back muscles visible and flexing underneath his movements. He looked divine. He was stronger, more solid and filled out. His scrub top looked more than two sizes too small, hanging on for dear life.

Even if people noticed, they didn’t say anything; not at first. But of course Robby would be the one to put a stop to that; coming to a halt as he walked by with an ipad in hand, looking at his best friend like he’d just committed a felony in front of him.

“Jesus brother”, Robby says; “Let that shirt breathe.”

Jack turned to look at him, pushing his elbows off the counter of the hub; “What?”

“You look like your shirt’s two seconds away from ripping”, Robby points out, like it’s common knowledge.

“I don’t-“

Dana appears out of thin air next to them; “He’s right. You’ve been eating actual food too.”

Jack’s mouth stays open for a second, before a smirk takes its place; “So what? People eat.”

“You”, Robby says, pointing at him with a look over his glasses; “Don’t eat.”

“This feels like a personal attack”, Jack scoffs, still slightly amused; “You don’t eat either.”

“Correct. But i’m not suddenly showing up two months later looking like an honorary Avenger about to bust out of his scrub top.”

Jack’s jaw ticks, eyes flicking between the two; “You’re unbelievable.”

Jack grabs his own tablet, throwing a mock glare at the two in front of him; “I have patients to see, you know, like a real doctor?”

Then he walks away, throwing a half-hearted wave and a middle finger at whatever Dana and Robby are calling out after him.

Robby shifts on his feet, scoff leaving his mouth; “Damn.”

Dana gives him a look; “Whatever you’re thinking Robinavitch; don’t.”

Robby shakes his head; “No…Abbot’s got a better ass than me.”

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

A week later Jack finds himself standing in the break room, pulling out the lunch box you packed for him—leftovers from dinner the night before. Pasta and bread that he happily reheated in the microwave and toaster oven.

A small yellow sticky note was stuck to the top of the container, his lips already twitching at the corners.

‘Baby! I can’t wait to see you today. Go kick ass & save lives, sexy doctor man !! I love you sooooo much !! PS: I left you a surprise from your fav place !!’ with a little smiley face and heart drawn below it.

Jack’s heart skipped a beat, feeling the heat climbing up his neck and ears; settling on his cheeks as he slipped the note into his pocket to hang in his locker later with all the other notes of yours he kept.

He settled at the round table in the break room, looking further into the lunch box where sure enough—he found a pastry from his favorite bakery around the corner from his apartment.

He took a bite of it, sighing and letting his eyes close as the sweet taste hit his tongue. Shoulders dropping a bit as he relaxed a little into the chair.

He didn’t even open his eyes when the break room door swung open, whoever was stepping inside slipped to the back of his mind.

“Woah, is that homemade pasta?”, Shen’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Jack grunted quietly in response, nodding as he leant forward to take a bite; “Maybe.”

“You got a professional chef at home we don’t know about?”

Jack smirked a little; “Something like that.”

He took another bite, knowing more questions were coming and secretly hoping Shen would just do whatever he came in to do and let him eat in peace—but this was the ED, the night shift nonetheless; and Jack knew that was wishful thinking.

The door swung open behind them, Ellis sliding up next to Shen—stopping in her tracks.

“Abbot’s got homemade pasta”, Shen says, eyes wide.

Ellis leans over to inspect; “Now I know you didn’t cook that yourself.”

Jack raises his brows; “I can cook.”

“Not like that”, Ellis defends; “You burnt the noodles at last year’s potluck.”

“Robby was distracting me.”

“Excuses.”

Jack huffed and took another bite of his food.

“A pastry too? Who’s packing you this stuff?”

Jack takes the last bite of his pasta, pushing himself out of his chair and packing up the empty container; “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He can feel the eyes on him as he puts the lunchbox back into the fridge, pulls out a water and slips past them with a smirk; “Enjoy your break, crawlers.”

Ellis scoffs, turning to Shen; “Fifty bucks says he’s got a woman at home. He’s not cooking like that.”

“Sixty-five”, Shen says, holding out his hand.

Ellis shakes it; “Done.”

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

The buzz of Jack Abbot’s sudden new eating habits—that actually benefited his body more than a vending machine dinner—quickly reached every corner of the ED. Various bets and hushed whispers of different theories floated around med students and residents alike. Hell, even Robby’s name had made it up on the betting board.

Jack himself couldn’t care less, the hushed whispers of the bet made him smirk to himself; knowing it was driving his coworkers crazy.

He wasn’t keeping you a secret exactly; it had just never directly or seriously come up.

He didn’t pay too much mind to all the whispers about his new size, either—mostly brushing it off as teasing or Robby and Dana just trying to get him all riled up.

But now, as he stood in the bathroom of his apartment—tugging a soft grey t-shirt over his head after a much needed shower; he was starting to think what Robby had said may have some truth to it.

You can hear him huff to himself in the bathroom, words you can’t quite pick up on as you flip through TV channels. A soft groan of frustration or disbelief echoes through Jack’s room, making you sit up more.

“Baby?”, You call, “Everything ok?”

There’s another quiet murmur of something before Jack comes out of the bathroom; hair still damp, greying curls lightening up as they dry. Boxers clinging low on his hips, the grey shirt he has on doing almost nothing to cover the contour and outline of his muscles—clinging to him so close he might as well not even bother wearing it.

Your mouth goes dry, watching as he sets his crutches against the bedside table and slumps down onto the end of the bed—every muscle in his back moving and pulling the shirt fabric even tighter.

“M’fine”, He says, messaging his residual limb; “Just starting to think maybe Robby’s right.”

“Ok…?”, You breathe; “Don’t ever say those words again…but about what?”

Jack huffs a laugh; “I’m serious!”

You shimmy out from underneath the covers, walking on your knees to the end of the bed and letting your hands roam over Jack’s shoulders. He instantly leans into it—like he didn’t even have to think about it anymore.

“He said my scrub top looked too small”, Jack sighs.

“Really?”

“Well actually his exact words were ‘let that shirt breathe, you’re about to rip it’ but I was phrasing it nicer.”

You laugh; “What makes you think he’s right?”

Jack shrugs; “Didn’t notice anything until I tried to put this shirt on and it barely fits. It used to be loose on me…”

He trails off, something in his mind making him think extra hard.

You hum softly, continuing to rub at his shoulders and a little down his arms; playing with the damp curls at the nape of his neck.

It’s quiet in the room as Jack continues to massage the tension out of his leg, eyes flicking over whatever TV channel you’d landed on before he came out. You press a soft kiss to his nape.

“Am I bigger?”, He asks suddenly.

Your eyes widen, a surprised laugh escaping your lips; “W-What?”

“Am I bigger?”, He repeats; “Have I put on weight?”

You soften immediately, realizing by the scrunch in his brow; he’s insecure about this.

“Baby, no”, You coo, slipping around to settle into his lap.

His hands come up to your waist, immediately steadying you.

“You’re just eating good”, You assure him.

His brow stays furrowed, a slight pout on his face and lips; eyes not looking at you.

“I mean maybe you’ve put on a few pounds, but with your job and SWAT; it’s all muscle, my love”, You say, letting your fingers comb through his hair.

He doesn’t answer yet, but his brow softens, eyes flicking towards yours now as you move your face in front of his.

“You’re so broad”, You whisper, hands roaming his shoulders again; “So strong.”

“Yeah?”, He asks, eyebrows raising a bit.

You nod, bottom lip between your teeth; “Yeah.”

You giggle softly when you feel his fingers flex at your waist, the way he shivers when you let your hands drift under his shirt—palms pressing flat against his torso. You let them settle there for a moment, fingers tapping against skin before you pull them back—tugging upwards at the hem.

His ears are pink now, but he doesn’t hesitate; pulling the shirt up and over his head with one pull at the back of the collar. It lands somewhere on the floor, but your attention remains on him.

Pale skin with a slight farmers tan disappearing by his elbows; laid out bare in front of you. His eyes flicking around the room, hands back at your waist.

With a soft hand on his jaw, you force him to look at you.

“You’re so thick”, You murmur, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder.

His grip of your waist tightens, a breath leaving his nose.

Your kisses travel over his skin, trailing over his shoulders and torso; leaving no spot unmarked.

“So full and filled out.”

Kiss.

“So muscular.”

Kiss.

“So handsome.”

Your compliments start drifting elsewhere as you let your kisses trail over him.

“So kind.”

Kiss.

“So caring.”

Another kiss.

“So good to me.”

A kiss to his neck.

Your hands stop at the bottom of his torso, just below his belly button where the slightest bit of softer skin sits just above his waistband. You smooth your hands over it, feeling the muscle below it tense.

You look up, finding Jack’s cheeks the same color as his ears—his eyes wide and waiting. You pinch his skin once, before letting your hands roam back up his freckled arms to his shoulders; cupping his nape in your hands.

“You’re so beautiful, Jack”, You murmur.

A shaky breath leaves him, your lips against his cheeks and nose. He pulls back, eyes searching yours.

“God, I love you”, He huffs, pulling you in for a kiss.

His lips press firm against yours, hands traveling up your back and settling on your ribs. Jack’s forehead stays against yours when he pulls back, eyes still closed.

“It’s your fault, ya know”, He smirks.

You shrug; “I know, and I’m gonna keep feeding my man good.”

He lets out a noise between a groan and something of disbelief when you move off his lap, finding your way back to your spot on the bed. He follows you, rolling over to lay on his stomach; arms framed around his head and tucked under his pillow.

“Besides”, You say, mischievous smile growing; “Your ass looks ridiculously good.”

He yelps when your hand comes in contact with his ass, eyes wide as pink practically runs up his neck.

“Baby!”

“M’not even sorry”, You say, leaning in to capture his lips before he can protest any further.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

Something in Jack settles after that, most of the insecurity gone. He takes all the comments from Robby and Dana in stride. He still eats what you pack him, still keeps your notes.

He frowns when he goes to get his lunchbox out, finding it missing with a note in its place.

‘No lunch today, baby. Got a surprise for you!’

He can’t help the way his lips turn up at the corner, curiosity taking over when the door behind him swings open.

“Abbot! We got a MVA coming in”, Dana’s voice cuts him out of his thoughts.

“How long?”

“About two minutes.”

Jack sighs once, putting his bag away and following Dana out the door; the part of him trying to figure out what you were up to slipping to the back of his mind.

About two hours later, the bay doors open around you; boxes stacked in your hands as you wander towards the hub.

“You need help there, hon?”, Dana’s voice comes.

She’s standing at the hub, brows quirked in amusement and confusion.

“Oh hi!”, You chirp; “I just brought some lunch for my boyfriend and his co-workers. Not really sure where to put it though.”

Dana’s smile grows; “Well why didn’t you say so? Follow me, we’ll put those in here.”

She shows you to the break room, holding the door open as you slip in.

“So boyfriend huh? Which one of our lucky med students gets all this food?”, She asks, leading you back to the hub.

“Oh! He’s not a med student, he’s a doctor! Uh, Jack?”, You say.

Dana’s smile widens even further; “So you’re the one who’s feeding our grumpy guy?”

Robby’s head whips up from the other side of the hub, Ellis and Shen slowing to a stop behind him.

You can’t help the laugh the slips out; “He looks grumpy sometimes, but he’s actually not. It’s all a ruse.”

It’s Dana’s turn to laugh; “Huh.”

“He thinks he’s got everyone fooled, but he’s just a big—“

“Sweetheart?”, Jack’s voice breaks through.

Your eyes light up immediately, rushing to meet him halfway; “Jack!”

You meet his chest with a soft thud, arms wrapping around him as you lean up and press a kiss to his lips. He’s frozen for a moment, but immediately melts into the kiss once your lips meet his. His strong hands find your waist, smoothing over them; keeping you both grounded.

Nothing else around him matters in that moment—not whatever trauma he’d just stepped out of, not the fact that his leg was a little sore, not the fact that the ED had fallen almost silent around you; and not Robby or his coworkers bewildered gazes.

He’s melted into you as you wrapped your arms around his torso, tucking yourself under his arm; hand rubbing softly over his ribs.

“Baby!”, You hum; “I missed you.”

Jack’s eyes wander over you; “I missed you too, sweetheart.”

There’s a moment where his brain catches up, and he’s suddenly tilting your head up to look at him; worried eyes checking over your features.

“What’re you doing here? Are you ok? Are you hurt?”, His questions come rambling out.

You giggle, squeezing his side; “I’m fine! I brought you and your friends some lunch. It’s in the break room.”

Jack softens, a small graze of his lips against your head; “Sweetheart, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I know”, You shrug; “But I wanted to.”

The gazes around you narrow, mouths agape at this Jack.

Jack Abbot was a lot of things in the ED; assertive, leading, confident, level-headed, kind, always looking out for everyone in his own quiet way; but he wasn’t soft.

But with you? Jack crumbled under your gaze, the strong-willed and grumpy looking attending was a smiling and sweet puddle in your arms.

“I got that coffee that you like”, You hum.

Jack dips his head down closer to hear you; “From the deli?”

“Mhm, it’s at home on the counter. Where do you think I got the sandwiches from?”

Something sparkles in his eyes; “That’s what you brought us for lunch? Baby, that’s too much.”

But the glint of excitement stays in his eyes.

You tsk and wave him off; “Not for you.”

His face goes unbearably fond, eyes and smile soft. His lips brush against your ear.

“You’re gonna spoil us”, He says, voice low and raspy.

“Let me”, You smirk.

Behind you, Robby finally clears his throat; “Jack you gonna introduce us or do we all just not exist now?”

“You don’t”, Jack rolls his eyes, smirking as Robby feigns hurt.

Jack introduces you, pointing to each of his colleagues that have gathered around; “That’s Robby, he’s annoying.”

You smack his chest; “Be nice!”

Jack doesn’t falter; “That’s Dana, she makes this place run smoothly. Behind her are Ellis and Shen.”

“Oh! You’re Dana!”, You smile; “I’ve heard so much about all of you.”

“Oh really—“, Robby starts before Dana stops him with a flick to the back of his neck; “Ow!”

Jack takes that as an opportunity to steer you away from the crowd and into the break room; Whitaker slipping out the door with a mouthful of sandwich from one of the boxes.

“Well it seems like they like the sandwiches”, You say, watching as Jack himself digs into the boxes you’d left on the counter.

“I labeled yours”, You add.

Jack finds his as the words leave your mouth, unwrapping it as he lowers himself onto the small couch—patting his lap; “‘Cmere.”

You drift towards him with a magnetic pull you’ll never be able to explain, finding your spot on his good leg. Hands drifting up to play with the curls on his head; a little sweaty now from working.

He hums around another bite of sandwich, his free arm resting at your back; “Thank you for this, really sweetheart.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Jack. I like taking care of you”, You tell him.

The smile on your face matches his as he presses a kiss to your temple, offering you a bite that you gladly accept.

“Your friends seem nice”, You add; “Kinda quiet though.”

Jack scoffs, smirk crooked; “Give them a chance.”

“We should have them over sometime, for a barbecue or something.”

Jack hums, palm circling your lower back; “Whatever you want, baby.”

You reach out and grab his chin, catching him off guard; his mouth still half open as he went in for another bite—brows in his hairline.

“I love you”, You coo, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He chases after your lips; “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You let his lips take over yours, warm and present. You jump when you pull back, checking your watch; “Oh! I gotta get going, I’m gonna be late.”

Jack pats your bum as you press another kiss to his lips, slipping out of his lap and heading towards the break room door. You turn back when you get there, smiling at Jack whose eyes have never left you.

“See you at home?”, He asks, not really wanting you to leave.

You nod, bottom lip between your teeth; “With dinner and a hot bath ready.”

Jack groans, already aching to be cuddled up with you and unwind from his shift. You blow him a kiss with a soft wave, that he happily returns before you slip out the door; leaving him alone in the break room.

He can still feel your weight on his lap, your fingers in his hair and your lips against his—a blush and smile creeping up on him as he leans forward for another bite of his sandwich;

“So ‘baby’, huh?”, Robby’s voice comes.

“Shut up, Robinavitch”, Jack juts.

The sound of a clipboard hitting the floor and Robby yelping as he jumps out of the way are all that Jack hears as the door swings shut; humming softly to himself—more than ready to come home to you.

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[thechaoslibrarian]

Yesssssssssss, need to feed that man NEOW

[robinavitchslut]

squirting when you sit on robby’s face for the first time.

you’re so shocked by what happened at first, then shock makes way for embarrassment. you’re scrambling to get off his face, apologising profusely as your face heats up.

he grabs both of your thighs and pulls you down so you’re sat on his chest and he’s looking up at you with nothing but love and adoration through his soaked glasses.

he takes them off and places them on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows as much as he can with your weight on him. his hands travel from your thighs to grab both of your hands to hold them in his own.

“shit. you’re something else, baby. don’t you ever apologise for doing something so beautiful ever again, okay?”

your blush grows deeper and you make yourself look away, embarrassment still coursing through you. it’s somehow only deepened by robby’s praise.

“hey, look at me.” he instructs, bringing his hand up to your face forcing you to look at him.

“i said, don’t ever apologise for doing something so beautiful ever again..okay?” he repeats, his tone more serious this time.

“o-okay,” you nod.

“good,” robby smiles. “now let’s see if we can’t make you do that again.”

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

moments of casual intimacy w/ CLARK KENT fem! reader, 592 words, fluff

Clark's a man of many things: honour, kindness and care. The traits that describe him are far from limited. 

While these characteristics are something he shares with the world, only few of them are reserved for you alone. Only you are deemed special enough to receive such personalised, gentle love. This tender care he gives you varies, it changes how and when the moment fits. There's nothing grand or flashy about these acts; they're small in scale, but large in expression.

His attention is honest and genuine, gaze forever attentive like you are something he orbits. He pays mind to you, focus locked and entranced on you like it's something he can't not do. 

When it's bright outside, the sky full of white hot sun, he'd find that his hand would move without thought — like it had a mind of its own. He'd notice how you'd squint in conversation when sitting outside, eyes narrowed like an attempt to shield themselves. Clark would almost always extend an arm in your direction, large hand settling above your brows so as to block out the sun and create a shadow for your eyes underneath. Or alternatively move into a position where he can block the direct rays from your eyes with his head or upper body.

There are times where you may share a particularly saucy meal, tomato spaghetti almost staining the sides of your mouth, splatters of the same sauce on your chin. He makes no deal of it, no comment, nothing at all. Though he smiles rather small. Not out of self-centred amusement or something mean, but something close to adoration. You don't notice it, too busy talking through your day over dinner that you pay no mind to the very large possibility of mess. Again, it would be something he responds almost involuntarily to, hand reaching for your face betwixt conversation to clean the sauce with his thumb. It's not that it was something that bothered or disgusted him, rather something he wanted to do for your own dignity. Though it's not something he'd allow you to be embarrassed by. 

Then there are things Clark would do for you without you needing to ask, without him even needing to question. Things he would do out of habit due to the sheer repetition of such acts. When it comes to water, he knows you to sometimes struggle — whether it's drinking it, refilling it, cleaning the bottle, he knows it to be an additional chore for you. So he makes it easier for you, establishing a system of consistently ice cold drinks. It didn't take long for his scheme to grow, for you to take it on board. Well, why wouldn't it? You didn't need to do anything. You have a constant supply of cold, chilled waters waiting for you. Two coloured metal bottles he chose with your personality in mind, one to be with you for consumption, the other to be sitting in the fridge for when you finally reach the bottom of the bottle and ready for the repetition of the next. 

And there are moments where you're laying in bed winding down for sleep, that he can't help but reach for you, for your hand. It's mindless, the toying, the fidgeting. There's nothing about it that can possibly mean anything else when he pays with your fingers. It's something quite similar to self-soothing when his fingers briefly entwine with yours, when he circles and strokes them. 

They're all simply things he does for you that require almost no thought at all.

⎯ 𑄹 ⎯

this didn't turn out like I hoped it would. I had a list of cute things he does but couldn't fit it all in without it sounding like a list

[fawnsweetie]

i want u fat robby! this is another blurb, we love fat ppl here bc im fat and in the writer so…… but big fat hairy robby come home to me 😻😻😻 also this was meant to be a blurb but its too long

michael robinavitch used to be pretty slim. he was always tall, but his shoulders used to be narrow and his pants sat straight down instead of under the bulge of his stomach. and sure, when he looks at his best friend jack he gets a bit jealous. but who cares! jack went through a phase when he had some pudge, this is just a phase for robby! except it’s been a phase for the past five years, and he just can’t seem to keep the weight off.

so, after consulting with jack and deciding that his preferred exercise would not be joining the swat team, jack jokingly suggested a girlfriend. or a dog, just something, man. now robby didn’t have time for a dog, or a cat, or even a fucking hamster. and his notorious seven week itch has made it so very few people in the hospital want to actually date him, not just fuck him.

that is until he runs into you. like literally, runs into you. you’re a college student, studying law and you might be a bit late to class. but if you’re already late, then you might as well get a cup of coffee. and he’s never late, but it’s 830 and he needs to go in at nine because jack asked him to cover the first two hours of his shift and said he’d stay late. but robby might be late now, because in your haste to get out of the door, you’ve managed to bump into him and spill your far too sweet iced coffee all over his scrub.

when you start to spill apologies all over him, he hushes you with a huff of a laugh. that was three months ago and now robby, your boyfriend is fucking you into the bed. he’s slamming into you in your favorite way, a pillow that you shove your face into. with your tits only slightly lifted off the blankets so he can pinch and tug at your nipples. your back is arched and you can feel his hips meet your ass harshly.

even though it seems like he fucks you daily he does, robby still hasn’t lost any weight. but that’s okay. you like it when he lays down on top of you, and presses his stomach either against your own or into the arch of your back. regardless of how, you love it. in fact, the wiry hair of his chest and stomach against your balmy skin is your favorite way that he sparks an orgasm in you.

you love your big boyfriend. that is, if the hickies and bite marks that cover his stomach say anything about it. and when someone at work bumps into robby, and elbows a bruise right into his stomach, he holds back a groan. how much you love his fat can remain a secret between the two of you, maybe jack if he decides to tell him.

[thechaoslibrarian]

FUCK YEAAAAAAAAAAAH

LIKE SZA ONCE SAID, “I NEED A BIG BOY”!!!!!

[se7entyrell]

baby daddy!john carter masterlist

main masterlist

requests are open for these two! fics will be listed below in chronological order, but you're welcome to ask for anything pre-pregnancy, during, or with them as parents :)

original moodboard

telling him you're pregnant

john being obsessed with the baby kicking, and you're not sure how to deal with the clinginess (requested - coming soon!)

the birth

john having a sex dream about his baby mama (requested - coming soon!)

[robinavitchslut]

I just love the idea of Robby being so used to date women his age that, when he sees you looking a bit weird and tired and asks you, “What’s going on?”, you tell him, “Idk, I think my period is about to come,” and he’s like, “Ah yeah, you still get those.”

robby goes overboard when you’re on your period

omg!! and the next time u come over to his house you open the cupboard in his bathroom to find basically the entire feminine hygiene aisle in there. every single size in pad and panty liners and tampons.

“uh…mikey?” you call out from the bathroom, stood staring at the scene in front of you, truly dumbfounded.

“yeah, what’s up, sweetheart?” you hear from the doorway behind you.

“why does your cupboard look like the target period section?” you blink absently a couple of times before turning to him, he’s leaning in the door frame with a look of pride on his face.

“well, i didn’t know what you preferred to use and what absorbency you needed so…i brought all of it, just to be safe.” he rubs the back of his neck, slightly doubting that he did the right thing now.

you pause for a second, looking back at the cupboard and then back to him with a big smile creeping up on your face. you take a couple of steps towards him, closing the gap between you and wrap your arms around his middle, leaning up on your tip toes to press a kiss to his bearded jaw.

“thank you, this is…thank you.” it seems so silly but you have to blink back tears, no other man has gone above and beyond for you like this before.

“it’s too much isn’t it? i got too much…” robby sighs.

you shake your head and let out another little laugh. “i mean, maybe a little but we can always donate the stuff that i won’t use to a women’s shelter. don’t worry, mikey. you did good. i love you so much.”

that proud smile returns to his face, along with his signature blush that blooms up his neck. “i love you too, sweetheart.”

want to be added to my regular robby taglist? reply to this post <3

robby masterlist

[thechaoslibrarian]

GAH

[ceriseangels]

MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH who... loves to kiss and kiss and kiss.

CONTAINS: 2.4k words, 18+ MDNI, showering together, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex, sweet dirty talk, brief mention of robby’s depression, not proofread and written at 1:30 am dead tired. bon appetit

MASTERLIST | INBOX | LATEST WORK

He's intense with it, hungry lips swallowing yours. His favorites are the ones after a long shift, when he's just so tired all he can do is surrender to how good you make him feel.

You can tell, by the way he furrows his brows and inhales through his nose, sharp and deep.

When he first stumbles in, his first step is a shower. Neither of you want the bed smelling like hospital, and it gives you an excuse to dote on him, lather him in bubbles and your love.

It's a stark contrast to his life before you— depressing showers in the dark, as he let the weight of the day bruise and break him.

He'd relayed this information once before, another night spent beneath the stream of warm water, your chest to his back. Your eyes had gone wide, glossing over, a sting piercing your nose.

You'd taken a deep breath, quelling your emotions for another time. If you'd let them slip, the moment would become about you. Robby needs the attention more than he'd care to admit, and you're happy to provide it.

Today, you're once again caught under the warm stream of his rain shower. It's spacious, one of the many deluxe features of his grand house.

You position Robby directly beneath the waterfall, reveling in the way his eyes shut as his surrenders to the heat. You press your lips to his, and he melts into you.

Bringing your fingers up to his face, you scratch his coarse beard, peppering your lips over his sleepy face.

"I love you," he murmurs, lips finding yours again.

His tongue pokes out, running over your lips before reaching into your mouth. He's messy, sliding his tongue over yours, moaning into your mouth.

You pull back, ever so slightly, nudging your nose against his. Big brown eyes burn into you as you collect his shampoo in your hands, massaging his head, kissing down his neck.

His head falls back, letting the water hit his face as it washes it away. Your heart pounds as you watch him— the empty canvas of his neck, the light flush in his cheeks, the tension in his shoulders.

Your conditioner comes next, an item Robby hasn't fully come around to purchasing for himself quite yet. When you'd moved in, his self care regimen was bleak— two in one hair care, bar soap for his face, not a drop of lotion in sight.

Since then, you've littered his expansive marble counters with various serums, moisturizers, and powders. Robby indulges you, sitting patiently while you rub different products into his skin.

You think he secretly loves it, though he'd never admit it.

You revel in each smooth inch of his skin, his eyes falling shut as you work the conditioner in his hair.

"Still not sure what this does, y'know," he quips, and you sink your teeth into his shoulder. "Hey!"

"Hush! Let me work," you coo, kissing behind his ear and pulling his head away, letting the conditioner set.

You go for his bar of soap next, rubbing it into a wet cloth under the stream. Starting at the top, you work your hands along his shoulders, his back, circling around to his tummy.

Heart pounding in your ears, you hug him from behind, planting kisses along his neck. His warmth pounds deep within you, beating in between your legs.

Sinking to your knees, you work around his legs, his ass, his middle, turning him so you're eye-level with his cock.

You gulp, jaw going slack at the sight of it. He's hard already— a long, thick length curving to the left, pink tip leaking a familiar clear liquid.

Pursing your lips, you lean forward and press a kiss to his head. He sucks a harsh breath through his teeth, a sardonic smile forming on your lips.

"Pretty cock, Mikey," you coo, hands braced on your thighs.

You tilt your head, looking up at him, and the sight that greets you nearly moves you to tears.

He's staring back with wide eyes, a parted mouth, a heaving chest.

"Baby, you gotta stand up," he breaths, bending down to loop his hands under your armpits, pulling you back up to eye-level.

Your heart sinks, and you're completely incapable of fixing your face.

"Aw, sorry, honey," he croons, pinching your cheek at your little pout. "It's just- if you get your mouth on me, I'm gonna cum, and then I won't be able to fuck you the way I want. You understand me?"

His large hand cups your jaw, squeezing your cheeks and jutting your lips out. Despite his control, his strength, you nod.

"Good girl," he purrs, setting you free. "Let me get my hands on this gorgeous body, get you nice 'n clean, and then I'm gonna make you come on this pretty cock. How's that sound?"

A shiver tickles your spine, arching your back into him.

"So good," you murmur. "Please touch me, Mikey. Don't care how, just- want your hands on me."

He obeys, your everlasting relief. Grabbing your cloth, he rubs your fruity body into the fabric, pulling you in for a kiss before bringing it to your skin.

His touch is gentle, sweet, followed by his eager kisses as he cleans you. Sinking to his knees, he peppers your tummy with kisses, his favorite part of you.

Sinking his teeth into the pudge there, he moves lower to the mound of your pussy, pressing his lips there, shoving his face even deeper for a whiff.

"God, Mikey!" You cry, throwing your head back, sinking your hands into his hair.

"Mmm, can I eat you, baby? Would make me feel so much better," he pleas, and you're spreading your legs on instinct.

He growls, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder as he slots underneath you.

"Good girrrllll," he drawls out, running his tongue over your clit. "Sweet girl knows what's fuckin' good for her, yeah?"

You nod, whimper despite yourself as he moves lower, dipping his tongue into your hole.

He's selfish, playful, almost, as he laps at your juices. It's heinous, the slurping sounds that echoes against your center.

Wrapping his lips around your clit, he brings a finger to your hole, poking in ever so slightly.

You gasp, knees buckling under the pressure as he sinks his digit in, getting to the knuckle and curving upward.

Your skin prickles as he reaches your special spot, punching cute little whines and whimpers out of you with each curl.

"Mikey, fuck," you whine, the white heat of your orgasm creeping into your belly.

You tighten around his finger, going limp as he adds another, the stretch intrusive and delicious.

"Mikey! Your fingers are so perfect," you whine, his lips continuing their assault on your clit.

He makes a strangled noise against it, the vibrations shooting through you, knees giving out completely at the intense pleasure.

His free hand holds you to the wall, a harsh grip where your thigh meets your ass, squeezing the plush skin a little extra.

You inhale, a sharp, painful breath as Robby rips your orgasm from you. You fall forward, propping your hand on his free shoulder as you grind your hips into his face.

Both hands grab your ass, pulling you further into him as he shakes his head, helping you ride out your orgasm.

Trails of fire ripple through you as you grind against your lover, shockwaves ebbing and flowing with his movements.

"Oh my God," you gasp, wiggling your hips ever so slightly as you finally come down, a shiver running through your burning skin. "Thank you Mikey, that was so fucking good."

He presses a kiss to your thigh before popping back up to eye level. He wastes no time maneuvering your body in the direction of the stream, dampening your cloth once again in order to wipe you down.

You shake in his arms as the fabric runs through your folds, your most sensitive spots. He shushes you, kisses you all the same.

Once you're both good and satiated, you eagerly climb into bed, gripping his hips as he slots over you.

His big hand smooths your hair out of your face, your lashes kissing your cheeks as you lean into his warm touch.

Opening your eyes, you find his shining back at you. Lips pursing, you press a sweet kiss to his palm, and he's unable to resist much longer.

He leans down, brushing your lips together, breath hitching in his throat as you savor the moment. Your tummy twists, near delirium from the proximity, heart pounding against your chest.

Picking your head up, you close the gap, meeting his lips with pure desperation. His tongue slots out almost immediately, a sloppy display of his affection.

Your lips catch his tongue, circling around the muscle and giving it a sweet suck. A moan escapes Robby's throat, a sound that reverberates through the apex of your thighs.

Grinding his hips into yours, you gasp at his hard length against your thigh. He echoes another moan, rocking his hips against yours, his bare cock rubbing against your showered skin.

With a few more thrusts, his cock slots through your folds, tip catching on your clit with each movement. Throwing your head back, you clench around nothing as you swirl your hips, desperate for any extra stimulation Robby was willing to give you.

"Love kissing my baby," he groans, his big hands nearly covering your entire face as he peppers sweet kisses to your lips, one after the other after the other.

"So pretty, lips look so cute when they're swollen," he murmurs against your mouth, pressing another bruising kiss into you. "All swollen from your old man, yeah?"

You nod, feeling hazy from his warmth, his cock just teasing your clit. You're leaking around him, feeling it drip down onto the sheets below you. Clenching again, and again, and again, you throw your head back, brows furrowed in a bratty whine.

"When are you gonna fuck me?" You plea, chasing his lips with yours. "Missed you so much, please."

It's nearly a sob, blood buzzing from his proximity, his woodsy aftershave flooding your sense.

The passion sparkles, crackles between you two, and he does not stop kissing you. Rolling his tongue over yours, he reaches down to grip his cock, squeezing it once, twice, letting out a low groan before lining it up with your entrance.

His tip pokes at your hole, a soft, 'ah!' leaving your lips at the intrusion. The stretch is sinful as he sinks in, your tummy flipping from the pressure of his thick length.

"Ooh, that's it, pretty girl," he coos, pressing his lips against yours. "That's my pretty girl, so good at taking cock, hm?"

You whine, kicking your legs out as he bottoms out inside of you.

"Yeah," he pouts, sardonic and a little condescending. "Yeah, I know, taking it so good. So pretty when you take all of me."

Pressing his lips to yours again, you whine as he starts to move his hips. His length throbs inside of you, big and heavy as it stretches you out, spreads you open all over him.

A clear string of saliva connects you two when he pulls away, finding the rhythm that sends your eyes to the back of your head. Your heart pounds with each thrust, nearly leaping out of your bones at the pleasure.

"Love you," you whine, spreading sloppy kisses all over his face. "Love you so much, love taking care of you."

He groans at your words, your lips dragging down his jaw, his neck, his collarbone.

"Fuck," he groans, planting his knees on the bed, throwing your legs over his shoulders, and picking up speed. "Perfect fucking pussy," he growls, bringing the pads of his fingers to your clit.

His rough skin slides over your button with the perfect friction, the coil in your belly winding tight.

"Ooh," he chuckles against your lips, pressing another kiss to them. "Y'liked that, huh? Like when I tell you how perfect this pussy is?"

You nod, gasping and licking into his mouth— a frenzy of lips and tongues rolling over each other.

"Yeah, 's my perfect girl, love you so much," he whispers, clenching his jaw as his rhythm grows sloppy.

"Love you, Mikey," you wail, stomach burning with your impending orgasm. "Love you, wanna cum, please?" You look up at him with wide eyes, pouty lips.

"Of course, baby," he croons, kissing your cheek. "Of course you can cum, my sweet girl. Come all on this cock, you can do it."

His encouragement snaps you in half, your orgasm rolling over you in tsunamic, fiery waves. Your blood is on fire as Robby works you out, his cock throbbing against your tight hole, squeezing his own release out of him.

"Fuuuuckk," he grunts, hips stuttering against yours as he rides out his high.

"So good, so good, it's so good, Mikey," you whisper, peppering his face with kisses. "Always so good, love this cock."

"Fuckkkk yes, baby," he growls, snapping his hips into you one, two, three more times. "Got you, I always got you, pretty girl."

"Love you, kiss me again, please," you request, and he slots his lazy lips over yours.

His hips slow, body falling into the bed. He pulls you with him, hand on the back of your head to keep your lips pressed to his.

You roll onto your side, wrapping your arms around him as he slips out of you. A shiver unzips your spine as you fall back into Robby, his hands rubbing circles up and down your back.

"Love you honey, feels so good, thank you, baby," he whispers. "Make me feel so good."

"Love you too, Mikey, so much," you whimper against his lips. "I love making you feel good, you deserve it, work so hard," you fiddle with his hair as you talk, lips grazing against his.

"Fuuucckk, you can't fucking say that to me," he groans, squeezing his eyes shut, cock twitching beneath you.

"Michael, really?" You gape, looking up in surprise at his body's reaction.

He chuckles, burying his face into your neck.

"Can't help it, pussy's too sweet," he jokes, pressing a kiss to your sweaty skin.

You choke out a laugh, smacking him on his bicep before leaning in for another kiss.

"You're insatiable, old man," you tease against his lips. "But I'm the one who's gonna need more time now. C'mon, hold my hand while I pee?" You ask with wide eyes.

Robby's never been able to resist you, so why start now?

[thechaoslibrarian]

Ugggggggggggggh, this MAN!!!! Need to kiss his face and love on him and build him a proper self-care routine POST HASTE.

[deerfawnn]

real or not real?

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: somehow pope ends up being your fake boyfriend content warnings: they fake date to get craig to stop flirting with you, mention of parties + alcohol and drugs, reader's mentioned to have soft hair + puts it in a ponytail, reader sits in pope's lap, some angst in the middle, kissing - lmk if i missed anything! a/n: by far my longest fic!! which is quite exciting to be honest and also very nerve wracking. also yes, i did include a bunch of references from my favorite pieces of media in this!! gif credits to @wesandresons!! <3 wc: 11k

♡ bambi!reader and pope cody

It was really an act of desperation.

You had in no way planned to ask Andrew Cody to be your fake boyfriend.

The party was loud as always, and you were stuck. Literally. Stuck beneath Craig Cody's arm as he watched some girls play games in the pool. And you were too polite to tell him to please, please get his heavy arm off your shoulder.

And you were warm. It was too hot outside, and you hadn't realized there was a party going on when you arrived, and when you did, Craig had already pulled you towards the crowd.

So here you were in your dress, warm and in desperate need of the Cody's house's chilly air conditioning.

You let out a quiet huff, feeling more and more exhausted by the second, and failed to notice Pope walking up to the two of you, tapping Craig on the shoulder.

He would've resorted for a shove though he worried that shoving Craig would drag you down with him. His younger brother looked over his shoulder and his face fell, promptly lifting his arm off your shoulder with an annoyed sigh.

Pope watched you glance up at Craig, confused but relieved at the same time, rolling your shoulders.

You finally turned, following Craig's gaze, until it landed on Pope. "Andrew!" you sounded so excited and Craig rolled his eyes at the sound.

Pope wasn't sure how anyone could be annoyed upon hearing your sweet voice, but then again he knew he was always the reason for it. He never had to wonder what it would be like to be on the other end of it.

He held out his hand and for a second he cursed himself, What if you didn't want to leave Craig's side? But it took you exactly two seconds to put your soft hand in his and let him drag you away from the loud party.

Over your shoulder, you managed to say goodbye to Craig just in time before you were out of reach. Pope suppressed a smile, knowing it wasn't exactly politeness to his younger brother but rather a stab to an already existing wound.

He tugged you into the house, your flip-flops producing wet noises on the floor as you continued to trail behind him towards his room. He shut the door behind him, blocking out the noise, and you let out a relieved sigh.

"Thank you." You gave him a smile, brushing a hand over your dress, getting rid of imaginary dirt, before taking a seat on his soft bed.

"You should tell Craig you don't like him touching you," he said quietly, still standing in front of you, arms crossed.

"Don't wanna be rude." You toyed with the soft fabric of your brown dress.

Pope's eyes lingered on your legs for a second, before getting a hold of himself, finally deciding to take a seat on the other side of the bed.

"S'not rude to tell him that you don't want him to touch you." Pope shot you a look. One you purposefully avoided as you straightened your back against his headboard, settling comfortably against it.

"To you." you mumbled.

"To everyone," he corrected, eyebrows furrowed, irritated almost.

You finally met his hazel eyes, and he stared back at you, still holding the same annoyed expression. It wasn't the first time he'd told you to tell Craig to back off.

You lowered your gaze. "I'll try to tell him next time."

Key word try.

Pope prayed there wouldn't be a next time, because the sight of you and Craig this close, upset him in ways he didn't think was possible.

You both sat shoulder to shoulder, staring at nothing before you turned to look at him. "Does it—does it seem weird that I let Craig just… flirt with me?"

You've had this fear for a while, worried that everyone would think you were torn between two brothers, that you were playing with both of them. You had seen the looks Deran shot you sometimes, like he knew you were pining hard after his older brother, and you feared that he thought you were stringing Craig along.

In reality, you just…hated saying no.

Pope looked at you, tilting his head lightly as if to figure out what you were thinking. "No. Do you like it?"

He couldn't help but ask. He needed to know if you did. Because god knows his fingers have been itching to get you a flower bouquet these past weeks. Every time he walked past the flower shop at the beach, he resisted the urge to get one. But the idea always faded when he saw Craig flirting with you. Pope would be quick to crumble, shaking his head and getting rid of the fantasy where you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek as you took the flower bouquet. Maybe you really did just want Craig.

"No—no." How could you tell him that you tolerated Craig's absurd flirting because it made you feel less alone? You knew how desperate that sounded.

But the teasing made you feel like there was actually someone out there who thought of you pretty enough to pine after. Even if Craig's idea of pining wasn't exactly to your taste.

"I don't like it." You concluded after a long silence, crossing your legs beneath you as you stared at his white wall in front of you. "I guess I just—I let him, because I worry that if I won't, I can't come over anymore."

Yeah, you were that lonely. Besides being unable to say no to anyone, you also couldn't bear not having to do anything all day besides your job.

Pope watched your profile, the way your lips curled in embarrassment, and how you were rubbing a finger over your heart necklace. "Yes, you can." he appeared sincerely perplexed, not comprehending how you'd gotten to that conclusion. "I'd invite you."

You turned your head and your heart fluttered at his earnest expression. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Pope replied quietly, watching you try and cover your smile by looking down at his blue bed sheets. "Will you tell him to shut his damn mouth then?"

You raised your eyebrow, turning to him, clearly caught off guard by how he just phrased the question, not fond of it. "Will you tell him to—stop talking to you like that?"

"Uh—I'll try." You leaned your head back further against the headboard staring up, avoiding his eyes again.

"You won't," Pope stated, sounding disappointed and almost hurt.

Did you not trust him to keep inviting you over? He would, he really would.

You continued to stare at his plain ceiling. "I don't think he'll back off unless I—I don't know get a boyfriend or something and even that wouldn't stop him," you replied quietly.

"I can make him stop."

"I appreciate that, but—it's fine, I'll just deal with it."

Pope shook his head. "I can make him stop if you tell him you have a boyfriend."

"I don't have a boyfriend," you said, confused, now finally meeting his eyes.

Pope's lips twitched. "You can lie."

You shook your head. "He won't believe me."

"Why not? You're—You're nice and—and really pretty." He gestured with his hand in the air before placing it back in his lap, timidness setting in. He kept staring at his entangled hands in his lap, even as you raised your head to look at him. "He'll believe you," he added quietly.

Really pretty.

You opened your mouth before closing it, but then you shook your head. Again. "No, he would want to meet the guy, and then he'll realize I don't have anyone, and it'll just be this huge embarrassing thing and—"

"Just tell him I'm the boyfriend."

Pope doesn't know what came over him to say such a thing, to propose the idea of being your fake boyfriend. He really, really didn't.

Even you had sat up now, mouth agape as you just…stared. "Craig would get really mad" was all that managed to come out of your mouth.

Pope tilted his head, an arrogant expression taking over. "I can deal with him." 

His way of saying that if he causes his any trouble, he would beat him up. Pretty easy to understand.

You stared, and then the answer came out easy, had been ready on your tongue the moment he asked. "Okay."

Pope stared at you, repeating the word. "Okay."

The two of you stared at each other for a while, each one of you more shocked about what was happening than the other. 

And then he quickly got off the bed, boots thudding loudly on the wooden floor. "Do you—do you want anything to eat?"

And before you could reply, he was already answering the question himself. "I'll get you water. It's hot and you haven't had a sip of water all day."

Right, so he had been watching you earlier.

Then he was gone, out the door and in the kitchen You were left there, staring at the door with your wide mouth open.

Andrew Cody was your fake boyfriend. 

Though you hadn't discussed specifics, the idea of it warmed your heart so much that a disbelieved giggle just stumbled out from your throat. He had called you pretty.

Andrew Cody had said you were really pretty and proposed the idea of being your fake boyfriend.

When he came back, he was holding a glass. One glass of water and you wanted to laugh. You weren't' sure if it was obvious to him that you knew he had to calm himself down and that's why he spent five minutes getting you water from a kitchen that was two feet away from his door.

"It's clean. I cleaned it." he mumbled, pointing at the glass with his free hand and you took it, purposely brushing your pinky finger against his. 

"Thank you." You took a sip, though you weren't thirsty whatsoever, but he seemed to be content watching you drink and so you drank the entire thing in one go, hoping that'll make him even happier.

His eyes rested on you, as he rounded the back, taking a seat in his earlier spot. He placed his hands in his lap, posture straight, as if suddenly everything was different since he'd stepped through the door a minute ago.

"We should discuss details so—so it's not obvious it's a lie." you said quietly, having had enough time to think about it. You set the glass on his night stand, careful not to leave too much of a rim on the wooden stand. "And we're going to have to put on an… act too."

Pope nodded, still looking down at his hands, remaining silent, so you took the lead. Again. "We can just—just say that you asked me out on a first date. To a restaurant maybe. A few weeks ago." 

Was it that easy to ask you out? Should he have done that a long time ago? If he would have asked you out on a restaurant date would you have now been his actual real girlfriend?

"The restaurant at the beach. Your favorite." he said, meeting your surprised eyes. "Craig doesn't know your favorite restaurant."

He held your stare. See i know you better than him. He wanted to prove to you that he was better at than his younger brother, better at knowing you. That there's a reason you agreed to let him be your fake boyfriend and not Craig.

"I don't think Craig knows anything about me." you grimaced lightly, leaning forward and taking your flips flops off, peering over the beds edge as you dropped them on the ground. You scooted then closer, to Pope, facing him this time until your crossed legs were nudging his thighs. 

Pope scoffed at that. "Craig doesn't know about anything but himself." Reminding you that was his fault not yours. You were plenty interesting. Craig was just a jerk.

"I asked you to be my—girlfriend after our third date. Ice cream date," Pope knew you had had plenty of those, though you never dubbed them as dates. It was a believable lie.

You nodded, shooting him a small smile, as if telling him good job. "Right. okay. Think that's all right?"

You both knew it wasn't all. It was as just the question of who was going to ask about it.

"I—yes that's all." It definitely wasn't Pope and so you looked up from your lap, spotting his red ears in a second.

Your eyes wandered off to the window, heart still racing as you thought about what a crazy idea this all was, and how much, how desperately you still craved it. Your hands were practically itching to start the lie, to get your hands on Pope, to have him touch you like you were someone he loved. 

"I think we should act like a couple in front of Craig." You murmured, eyes still lingering on the tree outside his window. 

"How?" Pope watched you, feeling safe enough to watch your pretty face, noting your distraction.

"I don't know." you shrugged, slightly embarrassed, clearly. "How do couples act?"

Neither of you knew. Inexperience evident in the both of you.

"They—touch each other?" Pope proposed and you giggled. "Yeah I guess so." 

"I don't know how couples act." his tone turning defensive as he scratched the back of his neck nervously.

You giggled, nudging his thigh with your knee."Just put your arms around me when we sit on the couch or something or hold my hand."

Pope nodded. "I can do that."

Neither of you mentioned how you've already been doing this, acting like a couple, going on dates, being in love.

"Seems like i can finally get rid of Craig."

We. Pope wished to say, but he just gave you a small nod.

It wasn't until days later that your made-up lie came into handy.

You were in the kitchen, looking at the options of cereal Pope was holding out for you. "How sweet is that one?"

"Sweet. Makes my teeth hurt." He tilted his head, looking at the yellow cereal in thought. "Though you have a sweet tooth, so you might like it."

"I'll take that one then," You leaned your chin in your palm as you watched him pick out the red cereal for himself, measuring it carefully.

You tapped your fingers on the counter, turning in your chair lightly, eyes still resting on the eldest Cody boy. You liked watching him in the morning. Sometimes you came over early on purpose, knowing no one was awake during the early hours. You always got to have breakfast with him alone.

Craig's loud groan was heard throughout the entire house and both you and Pope's heads snapped up, forming the exact same disappointed expression.

There goes the quiet.

Pope frowned, turning to grab two spoons from the cupboard. He should've just taken you to a diner this morning.

But he had been so excited to discover that his mother wasn't home, and he hadn't even hesitated to invite you over. This was his home, Smurf or not, and sometimes he liked to share it with you.

"Hey!" Craig grinned, sounding happy upon spotting you until his brother came into view.

Pope pushed your cereal bowl towards you, holding Craig's stare, and stood next to your seat, promptly stopping his younger brother from hugging you.

You replied with a small "Hi," unsure of what to do with the tension between them.

The two brothers stared at each other for a while, until Craig let out a frustrated scoff, holding out both palms as he backed off, opting to grab a drink from the fridge instead.

You pretended to not have seen the entire thing and looked down at your cereal, taking your first bite. "Sweet! I like it."

Pope suppressed a smile by taking a bite from his own cereal, eyes still lingering on Craig. The tall man now stood up, holding a water bottle as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, letting out a loud moan.

"I never get used to hangovers," he groaned, eyes watching you take a bite from your bowl. "Where were you yesterday? Had this huge party going on. Was really damn good."

And then he waited, like he'd actually wanted an answer as to why you didn't come to hang out with his drunk and high-as-kite friends.

"Oh sorry." You gave him a small smile, deciding to just apologize, because it was always the easiest way to get Craig off your back. "I hope you had fun though."

And he took it as a sign to start talking, telling you about all the crazy things that happened that you, quite frankly, had no interest in.

Meanwhile Pope was seething. Had he forced you to apologize for not attending a party? Had Craig never realized that you didn't like them? How did he not pay attention to you?

Eventually, Craig wandered from the counter to where your seat was, hips touching the counter. Pope watched you straighten up, giving the younger Cody an uncomfortable smile. Your spoon abandoned in the bowl, the dish still full of the sweet grain.

Pope set his own spoon back in the bowl, glaring at Craig. But his younger brother failed to notice him or your weak smile, as you tiredly nodded over and over again, having not said a single word in the past five minutes.

Pope slowly rose from his seat, bowl in hand, missing your helpless looks. He cleaned his bowl carefully, setting it in the dishwasher alongside his spoon and then leaned his hands on the counter, listening to his brother as he went on and on about how he had leaped off the roof and into the pool.

Pope swiftly turned around, feeling the anger rise up in him and interrupted his brother mid-sentence.

"We have a date to get to." He reached for your hand, tugging you off the chair, and you hopped down, staring at Pope in the same incredulous manner his brother was.

"You have a date?" Craig spat out, bewilderment flickering in his eyes.

"Yes." Pope pulled you even further away from his brother, until you were practically concealed behind him. "Clean that up." he pointed at the two cereal bowls with his free hand, before pulling you towards the sliding doors.

Neither of you said a single word as he tugged you towards his car, but your smile spoke a hundred words.

Pope opened the car door, like the gentleman he tried so hard to be and waited for you to set foot in the dark truck.

But you paused, smile so bright it felt like the sun was shining in his eyes and blinding him.

"Thank you for saving me back there," You squeezed his hands twice, fingers curling around his hands tight like you didn't want to let go.

"He was talking too much." Pope replied dryly, though his lips were quirking.

"Mhmm." you hummed, smiling as you took one long look at him, eyes shining with joy. With his help, you climbed into his car, settling on the plush cushions as you let go of his warm hand.

He paused, not yet closing the door, and tapped his fingers restlessly against the back of it. "Was—was that okay? What I just said to Craig?"

You smiled softly. "Yeah, it was great."

You sounded so thrilled that Pope let out a puff of relief, closing the door gently.

It wasn't until two days later, that you went over to the Codys again. It was a rainy day, and you didn't want to be alone at home, you never wanted to be alone at home, though somehow you always were.

Determined not to spend the afternoon sulking in front of the TV, you texted Pope asking if it'd be okay to come over and, just as you hoped, he had replied with a 'Yes'.

Pope was already waiting for you in the garage, hands in the middle of a toolbox.

You hopped into the garage, excited to see him as always. "Hi Andrew."

He pulled up a chair next to him wordlessly as he took you in. A frown formed on his lips. "You told me you were coming over in an hour. I would've picked you up." He tilted his head, watching the way your wet hair drenched your clothes.

’S'fine," you smiled. "I love the rain." already turning your back to Pope to watch it pour with a smile.

"Do you like the rain?" you asked right as he stood up behind you, dropping the utensils he'd just been gripping tightly a minute ago. His warm chest pressed up against your cold shoulder, warming you up. Maybe even intentionally.

"Sometimes," he watched the rain pour down on his car with pursed lips. "It cleans everything." he murmured after a while, looking back down at you and the way your hair was starting to curl around your face. "But it's wet."

It sounded like a five-year-old writing his first sentence in the first grade. He always sounded like this, but you never minded. You always liked what he had to say regardless of how he said it.

"It is wet," you mumbled, your eyes traveling from the torrent, down to your jeans and shirt.

A simple outfit really, though you'd tried to look just a little dressed up, hoping to grab Pope's attention. Although you knew deep down in your heart that you've always and always will have it. Your brown shirt was covered in white bunnies, and your jeans had hearts on all four pockets. It was a sweet outfit really. You'd been proud of it earlier, which was a rather rare occasion for you.

Pope was always surprised at how quickly you understood him. You knew he didn't have the vocabulary to tell you that he didn't like being caught in the rain, that he didn't like the feel of his clothes clinging to his skin or the danger of the water on the streets.

"You can have some of my clothes. You're going to get sick."

'M'fine," you mumbled, unconsciously leaning back lightly against his chest, eyes still lingering on the rain.

"Come on," Pope nudged your shoulder lightly, already turning on his heels and back into the house.

You followed without another word, knowing you couldn't deny him the kindness he was granting you, and he knew you too well to know that when you said 'I'm fine' it was your way of saying the exact opposite.

It wasn't until you finally had your shirt in Pope's laundry basket and his brown hoodie on that you encountered Craig in the hallway.

"A date and his hoodie?" he snickered, and you didn't bother with a reply. You kept walking, past him and into the living room where Pope was already waiting for you.

You hurried to take a seat next to the older Cody brother, and always one to follow orders, Pope had already laid out his arm around you and you dropped a bit further on the couch, and Pope's arm followed, hovering just above your shoulder. Looking up at him, you scooted closer, as if giving him permission to close the space fully, and he did. His heavy arm draping around you like a blanket, warming you fully, more than the house air conditioning ever could.

It felt nothing like Craig's arm. No, Pope watched your expression carefully, brushing his thumb over your upper arm, trying to warm you as much as he could.

He was distracted by your shivering form, when he heard Craig approach the living room, and he couldn't help but relish the way Craig paused his steps, watching the two of you with a mortified expression.

"You two seriously dating?" he snarled, the question more so directed at his brother. He was in sheer disbelief that Pope had gotten the girl he had been pining after for god knows how long.

"Yeah."

Craig let out a scoff. "There's no way." he sauntered down the stairs to the living room, blocking the TV and your view. "You seriously with that guy?"

As if Pope was a stranger.

You frowned, now finally getting your voice back. "Yeah, I am." It wasn't as brave as you wanted it to sound, but at least you had said something.

Craig let out a laugh. "Jesus, I can never win in this house." and if Deran hadn't walked in and gotten Craig distracted, you were sure you would've exploded under his livid stare. Had it been from embarrassment or sheer anger, you weren't sure.

While Craig loudly complained and Deran shot you stunned looks, you turned your head to Pope. "Don't think he believes us," you mumbled, careful not to let younger Codys hear you.

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled back, just as quietly as he glanced back at Craig.

As long as the two of you kept it up, he would have to believe you.

But your troubled expression remained, and you glanced over at Craig, clearly just wishing for him to leave. You looked back at Pope, a hesitant expression flashing across your face.

"If you need to make it believable, you—you can."

He lifted an eyebrow, not even glancing over when he heard Deran laugh at one of Craig's displeased comments. "What does that mean?"

"Like—like if you need to kiss me for him to believe us, that's —that's fine." you faltered, now realizing what you had said.

Pope stared at you. Kiss you?

A hundred things went through his mind and he couldn't help the way his eyes wandered down to your lips. Somehow your lip gloss was still shimmering, despite the rain. He looked up again, meeting your big eyes and fear was holding them tight.

You had said too much.

He realized then that you hadn't really meant to say that out loud. He had cornered you by asking what you meant exactly. You figured he knew what the word believable meant, like he was supposed to know that meant kissing you.

"No." Pope shook his head, forcing his eyes from your pouting expression and back to the TV. "Not like this."

You froze, the hand that had been curled around one of the hoodie sleeves loosening. You stared at him for a while, and he didn't move. His eyes remained on the moving screen in front of him.

Stiffly, you turned your body back to the TV, Pope's arm around you now feeling like a rope, choking you.

He didn't want to kiss you.

"Okay." You whispered, hiding your glistening eyes by staring holes into the wall, not even following the show.

The rejection felt like a punch to the gut. You pulled your knees up slowly, moving, so his arm wasn't as surrounded as it was before. You didn't have it in you to think about what not like this meant. All you heard was the clear and loud no. The quick and easy no. Like kissing you was this crazy horrible thing to do.

You suddenly felt uneasy in his hoodie, too warm, too hot, too nauseous.

Maybe you had forced him into this whole fake boyfriend thing. Maybe he just wanted to be a good friend and help you out. This probably meant nothing to him, and you had made it out to be this huge big thing in your head. You felt your stomach turn as the embarrassment set in, humiliation coursing through your veins.

Oh my god, you'd just asked Andrew Cody to kiss you and he'd said no.

You hid your lower face in the hoodie, despite yourself, biting hard on your lip until you felt it bleed. You barely took notice of the way Deran asked Pope questions. You weren't even fully present, sick with humiliation as you missed Pope stuttering the answers out.

It seemed like Deran was happy for you or, so you guessed by the small smile he shot in your direction.

The moment the two boys were out, announcing their goodbye by Craig's loud stomping, followed by his complaints, you stood up quickly, your legs shaky.

"Rains gone. I'm—I'm going home," you mumbled, not looking at the startled man. You walked up the stairs to his room in a hurry, heading for your bag. You just wanted out of the house.

It didn't even take Pope five seconds before he was up from the couch and following you. "Why? It's still wet outside. Your shoes are going to get wet."

He knew you really cared about your ballet flats. He had been surprised to see you come over in them, not realizing you had worn them for him ever since he had timidly complimented them once.

You shook your head, finally spotting your bag. You grabbed it off the hooks and swung it over your shoulder, still not looking at him. "I'll see you around Andrew."

But Pope wasn't one easy to shake off. "I'll drive you."

You didn't reply, already sliding the doors open and stepping onto the wet pavement, flats hitting the concrete hard, almost hurting your sole.

But your escape was cut short, as Pope grabbed your upper arm, gently turning you around to face him. "Why are you upset?"

"I'm not upset." You raised your chin, as if to say here see? I'm fine.

He tilted his head. "Yeah, you are." His thumb lifted to your face, gently grazing the skin below your eye. "Your eyelashes are wet." His brows drew together. "Did Craig make you sad? Do you want to stop lying?"

Wrong damn thing to ask.

You shot him a look, and it was the closest Pope would ever receive to an angry look from you. Yet it was mixed with too much vulnerability and hurt for him to consider the anger. All he saw was the pain.

"I'm going home. Alone."

Of course Pope couldn't stay away from you.

You had left in a hurry, and you had been sad. And he didn't fix it.

So he hurried to take care of the shirt you had left behind, putting it in the laundry and two hours later he was knocking at your door.

You seemed even more sad than before, when you opened the door. Eyes rimmed red as you stared at him. "Andrew," and his name didn't sound as sweet coming from your pretty lips as it usually did.

Pope felt his stomach turn.

"I washed your—your shirt and thought you might need it." He held out the meticulously folded shirt. You stared at it, before taking it out of his hand quickly, as if you wanted to close the door as soon as you could.

"Thank you," You replied quietly, still holding the door like he wasn't allowed to come in yet, and Pope felt his skin crawl as he waited for the typical invitation.

You always invited him in.

"I'll get you your hoodie. Give me a minute." And then you were gone. The door opened half an inch, but no invitation.

Two hours and you had already taken his hoodie off.

Pope pushed the door open, walked in and closed it behind him. Quickly taking off his shoes, setting them down carefully by the door. He marched towards your bathroom, where he heard you mutter curses under your breath over the slow washing machine.

The washing machine still had an hour left.

So you had worn his hoodie at least for a while.

"What did I do?"

"Andrew!" you called out, turning around in panic, the fear quickly evaporating from your face when you realized it was him.

"Did I say something wrong? Did I make you sad? Was it what I said to Deran? If you don't want to do the —the lying thing anymore, that's —that's okay." He was wringing his hands nervously in front of him,

And you realized with a jolt that he was terrified you didn't want him anymore.

You lowered your gaze to his hands, watching the movement, and any other time you would have reached for his hands, stopped him from digging his nails into his skin. But you didn't want to touch him, the earlier rejection still echoing in your head.

You looked away. "Everything's okay, Andrew," you replied quietly, moving past him so you wouldn't have to see his heartbroken expression anymore.

He swiftly turned around, reached for your hand and spun you around, until you were facing him. "Stop saying that. You've been lying to me since—since earlier—just — just tell me what i did wrong, so I can fix it." He was scared, petrified that you were going to leave him. "I'll fix it. Whatever it is, I'll fix it."

And God did you hate seeing his eyes glisten and his expression this grief-stricken. He was biting the insides of his cheeks so hard you worried he was bleeding, but still, he was unable to hide the shaking in his bottom lip.

Maybe pride wasn't as important as you thought.

"You said you didn't want to kiss me and—and that's fine, but you'll have to give me a minute to not be—hurt about it." You blurted out, nibbling on your bottom lip in frustration. You sounded like a petulant thirteen-year-old girl and even worse than that, you felt like one.

Your words hit him like a slap to the face. "I didn't mean it like that."

"It's fine really," you managed a feeble smile, though your eyes remained wet. "I know I came off—" You weren't sure how to phrase it. Direct? Clingy? Desperate? You looked away instead, deciding not to continue your weak defense.

Pope watched the shimmer in your eyes, the way you were holding on for dear life to hold back the tears that oh so desperately wanted to roll down your cheeks.

Why not be honest? Why not put everything on the line? As long as you stopped sniffling and your chin stopped trembling from how hard you were trying to stay composed.

"I want to kiss you," he blurted, eyes flickering down to your lips, just begging for your teeth to stop sinking into the soft skin of your already too red lips. "I just—I don't want it to be—not real."

"You want to kiss me?" was all you heard as you blinked up at him with your glistening eyes.

"Yeah," Pope admitted in a low tone, relief flooding his veins when your tongue wet your lips, trying to get rid of the burn you had caused yourself.

So many thoughts swirled around in your head. Any other man and you would've thought he was lying, but Pope didn't lie to you. Ever. Sometimes he was brutally honest, something you and your chaotic kitchen had more than once been made aware of.

"Okay," you replied quietly, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that he'd said those words and that you weren't dreaming.

Your vocabulary had run out. You were sure your high school English teacher would be disheartened to know that, as of now, your vocabulary consisted of the same eight words. Andrew Cody said he wanted to kiss me.

"Are you still sad?" he asked nervously, tilting his head to catch your eyes.

You shook your head quickly, stepping closer, finally wringing his hands out of one another, clasping them in yours instead.

"No," you looked down, inspecting where on his palm he'd sunk his nails in and brushing gently over the mark, attempting to get rid of the burning pressure he had left behind. "I wasn't sad earlier, or maybe I was — I don't know. I just— your answer wasn't something I expected."

You didn't mean to admit that. To admit that you had been thinking about the fact that Andrew Cody might just like you, that you've indulged yourself so much in that fantasy that it almost became reality to you.

Pope's ears burned and even in the dark hallway you were able to see it.

You smiled softly, dropping his hands to spare him the humiliation of being put on the spot and having to answer in any way that would be revealing and vulnerable.

But he quickly reached back for you, except this time, his hands drifted upwards, to the sides of your neck. He placed his palms there, his thumbs brushing delicately across your cheekbone. "I'd like to kiss you—when the time is right."

You watched him wordlessly, and he waited, used to how much it took you to absorb information and accept that maybe the good things in your life are real and not a figment of your imagination.

"Yeah," you beamed, and your hands traveled up to hold onto his wrists, brushing tenderly across his racing pulse. "When is the right time?"

You couldn't help but ask, eyes already on his lips, and he loosened his hold around your face, pushing your hair behind your ears. "When Craig isn't bothering you anymore and when—when kissing counts as real."

Your cheek tilted into his palm, letting his hand engulf half of your face. Your eyes dropped to his chest, still recalibrating, trying to adjust to the words you just heard, unaware of Pope stepping closer until he closed the gap between you, pressing his lips to your forehead.

You froze, hands dropping from his wrists to his stomach. His lips were soft, and the kiss came so unexpected that you almost had to physically restrain yourself from letting out an incredulous giggle.

When his lips left your forehead, you looked at him, and he was already awaiting your reaction, unease in his eyes as he awaited your judgment.

"Is that a prelude of what's to come?" you whispered.

And his lips quirked up, his hands falling nervously away from your face, while your hands went to rest on his stomach, feeling his heartbeat racing there.

"Yeah," he breathed out, getting progressively more warm under your sweet touch and your even sweeter look. "I mean—if you liked it."

He had no idea if he was a good kisser. He hoped this had been nice enough for you.

"I liked it," you whispered quietly, watching the relief set in his face.

"Then yeah," 

Beach day with the Cody's wasn't something you had ever been invited to, not that you wanted to anyway. You had no interest in surfing and all the Cody brothers did was surf. But now that you were Pope's girlfriend, you forced yourself to go and Pope couldn't be happier.

You were sitting on a towel Pope had set out for you while Deran and Craig stood close to the water, holding their surfboards and discussing the waves.

Pope, meanwhile, was seated on the towel next to you, concerned that it might be too hot for you to wait and that you should just join him.

"No way," you shook your head, watching the waves crash onto the beach. You turned your head, shooting him an apologetic look. "Have fun though."

He frowned, more concerned about leaving you here alone than the fact that you didn't want to surf. "I'm staying here with you."

"No, you're not, Andrew," you smiled softly. "I want you to have fun."

Pope wasn't used to that. Allowed to have fun without having to give a piece of himself away. Smurf always tricked him, giving him an insincere smile, and telling him to do what he wanted. Later on, the punishment would come in the form of a horrible job or some nasty jab at him. He would never know.

He pursed his lips, searching your face for any duplicity. Things like this always reminded him how deep-rooted his mother was, made him wonder if she would ever leave him, or if he would just doubt every good thing for the rest of his life.

"Hey," You leaned in closer, until all he saw was your face and not his brothers quarreling in the background. "I'm waiting to watch you surf." You smiled softly, fingers toying with the fabric of your dress around your knees. "I'm sure you're better than those two."

His hazel eyes, with the sun now shining on him just green, continued to bore into yours, but he seemed to warm up to the idea of having you watch him and admire him. "I am," he mumbled, and your smile widened.

"Go on then." Your eyes sparkled as you watched him stand up, board in hand.

You were sure Pope was the one swimming the waves the fastest, though you couldn't be sure which one of them he actually was. You just hoped your eyes were following the right black bodysuit.

They didn't last long. Or well, Pope didn't. Coming back after at least thirty minutes, he set his board in the sand beside you, still catching his breath.

"You were great!" you smiled at him, and it shone brighter than the sun above you two.

"Thank you," he replied quietly, settling down on the blanket next to you.

You glanced at his wet suit. "Need help with the zipper?"

"No, it's fine," he mumbled, but you were already kneeling behind him, hands on the metal.

"Girlfriend duties," you mumbled.

"No one's here," he mumbled back, eyes glancing forward to where Craig and Deran were riding the waves with cheers.

"They could be watching. You never know." You unzipped the bodysuit, down to his waist. Pope hoped you couldn't see the goosebumps forming alongside the length of your touch.

You settled beside him again, watching him take the suit off until it was bunched up around his hips, bare chest now glistening in the sunshine.

"You didn't surf for long," you spoke again, mostly to have a conversation and not focus on the fact that he was next to you half naked.

"Told them I didn't want to leave my girlfriend alone for too long," he murmured and turned his head to catch your expression.

You lit up, nose and eyes crinkling with joy, though you hid the expression by turning your face away from him, eyes on the beach.

His eyes lingered on your profile, noting the way your teeth were biting into the soft plump flesh of your lips.

"Not putting on sunscreen is dangerous." he said slowly, now slowly noting the way your skin wasn't glistening like his or his brothers.

"I'll be fine. It's not that sunny anyway." You shot him a quick smile, your eyes wandering back to his younger brothers, who were now taking on a big wave, their yelling reaching you and every other person taking a stroll on the beach at 7am.

Pope turned, reaching for your bag, knowing you always came prepared. You had handed the sunscreen to Craig and Deran earlier, and asked Pope if he wanted help, but seemingly hadn't used it for yourself.

He found the small bottle quickly. "Turn around," he instructed, and you looked over your shoulder, confused, until you noticed the white bottle shining in his hands.

"I can apply it myself." you said quietly, even as you turned towards him, facing him.

He didn't reply but instead set the bottle aside, reaching for your wrist, where he pulled your hair tie off. You watched him wordlessly as he carefully reached for your hair, shortening the distance between you until he was able to tie your hair into a loose ponytail.

Your eyes swept over to his curls, watching the water trickle down to his neck. Your gaze lingered on the freckles covering his cheeks, wondering if you would ever get to count them.

Pope was so good at taking care of you that sometimes you felt emotion threatening to overwhelm you almost instantly.

The frown of concentration on his face remained as he set your hair tie in place, trying his best to remain careful as to not hurt you. When he was done, he carefully pushed your ponytail behind your shoulder and leaned back, picking up the sunscreen.

Applying it to his fingers, he finally looked up, meeting your eyes.

And the look in your eyes froze him in his tracks. It was so painfully obvious, even to him, that you were so very fond of him. He could see the sheer adoration in your eyes.

His eyes quickly darted away, focusing on squeezing out the cream onto his fingers. Meanwhile, your fingers were pulling at your necklace, twisting and turning it nervously, as you waited for him to touch your face.

He lifted his hand and finally started applying it, light brushes across your cheeks and forehead, careful to smear it proportionally.

"Thank you." you whispered quietly, your warm exhalation grazing his face.

You've never had anyone do this for you, or at least not since you were a child and eager to run back into the water. Now, you weren't eager to go anywhere.

You leaned in closer, your crossed legs brushing up against his thigh. You just wanted more, more of his big hands on you, more of his warmth engulfing you. You loved the feeling of them on your face, tenderly stroking the apple of your cheeks.

Pope took his time. On purpose.

He didn't want this small intimate moment to end. Even when he was done applying sunscreen to your face, he just moved on to your arms, deciding to drag this out as long as he could.

You giggled when he got to the inside of your elbow, making his lips quirk up. "Didn't know you were ticklish." he commented quietly, moving down to your fingers.

You eyed him with wary eyes. "Why does it matter?"

He shrugged, though there was an amused glint in his eyes that you caught, making you smile. "It doesn't."

The two of you were in your own little bubble taking no notice whatsoever of the two Codys approaching you, not until they were standing next to you and Pope noticed the shadow fallingover you.

He glanced up, a frown immediately forming on his lips, the lightness disappearing off his shoulders replaced with the heaviness of knowing that this moment was over. 

"Wow." Craig huffed. "So you weren't even watching?"

You glanced up, startled upon realizing that he was talking to you. "No, I did watch." You defended yourself weakly, not looking at Craig, instead resorting to watching Deran walk away and head towards the car.

Pope looked up and shot his brother a look. One that was fairly obvious in its meaning.

Craig stared at the two of you, watching the way you curled your fingers around Pope's hand, clearly nervous and the way Pope merely continued to apply the cream to your skin gently. You chewed your lips nervously under Craig's stare, growing more uncomfortable by the second and the younger Cody watched his brother take notice of it.

Pope glanced up. "Anything else?" he grunted, visibly irritated and on edge.

"Unbelievable," Craig muttered under his breath, taking a step back, fixing the weight of the board under his arm. "Good luck on however long this little thing will last between you. He's crazy," he pointed at Pope, clearly now directing his words at you. "You won't last long," And then he was walking away, quicker if you dared to say, as if he knew Pope wouldn't let him just say those words and walk off.

But you tightened your fingers around Pope's hand when you felt him loosen his hold. "He's stupid," you mumbled, scooting closer as you tapped a spot on your arm.

He wordlessly spread the cream on the spot, and you couldn't help but feel the heat of anger spread through your body, making you feel warmer than you already were.

Why couldn't anyone just let Pope be? Why did every single thing have to be ruined for him? Every time there was just one moment of peace, it was ripped away from him.

He didn't ask for much. Pope didn't ask for anything. Yet still he couldn't even get that. Even the things he had were taken away from him, torn down to nothing. Like Pope had always, since the day he was born, been undeserving of anything. And seemingly anything good that happened to him was already too much.

It seemed as though Andrew Cody was stripped to nothing, and he was meant to be okay with it. That nothing was all he was ever allowed to have.

Pope sealed the sun cream bottle, carefully making sure it was shut, before setting it back in your bag, listening to the rumbling of his brother's car as they drove off.

Your hands were left to fall into your lap, no warmth from Pope rushing through them anymore, keeping them alive, making you feel alive.

You stared at your spotless hands. Not a single smudge of white was on your skin. He always took care of you so perfectly. You felt your stomach turn as you watched him stare out into the ocean, posture straight, fingers twitching lightly against his swimsuit.

"Andrew," you said quietly, deciding being brave was more important than whatever shyness always crept up on you and ruined every sentence that lingered on your tongue.

He turned his head, giving you his full attention.

"I like you."

Pope's eyes darted away for a second before they snapped back up to yours, not properly registering what had just come out of your mouth.

"I'm waiting for you to kiss me. Not Craig," you added quietly.

Pope knew how terrifying this was for you, to say it so plainly, but he hadn't realized until now how much he had craved to hear those words come from your mouth, to have it finally confirmed.

Yet Pope wanted to tell you that his younger brother was right.

That you won't last long, that no one ever lasted long with him, that he always made a mistake. He always did something that ended up hurting the person that made the mistake of caring about him. He couldn't help but spill the words, just like you'd been vulnerable, he was too. The scorching hot sun above you seemingly burning holes in your hearts, forcing you to spill the words because they had no place in the organ to rest anymore.

"You won't last long," he said quietly. "He's—He's right. I'm not good for you."

You frowned. "You don't get to decide that."

Pope looked up at you, mirroring your troubled expression. "You don't want to be involved with me."

"Yes, I do," you retorted, and it was these clipped answers that were irritating him.

And he was about to open his mouth, about to counter your words, but you were already shaking your head. "Andrew," you said quietly. "We were having fun, before Craig decided to ruin everything."

You looked back to the ocean, thoughts drifting far away. "You were fine." You sounded genuinely hurt and Pope lifted his eyes in surprise, watching the emotion play out on your face. "I like you and that's enough for me."

You didn't turn your eyes back to his, fingers tapping restlessly on your necklace, pulling at it lightly.

He knew what you were asking.

Was you liking him enough for him? Would knowing that you liked him be enough for him to stop spiraling whenever his family decided to open their mouths and ruin whatever good he had going on?

"It's enough for me."

You turned your head, lips in a thin line as you stared at him, looking for the truth he usually held ready for you. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, holding your gaze, despite everything in him screaming to back off, that he was ruining you.

Perhaps for once in his life, Pope wanted to be selfish for himself, not selfish for his family, in which he took everything and anything from strangers and handed it to the people that raised him. No, selfish in which he took something and kept it for himself, far away from everyone else.

You were the first selfish thing he would have in his life.

Weeks passed.

Weeks in which you and Pope held up the deal. It took a while to get Craig to fully stop. It took hundreds of arguments between the two brothers, countless fake dates which you actually ended up going on, and even more miserable comments from Craig.

And one day, the long-awaited end of the deal happened. One day, the two of you walked into the house and Craig watched the two of you wordlessly, before taking his car keys and leaving. And that was it.

Nothing happened for a while after that.

It was merely clear that the fake boyfriend-girlfriend ordeal was over. The plan had been a success.

Nothing changed between you and maybe that had been the clearest sign of all, that the two of you were and had always been moving like a couple, that you two had been treating each other with the grace and love a significant other would.

Two days later, the two of you ended up in your apartment, finally. It had been a while, to keep up your act the two of you had been constantly staying at his house, trying to hurry up the process of getting rid of Craig.

Pope let out the biggest sigh of relief as he settled down on your couch, leaning his head against the back of it.

You set down a soda in front of him and plopped down next to him. "Can you hear that?"

Pope stayed silent, listening, but all he heard was the waves crashing against the shore and maybe your neighbors' music if he listened really closely. "No?"

"Exactly." you giggled. "No Craig!"

His lips curved upwards, and finally a real smile formed on his face. Your smile widened when you noticed the lightness in his shoulders, and you took it as a sign to scoot closer, until your shoulder was brushing up against his.

The TV was playing some random nature documentary, one you'd put on before he arrived, mostly to get him settled. It had been a while since he had come over, and you worried that he wouldn't feel as comfortable again. But there seemed to be no need to worry.

You lifted your knees onto the couch and without a word his hand drifted towards your thigh, resting there.

You bit your lip hard, as you stared down at his big hand. God, you craved his touch so badly. You turned your head, resting it against the couch as you watched him, not even bothering to hide your stare.

He seemed distracted, distracted by the peace he was finally getting and the TV. He hadn't had this much peace in so long, and it made him feel both tense and at ease at the same time.

You felt him squeeze your thigh every time a predator animal caught a prey one. You watched the way his lips lightly tugged down, an almost sorrowful expression forming on his face, yet he didn't look away from it.

After a while, you placed your socked feet under his thighs, and you observed the way he drew his lower lip between his teeth. His hand loosened his hold on your thigh, hovering above it as he stared down at your entangled position, but then he lowered his hand again, squeezing your flesh.

You spent so long watching him that, sooner or later, you started counting his freckles. You were on freckle twenty-one on his cheek, when he turned his head and caught your eyes, lightly startled. His head tipped back a bit to create some distance. He could feel his ears burning bright red.

"Will you stay tonight?" you whispered.

Pope nodded wordlessly. The first time the answer has ever come this easy, and relief coursed through your veins as your eyes crinkled happily.

Pope was sure, that despite the many and countless intimate moments you've had, this was by far the most intimate one, and he felt his fingers twitch nervously against his thigh. Your eyes drifted down immediately, as if you had known when and why the bashfulness would creep up on him.

"It's real now, right?" you whispered, as you straightened up, your feet leaving the warmth of his thighs.

He hesitated but then nodded, managing out a breathless "Yeah."

You lifted a finger up to your lips, biting the tip of your nail anxiously, before asking. "Can I sit in your lap?"

He quickly sat upright, and his hands landed beside his thighs on the couch now, still twitching nervously. You slowly set one knee on each side of his thighs, before sitting down, not hovering like last time. No, this time you took what you wanted.

Your hands came to rest on his chest, and you watched him just as nervously as he watched you. His heart was racing, and you wanted to say it was almost as fast as yours, but it appeared worse. You brushed your thumb over it, hoping it would be a comforting gesture.

Still, he was the more courageous one out of the two of you.

He lifted his hand, as he, rather clumsily, pushed away your hair from your face. And you couldn't help the way you leaned into the palm of his hand, squeezing it between your shoulder and cheek.

He was so warm and so nice, and really not many people were those things to you. You wanted to be in this little bubble —in his lap— forever.

You leaned forward just a bit, and his hands fell away immediately, gripping the plush of your couch, as if he was worried he was making you uncomfortable.

You shook your head and took them gently into yours, placing them on your waist. "There, that's good." you whispered.

Pope would've given you a quick twitch of his lips had it not been for the way his mind was racing. He was scared.

You leaned forward and Pope met you halfway through. Your foreheads pressed together, and your fingers curled tight into the fabric of his shirt. You tightened your hold, gripping the fabric, and Pope would've complained in any other situation, but right now all he could think about was you, and nothing else.

Your breath grazed his lips and he shut his eyes, trying to adapt to the fact that this was really happening, that you really wanted this. With him.

Your nose pressed up against his, and Pope opened his eyes, keen on watching you, seeing what you were feeling. Your eyes were closed, and you were pressing your teeth hard into your bottom lip, nibbling on it almost.

Pope raised his hand, dragging your bottom lip away from your teeth, taking a look at the bruised skin, before smoothing over the red spot with his thumb.

And then he closed the gap. He brushed his lips tentatively against yours, and you did the rest of it. You pressed your soft lips against his and let out a hum.

Your hands traveled up to his face, thumb brushing across the apples of his cheeks as you pulled him closer, until your chest was brushing up against his. He squeezed your waist in response, tilting his head to follow your movements. When you pulled back, he was breathing heavily, the rise and fall of his chest visible.

Despite the fact that this had been the most gentle kiss there ever could have been. The gentlest one he had ever received in his entire life.

Your eyes flickered across his face, clearly waiting for some response, some verbal response, but Pope didn't have one.

He lifted his hand to the back of your head, pulling you back down to him and pressed his lips against yours, again. This time, his lips captured yours properly, moving back against yours the way he had craved since the day he met you.

You wanted to smile, but the worry that you would ruin the moment, scare him off, worried you, so you tangled your hands in his curls, pulling him closer.

The grip in his hair, forced him to open his mouth and he felt the brush of your tongue against his before pulling back for air.

His eyes flickered across your face, hands brushing through your hair in disbelief. He held it gently, fingertips running through it as he stared at it. And then he breathed out the words you loved so much but never asked for. "You're so pretty."

He raised his head again and kissed you again.

He couldn't get enough of you. Your lips were so soft, and he hadn't felt soft in a while. His nose pressed up against your cheek, yet he still leaned it even more, his hand still on the back of your head as he pressed you even further down to him. His other hand remained loosely around your waist, careful to keep you in his lap.

Finally, you pulled back, and he followed your movement without a word, wanting more, more gentle kisses from you, more kindness from you.

But it was your turn to be breathing heavily now, and you pressed a hand against his chest. He fell back without a word, his hand dropping to your hips.

There was too much distance.

And so he pulled you forward by your hips, closing the distance between the two of you as much as he could without having your mouth pressed up against his.

He felt so out of it, so dazed as he looked up at you. You looked like an angel, lips soft and kiss bitten and smiling so brightly he wasn't so sure it was night anymore. He glanced down at his hands, palms up as he stared in incredulity.

You were still catching your breath, and you caught his hands the moment you noticed his spaced-out stare.

"This is nice," you whispered, interlocking his hands with yours, placing them into the small space between you.

And he felt himself shudder at how kind you were, how you decided to grace him out of all people with sweetness. Pope nodded sluggishly, and your lips curved into a smile. You looked down and your hair covered half of your face, as you peeked up at him from your eyelashes.

He gave you a small smile, yet the same dazed expression remained in his eyes. You didn't want to ask if he was okay, fearing it might trigger the exact opposite reaction of what you wanted.

So you just leaned in, pecking his lips lightly, smiling at how quickly he responded to the kiss. "Haven't kissed anyone in a while. Was—was that okay?"

By a while you meant the spin a bottle challenge in high school, but your embarrassing admission was worth it as long as you received some information about how he was feeling.

"Was good," he whispered, nose nudging against yours and his lips once again curved into a small smile. "You are good."

He meant the ambiguity of the sentence.

Not only were you the sweetest kisser ever, making him trace his lips with his tongue just so he could taste your vanilla lipstick again, but also good.

You were so incredibly good. Good to him.

He felt the realization of it hit him even more when your lips wandered to his cheek, pressing a gentle kiss there, before letting yourself fall into his arms. Your arms came up around his neck, and you tucked your face into the crook of his neck, your lips grazing the skin where his shoulder met his neck. His arm wrapped around you carefully and he closed his eyes, breathing you in, breathing in your vanilla scent, breathing in the scent of his home.

"So are you," you whispered.

He knew that you needed no conviction to believe that you were good. He knew that there were no great sins that you had committed, that you didn't hurt people.

But he did. He needed conviction to hear it, yet right now, hearing it from the kindest person he knew, the girl that personified goodness for him, hearing that you believed he was good, was seemingly enough for tonight.

Enough for him to believe that there was a chance of him being good.

[thechaoslibrarian]

*flips a table and does zoomies*

SO CUTE!!!! AHHHHHHH

[dearwalker]

mask on, fuck it, mask off | sex pollen

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader Word Count: 8.4k

Contains Brand New Day spoilers 🕸️

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. 

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

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

He suddenly felt the need to lick it off. 

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

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

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

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

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

Mating response. He stopped breathing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heat rose to your face once again. 

“What does that mean?” 

Don’t say anything, don’t–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hated it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wouldn’t hurt me–”

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

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

One second enough. 

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

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

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

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

Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too hard. 

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

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

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

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

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

“But my offer still stands, spidey.” 

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

Fucking hell. 

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

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

“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…” 

He wasn’t. 

“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”

For God’s sake. 

“I think I can help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wanted more.

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

“Sorry–”

“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder. 

He was burning.

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

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

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

“Breathe,” you reminded.

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

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

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

“Please.” Was all he said. 

Leave it on. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you need? More what?” 

“More contact.”

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

“Can I?” He whispered.

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

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

He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask. 

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

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

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

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

You weren’t wearing anything underneath. 

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

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

“Can–can I–?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not stopping, baby.” 

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

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

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

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

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

The plea undid you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly. 

You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.

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

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

“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”

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

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

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

Fuck her. Fuck her right now. 

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

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

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

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

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

He could feel it coming. The change. 

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

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

Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”

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

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

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

“What–what happened? I was about to–”

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

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

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

Good. 

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

His bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter…” 

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

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

God. He was never going back. 

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

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

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

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

“Need what?”

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

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

“Yeah?” 

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

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

But something made him stop. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What? What is–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence. 

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

“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered. 

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

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

“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets. 

That was your call back to reality. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least it got a chuckle from you too. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So young. So earnest. So yours. 

Not spidey anymore. Just Peter. 

Your Peter. 

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

Feedback is always appreciated 🕷️

Divider by @andromeda-graphics

Tags: @johnnyfuckingsexystorm @harryplzruinme @jellyfishjpeg @tatumrileyslover @kg0626

[thechaoslibrarian]

*r2d2 scream intensifies*

TURN THAT SHIT UP, BABYYYYYYYY

[spencereidluver]

UNCLE ROSSI'S DINNER PARTY ｡꩜˚⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆˚꩜｡

falling in love with one of your uncle dave's coworkers never seemed like something that would come up. that is, until it happened. ───────── ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ ───────── | key: | ❀ - fluff | ♡ - smut | ✩ - angst | reader's instagram :) total word count: 158,300

part 1: uncle rossi's dinner party ❀ | 3.3k part 2: the morning after ❀✩ | 1.3k part 3: monday ❀ | 2k part 4: spencer's birthday ❀✩ | 5.6k part 5: the phone call ❀ | 1.5k part 6: sticky situation ✩ | 3.5k part 7: pumpkin spice ❀ | 3.5k part 8: parks, planners, and purple ❀ | 3.8k part 9: routine ❀ | 3.4k part 10: uncle rossi's christmas party ❀ | 3.1k

part 11: realizations - rossi's pov ✩ | 2.4k part 12: permission ❀ | 1.5k part 13: sundays ❀ | 3.5k part 14: awkward. ❀ | 2.3k part 15: the smithsonian ❀ | 1.4k part 16: rain. ❀ | 3.4k part 17: georgetown ❀ | 3.4k part 18: planners (georgetown cont.) ❀ | 2.3k part 19: the next part ❀ | 2.8k part 20: a week ❀ | 3.6k

part 21: friday ❀ | 2.9k part 22: rossi's reprise - rossi's pov ❀ | 2k part 23: saturdays ❀♡ | 5k part 24: basic ✩❀ | 0.7k part 25: soft launch - spencer's pov ? | 1.8k part 26: trivia night ❀ | 3.4k part 27: birthday secrets ❀ | 3.8k part 28: ordinary ❀♡ | 7.2k part 29: making it home ❀♡ | 3.8k part 30: the second man ✩ | 11.2k

part 31: no apologies ❀✩ | 4.2k part 32: visiting hours ❀ | 7.2k part 33: lake day ❀ | 4.1k part 34: something nice ❀♡ | 7.6k part 35: the party ❀ | 5.9k part 36: is birthday sex a thing? - spencer's pov ❀♡ | 6.2k part 37: can i read to you? ❀✩ | 3.2k part 38: the bookstore ♡ | 3.2k part 39: someday ❀✩ | 6.7k part 40: uncle rossi's dinner party, again. ❀ | 6.2k

part 41: rossi's response ❀| 3.4k

[popecodysgirl]

Together | Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!ex-girlfriend!reader

Summary: Andrew broke up with you right before he was sent to Folsom State Prison. Over the past three years, you’ve found comfort in calling his number and talking to yourself. Unbeknownst to you, he has been released so when you call his phone one night while you’re having a mental breakdown, he runs to you. 

Warnings/tags: 18+, brief smut, minors do not interact, unprotected piv, premature ejaculation, crying, mental health issues, brief angst, OCD behaviour/compulsion, mental breakdown, protective Andrew, Season 1 Pope, mention of prison, established past relationship, mention of breakup, comfort, fluff, and no use of y/n

Word Count: 2,278

Author’s note: NOT PROOFREAD. I typed this out in one sitting. This is an incredibly self indulgent fic and I don’t think it’s good (i lowkey feel like this is ass) but fuck it we ball. To be honest, I’ve been really struggling mentally and I thought of how Andrew would comfort someone who has mental health issues. Sorry there isn’t really a proper ending for this fic. This was inspired by Season 2 Episode 10 of Girls. Also, I’ve been working on Chapter 2 of my series Devotion but I thought of this so I quickly wrote it out. Thanks for reading and I hope you guys enjoy it! 

Andrew stood in the backyard, shirtless with only his dark blue jeans and work gloves on as he swung his sledgehammer down onto the old brick fireplace. The brick fireplace was an eyesore in the backyard; Baz was supposed to get rid of it while Andrew was in prison.  It was half past midnight, everyone else in the Cody house was sleeping but like most nights, sleep had evaded him. 

Sweat beaded down his forehead and he grunted as he swung the sledgehammer again. The sound of sharp, heavy cracks and debris falling onto the grass with a thud were the only sound he could hear, aside from the occasional wailing sirens, which he turned around to look out for out of habit. Just as the sirens were passing and he was about to turn his attention back to the fireplace, he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. At first he was annoyed at someone interrupting his work until he read the caller id. 

It was you. 

A few days before Andrew was sentenced to six years at Folsom State Prison, he broke up with you when you were visiting him at the county jail. It broke his heart and hurt him more than he thought he was capable of hurting when he saw the look on your face. The utter heartbreak and shock as you processed his words. 

“I don’t want to see you again,” Andrew said, barely able to look you in the eye. 

Tears were already streaming down your face. Your first instinct was to blame yourself. You racked your brain trying to figure out what you had done wrong, analyzing the past few days you had spent with him. “I don’t- I just don’t understand what I did wrong,” you gasped, choking on your tears. 

He closed his eyes and turned away from you, blinking his own tears away. Every instinct he had was telling him to hold you, wipe your tears away and comfort you but he couldn’t. He needed it to hurt so you wouldn’t wait for him. “I don’t want to be with you. You need to forget me and move on. Even when I get out of prison, I don’t want to see you.” 

“Andrew, please, just tell me what I did wrong and I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it just please don’t leave me. Please, Andrew,” you sobbed, frantically reaching for his hands from across the round table.  

His jaw muscle clenched and it took every ounce of strength he had to push your hands away from him. It killed him to see you crying and breaking down like this, even more so because he was the reason for your pain. 

Right from the start of your relationship, Andrew knew that he wasn’t good enough for you but he had tried so hard to prove himself otherwise, not just to you and everyone else, but also to himself. He stopped doing risky jobs where there were high chances of getting caught, all the jewelry he bought you was with clean money, and he distanced himself from Smurf to protect you. But all of his efforts turned out to be in vain when he got caught robbing a bank. 

“Just stay away from me,” Andrew said, his voice was hoarse and gruff as he stood up. Without looking back out of fear that he would crumble under your tearful gaze and run to you, he walked out of the county jail visiting area. 

It was the hardest decision he had ever made, letting you- the person he loved more than anyone or anything else in the world go, but it was because he loved you so much that he made the decision. He didn’t want you wasting the rest of your precious vibrant life waiting for him. You were too smart, ambitious, and capable to tie yourself to some convict.

Without giving it a second thought, Andrew answered your call. “Hello?” 

“Andrew? What- wh- when did you get out of prison?” you stuttered. Your eyes were wide with surprise and shock as you stared at him on the screen. You blinked a few times, making sure it was really him. 

“Yesterday,” he answered quickly, more concerned about you. His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the screen, taking in your tear stained cheeks and puffy eyes. “Why are you crying?” 

It took you a few seconds to answer. You were still in shock that he was out of prison and captivated by his shirtless image on your screen. His hair was shorter, trimmed into a neat buzzcut that showed off his cute ears.  “I’m not crying-”

“Why are you calling me?” To anyone else, his tone would’ve sounded impatient, but it was actually out of concern. He wanted to understand what was wrong so he could fix it for you. “I had two hundred and eighteen missed calls from you.”

“Oh well at first, I called you out of habit- even after the breakup, whenever something happened, I wanted to tell you. But you never answered- obviously because you were in prison. Even though you couldn’t answer, I just started calling you whenever I needed to talk-” halfway through your barely coherent rambling, you scratched the outer corner of your eye three times, then another three, and a final set of three. 

Andrew caught it immediately. During your relationship, he had grown accustomed to identifying your habits and compulsions. “What was that?” 

“What was what?” your voice went high pitched, an obvious tell that you were lying. 

“You scratched your eye three times.” 

“What eye?” you shrugged as you sunk down into your bed. 

Andrew said your name in a low voice, the exact tone that had you doing whatever he told you to do. 

“No I didn’t,” you shook your head. 

“Yes, you did. I can see you, kid. I thought you were done with that.”

You blinked back tears as you stared into the screen, trying to be strong. “So did I,” you whimpered, your voice breaking. 

“What happened?” Andrew asked, his voice and expression softening. 

“I’m really scared, Andy-”

His heart skipped a beat when he heard you call him by his nickname, something only you could call him. 

“It’s like everything is falling apart. I can’t afford my rent, my boss is driving me crazy, and I just…I feel like I can’t do anything right.” You couldn’t fight the tears anymore, they began streaming down your face. You felt so overwhelmed, not just from the mental breakdown you were having but also from the fact Andrew was speaking to you. Everyone else in your life hadn’t noticed how you were unravelling but with Andrew, he caught it within seconds. That was the beauty of your relationship with him, he saw you, truly saw you in a way you had never been seen before and not in spite of it, but because of it, he had loved you. 

“Are you at home?”

“Yes,” you nodded. 

“Stay there. I’m coming to you,” he said. He threw the sledgehammer across the grass and started running. 

Shirtless and without shoes, Andrew ran through the pitch black streets of Oceanside with his phone held out in front of him so you could see him. 

“You really don’t have to do this,” you sniffled, clutching your blanket up towards your chin. 

“Just keep looking at me. I’m almost there,” he said, breathing heavily. The sweat on his body glistened under the pale moonlight as he reached your building and ran up the stairs towards your door. 

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you shook your head. 

“Open the door,” he said, his tone firm but gentle because he could never be rough with you. 

“No, I’m scared!” You pulled the covers over your head and hid in the safety of the darkness. 

The next thing you heard was a loud crash and the sound of your door swinging open. Then the sound of heavy footsteps and breathing approaching your bedroom. You could already smell him, his sweat and natural musk that matched his t-shirt that you were wearing. 

Andrew gently pulled down the covers, revealing your shivering body covered only in his old t-shirt. You looked up at him with wide eyes, unafraid to blink out of fear that you were dreaming and if it was a dream, it was one you never wanted to wake up from. After all this time, Andrew was here. You called and he came. 

“You’re here,” you whispered softly, your voice hoarse from all the crying you had done. 

A part of you felt embarrassed. This was the first time Andrew was seeing you in three years. You wished that you had undergone a post breakup glow-up or at least washed your hair but the second you looked up at him, all those thoughts went away. This was the real you, the you Andrew had fallen in love with, mental crises and all. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes for anything but pure love and adoration. 

“I was always here,” he replied as if it was the most obvious thing. To him, it was obvious, he had always been there and always would be there for you. 

Andrew reached down and effortlessly lifted you up, carrying you in his big strong arms in a bridal carry. He fought back tears as he held you in his arms. He leaned his head on your shoulder so he was facing towards you, not away from you, which was something he only ever did with you. Your arms wrapped around his tightly, you never wanted to let go of him. He melted into your touch, closing his eyes as he breathed in your scent and felt your soft skin. It had been so long since someone held him and longer still since he wanted it. 

“It’s okay. You’re safe now,” he said, pressing his face against your hair. 

“I missed you so much,” you sighed, pulling away from him slightly so you could look at his face. Your fingertips gently traced the freckles on his face before moving down to his broad chest. 

Andrew leaned in and kissed you. A low groan escaped his lips as he savoured your soft lips and sweetness. “I love you” he said breathlessly, pulling away from the kiss to look into your eyes. One kiss and he was hard already, pre-cum leaking through his jeans, leaving a dark spot at his crotch. 

“I love you too, Andy.” 

He gently placed you down onto the bed and climbed on top of you. “I’m gonna take care of you and everything’s gonna be okay.” 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as he started kissing you. His hands were moving across your body, gripping at every inch of skin he could find, desperate to feel you everywhere. You felt his coarse hands across your soft skin, squeezing your tits, your hips, and your ass. His cock was straining in his jeans and you could feel his hard length grinding against your aching pussy. 

“I need you inside me,” you whined. You arched your back, pushing your hips into him. 

Andrew quickly pulled his jeans down and took out his big cock. Tears formed in his hazel eyes as soon as he pushed his cock into you. It had been so long since he had you like this. He couldn’t believe you were really here and that you still loved him. “I love you so much,” he groaned, his voice breaking as tears fell down his face. 

“I love you, Andy.” Your back arched as you felt the full length of his cock stretching you out. Your nails dug into his chiseled chest, leaving your mark on him as you kissed his neck. 

He closed his eyes, fighting back the urge to cum right then and there as your nails scratched him. You felt so good, your warm and wet pussy squeezing around his cock. All those pretty sounds you were making just for him. His hands were resting on the bed against either side of your head, his big arms caging you in as he thrust into your wet pussy. He was mesmerized at the sight of you below him. Fully naked, tits bouncing up and down with each thrust, and your pretty eyes staring up at him. The soft squelch of every thrust, your loud moans, and his soft whimpers filled your dark bedroom. 

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Feels too good,” he whimpered, dropping his head down onto your chest as his thrusts became erratic, pathetically trying to fuck into you as hard as he could. 

“Cum for me, Andy. I want you to fill me up,” you moaned, encouraging him by squeezing your pussy around him. 

That was all he needed to go over the edge. His cock twitched inside of you before spilled his load into you. “Yeah yeah yeah. Fuck,” he moaned as he collapsed on top of you. You felt his warm cum fill you up and leak out, dripping down your thighs and onto the bedsheets.

“I missed you so much. Missed being your girl,” you sighed as you kissed him softly on the cheek. His cock was now soft but still inside you. He didn’t feel ready to pull out and you didn’t want him to. 

“You’ve always been my girl,” Andrew said, pulling you closer to him. He kissed you on the forehead, cradling your head in his big hands and whispering sweet words to you, lulling you into peaceful sleep. 

My main masterlist

Dividers by @strangergraphics and gif by @ozarkthedog

[thechaoslibrarian]

Mmmmmmmmhmm. Yup. Need that

[lovaeir]

Pope whispers to himself during sex.

MDNI 18+

You first notice it when he’s got you laid on your back in his bed, his thick fingers pumping in and out of you. His foreheads resting against your own as you bite your lip, trying to stay relatively quiet. But when he shoves his fingers in and curls, your mouth flys open, a sharp gasp spilling from your lips.

Pope nods “there it is.” he whispers while your heads rolled back against the pillows, eyes shut. His thumb moving over your clit. His palm squelching against your sex as he curls his fingers, pushing rougher against that spongy spot inside you. “You can take em’” he nods and you realize now he’s talking to you, he wasn’t before. You clench around them and he nods, thumb pushing harder against your button, “good girl.”

—

The next time you notice him doing it is when he’s eating you out. Your legs are spread open for him, pussy clenching around nothing. “S’ pretty” he whispers as he moves down, kitten licking at your clit. “she tastes to good” he whispers into you, his lips wetting from being pressed against your arousal.

You can see his arm start to move and know he’s jerking himself off while he’s on his knees. He’s whimpering into you, slobbering all over your cunt and sucking it back up, tongue flicking against you. Pope lets out soft grunts before pushing his tongue deep inside you, flicking it around. His idle hand moving up to squeeze your breast. “So good.” He pipes up, pulling back and looking at you. “You’re so perfect.” He says at a normal volume before diving back in. You’re smiling to yourself, back arching up off the mattress and hands tangling in his hair.

—

When you finally say something it’s when he’s inside you. His face is dropped into your neck, panting against your skin as he moves his hips. “feels made for me.” He whispers into your skin, but you can’t hear him well so you pull his head back to look at him. “What?” You ask out of breath. “What?” He asks back, hips slowing. “I didn’t hear what you said” you smile, brushing sweaty strands of hair out of his face.

“I didn’t say anything.” He shakes his head, eyebrows scrunching together. You know he did, you felt his lips move against your neck. But he’s not admitting to it and looks genuinely confused so you figure it wasn’t for you. “Okay” you giggle, hands moving down to squeeze his ass, making him groan and push his hips back into you.

[thechaoslibrarian]

Yapper Andrew?!?!?! Yes. Gimme

[pope-codys]

one year event masterlist

celebration recap: followers sent me prompts and i created moodboards and short blurbs based on the prompts

jack abbot ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

vacation aboard / opposites attract / forced proximity / nsfw

by the pool / humor / possessiveness / fluff with a dash of nsfw

on the beach / hurt/comfort / insecure!reader

lakeside cottage / hurt/comfort / first time/kiss/date

vacation aboard / humor / celebration / fluff

vacation aboard / domesticity / fluff

andrew 'pope' cody ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

fair/carnival / humor / possessiveness / fluff

lakeside cottage / domesticity / hurt/comfort

vacation aboard / reunited / fluff / regency au

at the beach / protectiveness / possessiveness / nsfw

road trip / humor / possessiveness / fluff

camping / love at first sight / first time/kiss/date / fluff

camping / forced proximity / forbidden love / nsfw

by the pool / meet cute / fluff

camping / protectiveness / fluff

lakeside cottage / celebration / domesticity / hurt/comfort

brett richards ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

fair/carnival / meet cute / love at first sight / fluff

lakeside cottage / celebration / fluff

lakeside cottage / domesticity / celebration / fluff

titus danforth ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

lakeside cottage / possessiveness / opposites attract / fluff

fair/carnival / hurt/comfort / soulmate au

vacation aboard / domesticity / reunited / nsfw

on the beach / possessiveness / nsfw

[thechaoslibrarian]

DeLICIOUS

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

Knuckle Wrap

Steve Rogers x Reader

Kinda slow burn ish?? Idk this is my first time writing for Marvel and I sincerely hope I dont offend my loyal DC fanbase lol

Your hands shake far more than they should after this kind of mission, the faint tremors nearly timed up with your uneasy breaths. Your armor feels too heavy, too tight, too hot- just too much. Its flexible material is caked with blood, not much of it being your own. It nearly sticks to your skin as you peel off whatever you can without being entirely exposed.

The medbay is near silent, only the faint hum of distant machines filling the void in the air. It's hard to tell whether the silence makes the post-mission heavier or lighter. A clock ticks nearby, its metronome-like rhythm providing something other than your brief inhales and exhales to focus on.

The mission was relatively simple, on paper. Get in, get the files S.H.I.E.L.D. needed from the facility, and get out. It should have been easy, but you knew better than that from the moment you stepped foot in the secured building.

No real casualties occurred, except for the usual bruised rib or battered face. You made it away with only a few red marks scattered around your body, most of which were on your back.

You were going to just patch yourself up, cleaning out any particularly nasty wounds with a bit of peroxide before calling it a day. Natasha asked if you needed any assistance before she left, and you reassured her that you had it covered.

You severely overestimated the reach of your arms behind your back.

Your upper limbs felt twisted every which way, struggling to reach the last couple of lacerations on your upper back. Honestly, if any one else saw you right now, you'd be suffering from the worst embarrassment of your life.

A soft, unmistakable clearing of a throat breaks the quiet.

You freeze.

For a split second, panic flares, because you know that sound. You don’t have to turn around to picture him standing there, broad shoulders probably filling the doorway, posture too straight for someone trying to pretend they weren’t watching. Heat creeps up your neck as you fumble to straighten, arms dropping awkwardly to your sides.

Damn you for not taking some sort of gymnastics course when you were younger.

“Sorry,” Steve says quickly, voice low, almost apologetic. “I— Didn’t mean to startle you.” There’s a pause, hesitant, like he’s debating whether to say anything else at all. “Natasha said everyone was cleared, but I just wanted to make sure you were… okay.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, nodding slightly before forming a response. “Yeah,” you answer, a little too fast. “I’m fine. Just...apparently not as flexible as I thought.”

There’s the faintest huff of a laugh behind you, surprised and immediately stifled. Silence stretches again, thicker this time, until you hear him shift his weight.

“Looks like you missed a spot,” he says, careful, eyes already pointed anywhere but your bare skin. “On your upper back. If you want, I can—help. Just to clean it.”

You hesitate. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s Steve Rogers: your teammate, your friend. Still, the thought of him that close sends an unexpected flutter of nerves through you. You feel oddly uncomfortable with the idea of him seeing you vulnerable.

“…Okay,” you say finally, quieter now. The sound, though near silent, feels like it echoes through the room.

He approaches slowly, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might send you bolting. You hear the soft clink of a tray shifting as he reaches for antiseptic and gauze. When his hand finally touches your shoulder, it’s feather-light, almost a question. His fingers flex slightly, pressing gently into the untouched skin before he can stop himself.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs, voice nearly carried away by the sounds of miscellaneous machines around the medbay.

The first swipe of cool antiseptic makes you inhale sharply, flinching away from his touch slightly. Steve immediately stills, pulling back just enough to not make you feel crowded.. “Too much?”

“No—no, it’s fine,” you assure him after dissecting your brain for just the right words to say. “Just surprised.”

“Right. Sorry.” His touch resumes, gentler this time, methodical. He works in careful strokes, focused, like he’s afraid of doing something wrong. You can feel the warmth of him behind you, solid and steady, close enough that you’re acutely aware of every movement, every breath.

Neither of you says much.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable exactly. Just… charged. Like you’re both suddenly aware that this is different from passing weapons in the field or standing shoulder to shoulder in a briefing room. This is quiet. Personal. His thumb brushes your skin accidentally, and you feel him tense, clearing his throat again as if grounding himself.

“All set,” he says eventually, stepping back a little too quickly. “They weren’t deep. You’ll heal up just fine.”

You turn to face him, catching the way his ears are faintly pink. For a moment, neither of you knows what to do with your hands, your words.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the sound almost lost in the silent room.

Steve nods, offering a small, polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It almost seems like his smiles never do that, nowadays. “Anytime.” Then, after a moment or so, “Really.”

And then he leaves, just like that. The medbay door hisses open and closed while his footsteps get further and further. You don't turn your head in time to see him look back at you just before he walks out.

The air feels stale, heavy. Like something inside of your mind trying to claw its way out without your permission. No, stop that, you think internally, stop feeling weird around him.

Your mind, of course, doesn't listen. The next meeting you had was absolute torture.

The conference room is already half full when you arrive, lights dimmed just enough for the holographic table to glow faint blue. The air smells like coffee that’s been reheated one too many times and ozone from Stark’s tech. You take your usual seat without thinking, muscle memory guiding you more than conscious choice, and only realize your mistake when the chair beside you shifts.

Steve sits down.

It shouldn’t matter, really- Steve has always sat next to you. It’s like some silent routine that the two of you have fallen into within the past few years. But everything just feels so… tight. Like there isn’t quite enough room for either of you and you have to squish in an uncomfortable amount.

He stays respectful, of course, keeping his distance whenever possible. The real awkward parts don’t happen until after the meeting has already begun.

Fury begins one of his usual speeches, boring and to the point (much to Tony’s dismay, eating a donut he got from who knows where across the table from yourself and Steve.) It's still routine, with a couple of snickering comments thrown out here and there.

But as soon as you grab one of Stark’s tablets in front of you to get a better glance at the presentation, your arm brushes right up against Steve’s. Your heart genuinely might have stopped for a moment before continuing its normal ‘thump,’ though certainly at a quicker rate.

“Sorry,” the word comes quicker than you thought possible, probably even swifter than the actual contact you made with his arm. God, this has to be in the top ten of your most embarrassing moments. It actually feels worse than that one time you sent a text about Steve to him instead of your best friend.

“It’s alright,” his response is soft and quiet, though you can’t tell if his tone is so gentle because he’s talking to you, or if it's because he doesn’t want to hear shit from Nick later for not paying the utmost attention to the debrief. You can’t get yourself to look at him long enough to notice the slight flush of his ears and cheeks. He’s thankful you didn’t.

You can’t help that you fidget a lot during meetings- they’re really just too long and boring not to find something else to occupy your mind with. At first, you twirled a pen around your fingers like some sort of butterfly knife. Force of habit, you suppose, considering how often you use them on the field.

But even that starts to bore you after a while.

Your knee bounces next, the toes of your shoes tapping against the ground silently. It’s a steady rhythm, one that you’re able to perfect without taking too much of your attention away from the key notes of the meeting. The tapping actually almost keeps you engaged, ebbing away at the restless feeling growing deep within your mind and bones.

Until your leg brushes right up against Steve’s.

You swear the universe just has it out for you today.

Your mouth moves to apologize, leg already stopping its repetitive motion and foot resting softly against the ground- but Steve stops you. “Don’t worry about it,” he mouths silently, eyes barely breaking away from the main presentation. You swear you feel Natasha’s eyes on the two of you and your awkwardly tense behaviour, but you try as hard as you can to ignore it.

Her gaze lingers on both of you, and there’s no doubt that she sees the far off look in your eyes and the faint pink color gathering on Steve’s face. Nat is absolutely clocking whatever is going on between the two of you, and you know damn well that you won’t be able to live it down. Later, she’ll probably ask if she can officiate the wedding just to tease.

Sooner or later, though, your fingers begin to toy with the pen again. It's a sleek, black metal- probably one of those nice ones that you took from Tony’s workshop without him noticing. The motion is mindless, just some sort of flow that you memorized while toying with the writing utensil. Your hand slips under the meeting room table, resting upon your knee while your fingers stick with the familiar movement.

Steve notices- of course he does.

He doesn’t look away from the presentation, doesn’t shift closer, doesn’t make eye contact with you… He just lets his fingers slide away from his lap and onto your knee, touching in a way that feels like he might not be there at all. Steve’s face is a light shade of pink, but other than that, he remains completely focused on whatever Fury has to say.

You freeze.

For a while, nothing happens. His fingers just stay resting softly upon your knee, right next to your fingers curled around Stark’s pen. But eventually, his palm opens slightly as he rests it over yours. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t pull, just… stays there. Silent. Unwavering.

Your shoulders feel locked, like you couldn’t make them loosen up even if you tried. You don’t look at Steve- you don’t dare. You know damn well that if the two of you made eye contact right now, your entire friendship would be destroyed. You really don’t want to feel awkward whenever you look at the only person you work well with on field after this.

Steve’s jaw tightens, like his mind finally caught up with what his body was doing. He doesn’t move away instantly, doesn’t brush it off like a complete coincidence. He lets his touch linger, the warmth of his palm seeping into the top of your own hand. Then, just as quiet as his fingers came, his touch retreats.

The pen slips out of your hand shortly after that.

Neither of you says a word.

Not until the meeting is finally over and he brushes past you softly. “Great job in there,” he mentions softly, not waiting to hear your response. You don’t follow him- you honestly don’t think that your rapid heartbeat could handle it. You watch him leave with a gaze that's downright embarrassing.

The next few weeks are quieter than you expect. Not necessarily calmer- things never are as an Avenger- just quieter. Like the Earth knows that something is coming up but doesn’t have the audacity to make it happen just yet.

Steve keeps sitting next to you during meetings and debriefs. It feels far more deliberate now than it did before, his shoulder so close that you could nearly feel the heat radiating off of him. The two of you never touch, though- or at least not on purpose. The accidental brush of your hand against his arm is more charged than it used to be.

You begin to recognize his presence before even looking for him. His breathing is familiar, a pattern that you probably couldn’t tear out of your brain even if you tried. Even the way he sits down has a place in your mind, especially the light groan he lets out more often than not as if the mere action of resting takes a toll on him.

Steve notices everything now. The way your fingers start to twitch when you’re overly tired. The way your breathing struggles to even out after a mission that hits particularly close to home. He starts handing you water before you even know that you’re thirsty, whether it’s at the end of one of your workouts or post-training match. Sometimes, his hand will find your shoulder or elbow in passing, always lingering just long enough to be felt but never long enough to be questioned.

You started doing it, too.

You’ll wait for him after a mission, not leaving to head to your room until he’s off the Quinjet. You linger around the gym until he’s done training, even if you tell yourself you’re just cooling down. You even started bringing him coffee on mornings that he’s up before you, which is certainly more often than not.

But nothing happens.

And it’s the absolute worst experience of your life.

There are moments, a lot of them, where it almost does, though. Sometimes you laugh together just a bit too long to just be friends, and sometimes neither of your hands moves away quick enough when they brush against each other under the table. Too many nights are spent with your bodies too close together on the couch to just be a coincidence, your knees barely brushing against each other with each passing moment. Neither of you breaks the spell, though, instead choosing to stare blankly at the same television screen like it can break the invisible tension between you two.

Steve hesitates before leaving the room that you’re in, glancing back with just that tad bit of longing that makes your chest and lungs burn. You, unknowingly, start watching him leave whenever it happens.

The gym is quiet tonight, unlike during the more reasonable hours of the day. Nearly all of the lights are dim, and only Steve’s punches can be heard echoing through the vast space. It isn’t unusual for him to be down here so late, but it is, in fact, odd for you to be in the same space, as well.

Your footsteps are quiet, almost hesitant, on the concrete floors. Steve notices them anyway- he always does. The art of noticing comes so naturally when it’s about you. It always has, and Steve reckons that it always will. His punches don’t stop right away when you enter, your body only a couple of steps behind his.

Both of you know that you didn’t come down here just to work out.

“Looks like you could use a new set of wraps,” you mention quietly, your voice sounding foreign in the quiet area. You know how far he pushes himself, just how long he’ll let himself go without bothering with simple things like knucklewrap. Your gaze stays on his red, cracked hands for what feels like hours, until Steve finally turns around to face you fully.

The gym is silent now, the lack of sound feeling like a weighted blanket upon your heart and lungs.

“I’ll be alright,” he deflects carefully, yet he still stops beating the punching bag like it owes him something. He always stops for you. Steve doesn’t pull away when you take a few tentative steps forward, either.

That’s what really makes your chest ache like there’s no tomorrow.

Up close, there’s far more damage than you thought to the thick skin of his knuckles. The skin across his right hand is split, blood already dried to the slightly swollen flesh. There’s even a few specks of the dried crimson across the training mats beneath you, along with small scraps of his previous wraps. A slow and steady exhale escapes your nose as you reach down for the first aid kid tucked beneath the bench.

“Sit,” you request quietly, internally feeling just a little bit weird about bossing around the Captain America.

Steve hesitates for a moment, exactly like you knew he would, before eventually giving in and lowering himself onto the metal bench. His shoulders practically sink as soon as he does, bleeding out whatever tension they’d manage to retain for however long he had been down here. You kneel in front of him without a second though, taking both of his battered hands into your lap. They’re warm- incredibly so- and still shaking.

You take your time with them, gently brushing over the worst of the damage with your thumb before carefully removing the old tape. The sound of it tearing is too loud in the gym, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind much. He doesn’t flinch away from the faint sting of adhesive breaking away from his skin, but he watches you from beneath his eyelashes. You both know you can feel his gaze burning into you, but neither of you make it stop.

You clean up each little abrasion carefully, dragging the gauze over his skin with something akin to reverence. His fingers will twitch now and then, a slight tremor that has nothing to do with cooling down after nearly beating a punching bag to death. You can feel the weight of them in your lap, his jaw set like he’s just given you a piece of him that he has no way of taking back.

The wrap comes soon after you begin cleaning him, the pristine white sticking out against the inflammation and irritation of his skin. You’re unreasonably careful as you bring the roll of wrap around his hands, as if this is what will make him break into a million pieces as opposed to the workout that lead you both to this point. Steve isn’t fragile, far from it, actually, and you know that. But something inside you wants to treat him with the same kind of care and tenderness that one would with a fragile doll.

Eventually, he’s wrapped well enough to fight the Hulk with his bare hands.

You don’t let go. Neither does he.

Your gaze doesn’t meet his at first, instead focusing on your thumbs gently making their ways to his wrists and pausing to rub across the skin. When your eyes finally meet his, though, you both know what's coming next. You’ve both known since the day he cleaned those nasty gashes along your back and hesitated before leaving you all by yourself.

Steve’s jaw is set tightly, like he’s refraining from saying something irreversible, something that could change how you see each other from now on. The slight furrow in his brow looks similar to the one he gives you in the middle of a mission, waiting for your signal to continue. You don’t know if you could live with yourself if that signal never came at this moment.

His breath feels hot and heavy against your face, and you can only imagine that yours feels the same to him. Steve’s eyes have that kind of hesitant determination that you only get to see when he knows he’s making a reckless decision, one that could change the trajectory of an entire operation.

You nod slightly, fingers still tracing along his forearm damp with sweat. What you’re nodding to- you’re really not sure. Maybe you’re telling him that yes, you are here, or maybe you’re telling him that you know exactly what tension he’s feeling around you. Either way, he takes it as an order of such importance that it simply can’t be executed wrong.

Steve takes that as his command, a silent order in the middle of a battlefield.

Slowly, his head dips down closer to yours until your foreheads touch. Neither of you has broken eye contact- you wouldn’t dare. Your lips meet softly, pressing together in the kind of way that only weeks of tension and hesitation could create. Steve is stiff for a moment or two before pressing back, letting his lips move against yours like they’ve waited for decades.

But just as soon as it happened, he pulled away.

It’s not with haste- actually, it almost seems like he had to force himself to do so. You know it’s probably for the better if you don’t continue this right now, especially in the middle of the gym on some dirty training mats. The two of you sit in silence for what feels like forever before he finally lets out a whisper.

“We should-”

“Yeah,” you continued for him, the sentence still left incomplete. You stand from your spot on the floor with ease, and Steve follows from the bench not too long after. Neither of you speaks as you each pack up your belongings, eventually turning off the gym’s lights as you both exit the room.

It feels like the tension might genuinely be impossible to break, but at least he walked you to your room at the end of the night. That is certainly something new.

Main Masterlist

[calzone-d]

SLEPT ON!!

[thechaoslibrarian]

I will never not be on my Steve Rogers bullshit, oh my god