content jason todd x gn! reader, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, memory loss/involuntary forgetting, identity erasure, trauma from experimentation, kidnapping/captivity, medical experimentation, implied torture/non-consensual medical procedures, guns/weapons, jason points a gun at you repeatedly, blood/injury, violence, emotional distress, grief/abandonment themes, jason's resurrection trauma mentioned, guilt, mentions of jason's death
masterlist
wordcount 6.1k
you develop powers that make everyone forget you the moment they look away, leaving you lonely and erased from the world—even jason, your childhood best friend and unspoken love. jason keeps instinctively threatening you because he can’t remember who you are, but some part of him knows he’s missing someone vital.
Jason Todd started leaving space for someone he couldn’t remember.
It was the first thing he noticed.
Not because he was sentimental. He wasn’t. Not because he liked examining the empty rooms of himself for missing furniture. He didn’t. Jason Todd survived by ignoring the absence until it bled through the walls.
But there were two mugs in his sink. Always two.
One with a chipped handle that said World’s Okayest Criminal—a gift from Roy, probably, because Roy had no respect for subtlety or kitchenware. The other was plain blue, old, the glaze worn thin near the rim like someone had a habit of rubbing their thumb there.
Jason never used the blue one.
Jason always washed it anyway.
There was an extra blanket folded on the back of his couch. Not his. Too soft. Too carefully mended. There were two takeout containers in the fridge when he remembered ordering only one. His emergency medkit had a roll of purple bandages tucked behind the gauze, even though he would rather die twice than buy purple bandages.
And then there were the notes.
Not the mission notes. Not the threat maps. Not the case files in his awful, blocky handwriting.
These were smaller. Written on receipts. Napkins. The inside of his wrist. Once, scratched into the dust on his windowsill.
Don’t look away. Blue mug. You’re forgetting someone. Forget-me-not.
The last one bothered him most.
Not because he knew what it meant.
Because he didn’t.
And somehow, somehow, that felt worse.
You met Jason Todd when he was thirteen and hungry enough to bite the hand that helped him.
He had been trying to steal the tyres off a parked car behind the community centre. You had been sitting on the fire escape above him, eating the last half of a bruised apple and watching him work with the grim focus of a surgeon.
“You’re doing that wrong,” you said.
Jason jerked so hard he hit his head on the bumper.
“Shut up,” he snapped, looking up at you with a tyre iron in his hand and fury in his eyes.
You took another bite of the apple. “I’m just saying. If you loosen the lug nuts before jacking it up, it’s easier.”
His glare sharpened. “You a cop?”
“I’m thirteen.”
“So?”
That had been the first time you laughed at him.
Jason had scowled like you’d personally offended his bloodline, but he didn’t leave. He stayed under that fire escape while you climbed down. He pretended not to listen while you told him which cars had alarms and which didn’t. You pretended not to notice when he pocketed the apple core after you tossed it aside.
After that, Jason was everywhere.
The alley behind the centre. The library steps. The roof of the old laundromat, where the neon sign flickered all night like a dying star. You shared stolen sandwiches, stolen books, stolen hours. He read too fast and argued with every author as if they were personally wronging him.
He liked Austen and denied it with violence in his eyes. He liked Shakespeare but said Hamlet needed to “get over himself.”
He liked you. Not that either of you said it.
Back then, love was a luxury item locked behind glass. You had friendship, which was safer. Friendship meant stealing gloves for each other in winter. Friendship meant pretending not to be scared when sirens got close. Friendship meant Jason showing up at your window one night with split knuckles and saying, “Don’t ask,” and you letting him in anyway.
Then Bruce Wayne took him in. Then Robin happened. Then the Joker happened.
Then Jason died.
And you learned the hard way that some people could leave the world and still haunt every room in it.
For years, Jason was a grave you visited without flowers because flowers felt too soft for him. Too delicate. Jason had been fire and teeth and a laugh like a match struck in the dark.
Then he came back. Older. Broader. Angry in ways that had edges. Red helmet. Guns. Ghost-green rage burning behind his eyes.
The first time he saw you after his resurrection, he froze so completely you thought the world had glitched.
You were standing in the rain outside an all-night bodega, one hand around a bag of groceries, the other around your keys like a weapon. Gotham rain slicked his leather jacket black. The red helmet stared at you from across the sidewalk.
Then he took it off.
And there he was.
Jason Todd. Dead boy. Living man. Your impossible.
You dropped the groceries.
He said your name like it hurt him.
You punched him in the chest so hard your knuckles ached.
He let you. Then he pulled you into his arms, and for one impossible second, the years folded like paper. You were thirteen again. He smelled like rain and gunpowder and something warm under all the war.
“You died,” you said into his jacket.
“I got better,” he rasped.
You hit him again.
He laughed. You cried.
Neither of you talked about the fact that he held you like someone who had been buried with your name still in his mouth.
The powers came later. Not from a glowing meteor. Not from a dramatic curse. Not from some poetic bargain with the universe.
They came from a warehouse in the Bowery and a group of men who thought memory could be weaponised.
You weren’t supposed to be there. That was the stupidest part. The most Gotham part. You were walking home from a late shift when someone grabbed you off the street because you saw a van door open and a girl inside with tape over her mouth.
You remembered screaming. You remembered a needle. You remembered white rooms underground, men in masks, machines that hummed like insects behind your skull.
They called the project Mnemosyne. They called you Subject Nine. They said things like “retention instability” and “observer-dependent identity collapse” while you were strapped to a chair with blood drying behind your ear.
You broke out during an explosion. Or maybe someone broke you out. It got hazy after the alarms. Smoke. Red emergency lights. Your own heartbeat clawing up your throat.
You found the girl from the van. You got her out. You ran until your lungs shredded.
On the street, under the flicker of a broken lamppost, she turned to you with wide, terrified eyes.
“You saved me,” she said.
Then a car backfired. She looked away. When she looked back, her face emptied.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
At first, you thought it was shock.
Then the paramedics came. You tried to tell them your name. One looked down to write it.
When he lifted his eyes, he frowned. “Sorry, are you family?”
You backed away.
Police arrived. Someone put a blanket around your shoulders, then turned to answer a question, then forgot why the blanket was there.
By morning, every record from the warehouse was gone. Every witness forgot you existed the moment they stopped seeing you. Security footage blurred around your body like reality had rubbed you out with a thumb.
You ran to the only person you trusted.
Jason.
He lived in a safehouse above a closed pawn shop then. Third floor. Reinforced door. Two locks, one electronic keypad, one old-school deadbolt because Jason trusted steel more than software.
You still knew the code. You shouldn’t have.
You entered shaking, half-starved, wearing a stolen hoodie and shoes that didn’t fit. Jason was in the kitchen cleaning a gun.
He looked up. For one second, he was your Jason.
His eyes widened. “Hey—what the hell happened to you?”
You nearly collapsed from relief. “Jay,” you choked.
He crossed the room fast, gun abandoned on the counter. His hands hovered over you like he wanted to check for injuries but didn’t know where to start.
“Talk to me,” he said, voice going low and urgent. “Who did this?”
You tried. You told him about the warehouse. The machines. The girl. The paramedics. The way people’s memories slid off you like rain off glass.
Jason listened. Jason believed you. Of course he did. Jason had crawled out of his own grave. Gotham had taught both of you that impossible was usually just Tuesday wearing a fake moustache.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. We figure it out. Babs can look into missing footage. I’ll call—”
He turned toward the counter for his phone.
You felt it happen.
Not saw it. Not heard it.
Felt it. Like a hook in your chest going slack.
“Jason,” you said quickly.
He stopped. His shoulders went rigid. Slowly, he reached for the gun.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
The room dropped out from under you. “Jay.”
He spun, weapon raised.
The barrel pointed at your chest.
You forgot how to breathe.
“Don’t call me that,” he said. His voice was ice over panic. “How did you get in here?”
“Jason, please. Look at me.”
“I am looking at you.”
“No, I mean—don’t look away.”
His grip tightened. His eyes were sharp, scanning you like a threat map. “Answer the question.”
“You know me.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.” Your voice broke. “You do, Jason. We grew up together. You stole tyres behind the community centre. You loved Pride and Prejudice and threatened to burn my shoes if I told anyone. You came to my window after Willis—”
“Shut up.”
“You died and came back and found me outside the bodega. I punched you. You said you got better.”
His face changed. It was tiny. A crack in the armour. A twitch near his mouth. His eyes searched yours like something in him had heard a song through a wall.
“I don’t know you,” he said, but the words had lost their teeth.
“You do.”
His breathing got rough. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
For a second, you thought you had him. For a second, Jason lowered the gun.
Then something clattered in the hallway outside.
His gaze snapped to the door.
When he looked back—
Nothing. Blankness. Threat.
Gun up.
“Last chance,” he said. “Who are you?”
That was the first time Jason Todd forgot you.
It was not the last.
Loneliness became logistical.
That was the cruel joke of it. Everyone imagined loneliness as candlelight and rain on windows and tragic music swelling in the distance. Very cinematic. Very marketable. Total scam.
Real loneliness was trying to rent a room from someone who forgot you halfway through handing over the keys. It was ordering food and watching the cashier blink at you because they’d turned to grab your drink. It was the doctors forgetting why you were in the exam room. Bus drivers demanding fare twice. Landlords calling the cops on “an intruder” inside the apartment you had paid for with cash they no longer remembered receiving.
It was learning not to cry in public because strangers would panic at the sight of tears on a face they couldn’t place.
You became a ghost with a pulse.
Worse, actually. Ghosts were remembered.
You tried recording yourself. The video showed you clearly until anyone else watched it. Then their eyes slipped away from the screen. Later, they couldn’t recall what they’d seen.
You tried writing notes. People could read them. They could understand the words. But the moment they looked away from the paper, the context dissolved.
You know me, you wrote once on Jason’s door.
He opened it, read the note, frowned, and looked down the hall.
You were standing right there.
He raised his gun before you could say hello.
Again. And again. And again.
The third time, he had a bruise on his jaw and blood on his collar. You had come because you’d heard gunfire from three blocks away and still knew his patrol routes like a prayer you’d never stopped saying.
You slipped in through the window.
“Behind you,” you said softly.
Jason turned, pistol already in hand.
You didn’t flinch fast enough. The gun pressed under your chin.
His eyes were green-blue violence. “You’ve got five seconds.”
You stared at him. Jason stared back.
Something inside him trembled.
Not his hand. Jason’s hands were steady. Always steady.
But his face. His face did something devastating.
It softened with confusion.
“You’re crying,” he said.
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because you keep forgetting me.”
His finger shifted away from the trigger. “Do I know you?”
“Yes.”
He swallowed. “I feel like I do.”
That hurt worse than the gun.
You almost laughed. It came out broken. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “That’s the problem.”
You gave him facts.
You learned to weaponise intimacy. Not the pretty kind. The surgical kind. Details sharp enough to cut through the fog.
“You hate peas but pretend it’s ideological.” A blink. “You read the ending of books first when you’re scared the dog dies.” His jaw tightened. “You called me after your first nightmare when you came back. You didn’t say anything for eight minutes. I stayed on the line.”
His hand lowered.
“You remember?” you asked.
“No.” His voice sounded scraped raw. “But I believe you.”
Then he looked down at the gun in his hand.
Gone.
His expression hardened.
“Don’t move.”
You moved.
Not toward him.
Away. Out the window. Across the roof. Into the night.
Jason shouted after you, but you knew by the time he reached the fire escape, he would not remember why he was running.
Jason started hunting a ghost.
He didn’t know that was what he was doing. He called it a case because that made sense. Cases had suspects, evidence, motive. Cases could be solved with enough pressure, enough blood, enough stubborn refusal to sleep.
There was someone in his safehouses. Someone who knew his codes. Someone who cleaned his wounds when he passed out bleeding on his bathroom floor, because he woke up bandaged in purple wrap and furious about the tenderness of it. Someone who kept leaving food. Someone who had patched a bullet hole in his jacket by hand.
Someone who knew him. Someone he kept forgetting.
It made him meaner than usual, which was honestly saying something.
“Maybe it’s a stalker,” Tim said one night over comms.
Jason was crouched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go sideways in the alley below. “Thanks, Replacement. Stellar detective work. You crack that case with your enormous brain, or did the coffee tell you?”
“Your emotional repression is showing.”
“Your face is showing.”
“My camera’s off.”
“I can sense it.”
Oracle cut in. “Children.”
“He started it,” Jason said.
“I’m an adult,” Tim said.
“Emotionally? Twelve.”
Oracle sighed. “Jason, about your ghost.”
“Not a ghost.”
“You have described them as appearing, disappearing, bypassing security, and leaving cryptic notes. That is at least ghost-adjacent.”
Jason hated that she sounded amused.
“They’re a person,” he said.
The words came out too fast. Silence hit comms.
Then Dick, because apparently everyone was on this channel now, said, “You sound sure.”
Jason aimed down his rifle scope. “I am sure.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t know. Because sometimes he woke up with grief in his throat and a name already gone from his tongue. Because he caught himself buying your favourite candy and had no memory of learning you liked it.
Because once, half-asleep and feverish, he had reached across his bed like someone belonged there.
Because every time he found one of those notes, something in him whispered, Don’t lose them again.
Again.
That was the word that haunted him.
Again.
You watched him from a distance because love made you stupid.
That was the ugly truth.
You should have left Gotham. You tried, once. Got as far as Blüdhaven before realising the city forgot you, too, only with worse parking.
You came back.
For Jason. Because he was reckless. Because he bled too much. Because he left windows unlocked without meaning to.
Because some part of you still belonged to the boy under the fire escape, the one who took your advice and pretended he hadn’t, the one who looked at you like you were something worth surviving for.
You were in love with him. You had been for years, probably.
Maybe since the laundromat roof. Maybe since he read aloud to you from Persuasion and claimed it was “for the bit.” Maybe since he came back from the dead and said your name like it was the one thing the grave hadn’t taken.
You loved him. And Jason kept aiming guns at you.
Honestly? This is how Gotham did romance. Absolute trash fire. Zero stars. Would still haunt again.
The worst time happened in his apartment.
Not a safehouse. His actual apartment. The one with books stacked everywhere and a couch too ugly to be ironic. The one place you had never entered without permission.
But he had been hurt. Badly.
You found him by following blood drops up the stairwell. His door was ajar. His helmet lay cracked near the entryway.
Jason was on the floor. Unconscious.
For one terrible second, he looked dead again.
You made a sound you didn’t recognise.
Then you moved.
You stitched the knife wound in his side with shaking hands. Cleaned blood from his ribs. Checked his pupils. Sat beside him for hours, terrified that if you looked away from him, you would forget yourself too.
At dawn, he woke with a gasp.
His hand shot under the pillow.
You caught his wrist. “Jay, it’s me.”
His eyes focused.
He froze. His body knew you before his mind did. You felt it in the way his wrist slackened under your fingers. The way his breathing changed. The way his gaze dropped to your mouth and back up again with the stunned, aching recognition of someone seeing sunrise after years underground.
“You,” he whispered.
Hope was cruel.
You should have known better.
“Yeah,” you said.
His brows pulled together. “I was dreaming about you.”
Your heart cracked open. “What did you dream?”
His eyes didn’t leave your face. “Rain. A bodega. You were mad at me.”
“I was.”
“Why?”
“You died.”
A faint, pained smile touched his mouth. “Sounds like me.”
You laughed through the tears before you could stop yourself.
Jason stared at you like the sound had punched him.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
“What?”
“Laugh like I should know it.”
You looked down. His fingers shifted under yours. Not pulling away. Holding on.
“I’m trying,” he said.
“I know.”
“No.” His voice dropped, rough and desperate. “You don’t. I keep finding—things. Notes. Food. Bandages. I keep waking up feeling like somebody carved out half my chest and didn’t leave a scar.” His hand tightened around yours. “I don’t know you, but I miss you.”
You stopped breathing.
Jason’s eyes burned. “How the hell do I miss someone I don’t know?”
“Because you did know me.”
He stared.
“You were my best friend,” you said. “Before Bruce. Before Robin. Before the grave. Before all this.”
His expression shattered so quietly you almost missed it.
“Best friend,” he repeated.
“Yeah.”
Something unbearably soft moved across his face.
“And now?”
The question hung between you.
Now, you thought, I love you so much it’s ruining me.
Now, you thought, I would let you forget me forever if it meant you stayed alive.
Now, you thought, I am so tired.
You opened your mouth.
A crash sounded from the fire escape.
Jason turned. Just a glance. Just instinct.
Just enough.
When he looked back, he ripped his hand from yours like he’d been burned.
Gun out. Pointed at your heart.
You stood slowly.
His stitches pulled. He hissed.
“Stay back,” he snapped.
“Jason.”
“Who are you?”
Your whole body went cold.
Not because he had forgotten.
You were used to that by now.
Because this time, you had almost told him. This time, he had almost asked. This time, the universe had yanked the leash before either of you could cross the line.
You raised your hands.
Jason’s eyes flickered to the blood on your fingers.
His blood.
Your hands.
His gun.
“Did you do this to me?” he demanded.
That one broke you.
You left without answering.
After that, you stopped going to him. For three weeks, you did the closest thing to healing you knew how to do.
You disappeared on purpose.
No rooftops. No safehouses. No slipping through Jason’s window to check if he was sleeping. No leaving food. No purple bandages. No notes.
You found an abandoned greenhouse behind an old school in Burnley and made it yours. The glass roof was cracked, but enough panes remained to catch the winter light. Wild vines had claimed the walls. Broken pots littered the floor. In the back, under a rusted table, you found a tray of dead seedlings with faded labels.
Basil. Thyme. Forget-me-not.
The last one made you sit down hard.
Of course. Gotham had a sense of humour, and it was evil.
You stole soil. Seeds. Bottled water. A blanket. Cans of soup. You built a life out of scraps because that was what you had always done.
Then you practised.
At first, you didn’t know what practising meant. How did you control being forgotten? How did you command absence? How did you hold your own shape inside other people’s minds when your power made you slippery as smoke?
So you started with objects.
You put a cracked mirror on the table and stared at yourself.
“My name is…” You said your name.
The mirror held you.
You looked away.
Looked back.
Still there.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Great. Congrats. Object permanence, but traumatic.”
You laughed. It sounded awful.
Next, you tried with birds.
Pigeons nested in the rafters. They remembered food, at least. Or maybe they remembered patterns. You put seeds in the same place every morning. They flew away when you moved, then came back.
They did not know you. But they trusted the shape of your kindness.
That became the first lesson.
Memory was not just a face.
It was pattern. It was feeling. It was the body recognising safety before the mind could name it.
Jason’s body had known you. That meant something.
So you practised being more than sight. You recorded your voice and listened until you could hold yourself steady through the playback.
You wrote your name on your skin.
You held your own gaze in the mirror and said, “I am here,” until the words stopped feeling like a plea and started feeling like an order.
The power fought you. It wanted collapse. It wanted erasure. It wanted to fold you into the blind spot of the world.
You fought back.
Some days, you lost. Some days, you lay on the greenhouse floor with dirt under your nails and cried so hard your ribs ached.
Some days, you hated Jason for forgetting. Then you hated yourself for hating him. Then you hated the men who had done this.
Then you hated the world because it kept spinning, rude and bright and busy, while you became a rumour no one could keep.
But slowly, slowly, something changed.
A pigeon looked away from you. Looked back.
Didn’t startle.
You sobbed over that bird like it had handed you the moon.
The next week, a stray cat remembered where your hand was.
Then an old woman at a corner store frowned at you after turning away to count change and said, “Didn’t you already pay?”
You almost kissed her.
You didn’t, because boundaries. Also, she had a broom.
Control came like sunrise through fog.
Not all at once. Not enough.
But real.
You learned that fear made the forgetting worse. Panic scattered you. Shame erased your edges.
Calm helped. Touch helped. Names helped.
Love—
Love did something strange.
You didn’t know how to test that.
Not without Jason.
Jason did not handle your absence well.
He would have denied that under oath, threat, torture, and probably alien mind probe.
But he was falling apart in practical, masculine, deeply embarrassing ways.
He stopped sleeping. He stopped cooking. He started tearing apart old case files from the Bowery, hunting for Mnemosyne, Subject Nine, memory tech, missing witnesses, anything.
He found nothing.
That was impossible. Nothing in Gotham left nothing behind.
So he dug deeper. Black Mask whispers. Penguin shipments. Old Cadmus shell companies. Court of Owls banking ghosts. He kicked down doors and broke fingers and followed the absence like it was blood.
Every trail ended in static.
Except one.
A flower. Pressed between the pages of a book he did not remember buying.
A tiny blue forget-me-not.
Beside it, in handwriting he recognised as his own:
They loved these.
Jason stared at the note until the words blurred.
A person. His person.
The thought slammed through him so hard he had to sit down.
His person.
He didn’t remember your face. He didn’t remember your name.
But grief had weight. Love had gravity. Whatever had been taken from him had left a crater.
Jason touched the dried flower with one finger.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to someone he couldn’t remember.
The apartment stayed quiet.
No answer. No laugh. No soft footsteps behind him.
For reasons he could not explain, that was when he broke.
Not loudly. Jason did not break like glass. He broke like a building condemned quietly from the inside.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye.
And cried.
You returned because Jason found the warehouse.
Of course he did.
You heard about it from two men in an alley who forgot you while you were standing between them. They were nervous. Talking too much. Red Hood had been asking questions. Red Hood had found the old Mnemosyne site. Red Hood was going to get himself killed because subtlety had never met that man and lived.
You went cold all over.
The warehouse was not empty.
They had rebuilt underneath it. New locks. New guards. New machines humming beneath the concrete.
And Jason had walked right in.
By the time you arrived, the place was already burning. Gunfire cracked below. Alarms shrieked. Smoke rolled through the stairwell.
You moved through it like a ghost, because that was what they had made you. Men looked away and lost you. Cameras blurred. Guards shouted at shadows.
Then you heard Jason scream.
Not in fear.
In rage.
That was worse.
You found him in the central lab, chained to a metal chair under a halo of white lights. His helmet was gone. Blood ran from his temple. Electrodes clung to his skin.
A man in a lab coat stood beside a console.
“You are fascinating,” he said to Jason. “Repeated exposure to the anomaly has created subconscious retention pathways. Emotional memory without declarative recall. Remarkable.”
Jason spat blood on the floor. “You talk like a Wikipedia page grew legs and got bullied.”
God, you loved him.
The scientist sighed.
“You keep searching for them,” he said. “Even when you cannot remember who they are. The attachment survives erasure. We need to know why.”
Jason’s head lifted. Something terrible moved through his face.
“Them,” he said.
The scientist smiled.
“Ah,” he said. “There it is.”
You stepped into the room.
The scientist turned. His eyes landed on you.
Recognition flared—not of you, but of his experiment.
“Subject Nine,” he breathed.
Jason looked at you.
Everything stopped.
He stared like a starving man seeing food. Like an injured animal seeing home. Like a boy under a fire escape looking up at someone who knew which cars had alarms.
“You,” he whispered.
You held his gaze. “Hi, Jay.”
His breathing shook.
The scientist reached for a switch.
You moved first.
You were not a vigilante. Not really. You didn’t have armour or training from assassins or a dramatic cape. But you had survived Gotham. You had survived being erased. You had survived Jason Todd’s gun pointed at your heart more times than anyone should.
So you picked up a metal tray and hit the scientist in the face with it.
He dropped like a sack of bad decisions.
Jason blinked.
You froze.
No. No, not now.
His eyes closed for half a second from blood loss and pain.
When they opened, panic flickered there.
Not blankness.
Panic.
“Don’t go,” he said.
You nearly dropped the tray. “You remember?”
“No.” His voice cracked. “Yes. I don’t—stay where I can see you.”
You rushed to him and started working on the restraints.
His hands were shaking. Jason Todd’s hands were shaking.
“Look at me,” you said.
“I am.”
“Keep looking.”
“Not a hardship,” he rasped.
“Jason.”
“What? You’re pretty. I’m concussed. Let me have this.”
You laughed, breathless and wrecked. His eyes filled with something like wonder.
“I know that laugh,” he whispered.
Your hands stilled.
“I know it.”
The restraints snapped open. Jason sagged forward. You caught him. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and for one impossible second, he simply breathed you in.
Then the door opened.
Three guards rushed in.
Jason’s instincts took over.
He turned.
“No!” you shouted.
The forgetting hit like a wave.
You felt it tearing at the room, at him, at the fragile thread between your mind and his.
Not again.
Not again.
Something in you rose up.
Not fear. Not grief.
Fury.
You were tired of being stolen.
You grabbed Jason’s face between both hands and forced him back toward you.
“Remember me,” you said.
The lights flickered. The air bent. Jason’s pupils blew wide.
You felt the power twist, searching for absence, searching for the old path out.
You refused it.
“I am here,” you said, voice shaking. “I am real. You know me. You loved me before you had words for it. You found me in the rain. You forgot me with a gun in your hand, and I still came back because I am apparently an idiot with catastrophic taste in men.”
Jason made a strangled sound.
The guards shouted.
You did not look away.
“You are Jason Peter Todd,” you said through tears. “You hate peas. You love books. You died and came back wrong and still tried to be good even when you didn’t believe you were. You were my best friend. You are the love of my life. And I am done being erased.”
The room went silent.
Not actually. The alarms still screamed. The guards still moved. Fire still ate through the walls.
But inside the circle of Jason’s gaze, silence bloomed.
Blue and bright. Forget-me-not.
Jason stared at you.
Then, slowly, impossibly, he said your name.
You broke.
Jason caught you with one arm and raised his gun with the other.
He did not point it at you.
He pointed it past you.
“Hey,” he said to the guards, voice low and murderously calm. “You interrupted something important.”
The fight lasted forty-seven seconds. Jason was injured, half-electrocuted, and running on spite, which, unfortunately for everyone else, was his most renewable energy source. You helped by making yourself difficult to track, appearing in blind spots, knocking guns aside, and turning absence into a weapon instead of a wound.
When it was over, Jason leaned against the console, breathing hard.
You stood in front of him.
He looked at you. Then, deliberately, he turned his head away.
Your heart stopped.
“Jason—”
He looked back.
His face crumpled.
Still there. Still seeing you. Still knowing.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Jason laughed once, broken and disbelieving.
Then he reached for you.
You met him halfway.
The kiss was not graceful. There was blood on his mouth and smoke in your lungs. His hand shook against the back of your neck. You were crying too hard to breathe properly. It was a terrible first kiss, technically speaking.
It was also perfect.
Jason kissed you like a memory returning to a body. Like a vow. Like a wound finally closing.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I forgot you,” he said.
“Not on purpose.”
“I pointed guns at you.”
“Yeah.” You swallowed. “We’re going to unpack that. Emotionally. Extensively. Possibly with yelling.”
His mouth twitched. “Fair.”
“You scared me.”
His face went hollow with guilt. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.” You touched his jaw. “But you will.”
Jason nodded. No defense. No deflection. No joke sharp enough to hide behind.
Just Jason.
Your Jason.
“I’ll remember,” he said.
The words trembled.
You believed him.
Recovery was not pretty. It did not arrive in one cinematic montage where sunlight poured through windows and everything healed because love had entered the chat.
Love helped.
Love was not a cure.
There were still bad days.
Some mornings, Jason woke up reaching for a gun because you were in his kitchen and his brain stuttered before recognition landed. He never pointed it at you again, but the reach was enough to make you go quiet.
He hated himself for that. You hated the flinch.
You both learned to survive the aftermath.
He started sleeping with his weapons locked away when you stayed over. You started announcing yourself before entering rooms.
He put your name in his phone with a blue heart beside it and stared at it so often you threatened to change it to Emotional Support Cryptid.
He said, “Do it, and I’ll make yours Haunting Me Professionally.”
You changed it immediately.
Jason laughed for a full minute.
The first time he left the room and remembered you when he came back, he cried in the hallway before opening the door.
You pretended not to notice. He knew you noticed.
He loved you for pretending.
The Bats took it with varying levels of grace.
Dick hugged you, forgot you when he turned to yell for Bruce, then turned back and screamed. Tim started wearing a body camera and taking notes with alarming intensity.
Damian narrowed his eyes and said, “Your condition is inconvenient.”
You said, “So is your personality, but here we are.”
Jason laughed so hard he had to sit down.
Damian remembered you after that. Pure spite, apparently, was also a memory anchor.
Bruce was the hardest.
Not because he forgot.
Because he looked at Jason after remembering enough and said, quietly, “You’ve been grieving someone.”
Jason’s face closed.
You reached for his hand. Jason let you.
“Yeah,” he said. “I was.”
Bruce looked at your joined hands. Then at you.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
And maybe he forgot the exact shape of you when he looked away.
But he remembered Jason holding on.
That was enough for now.
Months later, the greenhouse bloomed.
You brought Jason there on a Sunday morning, when Gotham was pretending to be gentle.
The forget-me-nots had grown wild in the back, tiny blue flowers spilling from cracked pots, stubborn and bright against the ruin.
Jason stood under the broken glass roof with his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Subtle,” he said.
You nudged him. “Shut up.”
He looked down at the flowers. Then at you.
He did that a lot now. Looked at you.
Not out of fear. Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to. Because every glance was proof.
“You know,” he said, “I used to think I was haunted.”
“You were.”
“Rude.”
“You left notes to yourself about me. That’s haunting behaviour.”
“I was being investigative.”
“You wrote ‘blue mug’ on your arm.”
“Important clue.”
“You cried over a flower.”
Jason pointed at you. “That information was shared in confidence.”
You smiled.
His expression softened.
“I missed you,” he said.
The air changed.
You looked at him.
Jason swallowed, but he didn’t look away.
“I didn’t know your name. Didn’t know your face. But I missed you all the time.” His voice roughened. “There was this… space. Everywhere. In my apartment. In my bed. In my head. Like my life had been built around someone, and then the world took them out but left the shape behind.”
Your eyes burned. “Jay.”
“I think some part of me knew,” he said. “Even when I forgot. Even when I was scared. Even when I—” His jaw tightened. “Even when I hurt you.”
You stepped closer.
“You didn’t stop loving me,” you said softly. “You just couldn’t remember where the love was supposed to go.”
Jason’s face broke open.
“Yeah,” he whispered.
You took his hand. He held on carefully, like you were both precious and real.
“I love you,” he said.
You had imagined those words so many times that they should have felt familiar.
They didn’t. They felt new. They felt like sun through cracked glass.
“I love you too,” you said.
Jason smiled. Small. Shy. Devastating.
Then he turned away.
Only for a second. Only to look at the flowers.
When he looked back, his smile was still there.
So was recognition. So was love.
You exhaled.
Jason squeezed your hand.
“Still here,” he said.
You leaned into him, shoulder against his arm, and looked at the forget-me-nots blooming in the ruins.
the only sounds in the quiet safe room are the rubbing of denim and the needy whimpers and incoherent blabbers slipping from jason's lips.
"shit- s'good, soooo good" he says, throwing his head back when he feels you pick up your pace grinding against his painfully hard clothed cock. he's trying his best not to cum, trying his best to be a good boy.
your lips curl into a grin, the sight of him sitting under you, flushed face, glazed-over eyes brimming with tears, and so completely willing just for you sure is an ego booster.
"yeah? you like that?" you coo at him, running your fingers through his slightly damp hair. "bet you've been thinking about this all week..." you tease him, that cruel smirk still playing at your face. of course, he doesn't mind you teasing him.
he nods frantically, anything to agree with you, anything to please you. "yeah! fuuuck- i'm so close, baby" he whines, his hands taking place on your hips, assisting your movements against his.
"jason! no, hands off!" you snap at him, causing his hands to retreat back to the bedsheets just as quickly as he starts apologizing. "m'sorry," he shakes his head, a fat tear falling down his cheek. "m'so sorry baby- i- you just- you feel really really good" he rambles, "been thinking bout' you a lot" he nods, looking up at you to gauge your reaction to his words, making sure you're not too mad at him.
"i know, jay" you reply, not impressed by his apologies. nevertheless, you kiss his forehead and grind down harder on his bulge, earning a panicked whimper from him.
"wait! waitwaitwait m'gna cum- don't do tha-" he's cut off by you kissing him, all teeth and tongue. he moans into the kiss, not embarrassed in the slightest.
you pull back, panting for air. his lips are kiss swollen and pink, and he's looking up at you with pure love, his pupils blown out. "please lemme cum," he begs, nuzzling his cheek against your chest like a puppy. "i've been real good..." he sounds like he's telling himself that more than he's telling you.
your hands rub up and down his chest soothingly, "mhm... i know baby," you purr, "let me know how bad you wanna cum, sweet boy" and you know he's not one to shy away from begging, he'd literally do anything for you.
"i want it so bad- i-" more tears run down his face, evidence of his restraint. "i've been so good, haven't touched you- and- and- i've been a good boy" he breathes out, trying not to focus on the sensation of your hands rubbing up and down his arms, his eyelids fluttering.
he looks pathetic. only you have seen this side of him, all whiny and pussy-whipped, sucking up to you so he can bust a nut.
you nod, "cum for me, jay... you've earned it.." you give him the permission he's been aching for, and he doesn't wait.
he immediately lets out a high-pitched, needy moan of your name, his hands abandoning the bed and flying to your waist to ground himself. he pulses as he splurts hot globs of cum into his boxers, his hips bucking up to your warmth desperately.
you let him ride out his orgasm, blabbering thank you's and hugging you to his chest. you move strands of his hair away from his sweaty forehead, and he looks up at you. "can i make you feel good now?" he asks with those big glossy puppy dog eyes. how could you say no?
request reader who acts as a healer for the team, and their ability on paper [and seemingly in practice] is just that they can heal anybody, no matter the damage or cause, except their power actually works by stealing the wound and inflicting it upon themselves. they can take any pain, mental, chronic, sometimes even emotional depending on circumstances and the degree of it. no one knows until they take on something far too bad: losing a limb, breaking their spine, guts spilling out, etc.
content gn! reader x dick grayson, healer! reader, reader gets hurt, self-sacrificial healing, severe injury, fall injury, temporary paralysis/loss of mobility, blood, medical trauma, pain transfer, guilt, panic, near-death fear, angst with comfort
masterlist
word count 8.2k
Dick Grayson knew how to fall. Better than anyone, maybe.
There was an art to it. A language. A thousand tiny choices made in the narrow breath between losing the line and hitting the ground. Turn the shoulder. Tuck the chin. Roll through the impact. Trust the body. Trust the air. Trust the hands that had taught you how to fly before you were old enough to know that gravity was not mercy, only law.
Dick knew falling. He knew the split-second sweetness of empty space. The rush of wind against his face. The world turning around him in ribbons of light and shadow. He knew how to make falling look like flying, because that was what the Graysons did.
They fell beautifully.
Until they didn’t.
That was the first lesson.
The second was that someone always had to catch what was left.
Dick had built a life out of becoming that someone. He caught teammates before they hit concrete. Caught civilians before buildings collapsed. Caught the Titans when they spiralled, caught Bruce when he vanished too far inside the Bat, caught Jason’s anger when nobody else could hold it without bleeding, caught Tim’s exhaustion before it became a body bag, caught Damian’s sharp edges and pretended they did not cut.
He smiled. He joked. He opened his arms and made himself the net. It was easier that way.
People trusted nets. People did not ask if nets were tired.
You did, though.
That was one of the first things that unsettled him about you.
You always asked.
“Shoulder?” you said, appearing beside him before he had even fully made it through the medbay doors.
Dick looked down at the red line slicing through his suit, just under the joint. “Hello to you too.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is it the shoulder?”
“It is deeply rude that you know that from ten feet away.”
“It’s my entire thing.”
“Your entire thing is being bossy and magical.”
“My entire thing is healing idiots who think flirting counts as a treatment plan.”
He gasped and pressed his uninjured hand to his chest. “You think I’m flirting?”
“I think you’re bleeding on my floor.”
“That’s not a no.”
You gave him a look.
Dick smiled.
It was easy with you.
That was the problem. Most things with you felt easy, even when they weren’t. Even in the aftermath of horror, with sirens in the distance and smoke still clinging to everyone’s suits, you had a way of lowering the temperature in a room. You came in with steady hands, soft eyes, and a voice like warm water over bruised skin.
You were the Titans’ miracle.
Not that you liked being called that. Gar had tried once, dramatically, from a medbay cot after you healed three cracked ribs and a bruised spleen.
“My angel,” he had declared, one hand thrown over his forehead. “My saviour. My divine little first-aid kit.”
You had thrown a roll of gauze at his head.
Vic had laughed for a full minute.
Kory had kissed your cheek in gratitude.
Raven had watched you with that quiet, knowing look of hers.
Dick had watched too. He watched more than he should have.
He watched the way your face tightened for half a second after you healed someone. The way you always turned slightly away before taking a breath. The way you flexed your fingers like you were shaking off static. The way you insisted on cleaning up alone afterwards.
At first, he thought healing took energy. That made sense. Every power had a cost. Every body had limits.
You told them yours was fatigue.
Dick believed you.
Not because he was careless.
Because he wanted to. Because after years of watching good people stay hurt, there was something dangerously addictive about watching wounds vanish under your hands.
When Raven came back from a mission with psychic backlash clawing through her mind, and you pressed your fingers to her temples until her breathing evened out, Dick did not ask why you spent the next hour sitting alone in the dark.
When Gar twisted his knee badly enough that the sound made everyone in the room wince, and you healed him before the panic really hit, Dick did not ask why you limped afterwards.
When Kory took a blast meant for a child, and her skin split gold-bright across her ribs, Dick did not ask why your own hand shook as you helped her sit up.
He noticed. But noticing was not knowing.
That was what he told himself later. Over and over. Like repetition could turn guilt into absolution.
He noticed. He just didn’t know.
Not yet.
The night everything changed began with rain.
Blüdhaven rain was different from Gotham rain. Gotham rain fell like a verdict. Cold, black, heavy with memory. Blüdhaven rain came down silver beneath neon signs, slicking the streets until every alley looked like it had been painted in oil. It turned rooftops treacherous, fire escapes slippery, windows into mirrors.
Dick loved it anyway.
It was his city. Bruised, stubborn, trying. A little ugly in the right light. A little beautiful in the wrong one.
The Titans had come because the call was too big for one vigilante and too strange for local police. A new metahuman trafficking ring had gotten its hands on alien tech and old magic, which was never a combination that suggested anyone involved had made good life choices.
By midnight, the docks were burning. By twelve-thirty, three warehouses had partially collapsed. By one, the sky above Blüdhaven was full of drones shaped like metal wasps, each one armed with sonic emitters strong enough to rupture glass and destabilise inner ears.
“Tell me again why crime can’t be normal,” Gar shouted over comms.
Dick flipped over a drone, brought both escrima sticks down, and sent it sparking into the rain-slick rooftop. “You want normal crime?”
“I want crime that doesn’t make my teeth vibrate.”
“You have teeth right now?” Vic asked.
“I have emotional teeth.”
“That tracks,” you said over comms.
Dick smiled despite himself. Your voice always did that to him. Cut through the noise. Found him.
“You’re supposed to be behind the barricade,” he said, ducking under a burst of sonic fire.
“I am behind the barricade.”
“You’re too calm.”
“I’m very calm behind the barricade.”
Raven’s voice came in, flat as ever. “They are not behind the barricade.”
Dick exhaled sharply. “Of course they’re not.”
“I’m near the barricade,” you corrected.
Kory flew overhead, a streak of orange through the storm. “Friend healer, there are many injured civilians near the west warehouse.”
“I see them.”
Dick’s attention snapped toward the west side of the docks.
Through the rain, he saw you moving below.
Not at the barricade. Not near the barricade. Running straight toward the worst of the damage, because apparently, self-preservation was not included in the miracle package.
“Absolutely not,” Dick said.
“You sound like Bruce.”
“That was cruel and unnecessary.”
“You’ll live.”
“Not if you keep sprinting into active combat zones.”
“Then stop watching me and stop the drones.”
A drone screamed toward you.
Dick moved before thought could catch up. He launched himself from the rooftop, grapple line firing, body arcing low through rain and smoke. The drone’s emitter pulsed once. Pain stabbed through his ears. His vision blurred.
He released the line. Dropped. Twisted.
His boot connected with the drone hard enough to crack the metal shell. It spun away and exploded against the side of a warehouse in a shower of blue sparks.
Dick landed in front of you, one knee down, rain streaming off his hair.
You stared at him.
He looked up with his best smile. “Hi.”
Your eyes narrowed. “That was incredibly dramatic.”
“I’m a performer.”
“That was incredibly stupid.”
“I’m also Batman-adjacent.”
“Unfortunately accurate.”
Behind you, a civilian groaned.
Your expression shifted instantly.
There was the healer.
The softness vanished into focus. You moved past Dick and dropped beside a woman pinned beneath a collapsed beam. Her leg was crushed at an angle that made Dick’s stomach turn. Her breathing came in panicked sobs.
“Hey,” you said gently, all teasing gone. “Look at me. Not the leg. Me.”
The woman grabbed your wrist with shaking fingers. “I can’t—I can’t feel—”
“I know. I’ve got you.”
Dick watched you place both hands over the injury.
He watched your shoulders rise as you inhaled.
Then the woman gasped.
The beam shifted. Dick lifted it enough for Vic to pull her free.
Her leg was whole. Bruised, but whole.
She started crying.
You smiled at her.
Then, very subtly, your left knee buckled.
Dick caught it.
Not much. Just one hand at your elbow, enough to steady you.
You went stiff beneath his touch.
“You okay?” he asked.
You smiled too quickly. “Fine.”
There it was. That word.
Dick hated it when Bruce used it. Hated it when Jason spat it through bloodied teeth. Hated it when Tim said it without looking up from a laptop.
He hated it most from you.
Because you made it sound kind.
Another drone shrieked overhead before he could say anything.
The docks trembled.
Raven’s voice cut through comms. “Nightwing, the central warehouse is rigged. There are people inside.”
“How many?”
“Too many.”
Dick looked up. The central warehouse stood at the edge of the pier, half its roof torn open, old brick walls glowing with intermittent blasts of alien-blue light. Through the broken windows, he saw movement.
Civilians. Hostages.
The structure groaned. Then the upper floor exploded outward.
Kory shouted. Dick ran.
You called his name.
He ignored you.
He heard you following anyway.
Of course he did.
Inside, the warehouse was chaos.
Smoke. Screaming. Sprinklers raining dirty water from cracked pipes. Drones buzzing between support beams like insects. Civilians huddled behind shipping containers while armed traffickers tried to retreat through a back exit.
Nightwing moved through them like a blade wrapped in blue light.
Strike. Dodge. Flip. Disarm. Smile, because fear spread faster when people saw the hero afraid.
“Exit to the south!” he shouted. “Go! Go now!”
Kory blew a hole through a side wall for evacuation. Vic ripped open jammed doors. Raven shielded a group of children from falling debris. Gar, currently a gorilla, blocked a collapsing beam with both massive hands and yelled, “I would like everyone to appreciate my core strength!”
You were everywhere you should not be. Healing a burned firefighter. Pressing a hand to a child’s forehead. Closing the wound across a police officer’s side. Calm, quick, relentless.
Too relentless.
Dick saw your face pale. He saw the way you pressed one hand briefly to your ribs after healing the officer.
Something in him tightened.
Then the floor screamed.
Not cracked.
Screamed.
The alien tech at the centre of the warehouse pulsed, drawing power from the old magical sigils carved beneath the concrete. The combination sent a shockwave through the building.
Every support beam lit blue.
Raven’s shield shattered. Kory slammed into a wall. Gar lost his grip.
The ceiling began to come down.
Dick saw it happen in pieces.
A family trapped near the upper catwalk. A little boy separated from his mother. The metal walkway beneath them twisting loose.
No time for the grapple. No time for a plan.
Just the fall.
Dick launched himself upward, using a stack of containers as steps. His boots hit metal. His body moved on instinct, rainwater and smoke and adrenaline turning the world sharp.
He grabbed the boy first and tossed him toward Kory, trusting her to catch him.
She did. Of course she did.
The mother screamed as the catwalk tilted.
Dick caught her wrist.
For half a second, they hung there over open air.
“Don’t look down,” he told her.
She looked down.
They always looked down.
A support cable snapped. The catwalk dropped. Dick twisted, threw the woman upward with everything he had, and felt Vic’s metal hand close around her coat.
Then the world gave way beneath him.
Falling was supposed to be familiar.
This was not.
The sonic emitters went off all at once.
His inner ear shattered into static. The building spun wrong. His grapple fired but missed the broken beam by inches. His fingers closed on nothing. His shoulder clipped metal hard enough to tear a shout from his throat.
Then he hit a lower catwalk.
Pain cracked across his back.
He bounced. Fell again.
He tried to turn. Tried to tuck.
Couldn’t.
There were too many angles. Too much debris. Too much noise.
The ground rushed up.
For the first time in years, Dick Grayson did not know how to fall.
He hit concrete.
And everything stopped.
At first, there was no pain.
That was how Dick knew it was bad. Pain was information. Pain told you what was damaged and how much time you had before the body started making executive decisions without you.
No pain meant the body had gone quiet. No pain meant the damage had passed language.
He stared up at the broken ceiling. Rain fell through the hole in the roof, silver and soft against his face.
Someone was screaming his name. Maybe several someones.
Dick tried to move.
Nothing happened.
Not his legs. Not his right hand. His chest moved, barely. Breath scraping in shallow and wrong.
Ah. That was bad.
A shadow fell over him.
You.
Your face appeared above his, wet with rain, streaked with soot, eyes wide with a terror that did not belong on you.
“Dick,” you said.
He tried to smile. He wasn’t sure if it worked.
“Hey,” he breathed.
It came out broken.
Your hands hovered over him, trembling.
That scared him more than the fall. You never trembled.
“Don’t move,” you said.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Your face twisted.
Bad joke. Wrong moment. Classic Grayson.
He tried to lift his hand to touch your face.
Nothing.
Your eyes flicked down.
You saw.
He saw you see.
“Talk to me,” you said.
“Can’t feel…”
He stopped.
Your lips parted.
He did not want to finish the sentence.
He had spent his life moving. Flying. Running rooftops. Dancing along edges so narrow most people could not stand on them without shaking. His body was not just a tool. It was memory. Family. Language. A living echo of the Flying Graysons.
He could not feel half of it.
“Dick,” you whispered.
The building groaned around you. Distantly, Kory shouted for you both. Vic cursed. Raven’s power surged dark and bright somewhere behind the smoke.
You cupped Dick’s face. Your hands were warm despite the rain.
“I’m here,” you said.
He believed you. That was the danger.
“Don’t,” he managed.
Your expression shifted.
He was not Bruce. He had not figured it out fully. Not yet. But something old and instinctive in him understood the shape of sacrifice when it leaned too close.
You had looked pale after healing people. You had limped after fixing Gar’s knee. You had hidden your hand after Damian broke his wrist on a mission with the Supersons. You had smiled through it all.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
You shook your head. “You’re dying.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t.”
Your eyes filled. “Dick—”
“Please.”
That word hurt more than the fall. Please was not a word Nightwing used often in the field. Please belonged to civilians, to scared children, to moments too human for masks.
Your face broke. Only for a second.
Then you leaned down and pressed your forehead to his.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
His heart lurched.
“No,” he said, or tried to.
Your hands slid beneath his shoulders.
And then the pain came.
Not his.
Yours.
He knew because it came with your scream. It tore through the warehouse, raw and animal and absolute.
Dick’s body snapped back into itself. Sensation flooded his legs. His fingers. His lungs. Pain, yes, but normal pain. Bruises. Strains. Things he knew how to name.
His spine straightened. His ribs expanded. His right hand clenched.
He gasped and rolled onto his side, coughing through smoke.
For one impossible second, relief hit him.
Then he saw you.
You were on the concrete beside him, twisted at the same angle he had been. Your back arched unnaturally. Blood spread beneath you. One of your legs lay still, too still. Your hand curled against the ground, fingers shaking like they were trying to remember how to move.
Your mouth opened. No sound came out.
Dick’s world narrowed.
“No,” he said.
It did not sound like him.
He crawled to you, hands skidding in water and blood.
“No, no, no.”
Your eyes found his.
You looked relieved. Relieved. Like seeing him move was worth what had happened to you.
Something terrible opened inside him.
“Why would you do that?” he choked.
Your lips moved.
He leaned closer.
“Caught you,” you whispered.
Dick broke.
Not loudly. Not at first. The sound that left him was small. Fractured. A child’s sound buried under a man’s voice.
He gathered you into his arms with shaking hands, trying not to jostle your spine, trying not to touch anywhere wrong, trying not to look at the blood, the angle of your body, the proof.
The proof.
He had fallen. You had become the fall.
“Kory!” he screamed.
The name tore through his throat.
Orange light flashed.
Kory landed beside him hard enough to crack concrete. Her eyes went wide when she saw you.
“Oh, beloved healer,” she breathed.
Dick looked up at her, wild. “We need medevac.”
Vic’s voice came through comms, tight with horror. “Already calling it.”
Raven appeared from the smoke, her hood torn, shadows curling violently around her.
She looked at you. Then at Dick.
Her expression went white.
Not pale.
White. Like she had felt something nobody else could.
“She took it,” Raven whispered.
Dick stared at her. “What?”
Raven’s voice shook. “The injury. She took it from you.”
The warehouse seemed to tilt.
No. No, he knew that. He had seen it. He had felt his body become whole as yours broke.
But hearing it made it real in a way his mind had been refusing to allow.
Gar, shifted back into human form, stumbled toward them. “What do you mean took it?”
Raven swallowed. “Their power doesn’t erase wounds.”
Dick looked down at you.
Your eyes were half-closed now.
No.
No.
No.
“It transfers them,” Raven said.
No one spoke. Even the burning warehouse seemed to go quiet.
Dick pressed his fingers to your throat.
Pulse there.
Fast. Weak. Too weak.
“Stay with me,” he said, voice shaking. “Hey. Look at me. Come on, look at me.”
Your eyelids fluttered.
He smiled because he did not know how to do anything else with terror.
“There you are,” he whispered. “Stay with me, okay? I’ve got you.”
Your lips twitched faintly.
“Net,” you breathed.
“What?”
“You’re… always the net.”
Dick’s vision blurred.
“Yeah,” he said, voice breaking. “Yeah, baby. I’m the net. So you don’t get to fall through. You hear me?”
Your eyes closed.
Dick’s smile vanished. “No. No, no. Open your eyes. Open your eyes.”
Kory knelt beside him and placed one glowing hand carefully against your shoulder, not healing, not touching the wound, just there.
“Dick,” she said softly.
He shook his head. “They’re not dying.”
“No,” Kory agreed, though her voice trembled. “They are not.”
Dick looked down at you in his arms.
He had caught you.
Too late.
But he had caught you.
And he would not let go.
Titan Tower’s medbay had seen bad nights.
This was worse.
The room was full of people trying not to fall apart loudly.
Kory stood by the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her glow dimmed to a low, anxious pulse beneath her skin. Gar sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. Vic kept running diagnostics, jaw clenched, his human eye red. Raven stood in the corner with her hood up, shadows tucked close around her like grief with teeth.
Dick sat beside your bed and held your hand.
He had been told to leave twice.
He had not.
The first time, a nurse tried gentle concern.
The second time, Donna tried command voice.
Neither worked.
Finally, Raven had looked at everyone and said, “Let him stay.”
So he stayed.
You lay still beneath white sheets and too many wires, your body strapped carefully to prevent movement. Spinal stabilizers ran along your back. An oxygen line curved beneath your nose. Your face looked wrong without expression. Too empty. Too quiet.
Dick kept staring at your mouth. Waiting for it to quirk. Waiting for you to make a joke about his bedside manner. Waiting for you to open your eyes and call him dramatic.
His suit was still on. Torn, wet, stained with your blood and his own, though technically the blood was all yours now in the ways that mattered. Someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders.
Probably Kory. Maybe Donna.
He did not remember.
He remembered your scream. He remembered your body twisting. He remembered Raven saying, It transfers them.
His hand tightened around yours. Your fingers did not move.
“Dick.”
Donna’s voice came from the doorway.
He did not look up.
“How long?” he asked.
She was quiet for a second. “The doctors don’t know.”
He nodded once.
Meaningless.
His gaze stayed on your face.
Donna came closer. “They said the injury may not behave like a normal spinal trauma. Their body processes transferred wounds differently.”
“May,” Dick repeated.
“Yes.”
“May not.”
“Yes.”
He laughed once. It was ugly.
Donna’s hand settled on his shoulder.
That almost undid him.
Dick bowed his head over your hand.
“I should have known,” he said.
Donna did not answer.
He hated her for that. Loved her for it too.
“I noticed things,” he continued, voice low. “After they healed people. I noticed.”
“Dick.”
“I noticed and I let it go.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have.”
Donna squeezed his shoulder. “That is Bruce talking.”
His head snapped up.
She looked at him steadily.
“You are allowed to be hurt without making guilt useful,” she said.
Dick stared at her.
Then he looked back at you.
“Useful is all I’ve got right now.”
Donna’s expression softened.
Behind them, Gar made a broken sound.
“I let them heal me last week,” he said.
Everyone looked at him.
He stared at the floor. “My knee. It was nothing. Like, yeah, it hurt, but it wasn’t—” His voice cracked. “It wasn’t worth that.”
Raven closed her eyes. Kory turned away sharply.
Vic’s metal hand curled into a fist. “They healed my neural interface after Psimon fried half my systems.”
“They helped me after Trigon,” Raven said quietly.
Silence fell.
Not empty.
Crowded.
Every person in the room was remembering.
Every hand you had held. Every wound you had closed. Every time you had smiled afterward and said you were tired.
Only tired.
Dick felt sick.
Not because you had lied.
Because all of them had been relieved enough to believe you.
The door opened again.
Clark Kent stepped in, rain-dark hair mussed, glasses absent, Superman suit visible beneath a jacket he had clearly thrown on in a hurry.
He looked around the room once. Then at you.
His face changed.
“Oh,” he said softly.
That was all.
Just oh.
Dick wanted to stand. Wanted to say something. Wanted to be Nightwing, team leader, eldest brother, person who knew how to make everyone breathe again.
He couldn’t.
Clark came to the other side of your bed.
“I came as soon as I heard,” he said.
Dick nodded.
Clark’s eyes lowered to your still hand in Dick’s grip.
“They healed me yesterday,” Clark said.
Dick’s breath caught.
“Kryptonite burn,” Clark continued quietly. “They looked pale afterwards. Bruce noticed. He told them to rest.”
A horrible laugh escaped Dick. “Of course he did.”
Clark looked at him with infinite gentleness. “Bruce didn’t know either.”
Dick shut his eyes.
He could imagine Bruce finding out. The silence. The rage. The way he would turn terror into protocols and guilt into surveillance. The way he would blame himself first, hardest, longest.
Dick had learned from the best. Unfortunately.
“Can you hear anything?” Dick asked.
Clark’s face tightened.
Heartbeats. That was what Dick meant.
Clark nodded. “Their heart is steady for now.”
For now.
The phrase lodged under Dick’s ribs.
He looked down at you.
“Good,” he said, like the word had weight, like saying it could make it true. “That’s good.”
Clark stayed for a while.
So did everyone else.
One by one, though, they drifted out. Not far. Never far. Titans did not abandon their own. They lingered in hallways, in waiting rooms, in corners with vending machine coffee and red-rimmed eyes.
Eventually, only Dick remained.
He was good at vigils. He hated that too.
Hours passed in monitor beeps and the low hum of machines.
Your hand was warm in his.
That became his whole world.
Warm meant alive. Warm meant here. Warm meant not yet.
Near dawn, your fingers twitched.
Dick nearly came out of his chair.
“Hey,” he said, leaning forward. “Hey, I’m here.”
Your eyelids fluttered.
He forgot how to breathe.
Then your eyes opened. Unfocused at first. Cloudy with pain and medication.
Then they found him.
You smiled. Barely.
It devastated him.
“Hi, pretty bird,” you rasped.
Dick made a sound between a laugh and a sob.
“You’re not allowed to be charming right now,” he said.
Your brow furrowed faintly. “M’dying?”
“No.”
“Then I’m allowed.”
His mouth trembled.
You blinked slowly, gaze shifting around the room. “Tower?”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone okay?”
There it was. First question.
Not, Am I okay? Not, What happened?
Everyone.
Dick had never loved and hated anything more.
He leaned closer.
“No,” he said.
Your eyes came back to him.
“They’re not okay. I’m not okay. You scared the hell out of us.”
Your expression shifted with slow understanding.
Then memory returned.
He watched it happen.
The warehouse. The fall. The choice.
Your eyes filled. “Dick—”
“No.” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard and tried again. “No, don’t. Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t make it easier. Please don’t make it easier.”
You went quiet.
He pressed your hand to his forehead.
His shoulders shook once. Only once.
“I watched you become the fall,” he whispered.
Your breath hitched.
“You were—” He stopped, unable to finish. “You were on the ground. Like me. Because of me.”
“Not because of you.”
“You took my injury.”
“Yes.”
The honesty punched the air out of him.
No deflection. No lie. No, I’m fine.
Just yes.
Dick lifted his head. His eyes burned.
“How long?”
Your gaze slid away.
His stomach dropped. “How long have you been doing that?”
You were quiet.
Too quiet.
Dick understood before you answered.
“All of it?” he asked.
Your mouth trembled.
“Most of it,” you whispered.
Dick stood so fast the chair slammed backward.
You flinched.
He froze immediately.
Regret flashed through him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” He pushed both hands through his hair and turned away, pacing once before spinning back to you. “It’s not okay. None of this is okay.”
Your face had gone pale.
He forced himself to lower his voice. “You took Gar’s knee.”
There was something old in them then. Older than your face. Older than your smile.
“I heal faster than most people.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
“That sounds like something Bruce would say.”
A weak breath of laughter escaped you.
Dick did not smile.
The laugh died.
“I didn’t want you to know,” you said.
“No kidding.”
“Dick.”
His name in your voice hurt.
He came back to the chair slowly and sat down because standing made him want to run through walls.
You turned your head toward him.
The movement was tiny. It still cost you. He saw the pain ripple over your face.
“Don’t,” he said quickly.
You stilled.
He hated this. He hated all of it. The bed. The machines. Your body trapped under injury. His body whole because yours wasn’t.
“I need to know why,” he said.
“You know why.”
“No.” His voice came out sharper than intended. “No, I really don’t.”
Your eyes searched his face.
He let you see it. All of it. The fear. The anger. The betrayal. The love he had been carrying like a secret too fragile to name.
You looked away first.
“I didn’t want anyone to choose pain,” you said.
Dick stared at you.
“Everyone I work with is the same,” you continued. “The League. The Titans. The Outlaws. All of you. If I told you what healing costs me, you’d refuse unless you were unconscious or dying. Maybe even then.”
“Yes,” Dick said. “Because we’re not monsters.”
“You’re martyrs.”
He went still.
You looked back at him. Softly, exhaustedly furious.
“You are,” you said. “Every single one of you. You’d let yourselves bleed out if it meant I didn’t have to feel it. You’d call that noble. I call it stupid.”
Dick let out a stunned laugh. “You cannot be serious right now.”
“I am extremely serious.”
“You are lying in a medbay because you took a broken spine from me.”
“And I’d do it again.”
The room went silent.
Dick’s face crumpled before he could stop it.
You saw. Of course you saw.
Regret passed over your features.
“Dick—”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, don’t say that.”
“I can’t lie to you anymore.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to almost die for me and then tell me you’d do it again.”
“I love you.”
Dick stopped. Everything stopped.
The monitors kept beeping. Somewhere outside, someone walked down the hall. Rain tapped lightly against the Tower windows.
But inside Dick, every moving part went still.
You looked terrified now.
Not of death.
Of him. Of what he would do with the truth.
Your eyes glistened.
“I love you,” you said again, voice breaking. “And I know that’s not an excuse. I know it doesn’t make lying okay. I know it doesn’t make taking the choice away okay. But it’s the reason.”
Dick could not move. He had imagined hearing those words from you more times than he would ever admit. Usually in softer places. A kitchen at two in the morning. His apartment. A rooftop under a kinder sky. Your hand in his, your smile warm enough to make the world feel less like a thing that constantly needed saving.
Not here. Not with your spine braced. Not with your blood still dried under his fingernails.
“You can’t say that,” he whispered.
Your face went blank.
Dick realised what it sounded like and reached for you immediately.
“No. No, that’s not—” He sat on the edge of the chair, one hand hovering near yours. “That’s not what I mean.”
You looked at his hand.
He waited.
This time, he waited.
After a moment, you moved your fingers weakly toward him.
Permission.
Dick took your hand like it was made of light.
“You can’t say you love me like that,” he said, voice shaking. “Like it means your life is automatically worth less than mine.”
Your eyes filled again. “I don’t think that.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” he said, gentler now. “Because I know that trick. I invented that trick. I perfected that trick. I have a whole family of emotionally repressed vigilantes who could give a TED Talk on that trick.”
A watery laugh escaped you.
Dick’s thumb moved over your knuckles.
“I know what it looks like when someone calls self-destruction devotion,” he said.
Your smile faded.
He swallowed hard. “I know because I do it all the time.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you whispered, “Yeah.”
He laughed once, and this time it was almost real. “Rude.”
“Accurate.”
“Still rude.”
Your fingers twitched against his palm.
He lowered his head until his forehead rested against your hand.
“I love you too,” he whispered.
Your breath caught.
He held onto you tighter.
“I love you,” he said again, because now that the words were out, he could not bear to let them stand alone. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it. And I am so angry at you that I can barely breathe.”
You made a small sound.
He lifted his head.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I only wanted you alive.”
His face twisted.
“I know,” he said.
That was the worst part. He knew.
There was no cruelty in what you had done. No malice. No carelessness.
Only love. Misdirected. Secretive. Devastating love. The kind that looked too much like his own.
Dick leaned forward and pressed his lips to your knuckles.
Your eyes closed.
He stayed there.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
“We have to tell everyone.”
Your eyes opened. Fear flickered.
“They already know some of it,” he continued. “Raven felt it. She told us what happened.”
You looked toward the door.
Dick followed your gaze.
Through the small window, shadows moved in the hallway.
The Titans.
Waiting. Hurting. Loving you.
Your mouth trembled. “They’re going to hate me.”
Dick shook his head immediately. “No.”
“They should.”
“No.”
“I lied to them.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And they’re going to be upset. They’re going to be scared. Gar is probably going to cry on you, so prepare emotionally for dampness.”
Despite everything, your lips twitched.
“Vic is going to pretend he’s fine and then build you seventeen medical devices,” Dick continued. “Raven is going to stare into your soul until you confess every symptom you’ve ever hidden. Kory might actually lift a car.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“She might. For emphasis.”
Your smile faded, but some of the terror went with it.
“And you?” you asked.
Dick breathed in.
“I’m going to stay mad for a while,” he admitted.
You nodded.
“But I’m also going to stay.”
Your face cracked open.
He leaned closer.
“I’m not leaving because this is hard,” he said. “I’m not leaving because you scared me. I’m not leaving because you made a bad choice trying to save me.”
Your eyes searched his.
“I need you to promise me something,” he said.
“Dick…”
“No secret healing. Not with us. Not anymore.”
Your jaw tightened. “Emergency circumstances—”
“We’ll define them.”
“You sound like Batman.”
“I know. I’m devastated too.”
A weak laugh.
His heart nearly buckled under the sound.
“I mean it,” he said. “You have to tell people what they’re agreeing to.”
You looked down. “I know.”
“And you have to let us take care of you afterwards.”
“That’s harder.”
“I know.”
“I’m bad at it.”
“Baby, you are catastrophically bad at it.”
You huffed.
He smiled faintly, then sobered. “But we’re going to practice.”
“We?”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushed your hand. “We.”
Your eyes glistened.
“Okay,” you whispered.
It was not enough.
But it was a beginning.
Dick could work with beginnings.
He was a circus kid. A vigilante. A Robin. A Nightwing. A man who had lost the ground and learned to trust the air anyway.
Beginnings were just another kind of leap.
The Titans entered one at a time. Gar cried first, obviously. He tried very hard not to, which made it worse. He stood beside your bed with his arms crossed, lower lip trembling, eyes too bright.
“I’m mad at you,” he said.
Your face softened. “I know.”
“I’m, like, really mad.”
“I know.”
“And sad. And mad. And also really glad you’re not dead, which is making the mad part complicated.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“It is.” His voice cracked. “You took my knee.”
Your eyes lowered.
Gar wiped his face with his sleeve. “It was just my knee.”
“Gar…”
“No, it was. It hurt, yeah, but I would’ve been fine. It wasn’t worth you hurting.”
You looked at Dick. He said nothing.
This was yours to answer.
You swallowed.
“At the time,” you said carefully, “it felt worth it to me.”
Gar looked stricken.
“I know that doesn’t make it okay,” you added quickly. “I know I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
Gar sniffled. Then he leaned down very carefully and hugged the top of your head.
Dick almost told him to be careful.
He did not.
You closed your eyes.
Gar whispered, “You’re not allowed to die. I already decided.”
“Okay,” you whispered back.
“Cool.”
Then he backed away, crying harder.
Vic came next.
He did not cry. He brought a tablet.
“I’ve got three ideas,” he said, voice too controlled, “for a biofeedback system that can warn before a transfer exceeds safe neurological load.”
“I would’ve let you help,” he said quietly. “Sometimes. Maybe. But I would’ve wanted to know when helping me hurt you.”
Your eyes filled again.
“I know,” you whispered.
Vic nodded once.
Then he set the tablet on your bedside table like an offering.
Raven came after him.
She stood beside your bed, silent and pale, shadows moving slowly around her wrists.
You looked nervous.
Raven looked at you for a long time.
Then she said, “You took more than injuries.”
Your face went still.
Dick’s attention sharpened.
Raven’s eyes did not leave yours. “Emotional pain too. Psychic pain. Fear. Grief.”
You swallowed.
“Sometimes,” you said.
Dick felt like the floor had dropped again.
Of course. Of course there was more.
Raven’s expression tightened. “Mine?”
You closed your eyes. The silence answered.
Raven inhaled sharply.
Dick started to reach for her, but she lifted one hand.
You opened your eyes. “Only when it was too much. Only when I thought—”
“That I couldn’t survive it?” Raven asked.
You flinched.
Raven looked away.
For a moment, she was very young.
Then she stepped closer and placed two fingers lightly against your hand.
“I understand why,” Raven said. Your tears spilled over. “But do not do it again without asking me.”
“I won’t,” you whispered.
Raven nodded.
Then, after a pause, she added, “You are loved for more than your usefulness.”
You broke then. Quietly. Completely.
Dick stood, but Raven was already there, leaning carefully over you, touching your forehead with hers.
Not a hug. Not exactly.
Something quieter. Something sacred.
Kory came last.
She tried to be gentle.
Kory’s gentleness had always been a force of nature trying to fit through a doorway.
Her eyes shone bright green as she took your hand.
“My beloved friend,” she said, voice trembling, “you have carried pain alone when you had an army.”
You gave a wet laugh. “When you say it like that, it sounds very stupid.”
“It was,” Kory said.
Everyone blinked.
Kory’s chin lifted. “It was brave. It was loving. It was also stupid.”
Gar made a tiny sound. “She said the thing.”
Kory ignored him.
She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“You will not do this alone again,” she said.
You nodded, crying too hard to speak.
Dick watched them surround you.
Not crowding. Not demanding.
Just there. A net, woven from people who loved you enough to be angry.
For the first time since the warehouse, something inside him loosened.
Not healed. Not yet.
But held.
Recovery was slow. Not as slow as normal spinal trauma, because your body was strange and stubborn and apparently determined to give medical science a migraine.
But not fast either.
Feeling returned in fragments. Left foot. Right toes. Thighs. Hips. Pain followed each return like lightning learning your name.
You hated it.
Dick loved every sign because it meant you were still there, still fighting, still coming back.
He also hated it because every gasp from you felt like punishment.
He spent most days at your bedside.
At first, he tried to make himself useful. He brought food. Adjusted pillows. Read medical updates. Ran interference when too many worried heroes wanted to visit. Smuggled in snacks Alfred absolutely did not approve of but definitely knew about because Alfred knew everything and permitted crimes selectively.
Then you caught him reorganising the medbay supply cabinet at three in the morning.
“Dick.”
He froze with a roll of bandages in each hand.
You stared at him from the bed, unimpressed. “What are you doing?”
“Inventory.”
“This is not your medbay.”
“Organisation helps.”
“You alphabetised antiseptic.”
“Antiseptic deserves respect.”
“You need sleep.”
“So do you.”
“I was asleep until you started stress-cleaning gauze.”
He looked down at the bandages. Then back at you.
“You were in pain.”
Your expression softened.
He hated how easily you saw through him.
“I’m often in pain right now,” you said gently.
His hands tightened.
“Don’t do that,” you said.
“Do what?”
“Make my pain your failure.”
He laughed once, humourless. “Kind of hard not to, considering.”
“Dick.”
He looked away.
You sighed. “Come here.”
He put the bandages down and came to your bedside.
You patted the edge of the mattress.
He gave you a look. “Absolutely not.”
“Sit.”
“I could hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“I’m not risking your spine because you want cuddles.”
“I do want cuddles.”
His expression flickered.
You smiled faintly. “That one got you.”
“Cruel.”
“Effective.”
He compromised by dragging the chair close enough that his knees touched the bed. You reached for him, and he gave you his hand.
It had become familiar now. His hand in yours. Your pulse under his fingers. Your life, stubborn and warm.
“You’re doing the thing,” you said.
“What thing?”
“The smile.”
Dick blinked. “I’m not smiling.”
“The inside smile. The fake one. The one that says, ‘I’m fine, don’t look too closely, I’m very handsome and emotionally functional.’”
He stared at you. “You think I’m handsome?”
“You heard the rest.”
“I prioritised.”
Your mouth twitched.
Dick’s smile came easier this time. Realer.
Then it faded.
“I don’t know how to stop seeing it,” he admitted.
Your thumb moved weakly against his hand.
“The fall?” you asked.
He nodded.
Your face gentled.
“When I close my eyes,” he said, voice low, “I see you on the floor.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” He leaned forward. “I’m not telling you so you apologise. I’m telling you because we said no more hiding.”
You absorbed that.
Then nodded slowly.
“Okay,” you whispered. “No more hiding.”
His throat tightened.
You looked down at your joined hands.
“I still feel it sometimes,” you said.
Dick went still.
“The fall,” you clarified. “Not the full injury anymore. But echoes. Like my body remembers impact that wasn’t mine.”
Dick could not speak.
You continued, because apparently both of you had chosen emotional destruction as a bonding activity.
“I don’t regret saving you.” He closed his eyes. “But I’m starting to understand that not regretting it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”
His eyes opened.
You looked at him, open and tired and honest. “I’m sorry for that part.”
Dick breathed in carefully.
Then out.
“I don’t regret being alive,” he said.
Your lips parted.
“I need you to know that. I don’t regret it. I don’t wish you hadn’t saved me if the alternative was dying in that warehouse.”
Your eyes filled.
“But I hate that you paid for it alone,” he continued. “I hate that I didn’t get to say yes. I hate that you thought love meant making yourself the place pain goes to disappear.”
You nodded, tears spilling silently.
“I’m learning,” you whispered.
He kissed your hand. “Me too.”
You studied him. “What are you learning?”
Dick huffed softly. “That apparently I have control issues.”
Your brows rose.
“I know. Shocking. Alert the media.”
“Front-page news.”
“And,” he continued, “that being the net all the time is not actually the same as being loved.”
Your expression changed.
He swallowed. “I think I liked being needed because it felt safer than being wanted.”
You went very still.
Dick looked down at your hand.
“If people need you, you have a job. A role. Something to do. Something to offer. You can earn your place over and over.” His mouth twisted. “But being wanted? Just because you’re you? That’s terrifying.”
Your voice was soft. “Yeah.”
He looked up. Your eyes were wet.
“I know,” you said.
And there it was.
The mirror. Two people who had made themselves useful enough to avoid asking if they were loved.
Dick smiled sadly. “We’re a pair, huh?”
“A disastrous one.”
“Hot.”
You laughed. This time, it did not sound broken.
Dick felt the laugh settle into his chest like sunrise.
He leaned closer, giving you time to refuse.
You did not.
His lips touched yours softly. Carefully.
There was nothing dramatic about it. No collapsing warehouse. No blue fire. No scream. Just his hand in yours, your mouth warm beneath his, and the quiet, astonishing fact that you were both still alive.
When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.
“Was that okay?” he asked.
Your eyes opened slowly. “You’re asking after?”
“I panicked.”
“Adorable.”
“I can do better.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
You tugged weakly at his hand. “Again.”
This time, he laughed before kissing you.
The first time you stood again, everyone cried.
Gar denied it. He was lying.
Vic recorded the whole thing and claimed it was for medical documentation. Also lying.
Kory hovered with both hands out like she intended to catch you, the bed, Dick, and possibly the entire Tower if necessary. Raven stood nearby, pretending calm while her shadows formed nervous little curls at her feet.
Dick stood in front of you.
Not behind. Not beside.
In front, hands open.
A net. But not the only one.
“You’ve got this,” he said.
You glared at him. “If I fall, I’m haunting you.”
“Reasonable.”
“As a poltergeist.”
“Mean, but fair.”
“I’ll move all your cereal into different boxes.”
Gar gasped. “That’s evil.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Dick’s grin trembled.
You saw. Your expression softened.
“Hey,” you said quietly. He focused on you. “I’m here.”
He nodded.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “You are.”
You took one step. Your knees shook.
Dick did not grab you. It took everything in him. Every instinct screamed. Every memory of your body broken on concrete rose up sharp and hungry.
But he did not grab you. He let you choose the step. Let you own the balance. Let you move.
You took another.
Then another.
Then your strength failed.
Dick caught you.
So did Kory.
So did Vic.
Raven’s shadows braced your legs.
Gar cheered and cried openly this time.
You ended up laughing against Dick’s chest while everyone crowded in, careful and loud and ridiculous.
The pain had gone somewhere. The fear had too.
Not away. Never fully away.
But spread out. Held by more hands.
That was the secret none of you had known at first.
Pain did not become lighter because one person carried all of it.
It became survivable when everyone carried a piece.
Later, after the others left and you were back in bed, exhausted but smiling, Dick sat beside you and traced idle circles over your palm.
“You caught me,” you said.
He looked up.
“In the warehouse,” you continued. “After.”
His face sobered. “I was too late.”
“No.” You squeezed his hand. “You caught me.”
Dick swallowed hard.
“You caught me too,” he said.
Your smile faded into something tender. “I broke all your rules when I did.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m trying not to romanticise that.”
“Good.”
“But I did catch you.”
His mouth curved despite himself.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “You did.”
You looked at him in the soft medbay light. “Now what?”
Dick leaned back in his chair, still holding your hand. “Now we learn how to do the next part without almost dying.”
“Sounds improbable.”
“We can try.”
“Are there snacks?”
“Definitely.”
“Then I’m in.”
He laughed.
There it was again. That bright thing. That impossible thing.
Joy, growing stubbornly in the aftermath.
Dick Grayson still knew how to fall. He always would. But now, when he looked at you, when he felt your fingers threaded through his, when he remembered the warehouse and the scream and the terrible miracle of being saved, he understood something he had spent his whole life avoiding.
Catching someone did not mean never falling. Being loved did not mean never hitting the ground.
Sometimes love was the hand reaching down afterwards. Sometimes it was the person who stayed through recovery. Sometimes it was telling the truth when the lie would be easier. Sometimes it was a whole team gathered around a bed, furious and crying and refusing to let one person become the only place pain could live.
And sometimes, impossibly, it was you.
Alive. Healing. Learning. Smiling at him like the world was still worth saving.
Dick lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.
“I love you,” he said.
Your eyes softened. “I love you too, pretty bird.”
His heart stumbled. “Still not over that nickname.”
“You love it.”
“I do.”
You smiled wider.
Outside the Tower windows, Blüdhaven glittered beneath the rain.
smut | praise | watching thru the mirror | “use your words”
when he wants to be, jason todd can be filthy.
you’re laying on your stomach, drooling all over the pillow case while he punctuates every single thrust with a moan. his hips moves slow and precise against yours because he’s memorized how it makes you whine and clench. gasping his name while he grinds his thrusts in its deep, deep rigour. you moan something incoherent when he circles his hips and he drops his weight over you to whisper in your ear.
“what was that baby?” every word delicate and breathy against the shell of your ear.
blissed out on him, all you can manage is a elongated mmmhf into the pillow before jason pulls you up by your shoulders. he keeps your weight on his while he remains sheathed inside.
“you gotta use your words pretty girl,” nibbling at your ear to watch you squirm, “say that again.”
practically sobbing with how deep he was and how you’d came for the nth time already tonight, you shakes your head.
“it’s too much,” gasping as he grinds his hips just enough to feel the drag against your walls.
he hums, “you want me to stop?”
immediately pushing back into him, you let out a sharp, “no!”
jason chuckles against your neck while he maneuvers you onto your knees while he’s mounting you from behind. nipping at the nape of your neck while he kisses your cervix and you drop your head backwards to rest on his shoulder. an idea crosses his mind while you make broken sounds into the empty air. arms wrapping around your middle, he turns you to face your full length mirror with your makeup bag still sitting in front of it on the ground. pushing back into you while his hand snakes up to squeeze your breasts and coaxs another gasp.
almost like it’s involuntarily, he kneads with his fingers and moans your name, “is this okay?” when you nod he tsks, “what’d i say about words ma?”
you grab at his hand as you jolt, “yes, it’s perfect,” struggling to speak but he just groans against your neck again.
the sound vibrating across your skin and sending shivers down your spine until you push back into him.
“look,” he pants between measured thrusts, “look at you.”
biting your lip, you lift your head to look at the lewd sight in the mirror.
he had you arched against him on the bed, both of you on your knees as he grinds slowly into you. “you’re so beautiful. my pretty, pretty girl.” smiling to himself at your blissed out state while he pulls you back into him.
embarrassed, you shut your eyes and try to turn your head when his hand comes up higher to make you face the mirror again. murmuring dirty words in your ear again.
“nah, you gotta watch us, hah? don’t we look so good together?” his voice as sensual as ever as he reaches places that only he could.
watching as his hips slam a little harder, you nod, “yes, yes, so good jay.”
humming in agreement, he coos, “good ma, now say it.”
“say it?” hiccuping as you question him.
“call yourself pretty. say i’m beautiful hmm? go on.” breathing by your ear.
you arch further as he grinds deeper, “but that’s so embarrassing.”
“what? how’s being my beautiful wife embarrassing?” pulling you up a little higher so you’re barely holding yourself up, “look at that body, god, could make a grown man cry.”
caressing from the inside with his slow and deep ministrations, you gasp again, “jay—”
“she’s gripping me so tight too, pretty and—nghh, so so beautiful.” a thin layer of sweat on his skin making it glisten beautifully under your bedroom light, “say it, come on please baby?”
coaxing with another sharp thrust, you nearly cry out, “pretty, ‘m so pretty.”
he laughs again, turning your head enough to kiss him over your shoulder while he progressively moves faster. hips meeting yours in pace that was bringing you dangerously close again. moaning loudly into his mouth, he groans right back, then swallows the sound down. you pull away to breathe and he immediately makes you turn to watch again. ministrations making your tits bounce and voice falter. grabbing his hand at your chest, you bring it lower and lower til the message is so clear to him that he’s mad he didn’t think of it first.
fingers meeting that sensitive nub, he rubs tight circles as he feels you clench. the sound you make has his mouth wide and he returns it with something you hadn’t heard either. the peak was threatening his own as you flutter around him.
you whine his name while he shushes you, “i know baby, you can let go for me. you just keep making those pretty sounds yeah.”
his fingers rub your clit faster and you nearly collapse forward. though he holds you up with one strong arm across your midriff.
“i love you so, so much baby,” voice a little more frantic and his hips sloppier, “i need it. i need to feel you baby please.”
tears slip down your face as it crashes over you and you clamp around him. he’d been waiting for you to let go first and makes two harsh thrusts before spilling inside. he’s continuing to push his hips despite the overstimulation to seal that lock of himself inside of you like a brand. grinding his hips into yours while your legs give out entirely like jelly.
he doesn’t let you fall over and uses his last bit of strength to pull you backwards to collapse onto his chest. your back to his chest while you try to catch your breath and he’s already pressing kisses to your sweaty hair while he remains buried deep. you slide onto your side and he turns you, groaning when he slips out with a slick sound.
you snuggle into him immediately and he buries his nose in your hair just to breathe you in, “mmm, i love you,” he murmurs over and over, “i love you, i love you, i love—”
“that tickles,” you giggle as his breath ghosts over your skin again.
“tickles huh? maybe you should say it back or i’ll really tickle you.” laughing as he already drags his hands to you sides and wiggles them til you squirm and laugh that pretty sound again.
“okay, i do,” you pant between laughs, “i love you too, now quit it todd.”
watching his face flush and his fingers stop, you smile at how easily you can fluster him even when he’d been inside you moments ago. you lean in to kiss his perfect face again and he melts into it immediately, cradling the back of your head. slipping his tongue inside your mouth while your legs automatically wrap around his waist. you can feel yourself getting worked up all over again as his softened length just twitches like he were ready to go. you smile against his lips and pull back, watching him chase after you til you put a hand to his chest.
“i do love you jason. a lot.”
his eyes twists over your face and his brows knit. then he’s leaning down to kiss your forehead and pull you into another tight hug.
“i love you more pretty girl. now we gotta sleep before i get you pregnant.” saying the last part more to himself than to you.
despite how spent you are, you lift your head like a dog with a bone, “well, that sounds kinda—”
“don’t tempt me,” he practically groans and pulls your head right back into his chest, “sleep ma.”
a/n: @starr-jazz i lowkey got carried away with this request but you made me wake up like a sleeper agent.
Percy never thought a daughter of Ares would so much as glance his way twice. Let alone want him. After all, daughters of Ares were always angry, at the world, at the gods, at the sheer audacity of anyone daring to exist without their permission. And you, his girlfriend, were no exception. But there was something about you that made it all even more intoxicating: you weren’t just angry. You were hungry. Hungry for him, for his body, for the way his muscles tensed when you touched him, as if he still didn’t fully grasp the power you held over him.
That night, as always, the initial anger was just the prelude. You’d argued over something trivial, his messy cabin? His inability to keep his mouth shut? But Percy knew the game. He recognized the way your eyes, usually cold as steel, darkened differently when anger turned to desire. And damn, did they ever. The glint of lust in your gaze was sharper than any blade, and Percy, though exhausted, couldn’t, wouldn’t, escape it.
He lay beneath you like a defeated warrior on the battlefield: muscles trembling, skin slick with sweat, lips parted as he panted like the very air cost him. This was the fifth round, and that excited you more than any caress. Seeing him like this, weak, submissive, at the mercy of your body, filled you with an intoxicating power, as if Ares himself had granted you the gift of breaking heroes with your hips.
You leaned over him, your nipples grazing his chest as you whispered in his ear with a voice pure provocation:
"Look at you, my little demigod." Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, feeling the way he trembled under your touch. "All sweaty. All mine."
His cock, once proud and hard, now lay limp between his thighs, but that wouldn’t stop you. On the contrary, the idea of having to force him back to life made you even wetter. You slid a hand between your legs and moaned at how soaked you were. His exhaustion was your aphrodisiac.
"Don’t tell me you’re done," you murmured, your other hand closing around his shaft, massaging it with a pressure that bordered on pain. "I’m not done with you yet."
Percy tried to pull away, but his arms didn’t respond. All he managed was a choked moan when your nails dug into his thigh, marking him. That made you smile. You loved seeing how your body destroyed him, how you reduced him to a trembling mass of muscle and broken moans.
"Come on, hero," you whispered as your mouth descended toward his cock, licking the tip with deliberate slowness. "Show me you’re still good for something."
The salty taste of his skin, mixed with the remnants of his release, made you shiver. You closed your eyes for a second, savoring his submission, before taking him fully into your mouth with a sharp movement. Percy gasped, his hips lifting instinctively, as if his body remembered what his mind had forgotten.
"There it is," you purred, your free hand sliding toward your clit, rubbing it in slow circles. Every moan from him was a lash of pleasure for you. "I knew you could give me more."
Percy couldn’t speak. He only moaned, his body tensing between pain and desire as you worked him with your mouth and hand, forcing him back to life. And when you finally felt his cock beginning to harden again, you pulled away with a triumphant smile.
"Good boy," you said, climbing onto his lap and guiding him to your entrance with one hand. "But this time, I’m going to ride you like you deserve."
You sank onto him in one swift motion, and Percy cried out, not in pleasure, but from the overload of sensation. But you didn’t stop. You began to move on top of him with a slow, torturous rhythm, savoring every moan you wrung from his throat.
"Look at me," you ordered, gripping his chin so his glazed, exhausted eyes met yours. "Look at me while I use you."
Percy obeyed, and the sight of his dilated pupils, his face contorted with effort, pushed you to the edge. Your hips moved faster, harder, while your fingers kept working your clit. The sound of your bodies slapping together, the scent of sweat and sex, the taste of his submission on your tongue, it all drove you toward the abyss.
"I’m going to come because of you," you moaned as the orgasm crashed over you with a force that left you breathless.
But you didn’t stop. You kept moving, forcing him to keep going, even as his body struggled to respond with the same strength. When Percy finally came again, with a broken moan and his seed filling you from within, you only smiled, feeling his body collapse beneath yours.
You pulled off him slowly, letting his release trickle down your thighs, and knelt beside him, observing his state with a mix of satisfaction and lust.
"Poor thing," you said, dragging a finger across his chest, where his heart pounded. "Did you really think you could keep up with a daughter of Ares?"
Percy didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But you’d already decided this wasn’t over. You licked your lips, savoring the last remnants of him in your mouth, and stood slowly, letting his eyes follow your every movement as you dressed.
"Rest a little," you whispered, your smile promising more torment. "Because when you wake up... we’re starting all over again."
Can I ask for a Drabble/ blurb/ headcanon of Jason comes back pretty early from patrol and overhears his situationship? Gf? Best friend? Whomever she is talk about the relationship they have. It can be angsty or sweet or smutty literally anything please and thanks 🫶🫶 I hope you’re doing great today🫡
This became like a best friends situationship or best friends with benefits? Honestly, I don't understand what a situationship. Do they have to be sleeping together? Or is it just they're dating without labels? Anyways, this is a little bit sweet with allusions to smut more towards the end. Thank you for the request, and I hope you enjoy!
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“-don’t know… well, I know how I feel, but I can’t read minds.”
Jason listens to you from the fire escape. The window was open just a crack, enough for a breeze and for him to hear your voice. He thought you would be in bed by now, the clock nearing midnight. It was an early night for him, but it had been an uneventful seven hours, and he was eager to crash on your couch. He wasn’t expecting you to be awake and on the phone. He’d just wait there until you’re done.
“I mean, yeah, we’ve done things, but it could've just been for stress relief…”
Jason’s ears perk up, listening more intently. Were you talking about him? Things. You and Jason had done things, mostly in the dark after a long patrol. He never meant to; you were his best friend, he’d never want to take advantage, but you never pushed away his touches. If anything, you encouraged it.
“He has a stressful job… yes, he’s a mechanic… people can have two jobs, you know… I can’t tell you… I won’t tell you… Oh, would you shut up?” you laugh.
You were definitely talking about him; he knew that now, probably to your friend studying abroad. It would explain the late hour.
He listens to you sigh, “Yes, I know. We are poor communicators, but I think what we have going is good… No, he doesn’t know I like him, but I’m fine with that, really!”
Jason's heart skips a beat. You like him? Of course, you like him. You were one of the few people who made him feel normal after coming back from the dead. You didn’t hesitate to let him back in, even after you watched him pummel the guy that tried to take your bag. You don’t just let anyone back into your life like that, but maybe he misread it.
So distracted by his thoughts, he misses the change in your voice, “Uh, I’ve gotta go.”
You liked him, liked him. It made sense. Your sweet smile felt like home. The way you let him into your home and bed. Maybe he had always known. Had he actually been taking advantage of your affection?
The window creaks open, and he's on his feet, ready to flee the scene before you’ve even gotten it open all the way. He stays tense, but you just grin at him. Your head tilts, eyes smothered in affection, “I can't imagine this fire escape is comfortable.”
His muscles ease, “Yeah.”
You snort at the less than chalant tone, “It's early. Did you need something?”
“Can I come in?” he asks after a beat of silence. You stare at him, and it makes him a little antsy, something new and different with you.
“Since when have you needed to ask?” you answer as you step away from the window to give him space, “I was just getting ready for bed.”
“It's late,” he says as he closes the window behind him, already prying his shoes off, jacket and gear following. You watch him only because his eyes aren’t on you, and he won't tease what he doesn’t know. Jason does know. He has always known that you liked the suit. Even back when you were both younger, and he was Robin, you liked the hero get-up.
“It's not that late,” you murmur as you sit on the armrest of the couch. Jason pauses as he undoes the utility belt to look at you. You meet his eyes and pretend you weren’t already staring. Jason takes a moment to appreciate how pretty you look.
He remembers the first time he saw you after he came back from the dead. Five years can change a lot in a person. All he could think about then was how much prettier you'd gotten since you were 15. The same thought lingers now. You were in your pj’s, a shirt he was pretty sure was his, and a ratty pair of shorts that made your legs all the more distracting.
“What is it?” Your head does the same tilt in question as earlier. Too sweet, too you. Jason’s feet move without thought once he’s got the utility belt off. Your head tips back to look up at him as he slides into your space. His hands hold your cheeks, cradling your jaw. Your confused look turns to a salacious grin. He hated how you could easily read him for filth.
Your lips part in what is likely a tease, but he’s kissing you before it can escape your breath. It comes out as a sigh. Your lips move against his without second thought or complaint. You shift, attempting to stand up, hands on his shoulders. Jason doesn’t let you, lips not parting as he pushes you back on the couch. You let out a girlish giggle as you fall, his weight settling over you. His lips track down your cheek and jaw, pressing gently to your throat.
Your hand slides into his hair, and Jason shudders at the familiar touch. He sucks soft at your pulse before pulling back enough to look down at you. His hand smooths your hair as you ask, “What is it?”
“You can ask me, you know,” he mutters, eyes unmoved from yours.
“Ask you what, Jay?” you question, voice a soft lilt that makes Jason want to kiss you more.
“You're not a mind reader, but you don't have to be. I’d answer any question you ask,” he tells, watching the twitch of your brow as you decipher his words.
You give him a disgruntled look, “You were listening to my conversation. Jason, that was private.”
“Would you have ever said anything to me?” he shoots back, and your mouth snaps shut. He leans down to kiss your cheek, “Don’t be mad at me, okay? What we have going is good, and I wish I had the nerve to talk to you without eavesdropping.”
You sigh both in frustration and from his affection, “You don't have to say anything you don’t mean. I’m happy with being your best friend.”
“I don't want you to think you're my stress relief. I wouldn’t use you like that,” he says earnestly, hand pushing at your jaw to make you look at him, “you’ve always been my girl.”
You gnaw at your lip. Even when you were younger, even when all the other boys yelled cooties, you were Jason’s girl. You never moved on from that, even after he died, “I know. You're going to be honest for once?”
“For once?” Jason laughs, his thumb affectionately into the corner of your mouth as you grin, “That’s how it's going to be?”
“Yeah, that’s how it's going to be,” you hand curls around his wrist, thumb mimicking his over his pulse.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he pecks your lips, “I like you,” he pecks again, “more than a best friend,” and again, “more than a fuck.”
“Such a gentleman,” you grin. Your hand in his tugs him back down for a real kiss, “I like you too, nosey.”
Jason kisses you back, the previous want returning now that feelings were assorted. He lets up to slide off the couch and pick you up, carrying you to your bedroom.
“Do I need to take you on a date before I do things to you?” he asks as he drops you on the bed.
You laugh as you bounce, “You’ve been doing things to me for months. I think we can do the date later.”
You tug your shirt off at the end of the sentence, tossing it to the end of the bed. Jason’s right back on you, pushing you back on the bed to kiss your clavicle as he pushes your shorts down, “You're too good to me, sweetheart.”
Characters: Jason Grace, Reader (afab, fem!reader, daughter of Hecate)
Pairings: Jason Grace x Fem!Reader
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, choking/breathplay (jason recieving), p in v, unprotected sex, lowkey freaky reader/she's kinda a control freak but just a little bit (she's so me coded ssshh who said that??), lmk if i missed anything!
Summary: Jason grew up knowing that to live was to be restricted, but how was he supposed to know that restriction could feel so good?
Word Count: 5.2k
It was one of those long, annoying days at Camp Half-Blood. It was humid, and the training drills felt like they would never end. You got assigned to collect all of the weapons and put them away in the weapons shed behind the Ares Cabin with an Aphrodite boy who was no help at all. He spent the whole time watching you and using his dagger to scrape the dirt out from under his nails.
By the time dinner was over, you didn’t feel like sitting through a campfire where the heat from the fire would mingle with the lingering heat of the day and the smothering humidity in the air. The way that all of the Apollo kids were singing their campfire songs didn’t seem fun at the moment, just grating against your eardrums, like nails on a chalkboard. It wasn’t necessarily their fault that you were having a shitty day, that their singing didn’t help your mood, but in the moment, it was easier to blame them for your headache before shuffling back towards the cabins.
Your own cabin was too crowded, so you didn’t go back to Cabin 20, where most of your siblings were undoubtedly skipping the campfire to rest on account of the waxing crescent moon. So, you decided to go to your boyfriend’s cabin.
Cabin 1. The Zeus Cabin.
Jason wasn’t in the cabin, but you knew he wouldn’t mind if you made yourself at home until he came back. Knowing Jason, he was at the campfire because technically everyone had to go to the campfire every night, and Jason loved being technical about things.
The Zeus Cabin was cold, like someone had turned the A/C on blast since it was built and never bothered to turn it off, letting the marble interior turn into ice.
But considering you had spent most of the day in the sun, in 74% humidity, you found it to be rather comforting at the moment.
Your sneakers stayed at the door, toed off before you could track mud on the marble floors, and you padded over to the bottom drawer of Jason’s dresser. The drawer slid open on its tracks, and you grabbed what you needed. A pair of boxer shorts with the Superman logo on them. You had gotten them for Jason as a joke last year for his birthday, so it only made sense that you changed into them for pajamas.
You stole one of his LA Dodgers shirts; it was threadbare and stretched out. Jason had told you about how he got it from a street vendor when he was fifteen, and Camp Jupiter let him and Dakota go on a rather extensive scouting mission. He had handed the vendor two leaves that The Mist disguised to look like a ten and a five-dollar bill.
The clothes you had worn today peeled off your body like a layer of second skin, your Camp Half-Blood t-shirt sticking to your back in a way that made you cringe and flick it into the corner of the cabin. A problem for you later.
Your shorts, bra, and socks joined the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, and soon you were slipping into the clean, dry, chilled boxer shorts and worn-out t-shirt that technically didn’t belong to you. Jason’s bed was practically calling your name, so of course, you had to crawl in and under the covers.
His comforter was plain white but soft and plush, his sheets were a light blue that always made his cheeks look flushed when your fingers splayed across his chest, and his breath came in short, ragged bursts. It was a lovely shade of blue that made you whisper into his ear, “nuh-uh, eye’s open, Jase,” so that you could see how thin a ring of matching blue threatened to be swallowed up by the black of his pupils when your thumb pressed down on his bottom lip.
Jason’s bed welcomed you with a mix of the camp detergent, pine, and ozone. Practically his signature scent.
You curled up, gathering the blanket to your chest, stuffing it right under your chin, covering the goosebumps that had started to prickle your skin now that you were cooling down from the unbearable heat of the day.
Above your head, the thunderstorm on the ceiling filled the otherwise empty and quiet cabin. You let your thoughts drift for the next however many minutes until you heard the quiet, familiar, reserved sigh come from the doorway.
“Hey, Love.”
Jason’s voice traveled from the front of the cabin to where you were curled up in his bed in the corner of the cabin. You could hear the rustle of clothing as he made his way closer to you, his sock-clad feet making muffled, padded noises on the almost sterile, white marble floors. By the time he made it over to the bed, his t-shirt and cargo shorts had been deposited into his dirty clothes hamper, leaving him in just his socks and boxers.
“You’re lying on top of my pajamas—can I just, like… just scoot over a little bit for like a second so I can grab them?” His voice was tired, and Jason sounded more tired than you felt. Knowing him, he spent the miserably humid day sparring until his arms couldn’t reach above his own shoulders.
You turned to him, still cocooned in his blankets, and pretended to think about his request, humming as if you were entertaining the idea.
“Hmm, let me think about that for a minute,” you mused, scrunching up your nose and letting your eyes crinkle.
You paused for a moment longer than what would have been funny, just long enough for Jason to shift his weight from one leg to the other while huffing a breath out through his nose.
“No, I don’t think that I will,” you told him, a rather menacing smile making the corners of your lips curl upwards, “and besides, you won’t need them for what I’m in the mood for.”
It was almost too easy to make Jason flush. It could have been comedic. Just that snarky little line about him not needing his pajamas had a rush of blood tinging his face pink. The back of his neck, the apples of his cheeks, the tips of his ears.
All pink because you told him that he wouldn’t need his pajamas.
You could also see blood rushing elsewhere, a certain appendage making itself known, starting to press against the already-tight fabric of his boxer briefs.
“Well… I don’t—uhm, it’s been a pretty long day,” Jason mumbled, putting the pieces together in his head as the flush spread further across his cheeks. “It’s not that I don’t want to—gods, of course I want to, but, uh, I don’t know if my arms… they’re kinda jelly-ish from training today.”
He held out his arms, making a point to move them in a wobbly way, as if to demonstrate the fact that he trained too hard and turned his arms into rather useless noodles. Gorgeous, muscular noodles, but still useless nonetheless.
“Wasn’t planning on you having to use them anyway,” you responded rather quickly, like you already had this response planned out in your head, like you knew that Jason would react like that.
His eyebrows practically shot up to his hairline.
“Not enough moon tonight?” He deadpanned, shifting his weight from one side to the other again. “You’re acting kinda punchy.”
You huffed at Jason and rolled your eyes. Sure, maybe you got more irritable than usual with less moon in the sky, but it didn’t make you any less irritated when your boyfriend pointed it out to you.
“Oh my gods, Jason, just get in bed,” you snarked at him, peeling the comforter off of you like an invitation for him to join you between the sheets. “And don’t worry about your arms.”
Jason finally relented and flopped down in bed. You could see the way that his eyelids started to droop when his head finally hit the pillow.
You wasted no time, rolling over and swinging a leg over his hips so that you were straddling Jason.
“Oh.”
“Oh? What? You forgot that your girlfriend likes to touch you? That you’re not the only one who can be touchy?”
His blond lashes stopped fluttering. In fact, his blue eyes widened and practically glazed over.
“N-no, I didn’t—I could never,” Jason whispered, his breath stuttering in his chest. Your hands pressed into his chest to steady yourself, fingers spreading like a brand over his warm skin.
It made Jason make a noise like a deflating, yet happy, balloon when you shifted your weight onto his dick, only two layers of clothes separating the two of you.
“Love, you look—hmph—” he made a little gasping noise when you shifted your weight yet again on him, interrupting him mid-thought. “I love how you look in my shirts, my boxers, shit—any of my clothes.”
You just smiled at him, toothy and a bit mischievous, while you shimmed off the boxers, shifting your weight from one leg to another as you tugged them off each leg. Jason’s eyes widened with unmistakable boyish joy when he saw that you weren’t wearing any underwear under his underwear that you stole from him.
“Like what you see, weather boy?”
Despite your rather compromising position, the groan that left Jason was monumental, and the eye roll was practically an insult. It was your favorite way to aggravate him.
“Love—please don’t—not right now,” he stammered out, squirming under you.
You didn’t even bother to suppress your laughter. You knew he wasn’t serious, or at least he wasn’t serious enough to keep him from getting impossibly harder against your thigh. You leaned down so that your lips brushed the shell of his ear, the way that always made him shudder.
“What? Feeling sensitive?” You giggled into his ear, letting your teeth graze the skin while your smile twisted into something more menacing.
He gasped.
“Holy fuck,” Jason’s chest heaved, while his hands shot up to the hem of your (his) shirt and tugged at it, like he was asking for permission to take it off. When you smiled at him, he took that as a yes and yanked it off, excited to be graced with the presence of your tits in his face. His wonderfully blue and blown-out eyes went from left to right, and then right to left again, before they went back up to your face, like he was excited to see the same chest he’s been seeing for the past four years. “Please, tell me what you’re going to do that doesn’t involve my arms.”
A golden opportunity presented itself to you on a silver platter.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”
Before Jason could react with a presumably negative retort, you yanked down enough of his boxers for his dick to spring out. The girthy length greeted you with its flushed, already leaking tip, waiting for you—waiting for you to do anything, any sort of relief that you were willing to gift him. He hissed as the cold air touched the hot, sensitive skin.
“Just relax, Jason,” you told him, pressing your thumb onto his bottom lip, a way to silence any future comments about what you had decided to dub him.
You grabbed him, wrapping your hand around Jason’s dick—squeezing just enough for him to forget any earlier complaints as you stroked him once, twice, then he whimpered.
That’s when you kneeled up just enough to line him up with your already wet pussy. Just the feeling of the tip of his dick grazing your soft, wet folds was enough to have him jerking his hips up into you. His cockhead caught on your entrance, the leaking warmth of you practically beckoning him inside—calling him home.
“Uh-uh-uh, Jason,” you chided out at him, pressing your palms to his chest, pushing him back down to the mattress. He let you push him back down into the sheets, into the pillows. The way that the muscles in his chest tensed—tightening, flexing, resisting—and then went lax, told you that he let you push him back into the bed. Jason would let you do anything.
And then you sank down.
Your breath caught in your chest, just because it had been a little bit too long, and he was thicker than you last remembered. Jason whimpered, trying his hardest not to buck up all the way into you.
“Oh my gods—I missed you—fuck, I missed you,” Jason whined, squeezing his eyes shut as he worked harder than he felt comfortable admitting to not thrusting his hips into the warm, wet, velvety closeness that was you.
The smirk you gave him was rather cruel. It made his eyes glass over. Or maybe that was because you were sinking down further, your hips finally flush with Jason’s.
You rocked your hips, letting yourself get used to him. He just scrunched up his face, letting a puff of air out from his nose. Jason’s flush started from his shoulders, went up his neck, and all the way to the tips of his ears. His breathing didn’t steady, but his hands found your thighs, giving you a squeeze like he had to convince himself that you were there, that you were real and letting him have you in this way, in a way without armor.
“Yeah? Yeah, I know you did, Jase,” you murmured, still pressing down on his chest.
You started slow, raising yourself up on your knees just enough for him to get that close to slipping out before you lowered yourself back down, holding up most of your weight on your hands where they were leaning on his shoulders. Just hard enough to remind Jason that he wasn’t the one making decisions right now.
You only sped up when he started to fist at the sheets. And because your knees started to disagree with how they were being bent.
Jason’s hands moved up to your hips. Not to guide—no, he was good at following instructions, even when they weren’t verbal; he knew that he wasn’t in charge right now. No, Jason’s hands moved up to your hips so that he could touch your skin, so that he could feel the heat of your body, the texture of your skin, the movement that was leaving him breathless and biting back whines.
He was breathless, his face flushed like he just finished climbing Mount Othrys, fingertips pressing into the flesh of your hips, watching as your body yielded to his hands.
Both of you were tired from the rather long and grueling day, so of course, things got a bit sloppier, as they tended to do. Jason tried to help you move along with him, the best he could with his overused arms, to take some of the strain away from you. You, in turn, migrated your hands to the center of his chest, fingertips resting on his collarbone while you held your weight up with the heels of your hands right on those delicious chest muscles of his—the ones that he’d probably let you bite later, marking him with the unique set of teeth that you possessed like you were branding him as your own with something as individual as your thumbprint. But the indentation of your bite on his flesh was much more intimate than your thumbprint on his glasses; it was something that only you could leave on him in the form of an angry red bruise. Only you were allowed to leave angry red bruises in the shape of teeth on Jason.
By now, there was a thin sheen of sweat on both of you, making your hands slip down his chest and onto his collarbone. It made you reposition your hands, scrambling back to the center of his chest, away from his neck.
“Are y’close?” Jason asked you, his voice strained and rather thin. His voice was soft right now, a version of him that only you were allowed to see, allowed to touch and hear like this.
You didn’t dignify him with an answer, opting to just scrunch your nose and let him deduce in his dazed, hazy little state.
And he did. He saw how he was shuddering with each movement more than you, how he was getting louder, much louder than you were. So he let one of his hands travel from your hip to between your legs, right above where the two of you joined, and he rubbed with his thumb.
His rather large, calloused thumb finding the bundle of nerves—rubbing it expertly as always until your thighs tightened around his waist.
“Yeah? Like that?” He asked again, the blue of his eyes almost completely swallowed by his dark pupils. His voice went up an octave.
“Mhm, just like that—keep going,” you cooed at him, your own rhythm faltering before you continued, your motions less smooth and more disjointed now. Jason could see it; he could see that it was better for you now, even while he was a whimpering puddle underneath of you.
Jason took that as his cue to press harder. For his thumb to slide down a bit farther and then back up again, getting between that swollen bundle of nerves and the flushed flesh that typically covered it.
It was an onslaught of sensation. Enough to make your face crinkle, your shoulders hunch, your thighs clamp around Jason’s waist—enough for your body to fold in on itself with a squeal that was typically uncharacteristic of yourself.
That’s when your hands slipped. They slipped from Jason’s collarbone, sliding forward on the glossy surface of his chest. You didn’t mean to grab him like that, but you weren’t thinking quite right with the sensation of feeling so full and so much all at once. So to steady yourself, you grabbed at the closest thing to your hands;
Jason’s neck.
It was harder than it should have been since you were already leaning forward, so half of your weight was transferred from his broad chest to his neck. He reacted before you did.
The lightbulb in his bedside lamp flared to life and then quickly burst, the glass bulb shattering within a matter of seconds.
Jason’s eyes went from hooded and dazed to widening in an instant. His hips jerked up like he forgot that you were the one fucking him and not the other way around—like he forgot who was in charge for a moment.
And Gods, the noise that left his mouth. It was a thin, breathy little whimper. Something that you had never heard from him before. It was a noise that no son of Jupiter should ever be reduced to. But here Jason was, whining and whimpering like he wasn’t Hera’s Champion being ridden into oblivion by a daughter of Hecate choking him on accident.
You could even feel him jerk inside of you, almost as if Jason liked it.
“Jason—“ your hands quickly scrabbled to leave his neck, planting them next to either side of Jason’s head on the pillows, your hips stilling despite the rhythm that was making the two of you unravel. You felt horrible, like you overstepped, did something that you weren’t supposed to, something that could hurt him, although his forearms were sparkling with electricity.
But Jason just squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head to the side like he couldn’t stand the idea of you seeing him right now, seeing him react so positively, so enthusiastically to the fact that your hands accidentally wrapped around his neck. When Jason felt your hands leave his neck, he had to bite back a whine, a literal whine like he was some unruly puppy being denied table scraps. The only thing that kept him from pouting was the fact that now your tits were right in his face, within kissing distance.
“I, uhm—wait-wait,” he sputtered out, flushing even more red as his hands scrambled cover his face. His voice was so quiet that if the cabin wasn’t silent, you wouldn’t have heard him. It was like the words were getting pulled out of his mouth involuntarily, stumbling out as if compelled. “You don’t—you don’t have to stop… But that’s—that’s only if, you know—if you… if you want to.”
You settled back on Jason, leaning your weight back just a little bit, enough to take your hands away from where you had accidentally grabbed. Your head tilted to the side, like angling your brain differently would somehow let the pieces click together faster in your head while you were still reeling from the idea of doing something that your boyfriend wasn’t comfortable with.
“You-you liked that?”
He peeked through where his fingers were splayed over his face with what one might call an embarrassed squeak. Jason nodded.
Your nervousness dissolved instantly. Your smile turned cruel. Jason’s hands went back to your hips, letting you see his adorably flushed face—his fair skin pinked up like you had slapped him.
“Then just tell me if it’s too much, Jase,” you told him, the corners of your lips turning up in a way that made Jason’s stomach flip worse than when your hands grabbed his neck for the first time. There was a spark in your eye—not the same kind that appeared when Jason was overwhelmed, not a spark of electricity, but magic. Literal magic. It was a faint purple; it looked like glitter falling from your lashes as you braced yourself to put your hands on the neck of the boy you loved.
Jason only noticed because he was staring at your face, at your eyes, so that he could see if you were thinking of him differently. Your eyes didn’t change.
This time, you wrapped your hands around his neck purposefully, because this time you were doing this with a purpose, not just some result of your hands slipping on his chest. Jason’s neck was thick and corded with muscles, the neck of someone who had too many thoughts and believed that physical training was the only way to clear one’s mind.
You proved to him that there was an another way.
It was to have your girlfriend wrap her slender fingers around the base of your neck and squeeze like she wanted the last breath of air you took to be the air you shared with her.
The gentle squeeze of your hands made him whimper and buck his hips up impatiently, involuntarily. But he could feel his own pulse hammering against your fingers where they were wrapped around his neck, his breath stuttering at the thought of your hands in such a vulnerable place.
Reyna would tease him relentlessly if she ever found out about this.
Jason would die, surely—or maybe shock himself into micro-bits of demigod, blowing up into millions and billions of pieces with his own lightning strike.
But it was only you in the cabin, only you seeing him like this, only you with your hands around his neck. There was no one else he would rather have holding like this, holding him in a position where you could snap his neck, where you could press down harder to keep him from taking another breath ever again. Hades—you could mumble some sort of spell under your breath that he was none the wiser of because of how enthralled he was by having an absolute lack of control over his own safety at the moment.
But you would never. You would never hurt Jason—never in a million years. And he knew that. Jason knew that you would never hurt him, that’s why you were allowed to sit on top of him like this with your hands wrapped around his throat, leering in like some sort of predator from one of his teenage wet dreams with magic fluttering around your lashes and hair like some sort of personification of glitter that emoted for you. It danced at your fingertips, tickling his throat and mimicking the little currents of electricity that bounced from fingertip to fingertip where his hands were grabbing onto your hips.
So Jason nodded at you, a nonverbal “all is well,” and you started to move again.
It was different now. Your weight shifted as you lifted your hips up and down along Jason, making the pressure on his throat change with each movement. Every time you lifted your hips, the pressure increased; every time you sank back down, the pressure decreased. It was like a game of catch-up for Jason—only feeling you wrapped around his entirety when there was the least amount of pressure on his throat, and then half, if not more, of him left out in the unforgivingly cold air of Cabin 1 when there was the most pressure on his neck.
You could have said that he melted, but that would have been a lie. His body was tense. All the muscles that he had spent years sculpting into a functional tool, into weapons, were tensed, like his body was ready to take a breath and hold it for however long you deemed necessary. Even if it was for minutes, hours, or even days. Jason would try to hold his breath for that long if it were your hands wrapped around his throat, your hands being the ones to keep him from sucking in the much-needed oxygen—oxygen that he could control, winds that he could physically will into his own lungs.
But he would rather you be the one to decide when his lungs were allowed to fill with air. You were the one who told him which shirts of his looked best with which jeans and which shoes. You were the one who had the stronger opinions on where the two of you went to dinner. You were the one who not-so-subtly informed Jason of what haircut to get by giving him the illusion of choice while holding up three pictures of almost the exact same haircut. You were the one who decided when it was time to fuck, when it was time to just go to sleep.
It was only fitting that you got to control when he could breathe.
“Fuck—fuck,” Jason stammered, his breath catching in his throat under your hands, his head pressing further back into the pillows because it was so much more than what he was used to.
He sounded so ruined. So of course, you sped up.
Then he started rambling.
“I’m not—fucking—love, ‘m not gonna—I can’t—please, oh gods, please”
He was going to come. Jason Grace, the son of Jupiter, the Champion of Juno, the demigod who killed a titan with his bare hands, was going to come with his girlfriend's hands wrapped around his neck.
His hands shot from where they were grasping at your hips to urge you to go faster, to go harder, to your wrists.
“Please—fucking fuck—please,” Jason whimpered, pressing your hands around his neck harder so that it was harder to breathe instead of that pleasant buzzing pleasure that he had gotten used to before. Each movement of your hips against his was greeted with a breathy little noise, resulting in a constant chorus of little “ah-ah-ah’s" filling the space between you two.
You obliged Jason, pressing your hands harder, squeezing his neck just a little bit more, just enough for him to jerk inside of you, twitching with overwhelm and impending euphoria.
“There we go, just let me do what I need to do, Jase—relax,” you purred to him, your own breath catching in your chest when you saw that look in his eyes.
The way that Jason trusted you so completely with himself, like he knew that you would never do anything to hurt him, anything to break him. He was a version of himself with you that he didn’t let anyone else see.
You were the one who got to see that version of Jason. Not Reyna, not Leo, not Piper. You.
The thought of that alone had you shuddering, little draw-out whines escaping your throat as you moved more frantically. Whatever rhythm you thought you had set had dissolved, leaving a frenzied dance of your hips meeting with Jason’s halfway, your hands squeezing around his throat harder like it could anchor you to this mortal plane of existence.
“Love, fuck—fuck—I can’t—I’m gonna—oh fuck—!”
Jason’s vision was already starting to be spotted with black before he came, his dick lurching and twitching inside of you, spilling into where you welcomed him so warmly, so tightly. His vision completely blacked out when he did. Maybe it was the way that your hands were still squeezing his throat, or maybe it was the fact that this might have been the best orgasm of his entire life… which may or may not have been attributed to your hands around his neck.
You didn’t stop. Jason didn’t like the idea of him finishing before you, so in rare times like now where he did, he always told you to keep going—to use him until you finished. So you assumed the same protocol applied now.
You quickened your movements, chasing your own pleasure now, hands loosening around Jason’s neck. Jason took that as his cue to rub his thumb over your clit again, really only brushing it gently before your thighs squeezed around his waist, and gods—you let out a noise that almost made him half-hard again.
“Jason—Jase,” you gasped, your body trembling not only from the effort but also because yeah, you were right there and Jason started to press harder with his thumb and he was murmuring something about how much he loved you, about how pretty you were, about how perfect you were for him, and that was it.
You fluttered around Jason with a moan that sounded like it was mixed with a squeak while your hips jerked against Jason’s without any discernible pattern and then you came. Jason’s eyes went wide again when you did, taking you in as you shuddered and your breathing came in ragged puffs of air.
Before you were even finished cumming he was holding you close, pulling your chest flush with his so that the sweat-slicked skin stuck together. He held you while your thighs spasmed, while you clenched and milked Jason for everything he was worth. He petted your hair, pressing kiss after kiss to whatever patch of skin he could reach.
Your temple. The apple of your cheek. The tip of your nose.
Then you buried your face in his chest, panting and whining while your shaky hands were clutching Jason’s shoulders.
He kissed the curve of your neck. The slope of your shoulder. The crown of your head.
“Love you,” he whispered into your hair like it was a secret that you weren’t supposed to hear.
You took in a breath, but it caught in your throat. You took another breath.
“Love you too, you dork.”
Liv Yaps: uhm... so hey guys... i'm back at school and i miss my bf so much that this just kind of popped into my head and i did write this all in one sitting... i am unwell & this wasn't supposed to be as long as it was... i fear it goes without saying that this is not edited it was just verbal vomit... u all should dub me the queen of run on sentances omf !! if u know me irl no u do not... and no tag list bc like... you know... nsfw i guess
Characters: Jason Grace, Reader (afab, fem!reader, daughter of Hecate)
Pairings: Jason Grace x Fem!Reader
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, choking/breathplay (jason recieving), p in v, unprotected sex, lowkey freaky reader/she's kinda a control freak but just a little bit (she's so me coded ssshh who said that??), lmk if i missed anything!
Summary: Jason grew up knowing that to live was to be restricted, but how was he supposed to know that restriction could feel so good?
Word Count: 5.2k
It was one of those long, annoying days at Camp Half-Blood. It was humid, and the training drills felt like they would never end. You got assigned to collect all of the weapons and put them away in the weapons shed behind the Ares Cabin with an Aphrodite boy who was no help at all. He spent the whole time watching you and using his dagger to scrape the dirt out from under his nails.
By the time dinner was over, you didn’t feel like sitting through a campfire where the heat from the fire would mingle with the lingering heat of the day and the smothering humidity in the air. The way that all of the Apollo kids were singing their campfire songs didn’t seem fun at the moment, just grating against your eardrums, like nails on a chalkboard. It wasn’t necessarily their fault that you were having a shitty day, that their singing didn’t help your mood, but in the moment, it was easier to blame them for your headache before shuffling back towards the cabins.
Your own cabin was too crowded, so you didn’t go back to Cabin 20, where most of your siblings were undoubtedly skipping the campfire to rest on account of the waxing crescent moon. So, you decided to go to your boyfriend’s cabin.
Cabin 1. The Zeus Cabin.
Jason wasn’t in the cabin, but you knew he wouldn’t mind if you made yourself at home until he came back. Knowing Jason, he was at the campfire because technically everyone had to go to the campfire every night, and Jason loved being technical about things.
The Zeus Cabin was cold, like someone had turned the A/C on blast since it was built and never bothered to turn it off, letting the marble interior turn into ice.
But considering you had spent most of the day in the sun, in 74% humidity, you found it to be rather comforting at the moment.
Your sneakers stayed at the door, toed off before you could track mud on the marble floors, and you padded over to the bottom drawer of Jason’s dresser. The drawer slid open on its tracks, and you grabbed what you needed. A pair of boxer shorts with the Superman logo on them. You had gotten them for Jason as a joke last year for his birthday, so it only made sense that you changed into them for pajamas.
You stole one of his LA Dodgers shirts; it was threadbare and stretched out. Jason had told you about how he got it from a street vendor when he was fifteen, and Camp Jupiter let him and Dakota go on a rather extensive scouting mission. He had handed the vendor two leaves that The Mist disguised to look like a ten and a five-dollar bill.
The clothes you had worn today peeled off your body like a layer of second skin, your Camp Half-Blood t-shirt sticking to your back in a way that made you cringe and flick it into the corner of the cabin. A problem for you later.
Your shorts, bra, and socks joined the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, and soon you were slipping into the clean, dry, chilled boxer shorts and worn-out t-shirt that technically didn’t belong to you. Jason’s bed was practically calling your name, so of course, you had to crawl in and under the covers.
His comforter was plain white but soft and plush, his sheets were a light blue that always made his cheeks look flushed when your fingers splayed across his chest, and his breath came in short, ragged bursts. It was a lovely shade of blue that made you whisper into his ear, “nuh-uh, eye’s open, Jase,” so that you could see how thin a ring of matching blue threatened to be swallowed up by the black of his pupils when your thumb pressed down on his bottom lip.
Jason’s bed welcomed you with a mix of the camp detergent, pine, and ozone. Practically his signature scent.
You curled up, gathering the blanket to your chest, stuffing it right under your chin, covering the goosebumps that had started to prickle your skin now that you were cooling down from the unbearable heat of the day.
Above your head, the thunderstorm on the ceiling filled the otherwise empty and quiet cabin. You let your thoughts drift for the next however many minutes until you heard the quiet, familiar, reserved sigh come from the doorway.
“Hey, Love.”
Jason’s voice traveled from the front of the cabin to where you were curled up in his bed in the corner of the cabin. You could hear the rustle of clothing as he made his way closer to you, his sock-clad feet making muffled, padded noises on the almost sterile, white marble floors. By the time he made it over to the bed, his t-shirt and cargo shorts had been deposited into his dirty clothes hamper, leaving him in just his socks and boxers.
“You’re lying on top of my pajamas—can I just, like… just scoot over a little bit for like a second so I can grab them?” His voice was tired, and Jason sounded more tired than you felt. Knowing him, he spent the miserably humid day sparring until his arms couldn’t reach above his own shoulders.
You turned to him, still cocooned in his blankets, and pretended to think about his request, humming as if you were entertaining the idea.
“Hmm, let me think about that for a minute,” you mused, scrunching up your nose and letting your eyes crinkle.
You paused for a moment longer than what would have been funny, just long enough for Jason to shift his weight from one leg to the other while huffing a breath out through his nose.
“No, I don’t think that I will,” you told him, a rather menacing smile making the corners of your lips curl upwards, “and besides, you won’t need them for what I’m in the mood for.”
It was almost too easy to make Jason flush. It could have been comedic. Just that snarky little line about him not needing his pajamas had a rush of blood tinging his face pink. The back of his neck, the apples of his cheeks, the tips of his ears.
All pink because you told him that he wouldn’t need his pajamas.
You could also see blood rushing elsewhere, a certain appendage making itself known, starting to press against the already-tight fabric of his boxer briefs.
“Well… I don’t—uhm, it’s been a pretty long day,” Jason mumbled, putting the pieces together in his head as the flush spread further across his cheeks. “It’s not that I don’t want to—gods, of course I want to, but, uh, I don’t know if my arms… they’re kinda jelly-ish from training today.”
He held out his arms, making a point to move them in a wobbly way, as if to demonstrate the fact that he trained too hard and turned his arms into rather useless noodles. Gorgeous, muscular noodles, but still useless nonetheless.
“Wasn’t planning on you having to use them anyway,” you responded rather quickly, like you already had this response planned out in your head, like you knew that Jason would react like that.
His eyebrows practically shot up to his hairline.
“Not enough moon tonight?” He deadpanned, shifting his weight from one side to the other again. “You’re acting kinda punchy.”
You huffed at Jason and rolled your eyes. Sure, maybe you got more irritable than usual with less moon in the sky, but it didn’t make you any less irritated when your boyfriend pointed it out to you.
“Oh my gods, Jason, just get in bed,” you snarked at him, peeling the comforter off of you like an invitation for him to join you between the sheets. “And don’t worry about your arms.”
Jason finally relented and flopped down in bed. You could see the way that his eyelids started to droop when his head finally hit the pillow.
You wasted no time, rolling over and swinging a leg over his hips so that you were straddling Jason.
“Oh.”
“Oh? What? You forgot that your girlfriend likes to touch you? That you’re not the only one who can be touchy?”
His blond lashes stopped fluttering. In fact, his blue eyes widened and practically glazed over.
“N-no, I didn’t—I could never,” Jason whispered, his breath stuttering in his chest. Your hands pressed into his chest to steady yourself, fingers spreading like a brand over his warm skin.
It made Jason make a noise like a deflating, yet happy, balloon when you shifted your weight onto his dick, only two layers of clothes separating the two of you.
“Love, you look—hmph—” he made a little gasping noise when you shifted your weight yet again on him, interrupting him mid-thought. “I love how you look in my shirts, my boxers, shit—any of my clothes.”
You just smiled at him, toothy and a bit mischievous, while you shimmed off the boxers, shifting your weight from one leg to another as you tugged them off each leg. Jason’s eyes widened with unmistakable boyish joy when he saw that you weren’t wearing any underwear under his underwear that you stole from him.
“Like what you see, weather boy?”
Despite your rather compromising position, the groan that left Jason was monumental, and the eye roll was practically an insult. It was your favorite way to aggravate him.
“Love—please don’t—not right now,” he stammered out, squirming under you.
You didn’t even bother to suppress your laughter. You knew he wasn’t serious, or at least he wasn’t serious enough to keep him from getting impossibly harder against your thigh. You leaned down so that your lips brushed the shell of his ear, the way that always made him shudder.
“What? Feeling sensitive?” You giggled into his ear, letting your teeth graze the skin while your smile twisted into something more menacing.
He gasped.
“Holy fuck,” Jason’s chest heaved, while his hands shot up to the hem of your (his) shirt and tugged at it, like he was asking for permission to take it off. When you smiled at him, he took that as a yes and yanked it off, excited to be graced with the presence of your tits in his face. His wonderfully blue and blown-out eyes went from left to right, and then right to left again, before they went back up to your face, like he was excited to see the same chest he’s been seeing for the past four years. “Please, tell me what you’re going to do that doesn’t involve my arms.”
A golden opportunity presented itself to you on a silver platter.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”
Before Jason could react with a presumably negative retort, you yanked down enough of his boxers for his dick to spring out. The girthy length greeted you with its flushed, already leaking tip, waiting for you—waiting for you to do anything, any sort of relief that you were willing to gift him. He hissed as the cold air touched the hot, sensitive skin.
“Just relax, Jason,” you told him, pressing your thumb onto his bottom lip, a way to silence any future comments about what you had decided to dub him.
You grabbed him, wrapping your hand around Jason’s dick—squeezing just enough for him to forget any earlier complaints as you stroked him once, twice, then he whimpered.
That’s when you kneeled up just enough to line him up with your already wet pussy. Just the feeling of the tip of his dick grazing your soft, wet folds was enough to have him jerking his hips up into you. His cockhead caught on your entrance, the leaking warmth of you practically beckoning him inside—calling him home.
“Uh-uh-uh, Jason,” you chided out at him, pressing your palms to his chest, pushing him back down to the mattress. He let you push him back down into the sheets, into the pillows. The way that the muscles in his chest tensed—tightening, flexing, resisting—and then went lax, told you that he let you push him back into the bed. Jason would let you do anything.
And then you sank down.
Your breath caught in your chest, just because it had been a little bit too long, and he was thicker than you last remembered. Jason whimpered, trying his hardest not to buck up all the way into you.
“Oh my gods—I missed you—fuck, I missed you,” Jason whined, squeezing his eyes shut as he worked harder than he felt comfortable admitting to not thrusting his hips into the warm, wet, velvety closeness that was you.
The smirk you gave him was rather cruel. It made his eyes glass over. Or maybe that was because you were sinking down further, your hips finally flush with Jason’s.
You rocked your hips, letting yourself get used to him. He just scrunched up his face, letting a puff of air out from his nose. Jason’s flush started from his shoulders, went up his neck, and all the way to the tips of his ears. His breathing didn’t steady, but his hands found your thighs, giving you a squeeze like he had to convince himself that you were there, that you were real and letting him have you in this way, in a way without armor.
“Yeah? Yeah, I know you did, Jase,” you murmured, still pressing down on his chest.
You started slow, raising yourself up on your knees just enough for him to get that close to slipping out before you lowered yourself back down, holding up most of your weight on your hands where they were leaning on his shoulders. Just hard enough to remind Jason that he wasn’t the one making decisions right now.
You only sped up when he started to fist at the sheets. And because your knees started to disagree with how they were being bent.
Jason’s hands moved up to your hips. Not to guide—no, he was good at following instructions, even when they weren’t verbal; he knew that he wasn’t in charge right now. No, Jason’s hands moved up to your hips so that he could touch your skin, so that he could feel the heat of your body, the texture of your skin, the movement that was leaving him breathless and biting back whines.
He was breathless, his face flushed like he just finished climbing Mount Othrys, fingertips pressing into the flesh of your hips, watching as your body yielded to his hands.
Both of you were tired from the rather long and grueling day, so of course, things got a bit sloppier, as they tended to do. Jason tried to help you move along with him, the best he could with his overused arms, to take some of the strain away from you. You, in turn, migrated your hands to the center of his chest, fingertips resting on his collarbone while you held your weight up with the heels of your hands right on those delicious chest muscles of his—the ones that he’d probably let you bite later, marking him with the unique set of teeth that you possessed like you were branding him as your own with something as individual as your thumbprint. But the indentation of your bite on his flesh was much more intimate than your thumbprint on his glasses; it was something that only you could leave on him in the form of an angry red bruise. Only you were allowed to leave angry red bruises in the shape of teeth on Jason.
By now, there was a thin sheen of sweat on both of you, making your hands slip down his chest and onto his collarbone. It made you reposition your hands, scrambling back to the center of his chest, away from his neck.
“Are y’close?” Jason asked you, his voice strained and rather thin. His voice was soft right now, a version of him that only you were allowed to see, allowed to touch and hear like this.
You didn’t dignify him with an answer, opting to just scrunch your nose and let him deduce in his dazed, hazy little state.
And he did. He saw how he was shuddering with each movement more than you, how he was getting louder, much louder than you were. So he let one of his hands travel from your hip to between your legs, right above where the two of you joined, and he rubbed with his thumb.
His rather large, calloused thumb finding the bundle of nerves—rubbing it expertly as always until your thighs tightened around his waist.
“Yeah? Like that?” He asked again, the blue of his eyes almost completely swallowed by his dark pupils. His voice went up an octave.
“Mhm, just like that—keep going,” you cooed at him, your own rhythm faltering before you continued, your motions less smooth and more disjointed now. Jason could see it; he could see that it was better for you now, even while he was a whimpering puddle underneath of you.
Jason took that as his cue to press harder. For his thumb to slide down a bit farther and then back up again, getting between that swollen bundle of nerves and the flushed flesh that typically covered it.
It was an onslaught of sensation. Enough to make your face crinkle, your shoulders hunch, your thighs clamp around Jason’s waist—enough for your body to fold in on itself with a squeal that was typically uncharacteristic of yourself.
That’s when your hands slipped. They slipped from Jason’s collarbone, sliding forward on the glossy surface of his chest. You didn’t mean to grab him like that, but you weren’t thinking quite right with the sensation of feeling so full and so much all at once. So to steady yourself, you grabbed at the closest thing to your hands;
Jason’s neck.
It was harder than it should have been since you were already leaning forward, so half of your weight was transferred from his broad chest to his neck. He reacted before you did.
The lightbulb in his bedside lamp flared to life and then quickly burst, the glass bulb shattering within a matter of seconds.
Jason’s eyes went from hooded and dazed to widening in an instant. His hips jerked up like he forgot that you were the one fucking him and not the other way around—like he forgot who was in charge for a moment.
And Gods, the noise that left his mouth. It was a thin, breathy little whimper. Something that you had never heard from him before. It was a noise that no son of Jupiter should ever be reduced to. But here Jason was, whining and whimpering like he wasn’t Hera’s Champion being ridden into oblivion by a daughter of Hecate choking him on accident.
You could even feel him jerk inside of you, almost as if Jason liked it.
“Jason—“ your hands quickly scrabbled to leave his neck, planting them next to either side of Jason’s head on the pillows, your hips stilling despite the rhythm that was making the two of you unravel. You felt horrible, like you overstepped, did something that you weren’t supposed to, something that could hurt him, although his forearms were sparkling with electricity.
But Jason just squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head to the side like he couldn’t stand the idea of you seeing him right now, seeing him react so positively, so enthusiastically to the fact that your hands accidentally wrapped around his neck. When Jason felt your hands leave his neck, he had to bite back a whine, a literal whine like he was some unruly puppy being denied table scraps. The only thing that kept him from pouting was the fact that now your tits were right in his face, within kissing distance.
“I, uhm—wait-wait,” he sputtered out, flushing even more red as his hands scrambled cover his face. His voice was so quiet that if the cabin wasn’t silent, you wouldn’t have heard him. It was like the words were getting pulled out of his mouth involuntarily, stumbling out as if compelled. “You don’t—you don’t have to stop… But that’s—that’s only if, you know—if you… if you want to.”
You settled back on Jason, leaning your weight back just a little bit, enough to take your hands away from where you had accidentally grabbed. Your head tilted to the side, like angling your brain differently would somehow let the pieces click together faster in your head while you were still reeling from the idea of doing something that your boyfriend wasn’t comfortable with.
“You-you liked that?”
He peeked through where his fingers were splayed over his face with what one might call an embarrassed squeak. Jason nodded.
Your nervousness dissolved instantly. Your smile turned cruel. Jason’s hands went back to your hips, letting you see his adorably flushed face—his fair skin pinked up like you had slapped him.
“Then just tell me if it’s too much, Jase,” you told him, the corners of your lips turning up in a way that made Jason’s stomach flip worse than when your hands grabbed his neck for the first time. There was a spark in your eye—not the same kind that appeared when Jason was overwhelmed, not a spark of electricity, but magic. Literal magic. It was a faint purple; it looked like glitter falling from your lashes as you braced yourself to put your hands on the neck of the boy you loved.
Jason only noticed because he was staring at your face, at your eyes, so that he could see if you were thinking of him differently. Your eyes didn’t change.
This time, you wrapped your hands around his neck purposefully, because this time you were doing this with a purpose, not just some result of your hands slipping on his chest. Jason’s neck was thick and corded with muscles, the neck of someone who had too many thoughts and believed that physical training was the only way to clear one’s mind.
You proved to him that there was an another way.
It was to have your girlfriend wrap her slender fingers around the base of your neck and squeeze like she wanted the last breath of air you took to be the air you shared with her.
The gentle squeeze of your hands made him whimper and buck his hips up impatiently, involuntarily. But he could feel his own pulse hammering against your fingers where they were wrapped around his neck, his breath stuttering at the thought of your hands in such a vulnerable place.
Reyna would tease him relentlessly if she ever found out about this.
Jason would die, surely—or maybe shock himself into micro-bits of demigod, blowing up into millions and billions of pieces with his own lightning strike.
But it was only you in the cabin, only you seeing him like this, only you with your hands around his neck. There was no one else he would rather have holding like this, holding him in a position where you could snap his neck, where you could press down harder to keep him from taking another breath ever again. Hades—you could mumble some sort of spell under your breath that he was none the wiser of because of how enthralled he was by having an absolute lack of control over his own safety at the moment.
But you would never. You would never hurt Jason—never in a million years. And he knew that. Jason knew that you would never hurt him, that’s why you were allowed to sit on top of him like this with your hands wrapped around his throat, leering in like some sort of predator from one of his teenage wet dreams with magic fluttering around your lashes and hair like some sort of personification of glitter that emoted for you. It danced at your fingertips, tickling his throat and mimicking the little currents of electricity that bounced from fingertip to fingertip where his hands were grabbing onto your hips.
So Jason nodded at you, a nonverbal “all is well,” and you started to move again.
It was different now. Your weight shifted as you lifted your hips up and down along Jason, making the pressure on his throat change with each movement. Every time you lifted your hips, the pressure increased; every time you sank back down, the pressure decreased. It was like a game of catch-up for Jason—only feeling you wrapped around his entirety when there was the least amount of pressure on his throat, and then half, if not more, of him left out in the unforgivingly cold air of Cabin 1 when there was the most pressure on his neck.
You could have said that he melted, but that would have been a lie. His body was tense. All the muscles that he had spent years sculpting into a functional tool, into weapons, were tensed, like his body was ready to take a breath and hold it for however long you deemed necessary. Even if it was for minutes, hours, or even days. Jason would try to hold his breath for that long if it were your hands wrapped around his throat, your hands being the ones to keep him from sucking in the much-needed oxygen—oxygen that he could control, winds that he could physically will into his own lungs.
But he would rather you be the one to decide when his lungs were allowed to fill with air. You were the one who told him which shirts of his looked best with which jeans and which shoes. You were the one who had the stronger opinions on where the two of you went to dinner. You were the one who not-so-subtly informed Jason of what haircut to get by giving him the illusion of choice while holding up three pictures of almost the exact same haircut. You were the one who decided when it was time to fuck, when it was time to just go to sleep.
It was only fitting that you got to control when he could breathe.
“Fuck—fuck,” Jason stammered, his breath catching in his throat under your hands, his head pressing further back into the pillows because it was so much more than what he was used to.
He sounded so ruined. So of course, you sped up.
Then he started rambling.
“I’m not—fucking—love, ‘m not gonna—I can’t—please, oh gods, please”
He was going to come. Jason Grace, the son of Jupiter, the Champion of Juno, the demigod who killed a titan with his bare hands, was going to come with his girlfriend's hands wrapped around his neck.
His hands shot from where they were grasping at your hips to urge you to go faster, to go harder, to your wrists.
“Please—fucking fuck—please,” Jason whimpered, pressing your hands around his neck harder so that it was harder to breathe instead of that pleasant buzzing pleasure that he had gotten used to before. Each movement of your hips against his was greeted with a breathy little noise, resulting in a constant chorus of little “ah-ah-ah’s" filling the space between you two.
You obliged Jason, pressing your hands harder, squeezing his neck just a little bit more, just enough for him to jerk inside of you, twitching with overwhelm and impending euphoria.
“There we go, just let me do what I need to do, Jase—relax,” you purred to him, your own breath catching in your chest when you saw that look in his eyes.
The way that Jason trusted you so completely with himself, like he knew that you would never do anything to hurt him, anything to break him. He was a version of himself with you that he didn’t let anyone else see.
You were the one who got to see that version of Jason. Not Reyna, not Leo, not Piper. You.
The thought of that alone had you shuddering, little draw-out whines escaping your throat as you moved more frantically. Whatever rhythm you thought you had set had dissolved, leaving a frenzied dance of your hips meeting with Jason’s halfway, your hands squeezing around his throat harder like it could anchor you to this mortal plane of existence.
“Love, fuck—fuck—I can’t—I’m gonna—oh fuck—!”
Jason’s vision was already starting to be spotted with black before he came, his dick lurching and twitching inside of you, spilling into where you welcomed him so warmly, so tightly. His vision completely blacked out when he did. Maybe it was the way that your hands were still squeezing his throat, or maybe it was the fact that this might have been the best orgasm of his entire life… which may or may not have been attributed to your hands around his neck.
You didn’t stop. Jason didn’t like the idea of him finishing before you, so in rare times like now where he did, he always told you to keep going—to use him until you finished. So you assumed the same protocol applied now.
You quickened your movements, chasing your own pleasure now, hands loosening around Jason’s neck. Jason took that as his cue to rub his thumb over your clit again, really only brushing it gently before your thighs squeezed around his waist, and gods—you let out a noise that almost made him half-hard again.
“Jason—Jase,” you gasped, your body trembling not only from the effort but also because yeah, you were right there and Jason started to press harder with his thumb and he was murmuring something about how much he loved you, about how pretty you were, about how perfect you were for him, and that was it.
You fluttered around Jason with a moan that sounded like it was mixed with a squeak while your hips jerked against Jason’s without any discernible pattern and then you came. Jason’s eyes went wide again when you did, taking you in as you shuddered and your breathing came in ragged puffs of air.
Before you were even finished cumming he was holding you close, pulling your chest flush with his so that the sweat-slicked skin stuck together. He held you while your thighs spasmed, while you clenched and milked Jason for everything he was worth. He petted your hair, pressing kiss after kiss to whatever patch of skin he could reach.
Your temple. The apple of your cheek. The tip of your nose.
Then you buried your face in his chest, panting and whining while your shaky hands were clutching Jason’s shoulders.
He kissed the curve of your neck. The slope of your shoulder. The crown of your head.
“Love you,” he whispered into your hair like it was a secret that you weren’t supposed to hear.
You took in a breath, but it caught in your throat. You took another breath.
“Love you too, you dork.”
Liv Yaps: uhm... so hey guys... i'm back at school and i miss my bf so much that this just kind of popped into my head and i did write this all in one sitting... i am unwell & this wasn't supposed to be as long as it was... i fear it goes without saying that this is not edited it was just verbal vomit... u all should dub me the queen of run on sentances omf !! if u know me irl no u do not... and no tag list bc like... you know... nsfw i guess
𝐜𝐰 : dom! percy ⸝⸝ fingering ⸝⸝ edging & overstimulation ⸝⸝ pussy and ass slaps ⸝⸝ squirting ⸝⸝ cumming untouched
ᡴꪫ percy jackson & f! reader ｡ 🎧
How did you get here?
One minute, you and Percy were sprawled on the worn-out couch in his mom's cramped apartment, arguing over the last slice of pizza like it was the fate of the world, and the next, his hands were everywhere— insistent, pulling you toward the bedroom with a mischievous grin that always meant trouble.
Sally wasn't home, thank fuck, off at some book club meeting that left the place just for you and your boyfriend.
His bedroom was a disaster, posters of surf peeled from the walls, a half-eaten bag of blue candy on the nightstand, and your discarded pants and underwear laying tangled on the floor amid stray socks and his own hoodie.
Percy was beneath you, his black t-shirt rumpled, the sweatpants tented against your thigh. His hands were everywhere they needed to be— strong and calloused from years of sword fights and quests, but gentle in a way that only Percy had.
One of his legs nudged between yours, forcing your thighs apart to give himself good access.
His free hand alternated between gripping the curve of your ass, squeezing the flesh and the other times, when a particularly sharp wave of pleasure hit and your legs jerked, he'd snatch your ankle, holding it firm to stop you from kicking or shoving away.
"Easy there," he'd murmur teasingly, like he was taming you.
And his other hand? Fuck, it was buried deep inside you. Percy's fingers curled soooo good, pressing and rubbing against your g-spot with a rhythm that had you gasping right next to his head, your face buried in the pillow beside him.
The wet sounds, obscene and unrelenting, were mingling with the choked cries that you muffled against his skin.
Percy's head was resting on the pillow, his dark hair tousled, sea-green eyes half-lidded as he watched you unravel. He sighed, a low, content rumble, his gaze fixed on your ass raised high in the air, trembling from the way he worked your cunt.
"Babe, you look good like this," he murmured, thumb brushing your clit in a lazy circle to amp up the torment.
Your body arched as his fingers twisted, the pressure building like a storm in your core.
"Percy— oh god, Perceee," you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder.
His hand on your ass gave a light smack, not hard to sting, but it made you clench.
"Percy— fuck," you gasped, your hand flying down to grab his wrist, trying to pull him away. You were so close, teetering on the brink, but the intensity was overwhelming, like he was trying to wring you dry.
He didn't stop at first, just chuckled softly, the sound playful. Then, with a gentle but firm tug, he pulled his fingers out, the sudden emptiness making you whine.
Your hand hovered, but he batted it aside easily, his strength no match for your poor trembling grip.
"My gorgeous girl," he shifted, palm pressing flat against your folds, caressing in broad, fast strokes that made your hips buck.
The friction was maddening— gentle to ease the immediate peak but insistent, slapping lightly against your wetness every few passes. The slaps stung, your breath hitching as you collapsed forward.
You whined, soft and broken, the overstimulation making your thighs quiver.
"Please... Percy, let me..." Your voice was muffled, body relaxing a fraction as the urgency ebbed, only for him to build it back with those teasing slaps. His hand on your ass kneaded harder, pulling you open wider, exposing you more to the cool air.
He watched it all, transfixed, the tremble in your muscles making his own breath come shorter.
Minutes dragged— maybe five, maybe ten; time blurred in the haze.
Then, without warning, his fingers slid back in, finding your g-spot in no time as if it was mapped in his mind. He attacked it slowly, curling and thrusting, the squelch louder from how turned on you were.
Tears pricked your eyes, not from pain but from the exquisite overload, every nerve of yours was singing.
"Percy, please, I can't—let me come, fuck, I'm begging you."
He laughed softly, turning his head to press a kiss to your temple. "You're so fucking cute when you're desperate like this. Look at you, crying for it."
His free hand caught your ankle again as your leg twitched, holding you steady so you couldn't twist away.
"Stop moving love, I can't finger you properly."
Your pleas grew hoarse as time passed, your body slick with sweat and your pussy throbbing around his fingers.
Then, in a haze of desperation, you turned your head, lips brushing his neck. You kissed him there, amidst the tears and moans, nipping at the skin, your hips rolling uselessly in the air like you could chase the release he was denying.
That did it.
"Alright, baby," he growled, voice thick. "You want it? Take it."
He went all out then, fingers thrusting deep and fast, curling against your g-spot with brutal precision. His thumb found your clit, pushing you over the edge without mercy.
The orgasm exploded in a matter of seconds, but he didn't stop— he just went harder, even, drawing it out until you were screaming into his neck.
"Perce—wait, stop, something—" you gasped, but it was too late.
Your body seized, pussy clenching around his fingers as you squirted, liquid gushing out in forceful spurts that soaked his sweatpants and darkened the sheets beneath his hip.
"Holy shit," Percy breathed, eyes wide with awe as he watched, not pulling back but pushing his fingers deeper (if even possible) to coax every drop, the mess spreading warm and wet across his lap.
It had never happened before, never in all your encounters, and the sight of it— your body convulsing, the dark evidence of your release— had him mesmerized.
"That's fucking magical. Look at you, making such a mess."
Your face was red from the effort and the embarrassment of having squirted as he kept going, fingers pumping to draw out every drop, milking the orgasm as you spasmed wildly.
"Keep going, yeah, like that babe."
You moaned loudly against his neck, the sound echoing off the walls, so he captured your mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing your cries to keep the whole building from hearing.
His tongue tangled with yours, tasting the salt of your tears, while his free hand snatched your ankle once more— your leg kicking from the spasms, your toes curling.
In the end he had to pull out his hand to hold your ass firm, fingers digging into the flesh to stop you from thrashing.
Percy was a sucker for this— he loved making you cry, loved the power of giving you pleasure so intense it broke you open.
He didn't even need to touch himself; the sight of your face when he broke the kiss, the feel of your squirting mess soaking through his sweatpants, pushed him over his own edge.
His hips jerked, a low groan as he came in his pants, the warmth spreading against your thigh.
You didn't need your hands or mouth, just the raw thrill of your pleasure could do it for him.
You collapsed fully onto him, chest heaving, body still twitching with aftershocks. He finally eased his hold, tracing soothing patterns over your thighs as he kissed your forehead, your cheeks, anywhere he could reach.
"That was... fuck, you okay?" he murmured, voice soft, a far cry from the teasing bastard from minutes ago.
You nodded, managing a weak laugh. "Yeah... just... wow. That was intense."
Your body was sensitive and sated, and you nuzzled into his neck, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.
He chuckled, holding you close.
"Understatement of the century. You're incredible, you know that?" His hand stroked your back, as the two of you lay there in the wreckage of his room.
"Mhm.. We should clean up this mess before your mom gets back.
✦Read on a03!✦
✦Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦
✦summary: All you wanted in a roommate was someone not insane, who didn't shift anything in your life who didn't drive you out of your mind. You didn't get either of those things.
You got Bucky Barnes instead.✦
✦warnings/tags: roommates, enemies to friends to lovers, insecurity, jealousy, angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut (fingering, slight body worship, dirty talk, nipple play, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: I'm trying something. Enjoy!✦
“Do you… have any pets?”
The man across from you blinks slowly, then shakes his head. He hasn’t said much at all, despite this being an interview.
But the last girl had asked some very explicit questions about your sex life. Specifically if you were open to threesomes, and—if not—if you’d be really chill about them happening in the living room.
Then there has been the guy who told you that you shouldn’t fall in love with him—despite looking and sounding like the human version of Mickey Mouse—the girl who grabbed your palm and started crying because apparently you were going to be in grave danger by the end of the month, and the couple who told you they were professional Youtubers, but when you looked them up after they seemed to be airing on the aspiring side. The guy had made you sit for twenty minutes to listen to his podcast, and the girl had told you she’d leave him for you in a second before they left.
So quiet isn’t great.
It’s far better than your other options.
And this guy seems sane enough. He hasn’t tried to sleep with you. He doesn’t look like the type to have a podcast. He’s just been staring at you from the couch, sitting a little straighter than you’ve ever seen, his resting causal on his legs. Jeans, hoodie and leather jacket, boots that he’d wiped on the mat before coming inside.
Gloves.
It’s not that cold outside, but he’s wearing gloves. And there’s something about his face that seems familiar, but he might just be that kind of pretty.
He is pretty.
Which doesn’t matter, because you’re interviewing for a roommate and not a boyfriend, but it’s still nice. Especially if, barring he says something that makes you think he’s a serial killer, he’s probably about to be your new roommate.
“What do you do for work?” You ask, tapping your pen against your knee, and his eyes flick to the motion before he responds.
“I clean things up. For people.”
You tilt your head at him. “Like a janitor?”
He huffs a low laugh, and shrugs. “Sure.”
“Sure? Or you are a janitor?”
“I’m like a janitor.”
“So what are you actually?” You raise your brows, and he sighs.
“I clean up bigger messes. Me and my… friends. We take care of things that important people fuck up.”
Fucking Christ, he is a murder. “So you’re a hitman.”
He frowns. “I didn’t say that, doll-“
“You’re either a hitman or a janitor…” you glance down at his application. “James. So which is it.”
James stares at you for a long moment, and it feels like he’s seeing into you. It makes your skin buzz and your legs feel kind of soft, and you’re definitely leaning hitman because a janitor would never need to learn how to make you fold with only a look. It could just be that his eyes are a really clear shade of blue, and it reminds you of summertime.
It’s probably that you’re interviewing a hitman, and you just called him out on being a hitman, and now he’s going to fucking kill you-
“You got my name, on that paper?”
You blink at him. “Yes?”
“Look at it again.”
You hold his gaze, trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick, and he’s going to stab you while you look at the paper. But James just raises his brows and nods to the paper, and you chew on your lower lip, bracing yourself to run, just in case.
He doesn’t try to kill you, as you scan over his application again. James just waits, patiently and when you glance back up at him, his expression is so neutral you’d think he was a statue.
You’d read the application before. You don’t know what he’s expecting you to find. James Buchanan Barnes, previous address somewhere a few blocks away, checked the veteran box, born March 10th, 1917, fairly average income but a good credit score when you’d run his social-
Born in 1917.
You look up at him, gaping and wide eyed, and there’s a twitch to his lips. You’d think he meant 1971, but even then, he doesn’t really look older than his mid-thirties. And he’s staring at you like he expected that reaction.
“Are you a hundred years old?”
“Hundred and six.” He shrugs, still looking vaguely amused. “You ever take a history class?”
You scowl. “Of course I’ve taken a history class-“
“They do a unit on world war two?”
“Of course they-“ You cut yourself off, looking back down to the application. James Buchanan Barnes. He’s a veteran. He’s old, but doesn’t look old, and he and his buddy clean up messes.
You feel like a fucking idiot. You watch the news. You have a subscription to the New York Times that you never fucking read, but you glance at the front page of. It’s not your fault his hair is different, and you also don’t expect superheroes to just walk into your apartment for interviews. You’d always imagined they just had a I’ve saved the world card that they can pull out and flash to get what they need. And-
“Don’t you have a tower?” You blurt, starting to shred the edge of his application paper. “Like, in Manhattan? That’s free?”
“Yep.” James shrugs, watching you carefully. “But if I keep livin’ with John stealing all the food and Valentina ambushing me for staged dates, I’m gonna jump off the roof.”
You frown. “Staged dates?”
“Apparently I need to be more personable.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Okay, well- Would you actually live here-“
“Yes.”
“And am I going to get a bunch of… super-people trying to get into my apartment. Because I was in the city for the battle of New York, and the Blip, and the Void- Which- Thank you for your service? But I’d really rather just not have that.” You gesture to yourself, and James is looking more amused by the second. “Here.”
“No super people.” He says. “They don’t know I’m doin’ this yet.”
“And when you move out?”
“I’ll make sure they don’t bother you.”
You swallow, and there’s an option to tell him to look somewhere else. That he seems like an okay guy, and this isn’t about the Winter Solider thing, but that you’d just rather not be anywhere near superheroes and the mess they bring.
But it’s either this, or aspiring Youtubers.
And he really is pretty.
It helps.
“Okay.” You take a deep breath, looking back to your list of questions. “Do you drink, smoke, or use any other narcotic substances?”
James shakes his head, and you can still feel his gaze, searing over your skin. “No. They don’t work on me.”
“Because you’re… old?”
“Because of the serum.”
“Oh. Right.” You kind of feel like you have a fever. He needs to stop looking at you. “Good. That’s it, I think. I’ll call you after I look at all the applicants.”
“Alright.” James pauses. “If the superhero thing is a problem-“
“It’s not. I just, um-“ You clear your throat, and his eyes are really blue. “I need to think about it.”
He nods, pushing off the couch and offering out his hand. “Thank you for your time, even if you decide you don’t want any part of it.” He gives you a tight smile. “Can’t say I’d blame you. There’s a reason I’m tryin’ to get away from it.”
You feel kind of dizzy, so you just nod, and shake his hand. He’s using the normal one—you can feel the soft skin and muscled through the glove—and you can’t stop yourself from glancing at the metal one.
“It’s safe.” He says, and you flush.
“I- I know. Sorry-“
“Don’t worry about it.” He takes a step back, and your hand feels like it’s been electrified, but that might just be the nerves. “Have a good day, ma’am.”
“Don’t-“ You wrinkle your nose before you can stop yourself. “You can just use my name.”
James nods, echoing it back to you. “Have a good day.”
“You as well.” You’re still shredding his application between your fingers. You might be about to throw up. “I- Bye.”
His lips twitch again, and he dips his head. “Bye.”
James leaves, and you take a deep, long breath.
Maybe you can sneak in a clause that any superhero stuff means the lease is broken, so you don’t get pulled into all that. But it’s not like you’re rich in alternatives anyway, and he seems like the kind of guy to clean up after himself, and he didn’t try to hit on you once.
You can have him as a roommate.
It’s not the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. You’ll probably never really see him, because he’ll still work at the Watchtower.
It’ll be a nice story, when you’re seventy and have grandchildren, asking if you knew any superheroes. And you’re not prime kidnapping material, because you’d just start crying and you don’t know anything.
You really don’t have that many other options.
So James Barnes is going to be your roommate.
———
He moves in fast. About ten boxes that he carries up himself, one delivery of an Ikea bed frame and dresser that he somehow builds by himself in a single afternoon, and a rug that he carries up by himself. He doesn’t even really speak to you, he doesn’t keep that much food in the fridge, and he shower really fast in the morning, so you still get hot water.
You don’t see him that much, either. After about three days, you realize he’s pretty much always gone before you get up, and back after you go to bed. It’s like you’re still living by yourself, only there’s now a vague smell of leather and pine trees in the living room, a motorcycle parked next to your car, and your rent is cut in half. You see him maybe two times in the first week overall. Once when you get up extra early, and once when he comes home suddenly around four pm, grabs something from his room, and leaves with barely a glance in your direction.
At first, it’s perfect.
Then the second week hits. And James is still never home.
But his presence is everywhere.
You’re not the neatest person. Clothing ends up on the floor of your room, and dishes can pile in the sink. There’s no obvious method to the madness of your fridge or living room, but you understand it. Everything is in its place, and its place may seem insane to anyone else, but it makes perfect sense to you. Nothing ever gets lost, because you know exactly where to find it.
Your keys go under the same jacket every morning. You always pick it up, shove them in your pocket, and shrug the jacket on as you walk out the door.
But you go to grab them, and they’re gone.
The jacket, and your keys.
A lump quickly builds in your throat. You could take a bus to work, but then you’d have to leave the apartment unlocked. Plus your keyring has the keys to your office, and if you don’t have those you’re going to have to beg for a copy from admin, and they’ll yell at you for losing them in the first place. You work for a non-profit, and you really doubt anyone is going to try and steal soup receipts, but they’re still going to yell at you, and you’ll start crying, and it’s going to fucking suck.
You need your keys.
And you rip up half the apartment before you find them.
Your jacket had been hung on the wall, and there’s a new little shelf that has a tiny bowl. A key bowl. It’s cute.
You’re going to be fifteen minutes late for work.
It will be fine. You’ll tell your boss that you just ran into worse traffic than usual, and you’re almost always early, so she’ll let it slide. You’ll ask James not to move things without telling you, the next time you see him, or just text him if he keeps barely actually living in the apartment.
Overall, it’s not even the worst thing about the day, because you go out on a date with a guy your friend introduced you to, and he tries to get you to chain smoke with him.
But it only gets worse from there.
You forget to text James. Between the date, being overflowed with work, and putting back everything you’d torn apart in your frantic search, it just slips through the cracks.
So it doesn’t stop.
The cleaning.
Something is in a new spot, every time you step into the living room. You’re not sure he ever sleeps, because if he did there’s no fucking way he’d have the time to do all this. The dishes are all cleaned and in a neat order. The fridge has been classified by food group. He got coasters instead of napkins, and he fixed the broken cabinet hinge, and there’s no more dust on the floor, and all the towels in the bathroom are color-coded. You feel like you’re living in a fucking hotel.
It needs to stop.
You keep forgetting to text him. The only time you see him is after you get back from another failed date, and you’re too tired to yell at him, so you just stumble past him with a grumble and slam the door to your room. When you wake up in the morning, coffee is already waiting for you, and this feels like a waking nightmare.
James must think you’re a fucking mess. A disaster of a woman, who can’t clean, can’t organize, can’t take care of herself enough to make her own coffee. You’d seen the frown on his face when you’d kicked off your heels and tossed your jacket onto the couch. You know you hadn’t looked your best—you’d walked home in the rain, and your hair was stuck to your face and lipstick smeared with your too-small dress clinging to your body—but it had been a shit date. The guy had asked how many kids you wanted, and when you said you weren’t sure, he’d told you that you’d have six.
“Six?” You’d laughed, swirling the wine in your glass. It was easier to play that type of comment as a joke. “That’s gonna hurt.”
“You’ll get through it.” He’d shrugged, winking at you. “You’ve got birthing hips.”
You’d left early. He’d tried to stop you, and you’d punched him in the face because you can take care of yourself.
So this cleaning you up shit is going to end, now. You’re not a pet project. And James doesn’t get to just barrel into your life, move everything around, and then never even fucking talk to you.
You stay up, tonight. It’s a Saturday, and you’re talking to him, whether he likes it or not.
The door clicks open after midnight, and you stand up, rubbing your eyes. You’d only managed not to fall asleep with coffee and a lot of alarms, and every nerve in your body feels wired to snap. You don’t know why the fuck he’d been out so late—it’s Saturday, and if it’s superhero stuff he should have just stayed with the other New Avenger’s—but you just want to go to sleep.
If you go to sleep, you’ll forget to have the conversation again. You’re barely going to be able to keep it together as it is, to not scream at him and do this like an adult.
So you take a deep breath, cross your arms over your chest, and clear your throat as he kicks off his shoes.
“I see you.” He drawls, and you dig your nails into your arm. “What’re you still doing up?”
You raise your chin, keeping your voice level. “We need to talk.”
James glances at you, features impossibly neutral. “Do we?”
“Yes.” It might be an intimidation tactic. You won’t let it get to you. “Stop moving all my shit around.”
“Your… what?”
“My stuff.” You snap. “My jacket and my key and- Everything. Stop changing everything without asking me.”
He frowns at you. “I’ve been cleaning up.”
“You did ask me to clean up.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” he says slowly, still watching you carefully. “I live here as well, and this place was a fuckin’ mess-“
“It wasn’t a mess!” Your voice is rising. You push it back down with a deep breath. “I had a system, and I- I was late to work because of you moving my fucking keys-“
“The keys that were under the jacket? They were about to fall on the floor-“
“And I would have known they were on the floor! You don’t just get to come in and change my whole life-“
James snorts, shaking his head. “I’m not changing your life. I’m barely even here-“
“So you have no right to move everything around.” You hiss, and he blinks at you. “If you wanted to live somewhere neat and perfect or whatever, you should have chosen that. You saw my place before you moved in, and it’s still my place. Touch my stuff again, and I cut off your other hand.”
He stares at you for a second. “You’re a lot more than you want people to think, huh.”
It’s like he’s punched you right in the gut. Knocked your right in the windpipe, make you choke on your own words and stare at him, your head grabbing his words and grounding them into a toxin for your blood. He’s still looking at you. It’s still burning all over your skin. There’s a lump forming in your throat, and your nails are going to leave little indents on your arms, and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about so why is it burning in your gut-
“I’ll stop moving your shit.” He says, walking right past you with a bored tone, and his eyes are still a pretty, clear shade of blue that seems to shine in the dark.
White-hot. Sparking through you in a hot, furious way that makes your head spin and fingers curl into fists.
“Good.” You manage to mutter, and he snorts.
“Yeah, well, if you start makin’ a big mess again, I’m cleaning it. My ma raised me better than that.”
Before his words can sink in, he’s gone, the door to his room closing behind him.
His mother raised him better than that.
Than you.
You whip around, ready to bang your fists on his door and snap that your mother raised you just fine, you just have bigger things to worry about than installing fucking shelves. The only thing that stops you is another alarm, going off on your phone and snapping you out of your thoughts.
Even if he’s a shit roommate and you should have gone with the sex-life girl—at least you might be getting laid—he still signed the lease, and is at least pretending he wants to be here.
You still don’t understand why the fuck he’d do this at all, if it’s so disgusting for him. The New Avengers have to have a cleaning crew.
Hopefully, by the end of the month, he’ll give up on you and return to the watchtower.
Until then, you’ll just pretend he doesn’t exist.
It won’t be that hard. He’s barely around anyway.
——
You need to stop making predictions. You’re really fucking bad at them.
He’s around. A week passes, and you don’t see him at all, then suddenly you go out into the living room and he’s there. Sitting on the couch and reading a book, a mug of coffee on a the side table.
He’s wearing a long sleeve shirt, sweatpants, and the gloves. It’s the closest you’ve seen to him looking normal, and it feels wrong. Even when he’d just been interviewing, there had been a rigid, careful aura around him of someone more than a man. But there’s a half-eaten apple in his hand, and his hair is still mussed from sleep, and he’s so settled into the couch it’s clear he’s not moving any time soon.
You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that.
For today, you settle on ignoring him. Pouring the coffee—already made again, but maybe he’s just really bad at estimating proportions—and pulling on your shoes, walking out the door without a glance back. You’ve got work, and if he wants to sit on the couch, he does technically live here. He’ll probably be gone when you get back, anyway.
But he’s not.
You’re home around six, and James has moved to the kitchen. He’s making dinner, like he’s a person. Who eats.
It feels like you’re intruding on something. Like you’re watching Thor take a shit.
You elect to keep pretending he isn’t there. He probably just had a day off, and tomorrow will be back to normal. You close yourself in your room for the rest of the night, watching TV on your laptop and messaging with a few friends about going out this weekend. It might be a trap to make you go on another date, but you don’t really care.
All your friends are married, and they really do mean well. They want you to have what they found. One of them just had a baby, and she’s been sending you the least photos because she feels bad. You’ve stopped complaining to them about not having a partner. It’s not that you don’t want one.
You’re just really really bad at dating. At going out and meeting people, showing them all the best angles of you to adore, then holding onto them. It might just be something you can’t do. That you’re not meant for, no matter how bad you want it.
And you want it. You want it when you watch stupid romcoms, and when you walk your friends dance around with their partners, and when you think about your future there’s always someone there. A faceless silhouette, who may never get to have a name.
If they do, you doubt it will be Keith, the blond-haired guy who’s had a suspicious amount of his photos texted to the group chat. You’ll give him a shot, just to say you missed. If nothing, it can be a good night at his place.
Not your place.
Not with James changing all his habits, and actually living with you. He’s even more inescapable, now. He’d stopped touching your things, but the little bowl on the shelf now holds his keys, and you feel like a bitch if you don’t put yours in as well. Your clutter stays organized, because it would be petty to scatter it everywhere just to get back at him. Petty and childish.
And you’re not petty and childish. You’re a grown woman, and you’re going to force yourself to behave as one. Even if it would be satisfying to keep your shoes just off the mat he bought, and put your food wherever you’d like in the fridge, instead of according to James’ system. But you’re going to be mature. You’re going to follow the vegetable and fruit drawer designations, and you’re going to put the dishes on the stupid drying rack.
And you will not admit to him that it all makes your apartment feel nicer.
James can just silently be smug about that himself. With his stupid books and gloves and thick thighs on your couch. He’s still pretty.
You still want to strangle him.
“I like the candles.” You mutter a few nights later—well into the sudden shift into him being a person instead of a ghost—and you’re trying to be sweet. You can be sweet. That’s a gear you can have. “Apple cinnamon is nice.”
“They’re your candles.” James doesn’t look up from his book. “You’d left them in the closet, figured you weren’t touchin’ them anymore.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. It’s not bait. You won’t take it. “Oh? How’s that?”
“They were covered in dust, doll. Like half the shit in-“ James’ cuts himself off, and you turn with a small frown.
He’s staring at you. Scanning over your body in a way that makes you think you’re covered in some kind of fucking goo. Your legs, your arms, your dress-
Oh.
Your dress.
Somehow, in just two sentences with James, you’d forgotten that you were out in the living area for a reason. To get the heels, and test if they went with the outfit. You’re about to head out, to meet Blond Keith and hopefully at least get laid. So you’d dressed like you’re trying to get laid.
James’ eyes are pushing a little out of his head, his jaw is clenched, and his fist is curled on his leg. He’s acting like you’re a 14th century noblewoman who just showed her ankle.
To a hundred-year-old, you might be.
It’s the biggest reaction you’ve gotten out of him yet.
“You’re going to get cold.” He mutters, voice stuttering slightly, and you smile at him.
This kind of sweet you can actually do. Full lips and batting eyelashes and a crude, mocking tone under all the sugary fluff. “Really? Why do you think so?”
His jaw ticks. “No jacket.”
“I have a jacket, though.” You shrug, turning around to walk back into your room. “And I’ll be getting a ride home tomorrow.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “Tomorrow.”
“Yep.” You grab your jacket, and—even though you weren’t going to leave for ten more minutes—shrug it on. “Bye, James.”
He doesn’t respond. Just watches you walk out the door, all the way until it slams closed behind you. He hadn’t snapped and told you to change, but he had stared. Had acted like more than the tauntingly neutral statue that’s been sitting in your living room all week.
You’re not childish.
As long as he keeps acting like he knows what’s best for you, you’re going to milk this for all its fucking worth.
——
“Where are you going?”
You hum, focusing on your mascara in the mirror.
You could be doing it in the bathroom. But James isn’t in the bathroom. And half of this is just doing a show to get a rise out of him.
So you’re doing it in the living room.
“Out.”
“Out.” He repeats, voice low. “You just got back.”
“That was from work, it doesn’t count.”
He grunts, and you can feel him staring. “Last night count, as well?”
You just shrug, running your tongue over your lips to test the lipstick. He doesn’t need to know that this is most you’ve gone out, ever, in your life. That most of the nights are just spent with your friends, and only one or two have been with Blond Keith. Then you’d met Dan the bodyguard, who you never managed to sleep with, and Miles who wore a thousand-dollar watch, and tried to fuck you in the bathroom after the second date.
But those are all just normal date failures. The hanging out with friends all the time is getting exhausting, and they do keep trying to set you up with people, but you’ll eat glass before you hang out with Thousand Dollar Miles again.
It’s all exhausting.
Work is exhausting. Putting so much effort into pissing James off is exhausting. Dating is exhausting.
You still give him another sweet smile, before you walk out the door for your next date. It should be casual, with a guy from a dating app who had a nice face and fairly normal opinions about things. James doesn’t say anything, but—just like every night before—you can feel him watching you leave. It makes you stand a little taller, sway your hips a little more. Rushes a hot, sparkling feeling through your veins before you close the door.
It’s the high point of the night.
Dating App Henry does have a nice face. His opinions are normal.
He also won’t stop asking you for your opinions about things, then cutting you off before you can actually give them.
“Can you see yourself having kids?”
You almost choke on your shitty wine. Not again. “I-“
“I’ve thought about having, four or five? You seem like you’d be a good mother, like you organize your cabinet by colors or whatever.” Dating App Henry laughs to himself. “That’s good, because I can’t clean at all. I don’t even know how to do laundry.”
You blink at him. “You don’t know how to do laundry?”
Dating App Henry shakes his head, grinning at you like that’s supposed to be cute, and you shake your head.
“Then… I’m sorry, who does your laundry?”
“My ex did it for a while.” He shrugs. “Lately I’ve just been buying new stuff, whenever I run out. I got another raise at work, so I can afford it.”
Later, you learn that Dating App Henry is a lobbyist for AI companies.
He asks if you want dessert.
You shake your head politely, and call a cab.
Maybe it’s you, is all you can think as the dark of the city rushes by. Maybe you really can’t date, or there’s something about you that screams weirdos only. You might have to be one of those women who really focuses on their career, and retries early to paint birds.
You press your brow against the glass and squeeze your eyes shut. You already really focused on your career.
You’re going to die, and nobody’s going to come to your funeral. Sure you’ll have friends who will attend, but no one who’s going to talk about how they love loved you. Work is going to name a conference room after you, and in twenty years you’ll be nothing more than that room on the third floor, where the boss boned her secretary, because it’s being rubbed in your face from beyond the fucking grave.
James is still up, when you shove the door open and kick off your shoes.
“How was going out.” He drawls, and you shoot him a glare.
“Dogshit.”
He chuckles to himself. “Sorry, doll.”
“Shut the fuck up.” You shuffle across the room, and he looks up with raised brows.
“She bites back.”
“I’ll bite your fucking cock off.” You mutter, and it’s probably too far, but you’re so tired. “I know you’re on superheroing sabbatical or whatever, but I’ve got some work due tomorrow, and if you do anything to distract me, I’m going to put shit in your shampoo.”
James stares at you for a second, then says, “How do I distract you?”
You flip him off, and slam your door behind you.
You’re not going to die alone.
Fucking James Barnes is going to die right next to you, in this stupid apartment, and you’re going to turn into soil that shoves his further down because you hate him. And his stupid small grin, and jawline, and smooth voice, and pretty blue eyes that light your skin on fire.
And it’s not anyone’s business how—after a long day of pure frustration, working until three in the morning, and his handsome face being the last one you saw before bed—you fall into bed with your hand between your thighs and his name in tiny moans on your lips.
He’d be rough. Or soft. And he’d wrap fully around you, and only look at you. Never cut off any of your moans. He’d tease and pry them out you, and kiss your neck with slight scruff brushing sensitive skin, and a deep drawl in your ears, and everything in a neat, easy place.
You cover your mouth with a pillow, as your body shakes through your orgasm.
He’s still pretty.
A hate fuck might you. The idea of having him sneer and tease you until you cum in his big arms is a good one.
But you’re tired of just sex.
So you fall asleep, and dream of that faceless man, dancing you around in the kitchen.
———
You finished all your work. Your feet hurt from standing and giving the same presentation, over and over and over, to different rich people who still only might give you money. But you did it.
And now you get to shuffle home, order food because you don’t want to talk to James, and sleep for a hundred million years.
You push open the door, keeping your attention away from his spot on the couch—you really don’t want to see him, don’t have the energy to fight—and kick off your shoes. They land off the mat.
With a soft groan, you lean down, pick them up, and place them on the mat.
You draw back up, ready to walk right into your room, but there’s a chest blocking your path. A chest with legs, and arms, and gloves, and-
“Are you hungry?”
You slowly drag your gaze up to James’ and he’s staring at you in the way you can feel again. You swallow, and shake your head.
“No-“ Your stomach cuts you off with a deep grumble, and James huffs softly.
“No, huh.”
You scowl. “I’m not going out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried about it.” His brow draws, and that’s a point for you. “I just think- Shit-“ He runs a hand over his face, and you frown.
“What-“
“I made food.” His words are fast, but strained. Like he’s trying to push them out as fast as possible. “You are welcome to it, if you want.”
He must have fallen and hit his head. There’s no possible reason for him to be making you food. You didn’t even know he could cook, and honestly, smelling the air, you’re still not sure.
“What did you make?” You ask wearily, and he shrugs.
“Tortellini.”
“And it’s… good?”
His lips twitch. “I’ll let you be the judge of that, doll.”
You could tell him no. Could shove past him and storm into your room, and just keep fighting forever.
But he’s trying.
He made you dinner. You’ve been ordering out too much this week, solely to avoid him.
You really are far too tired to fight. Even if it is some kind of trap, at least you’ll get food out of it.
“Fine.” You mumble, crossing your arm over your chest. “Where is it.”
He tilts his head to the kitchen. “C’mon. Should still be warm.”
It is still warm. More than warm. James pushes the bowl towards you, and steam is rising from the pasta.
“Are you not going to eat?” You ask as he passes you the fork, and he shakes his head.
“Ate at the Watchtower.”
“Oh.” You pause. “Then why did you make this-“
“Just eat it,” he drawls your name, and you roll your eyes, but listen. There’s something in his voice that makes you want to poke at it, to see it snap, but not now. Not when you can feel the weight of your eyelids, and the pressure of James’ stare.
You hold his gaze, taking the slowest, most dramatic bite you can manage.
It tastes like salt. Salt and slightly burnt vegetables. You don’t spit it out—you’re stronger than that—but you lean back slightly, wrinkling your nose.
“Have you ever made tortellini before?”
“No.” He grunts. “Followed the instructions on the packet thingy. Is it-“
“It’s shit.” You shrug, and go for a second bite.
James frowns. “You don’t gotta eat it-“
“I’m hungry.”
He nods slowly, and there’s about a minute before he clears his throat, and his gaze somehow burns deeper into your skin.
“There’s no superhero sabbatical.”
You glance up from the bowl, mouth full, and all you can make is a hurh? sound in response. James’ sighs, looking up to the ceiling before continuing.
“You said I was on superhero sabbatical. I’m not. Right now there are just no imminent threats, so I only have to work normal hours. That’s why I’m home.”
Home.
You don’t love how he says that so casually. Or how it makes your skin buzz a little, because home is the same place for you both. Even if you’re trapping yourself in your room, and he still won’t take off his gloves.
It’s even worse how that makes you feel sore, something twisting in your gut.
It’s easier to pretend you don’t feel any of it, and swallow your pasta.
“Okay.” You tap your fork on the edge of the bowl. “What are normal New Avengers hours?”
“Changes every day.” He mutters, words slow. “I’m doin’ whatever Yelena tells me to, and she’s trying to help, so it’s not much. Paperwork. Saved a cat from a tree a few days ago. Busted into a nightclub that was dealing some heavy drugs. Nothing important.”
You hum, taking another stab of your pasta, and James braces his hands on the table, leaning over you with that intense, impossible to ignore gaze.
You don’t flinch, or move back, but you don’t think he’s trying to be intimidating. So just tilt your head at him, keeping your voice semi-sweet and casual. “Do you want me to say something?”
“No.” James grunts, letting out a long, slow exhale. “I’m just- I think we got off on the wrong foot or something.”
“Did we?”
His nostrils flare slightly. “Yes, we did.”
“Okay.” You look back down to your pasta. “Are you asking to start over?”
“Uh-“ He coughs, and you focus on keeping your foot from bouncing under the table. You’re really not sure what’s happening, if he’s being serious, or if this is going to be some kind of trick. “Yeah?”
“Why?”
He pauses. “Because we live together.”
“People live together and hate each other all the time.”
“Well, do you hate me?”
You let out a slow breath, and look up at him. He’s still pretty. His face is still that almost unreadable mask.
But his words sound sincere.
And not fighting anymore sounds okay. He doesn’t have to be your best friend. But if you decided to ignore him, then you’re certainly being a petty bitch, and that’s too exhausting to keep up.
“No.” You sigh, and his eyes flash slightly. “I don’t.”
“Good.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and he leans a little further forward. “I don’t hate you either.”
You hum, and whatever evergreen shampoo or cologne he uses is starting to invade your sense, making you feel a little drunk. If he kisses you, you’re not going to have the willpower to shove him away. He’s too pretty, and there’s a lot of heat radiating from him body, and it won’t be a hate-fuck or making love or whatever, but a stress-fuck also sounds pretty fucking nice-
“My therapist tells me I can be off-putting and controlling.” He mutters, and you blink. No kiss.
You don’t know why the fuck you thought he would.
You take a large bite of the pasta as he continues, before you can say something stupid.
“I’ve been focusing on interpersonal skills. I used to be pretty damn good at them, but- Things change.”
You mumble an agreement through your food, not really sure what you’re supposed to be contributing to the conversation here.
“I am going to ask you a question.” He keeps staring at you, and you swallow your bite.
“Oh- Okay.”
He nods, jaw clenching slightly before he speaks. “Why do you call me James.”
You blink at him. “Because it’s your name?”
“Most people call me Bucky.”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“Yeah. Alright.” He sighs, giving you a weak, slightly strained smile. “If we’re startin’ over, you should mostly call me Bucky.”
“Mostly?” You frown at him. “When would I call you James?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. You’re smart. You’ll find it.”
A softer heat rises in your cheeks. “I’m smart?”
“Yeah. You are.” He runs his hand over his face, jaw ticking as his voice drops. “Might have Googled that place you work at. They do good work. Not for stupid people.”
That’s making your chest glow. You try to push it down, and keep your voice even. “What jobs are for stupid people?”
He snorts. “My job. Jumpin’ on bullets and saving the world when it keeps trying to kill itself.”
“Do you not like your job?”
“It’s complicated.” Bucky mutters, something like caution crossing his features. “Am I allowed to ask you another question?”
“Is it something stupid?”
“Nah.” He huffs a low laugh. “But it might piss you off.”
You hum, and give him a small smile. It’s not forced.
None of this is forced.
And it’s a little terrifying, how quickly you went from ready to mock and shove him to eating a little slower in order to keep talking to him.
It probably doesn’t mean anything. Bucky is just easy to talk to, when you’re not trying to think of insults or picking apart how he might be calling you a mess. And he really is nice to look at.
So this is easy.
“I think you should ask me anyway.” You hum. “Just to see what happens.”
Bucky nods, he does the tongue thing again. You don’t know if he’s been doing the whole time you’ve known him and you just never noticed, but you can’t stop noticing now. His lips are full and pink. They move so smoothly when he talks.
You might be losing your mind.
“When you go out.” He says slowly, and you raise your brows. “Where are you actually going?”
He doesn’t sound as if he’s judging you. Just that he’s curious.
And you refuse to be ashamed about it, even if you’re still feeling like there’s grime growing over your heart, and there’s a tiny voice in the back of your head reminding you that you’re unlovable. That’s not Bucky’s problem.
So he gets the simple, bored, casual answer, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants with it. You don’t care.
“Mostly out with friends. But sometimes dates.”
“Dates,” he echoes, frowning at the air—most with what seems to be confusion—and you give him an amused look.
“Yeah. Like, we get dinner or a drink and talk. See if we’re compatible. Learn about each other, then maybe have sex-“
“You’re havin’ sex on dates?”
He seems shocked, and you snort. It’s not judgment. Bucky just seems truly baffled by the concept, and you have bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing more.
“Yeah. Casual sex. Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex, dude, I know you’re from the 40s or whatever, but-“
“I’ve had sex.” He mutters. “But it was with girls I liked. Knew for a while.”
“What, all two of them?”
He shoots you a dry look. “You got a mouth on you, you know that?”
You give him a sweet smile. “I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.”
Bucky’s hand curls on the table as he snorts, and his gaze is going to brand you. “Could say that, yeah.”
Before you can ask what that means, he’s pushing on.
“Stevie called me a ladies man. But that just meant I got dates easy. Never really just fucked in a backroom. Not my style.”
“Yeah?” You’re saying it before you can stop yourself. “What is your style?”
He chuckles, and it’s a deep, rich sound that makes your head spin slightly. He’s smiling. At you. And laughing, and this is so much fucking better than fighting with him. You don’t even know why you were so determined to fight with him to start, when it could have been like this.
And he’s still pretty. In the soft-edged light of the kitchen, every shadow is gentle on his face, and it makes his jaw seem sharper, the pace of his face more rugged, and you want to trace your hand over his jaw.
That might be too far.
You just started liking him.
You’re not going to turn this into something it’s not. He can be your friend.
But he’s so handsome. And you think you could live in his face, frozen in time under his gaze and small grin.
Shit.
You’re just horny. You’re thinking like this because you’re horny, and nothing else. It has nothing to do with how he leans closer when he speaks, and lets you speak, and made you food to try and talk something out. Like an adult, instead of two bitter teenagers.
You’re just horny.
“I’m an old man,” he drawls your name, and it makes that glow in your chest bloom, but you’re just horny. “I don’t think people my age do casual.”
“Old people fuck.” Your voice is more breathless than you want it to be. “And- I don’t think there are people your age.”
He snorts. “Fair point. You like casual?”
You shrug, looking back to your bowl, because you can’t look at him while you say this. “I don’t know.”
Bucky just makes a low sound of agreement. “Well, you at least bring pepper spray, right? Men can be creeps.”
“Okay, dad.” You roll your eyes, kicking his shin under the table. “I bring pepper spray and a pocketknife. I’m not dumb.”
“I didn’t say you were dumb. Just want to make sure you’re being safe.”
“Thanks.” You mumble, and he said that like it was obvious. As if you should have assumed that he’s worried about your safety.
As if you’re something that matters.
It feels nice. The glow in your chest is moving over your ribs, and it makes you sit a little taller, all while making it harder to look him in the eyes. If you do, you’re certain you’ll get trapped in them.
That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
“No problem, doll.” You can hear the small grin in his voice, and the heat rises again. “We good?”
“Yeah, Bucky.” You poke at your tortellini. It really does taste like shit.
But he made it for you.
“We’re good.”
———
It’s happening so fast.
You stop fighting with Bucky—not James anymore, Bucky—and everything falls into an odd, perfect place.
He still can’t cook, but he cleans the apartment, and it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to invade anymore. He knows with things to leave in their strange places because you tell him to, and you follow all the new, small rules without thinking about it. In exchange, you make him food, and you take turns doing each other’s laundry.
Which means you’ve touched his boxers.
And maybe you’d stared at them for a few minutes, trying to not think about the part of Bucky the fabric had touched. If the size of the boxers in any inditement of the size of… other things.
You won’t think about it. That would be a violation of his privacy, and he is now your friend. You don’t think about your other friends underwear, of it they think you’re cute when you shuffle around in too-big shirts and smaller shorts.
You’ve got something good here. Something easy. If you ruin it, you’re going to have to reach out to orgy girl and see if she’s still in the market, and you really don’t want to do that when you can have Bucky.
Because you do have Bucky. You’ve learned all his favorite foods. You watch TV together, at the end of the night, and you’ve started exchanging book recommendations. He even showed you his motorcycle.
“You can ride it, if you want.” He’d nodded to the seat, giving you the half grin that sort of set you on fire, and you’d flushed, shaking your head.
“Pass. I’m not trying to die, Buck.”
“I wouldn’t let you die,” he’d drawled your name back in a teasing tone. “I need you. Without you here, I’d starve to death.”
You’d rolled your eyes. “Well if that’s your only reason for keeping me around-“
“It’s not and you know it.” He’d held out his hand, the metal glinting into the flickering garage lights.
He’d taken off the glove a couple of weeks ago. Walked into the living area wearing a t-shirt, the black and gold vibranium on full display, and you hadn’t said a word. There wasn’t anything to be said. He was comfortable enough around you to show his arm. That made you feel like you were floating up, up, up into the sky.
You’d smiled at him, passed him a bowl of cereal, and that had been it.
In the garage you’d backed away, shaking your head, spinning around what other reasons he might want to keep you around.
And you really hadn’t wanted to get on that motorcycle.
“Well, what if- The engine could blow up-“
“No, it couldn’t.” He’d flexed his hand, giving you a firm look. “You’ll like it, doll, promise.”
“Maybe, but I think I’ll like it, and then I’ll die when the engine blows up-“
Bucky had grabbed your hand, his mouth curved into a small, gentle grin, and you’d swallowed. He’s always so fucking handsome. You might have been about to drool.
“We don’t gotta do it today.” He’d said. “But I do think you’d like it. Offer stays on the table.”
You’d nodded, voice breathy again. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He’d pulled you forward slightly, and suddenly you were holding his hand as you walked out of the garage.
And it just kept escalating. Higher and higher. Bucky stands with you while you cook every night, and touches your lower back whenever he has to reach over you to grab something from the top shelf. You stop going on all the dates, because so, so fast, you don’t want to do anything but hang out with Bucky.
But your friends don’t about that. They know you’re complaining about your roommate less, but you never told them it was the Winter Solider. Or anything about him as a person.
You’re keeping it like that. If not for yourself, and all the millions of questions you’ll have to endure, for Bucky.
He doesn’t love being a public person. It’s easy to tell whenever you’re reading the news and he leans over your shoulder, seeing a New Avengers photo where he looks like he’s trying to figure out the best way to kill the person behind the camera.
“What’re they sayin’ now.” He’d asked this morning, putting on the coffee, and you’d made a dramatic look of mock thought.
“That you’re a hero. A god among men. That we should elect you king, and every street in Brooklyn should be called Saint Barnes road.”
Bucky had rolled his eyes, but his glare had been soft. “I’m not a saint, doll.”
It’s not fair how deep and smooth his voice always is, when he says that. It makes you feel fuzzy.
“You’re not.” You’d hummed, giving him a small grin. “They just misprinted Sargent.”
Bucky had snorted. “Alright. What are they actually sayin’?”
“About you?” You pretend to check the article, even though it’s the first thing you’d looked for. “The hair again.”
He’d groaned, voice dropping under his breath. “Always the fuckin’ hair.”
You’d shrugged, but you understood it. He has really nice hair. You’ve been having fantasies about running your fingers through it, or petting his head, or yanking on it as his face dove between your legs-
Not going to ruin it.
This is a good thing, so you’d taken a deep breath and dug your nails into your wrist, because you wouldn’t fucking ruin this.
That’s why you agreed to go out at all. Bucky isn’t really an option on the table, and you still want to have that. The love. The faceless man, spinning you around and around, kissing your neck and holding your hand and whispering with you in the dead of night.
You’ve been whispering with Bucky. He sits with you on the couch until the silent hours of the morning, sometimes just to be there while you work.
He’s not an option.
So you took a date with Polo-Shirt Michael, and really, really tried.
But he keeps telling you about his gains. And how many female friends he has, and how they all want him but he’s looking for true love.
“They’re going to try and scare you off, ‘cause I gave them one hit and they got addicted.” He winks at you, and you swallow a little bile. “You the tough kind of woman? You gonna be able to take it, babygirl?”
You gave him a sweet smile, folding the napkin in your lap, and stand up. “I need to shit.”
It’s not worth seeing his reaction. You head straight for the bathroom and pull out your phone, scrolling for who can pick you up. You could call an Uber, but you don’t get paid until next week, and you’re not sure getting away from Polo Michael will be that easy without backup. All your friends have date nights or vacations.
Your thumb hovers over Bucky’s contact for a minute before you bite your thumb, and call him.
He picks up in two rings.
“Hey,” he says your name and you swallow, pressing your back against the wall. “What’s up?”
“I need your help.” You mumble, playing with your skirt. “If I send you an address, can you pick me up?”
“Yeah, of course.” There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line. “What’s goin’ on, doll, are you-“
“I’m safe.” You sigh. “Bad date.”
He grunts. “Pepper spray bad?”
“Not yet. I just really want to go home.”
“Alright. I’ve got you. Be there in,” there’s a pause, then, “ten.”
You nod, the line drops, and you start to pace. You should go out and say goodnight to Polo Michael. Lie that something came up, and you’ll text him to reschedule. But he also said his girlfriend was a crazy bitch.
That’s enough of a reason to slip out without any words. You hadn’t ordered yet, so you’re not leaving him with a bill. You’d even only gotten water, so at worst he’s paying for his $90 wine.
You glance over your shoulder as you stand on the curb, to check if he’s still waiting at the table. Bucky should be here soon, and as long as you’re not spotted, everything will be-
Michael looks at you. Right at you, as Bucky’s headlights appear down the street. He stands as Buck pulls up to your side.
“Hey, what-“
“Drive.” You climb on the bike without a thought. “Fucking drive, Bucky, go-“
Bucky turns, drops an oversized helmet onto your head, and buckles it. His knuckles brush over your chin, you mouth falls open with a soft breath. By some miracle, you don’t think he hears it.
He turns back around, speeds off without anything else, and you let out an exhale of relief.
Then it hits you.
You’re on the motorcycle. The world is rushing past you and you’re on the motorcycle and you’re going to die-
Bucky pulls off to the side and you squeak at the movement, pressing your face into his back.
“It’s fine, doll.” His voice is clear as the engine turns off, but you don’t let go. “You’re gonna strangle me, you know.”
“No, I’m not.” You don’t let go. “Thank you, Bucky, I- I can walk home-“
“You are not walking.” He grabs your wrist, keeping you against his chest, and you shake your head.
“I’m okay-“
“You get dinner?”
“I-“ You lean back. “What?”
“Look like you were gettin’ dinner.” He mutters, turning to look at you. “You eat?”
You shake your head, and somehow, let Bucky talk you into one of those 24-hour diners. Your date outfit and makeup a little messed up from the motorcycle, his shoes slip-ons that make him look like an actual old man.
Bucky glances at you across the booth, and you give him a weak smile, playing with some of your jewelry.
“You wanna take this home and eat there?”
You let out a soft breath. “Yes, please. My feet feel like they’re being stabbed and vomited on.”
He snorts. “Gross, doll.”
You shrug, and your smile feels a little more real.
Then you’re at home. Bucky somehow talks you into taking the motorcycle back, and he gives you a few minutes to change and clean while he put out the food. You join him on the couch, kicking up your feet with a dramatic moan, and Bucky rolls his eyes.
“So what was wrong with him?”
You turn to look at him with a frown. “What?”
“The date.” Bucky shrugs. “What was wrong with him. He not up to your standard.”
“I guess, yeah. But my standard isn’t really that high.”
He raises his brows, and you sigh.
“I just want someone that doesn’t, like, hate me.”
“That’s it?”
You nod, and Bucky snorts.
“Jesus, that is a low bar. This guy-“
“He didn’t hate me. But he seemed to not love women in general.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses, looking down to his food. “Don’t know how you could hate women. All the women I know are the best.”
You nudge his calf with your foot. “Even me?”
“Yeah, doll, even you.” He gives you a small, real smile.
He’s being serious.
So you smile back. “Thanks, Buck.”
“No problem.” He pokes your food with his fork. “Eat, doll. I didn’t spend twenty dollars for nothing.”
You focus on your food, but your fingers are shaking a little. You rode on Bucky’s motorcycle and didn’t die. But you’re also sitting still on the couch, and you can feel your heart at the top of your chest, hear it in your head.
It’s a bigger rush, just sitting with Bucky and eating.
And maybe it’s how Polo Michael looked like he was going to strangle you, or how busy you are with work, but you might be done with dates for a while.
It’s not a hard choice to make, when Bucky starts to tell you about how he worked on the shower while you were gone, and laughs at all your pipe jokes. Or Bucky’s low, rough version of a laugh, which you like better.
Not one date has ever even gotten to hear a sex joke.
So you’d really rather stay here.
———
You’re wasted.
It was a celebration. Someone just got engaged. Or broke up. Or had a baby. Or broke up and had a baby.
You’re not sure anymore. And you don’t really care. Someone had something good happen to them, and you’d wanted a reason to drink.
So you drank.
And now your head is spinning, and all your effort goes into swallowing down the vomit rising up your throat. Your skin feels like it’s lighting on fire, but it’s also freezing cold, and there’s a harsh wind but it’s not enough to shock you out of the colorful hazy lights dancing over your vision.
The hallway is spinning, and you giggle as you walk, arms out like you’re on a tightrope.
Bucky sighs from behind you.
You don’t remember calling him.
It’s making you feel bubbly, that he’s here at all.
“James.” You sing, spinning around to smile at him. “You have a funny face.”
Bucky raises his brows, catching you easily. Grounding you down to the earth, because you might have been about to float away. “Do I.”
“Uh huh.” You keep walking as he moves you, moving your fingers to trace over his features. “It’s all serious and pretty. Like a magnetic painting of a handsome person.”
His voice remains flat. “You mean majestic?”
“I dunno.” You turn again, but Bucky keeps holding you, keeping your back to his chest. “Like a… wolf.”
He hums. “I was called White Wolf in Wakanda.”
“In…” You trail off, squinting at the wall, then gasp as the word reach through the fog. “You went to Wakanda?”
“Yeah, for about two years.”
“Were there stars?”
Bucky sighs, kicking the door shut behind you. “There- Shit-“
A rush of nausea sweeps through you, and you double over, covering your hand to stop the vomit.
Big, strong arms wrap around you, and one of them is nice and cold. You hold that one, as you’re carried through the air and into the bathroom. The world spins as a toilet comes into your vision, and you let your dinner spill out into the bowl.
Your hair is somehow moved from your face, and you groan, slumping to the ground. The cold hand tries to leave, but you grab it. Press it against your brow as you take a ragged breath.
Bucky mutters your name. “I need my hand-“
“No.” You mumble, moving it to press on your cheek. “’S nice.”
He sighs, but doesn’t argue with you. Keeps sitting with you, when you surge back up for another round with the toilet. Bucky rubs your back with that cool hand, then let you nuzzle into it when you get a break. He hums, deep and smooth, and the sound is easy to hold onto, keeping you from flying out of your skin as it prickles. When you’re finally run out, he gets you water. Helps you move against the wall, and stays at your side.
Your voice slowly comes back, and you turn to look at him, only one thought managing to stay in your head.
“Were they pretty?”
“What?”
“The stars?”
He blinks, then lets out a long, slow sigh, turning back to look at the wall. “Yeah. They were beautiful.”
That’s the answer you wanted. And you’re sort of done for the night.
You let your eyes flutter shut and tip your head back, making a soft noise of content.
Everything drifts in and out, morphing between Bucky, carrying you to bed, and that dream. The one where you have someone, and it’s easy.
The light leaks through your blinds in the morning, but you don’t remember falling asleep. There’s a glass of water on your nightstand, but you didn’t put it there.
You know Bucky did.
And when you close your eyes again, you can see it again.
The faceless man isn’t faceless anymore.
You giggle in the fantasy, spinning around and around and around, only coming back down when a smooth voice hums your name.
Blue eyes watch you with a look that you might have seen before, but can’t remember.
Bucky sways you back and forth in his arms, but only in your head.
And you never want to do anything but sleep again.
———
You did something stupid.
You offered to teach Bucky how to cook. Not told him about a video or blog or book to teach him. Offered yourself. Because you like being around him too much. And when he focuses you’ve noticed he gets an adorable expression on his face, and you want to see it more.
Tonight you could have gone out on one last date, because your friend had practically begged you to. This one had a six-pack and knew three languages.
All you could think what that Bucky knows at least five.
And that’s how you ended up here.
“I know you don’t want any part of the superhero shit.” Bucky says as you ride up the elevator. “But it’s the weekend. None of the idiots are working, which means they’re all doin’ their own thing. No one will even know you’re here.”
You swallow, but nod. “I still think we could’ve done this at home-“
“We got more options here.” He bumps your shoulder, and it makes your body rush with heat. “Plus if I fuck up, nothing important gets burned.”
You give him a flat look. “How much is this building worth, James.”
“’bout a billion.” He shrugs. “Means they got the money to replace things. Come on.”
The elevator doors open, and Bucky starts to herd you through the halls of the Watchtower. You don’t know how he talked you into this, but you’re also hitting a strange, foreign point of doing almost anything Bucky asks you to do. You trust him. He’s usually rational, and always has a logical reason for things—even when that thing is why the cheese needs to go in this drawer—and it makes your brain do a funny kind of static drawl.
You don’t know if he feels it the same, with you. If he feels anything at all.
But you’re not going to ruin it.
So you won’t ask.
“Here.” He turns you into a massive, glossy kitchen, and your mouth falls open.
“Are you saving the world with cooking?”
Bucky snorts, and moves you further into the room. “No, we’re just overfunded. What’re we making?”
“I-“ You stare around the room, trying to force yourself out of the daze of Bucky right behind you and the majesty of the kitchen. “I was going to do pizza?”
“Alright.” His voice is right in your ear. It’s distracting. “Tell me what to do, doll.”
You flush again, scanning over the cabinets. “I’m just going to give you all the instructions, but you’re going to do the actual work yourself, okay?”
Bucky hums, and you start to list off the ingredients. You’re expecting to have to run out for some things, but this miracle kitchen has everything. Even if this building does get attacked by terrorists and supervillains all the time, you sort of want to stay here forever. There’s soft music playing over speakers, and everything smells like cookies, and you’ve never seen so much space in your life.
But Bucky chose to leave.
And you still don’t really understand why.
“Bucky?” You say carefully, watching him roll the dough from your seat on the counter, and he glances up with raised brows.
“What, am I rollin’ it wrong-“
“No, you’re- You’re doing fine. Can I ask you something?”
He nods. “Shoot.”
“Why’d you decide to move out of here? It’s… really nice.”
Bucky sighs, stopping his rolling, and you swallow.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to-“
“No, it’s fine.” He lets out a slow breath. “Guess I just got sick of it. My family wasn’t the worst off, in the 40s, but I haven’t been used to… this.” He waves to the kitchen. “In years. Feels wrong.”
You nod, swinging your legs back and forth. “The luxury?”
“All of it.” Bucky does the tongue thing. He does it all the time. It’s never helpful in making you focus. “Never really wanted any of this. Just sorta happened. Valentina wanted me to walk this weird fuckin’ line of being down to earth and normal, after the news broke about John’s divorce. I told her I’d quit if she made me parade around like a monkey.”
“But…” You frown. “You didn’t quit.”
“No. Got a deal. I’d keep workin’, but I’m allowed to live normally otherwise.” He chuckles to himself, resuming his work on the dough. “Least I don’t have to be in congress anymore. I nearly punched about fifty people a day.”
You giggle, rolling your eyes, and before you can respond, a bellowing, thickly accented voice echoes through the room and nearly starts you out of your skin. You fall off the counter.
Bucky catches you around your waist, and his face is oddly tight—almost apologetic—but you don’t really have the brainpower to think about it.
He’s touching you. You’re pressed right to his chest. And he really is warm.
It’s taking a tremendous amount of effort to not press yourself into his chest. You won’t ruin the only easy thing in your life.
Certainly not in front of other people.
“Bucky Barnes!” A large, bearded man walks into the kitchen with spread arms, and a wide grin on his face. “You have returned!”
Bucky lets out a slow breath, and he’s still holding onto you. You’re not sure he’s going to let go. “I’m not back, Alexei, we’re just using the kitchen-“
“We?” The man—Alexei, the Red Guardian, you’re meeting a second superhero and Bucky promised this wouldn’t happen and you’re going to kill him—leans around, his eyes landing on you. “You have brought a girl!”
Bucky tenses. “No-“
“Yelena!” Alexei calls over this shoulder, voice echoing through the halls. “Bucky Barnes has returned with a girl! Ava- Ava, look-“
Alexei grabs someone from the hall, and a terrifyingly beautiful woman walks into the kitchen, shoving his arm away.
“Do not grab me, Alexei-“
“I did not know if it would work.” He shrugs. “You might have vanished, was a fifty-fifty. And this is important, Barnes-“
“Brought a girl. I know, I saw them enter the building.”
Alexei gapes at her. “And you did not tell me such important news?”
“No, she didn’t, because she respects privacy.” Bucky glares between them, and you’ve started to hold his arm. You don’t really want him to let go. “I told you, we’re just using the kitchen, we don’t all have to-“
“What is so urgent that we are screaming.” A shorter, equally scary and pretty blonde woman appears, growing around the small group. “It is loud, Alexei, you could have texted me-“
“There is no time for texting.” Alexei waves her off. “Bucky Barnes has brought a girl to meet us.”
“I don’t think she’s here to meet us.” Ava drawls, looking more amused than anything. “He’s been avoiding the hall cameras. And he would have told us, if he was bringing someone, he cared about enough for us to know.”
“Really, Ava?” Bucky glares at her, his grip on you tightening, like he thinks you’re going to run. “It’s not a matter of caring, I was just trying to avoid this happening.”
He waves his hand to Alexei, and Ava grins.
“I know. You’re cooking.”
“He is cooking?” Yelena frowns at Bucky. “You do not cook, Bucky Barnes. You burn everything.”
Bucky’s words sound like he’s pushing them through his teeth. “I know. That’s why we’re practicing here.”
“Why would you practice here, Bucky.” Ava hums, still grinning. “Why not at your apartment.”
Alexei gasps, and the glare Bucky shoot Ava probably would have made you start crying, but she just grins.
“This is the roommate?” Alexei claps his hands, and suddenly they’re all looking at you. Every inch of your body wants to move closer to Bucky—see if he can shield you from all of it—but you don’t think that would help your case. “You work for charity, yes? Very good cause, I believe we could talk about an opportunity. Red Guardian sponsored vaccines-“
“Alexei.” Bucky grunts, and his glare is somehow scarier than before. “How the fuck do you know where she works.”
“Because I ran a background check on her.” Another person, a blond man with a beret, materializes next to Yelena, and you’re starting to think they’ve just been hiding in the walls. “You think I’m just going to let a member of our team go and live with some random woman? She might have been a murderer.”
Bucky’s jaw tics. “She’s not a murderer, John, you’re an idiot.”
“That’s hurtful, Bucky. I could have saved your life.”
“I do not think you saved his life, Walker.” Yelena says flatly. “Look at her, she is like a baby bird.”
“Well, we didn’t know that before- Hey, wait.” John frowns at you. “This is the roommate, Bucky? The girl that you-“
“John.” Bucky hisses. “I will take your taco shield, and turn it into pieces of a taco shield.”
John sighs. “Look, I’m trying to help you, man. Unless you want Ava to be your wingman.”
“I don’t need-“
“Hey, guys.” Another blond man—why are they all blond—appears from behind Alexei, and if you’re up to date on current events, that should finally be all of them. “Why are we all in the kitchen?”
“Bucky is back, Bob. He has brought a girl, but not to meet us.” Yelena sighs. “John is being an idiot. Alexei needs to take a walk before he begins to ask stupid questions.”
Alexei frowns. “I am not asking stupid questions, Yelena-“
“What was the next thing you were going to say?”
There’s a long silence, and Alexei heaves a long, dramatic sigh.
“I will take my walk.”
He starts to shuffle away, Ava following him with a mock pat on his back.
Bob clears his throat and raises his hand. “Bucky, as long as you’re back, can you please fix the toilet? I don’t want to bother Valentina, and I’m pretty sure John would just make it worse-“
John cuts him off with a scowl. “Hey-“
“Yeah, I can fix the toilet.” Bucky turns back to you, squeezing your arms. “Stay here. If anyone starts to be a dick or bother you, ignore them. I’ll be right back.”
“Oh- Okay.” You give him a small smile. “Bye.”
He does the tongue thing again, then nods and walks out into the hall, taking a nervous looking Bob and annoyed John with him.
Leaving you with Yelena.
She stares at you, and you fidget with your fingers, trying to work out if you should smile at her or not. Probably not. She doesn’t seem like the type to love smiling. All you can really think about is what just happened. How Bucky’s told them about you. Which means you’re not just his roommate. You’re at least his friend. A good enough friend to mention to other friends. The girl that-
Something.
John hadn’t finished his sentence.
And it’s going to fucking eat at your every thought, until it’s all empty except for what John going to say. What does Bucky tell them about you. Is it good. It should be good, or they probably would’ve been acting differently.
But you need to know.
Yelena’s right here.
And when you look up at her, she’s still staring at you.
So you swallow, trying to stand a little taller, and give her a small smile.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Me?” Yelena blinks at you, and you nod nervously. “Is it something about the New Avengers? Because I do not know any of the approved press answers, Valentina thought we should be memorizing them, but I think that is stupid, so I have not-“
“It’s not about the New Avengers.” You cut her off, rubbing at your arms as you speak. “I, um- I just wanted to know what Bucky’s told you guys about me?”
Yelena nods slowly. “Why?”
“I-“
“You know, I do not actually care.” Yelena moves across the kitchen, starting to sort through a cabinet. “He has only said good things about you.”
You flush, and the glow spreads down to your toes. “Really?”
“Yes. Are you who he is texting, all the time?” Yelena turns back around with a bag of chips, and you blink.
“I- I don’t text him all the time.”
“Yes, you do. All he does now is smile at his phone. Like a puppy. I did not know he could make that kind of face, but now he will not stop making it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You should be.” Yelena mutters, taking a large bite of a chip. “He is all soft now. Like a-“ She cuts herself off with a frown. “All I can think of is puppy. But that is what Bucky Barnes has become. It is adorable, and annoying.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to figure out a proper apology, but you can’t really think outside of he says good things. And he smiles at his phone. And-
“It is nice.” Yelena sighs to herself, cutting through your thoughts. “He is more focused now, on a mission. No more brooding, like a-“
“Puppy?” You finish for you, and she stares at you for a long, tight second before smiling.
“I like you. You are funnier than Bucky. If he breaks your heart, you can call me and I will steal his arm and hide it where he will never find it.”
You open and close your mouth a few times, then shake your head. “No, Bucky doesn’t- We’re not-“
“I know, it is not worth ruining.” Yelena rolls her eyes, taking another chip before starting out of the room. “It isn’t anything, Yelena, and we’re supposed to be focusing on the mission, so shut the hell up.” Her voice has dropped to a deep, mocking tone similar to Bucky’s. “Like he does not smile all the time.”
“He-“
“I had seen Bucky smile three times.” She snaps, holding up her fingers. “That is a pathetic amount of times. But yes.” She turns to walk out of the kitchen, voice echoing behind her. “Keep acting like it is nothing. I am sure that will be very fun and fulfilling for both of you.”
———
The ceiling hasn’t changed in hours. It won’t. It’s a static object, it’s white with all the same little popcorn dots, because this is a nice apartment but it’s not that nice.
You don’t stop staring at it though.
Maybe, if it starts to shift, that will be a sign. A clear green light from the universe, that you should do something about this.
About you and Bucky.
There is no you and Bucky. There shouldn’t be a you and Bucky. It wouldn’t make any actual sense. He’s a hundred-year-old superhero, and you’re you. Nothing about you screams superhero’s girlfriend. Nothing about you screams girlfriend in general, because you have horrible streaks of luck in love, and you don’t want to hit Bucky with any of that.
You don’t even know if Bucky would want to date. He’s got other things going on, like being a New Avenger and trying to reintegrate into civilian life. You can’t really be worth that much time over the world, over something that he’s been trying to do since before he met you. And he might not even like you like that.
He smiles all the time.
Bucky’s always sort of smiled at you. It had been a crude, slightly mocking smile at the start, but you’d also screamed at him a lot. When you’d met him, he’d let out that low, amused noise that was basically a barking laugh in Bucky-words.
But he’s also talked about you, with the other people that—despite what he might grumble on the drive back home—he considers friends. And they’d all tried to keep talking to you, after he’d fixed the toilet, because they’d seemed to think you’d have information for them.
You don’t.
All you know is that Bucky is Bucky. He’s the first really good thing you’ve had in a while. It easy to come home to him and harder to leave him in the morning, and when he texts you, it always makes that glow in you rush right down to your core and toes and fingers. He’s pretty, but he’s always pretty, even when you want to rip out his stupid, handsome throat.
And maybe you’re in love with him. The longer you stare at the ceiling, the more it remains the same, the more you feel the same.
Like you love him.
There’s not much more to say.
Every time you close your eyes, he’s lingering behind them. You can still feel every place he’d touched you all day. He’s scattered all over your apartment now, but you’d never want a single trace of him to go away.
He went to work today, even though it’s the weekend, and you’ve spent most of the day glancing at the door or your phone for an update.
You don’t know why he’d give one to you. It’s probably some big, fancy classified mission.
But you’re still rolling to the side, just to text that you haven’t missed the buzz of your phone.
Your screen remains dark.
The ceiling doesn’t change.
When he gets home, you should tell him that you love him, so he can text you safety updates.
No, you shouldn’t. That’s a stupid fucking reason to tell someone you’re in love with them. Especially when you’re not sure they love you back.
He smiles all the time.
He could just be more relaxed, when he’s not doing superhero things.
He hadn’t been relaxed the first month of you living together.
This is going to drive you insane. You won’t sleep until Bucky is home. Until you know that he’s safe, or you get a sudden text from him saying I love you, in case you were wondering. But Bucky wouldn’t type like that. He wouldn’t just tell you over the phone if he loved you, either.
You can’t picture him telling you that he loves you. That might be a bad sign.
Or you just haven’t had someone say that in so long that you’ve forgotten what it sounds like.
Bucky might not even be coming home. He might have had the mission run late enough that he decided to crash at the tower, and he could stay in all that luxury and decided he’d rather have that over cleaning up after you and eating dinner on the couch, and the text is going to say he’s moving back out and you’re never going to see him again-
There’s a loud bang out in the living room, and the ceiling shakes. You shoot up in, grabbing for your pepper spray, and slide quietly off the bed. Bucky’s told you, if you ever did have a break-in, you should barricade your room or go out onto the fire escape, while he deals with it.
But Bucky isn’t home. So it’s just you and the pepper spray.
You keep your steps light across the floor, carefully taking the doorknob and pulling it open, holding the pepper spray far in front of you as you scan over the dark.
No one is there. The door is even closer, but-
A little off its hinges. The wood looked sort of splintered. And you definitely heard a bang.
There’s a low groan of your name from across the room, and it sounds like-
“Bucky?” You grab for the light switch, wincing slightly as you’re blinded by the lamps. “Bucky what-“
Your mouth falls open as you round the couch, and he’s lying on the floor, eyes half open, breathing heavy, and a lot of red staining his clothing.
Blood.
That’s fucking blood.
“Oh my fucking- Bucky-“ You kneel down, tossing the pepper spray off to the side and taking his face between your hands. “What the fuck happened, I- We need to go to a hospital-“
“No.” He grunts, grabbing one of your wrists. “No hospital, doll- ‘m fine-“
“You’re bleeding-“
“Not mine.” He starts to push up with a low groan, and your hands move frantically, trying to find some way to help him. “Just tired, doll, I’ll be alright- Fuck-“
He groans, slipping back slightly, and you only manage to catch him with your full body weight to his back.
“You’re not fine, Bucky.” Your voice isn’t strong, but you’re either about to stop crying or throw up. It’s like a small, waking nightmare. You’re not going to lose him because of luxury. He’s just going to pass out on the floor and not wake up. “Can I at least get you to your team?”
“Don’t need ‘em.” He starts trying to sit up again. “Not injured, nothin’ they can do.”
“Not- You’re obviously fucking injured, you idiot-“
“I don’t get injured, baby.” He squeezes your hand, and your eyes are stinging too much to really register his words. “We got any food-“
He groans, slumping against the couch, but at least he made it upright this time.
“You’re not eating until I figure out what’s wrong with you.” You mutter, settling yourself between his legs, and he groans.
His hand is resting on your waist. You’d bet a lot of money he doesn’t know he’s doing it.
“Nothin’ is wrong,” he mutters your name, but doesn’t fight it as you turn his face, trying to find some sort of writing that says infected wound on leg or something. “I told you, I don’t get hurt, would take a fuckin’ bomb to get me.”
“Was there a bomb?”
“No, doll, just some assholes shootin’ bullets.”
You glare at him. “Did you get hit?”
“No.” His lips twitch slightly. “You’re worried about me, huh?”
“Yes. I am.” You grab his jaw, turning it up, and he hisses. “Does that hurt.”
“No.” His words are through his teeth. “I swear, I’m just tired. Everything is spinning, if I go to bed it’ll be fine in the morning.”
You pause, your hand dropping to rest on his chest. “Everything is spinning?”
He nods, reaching up to cover your hand with his own. “Not you, though. You look like you’re glowing.”
“Thanks.” You mumble, flushing slightly as you scan over his features. “Bucky, did you hit your head at all?”
“Uh…” He pauses, and you can see it now. The lack of focus behind his eyes. “Maybe.”
“How hard?”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t-“ You let out a slow breath. “Well, what hit you?”
“Pipe.” He mutters, suddenly avoiding your gaze. “Big pipe.”
“Big-“ You sigh, bowing your head. “God, fucking- You have a concussion, dummy.
“No-“
“Yes.” You grab his hand, slowly pulling him to his feet. “Come on, you need to get to bed.”
Bucky groans, but lets you help him up. His arm tosses around your shoulders, his face pressing into the back of your neck, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the shiver it sends up your spine.
“You smell nice.” He mutters against your skin, nose nuzzling against a soft spot, and you take a deep breath.
“Thank you, Bucky.”
“Look nice, too.” He’s a deadweight over your shoulders, and it’s an effort to keep him moving when he doesn’t seem to want to contribute all that much. “Like a flower.”
“I look like a flower?”
“Yeah. Pretty.”
You’re not going to let yourself think about that. He’s basically drunk right now, so it doesn’t really mean anything. Your only job is to get him into his bed—which, through an almost herculean effort, you do—and make sure there’s no serious brain damage with the limited knowledge of concussions you have.
“I think you’ll be okay.” You mumble, watching his eyes dazedly follow your finger. “But if it’s still this bad in the morning, we’re going to the Watchtower so your team can look at you, okay?”
“Fine.” He grumbles, his hand still resting over yours. “I’m sorry, doll.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“You didn’t want any of this heroing shit in your life. I dragged it in with me.”
“You didn’t mean to. And it’s not like you wanted any of it, either.”
“Doesn’t matter what I want-“
“Yes, it does.” The words fall out of you before you can stop them “And it’s not like aliens are invading my bathroom. I think that would be the line.”
He sighs. “I bled on the floor.”
“We’ll clean it in the morning.” You shrug, smiling softly. “I’m just glad you’re safe, James.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches, and he’s still holding your hand. His eyes scan over you, almost blindingly blue through the dark, and a little more focused than even a second ago.
Time seems to slow to a drizzle like honey, slipping through your fingers but sticking to them at the same time. It can’t go slow enough, but it’s still too fast to give you the chance to think.
Bucky pulls you gently down, his free hand cradling the back of your head. His tongue does the little flick thing, and you swallow, settling a little further over him. He’s warm, but his metal thumb is sweeping over the back of your hand, and it’s just enough to tell you that this isn’t a dream.
You let out a small, soft gasp as Bucky kisses you, and it’s lazy. His lips move perfectly against yours, his touch on your careful and tender. He tastes a little like sweat, but it’s hard to care when his tongue presses between your lips, and he groans down your throat.
It’s easy to deepen it. To push a little further, and run your fingers through his beard, maybe lean further down and try to feel him everywhere when he nips at your lower lip, and you whine.
Then he pulls back suddenly. Without warning. Leaving you still lightheaded, but falling back to earth far too fast.
Bucky shakes his head, pulling away with a low groan, and it starts to sting. Your eyes, your throat, your skin.
He didn’t want that.
He didn’t mean it, or you took it too far, or you took advantage of him in a vulnerable state, and now you’ve ruined it.
“I- I’m sorry.” You move off the bed, wrapping your arms around your stomach and staring up at the ceiling. It’s the same as before.
But everything has changed.
“I’ll check on you in the morning,” you whisper, and Bucky grunts your name.
“Wait, let me-“
“It’s okay. You don’t have to-“ You swallow, and you’re not going to cry in front of him. “I understand. I’m sorry.”
Bucky tries to call after you, as you walk out of his room, but he’s hurt. He shouldn’t have to deal with your feeling being hurt right now. You can wrap your head around just friends later, right now you just need to sit in the pain. In what you destroyed, in all the lies you’d been quietly telling yourself that maybe this time it would be different.
It won’t be.
It never is.
But when you cry in bed, the man in your fantasies is still Bucky. Because you love him, and that’s not going to be as easy to brush off as a meaningless date.
You hope it will pass.
But there’s a chance he’s going to linger in your head for the rest of your life.
You fall asleep with muffled sobs into your pillow.
And your brain is cruel.
Because you dream of Bucky all night long.
———
You’re have a plan to avoid him. You spent the bleak hours of the morning, thinking about it. You’ll give it just enough time and space for Bucky to understand that you’re not hurt by it—he never needs to see the tears staining your cheeks, or the swell of your lips from chewing them into oblivion—and then everything will go back to normal.
Your heart hasn’t stopped beating for him, no matter how hard you’ve grabbed your throat and tried to force it down. Bucky doesn’t love you back, and that’s okay. It’s in line what you know. How painfully aware you are that you’re just not the type of person who gets to have that. Which can be fine. You have good friends. A good career. Maybe to make up for the gaping hole splitting through your chest, you can talk Bucky into getting a cat.
Or he’ll just move back into the tower, to avoid the awkwardness. Which means you’d get that cat.
But lose him.
You’ve sort of already lost him. You’re not sure you ever actually had him.
Which is what you’d thought. So you were right.
You’d never wanted so bad to be wrong in your life.
It’s easy to avoid Bucky, for most of the day. You poke your head into his room while he’s sleeping, just to make sure he’s still alive. He’s snoring, his hair mussed and face smushed into his pillows, and it takes a lot of effort to pull yourself away. He doesn’t want you. You have absolutely no right to watch him in this vulnerable state, when he’s very obviously already feeling better.
After that, you dance around him. Put on the coffee, and leave enough for him to have before you go out to get some food. Sit in a cafe and turn off your notifications, but still glance at your messages every few minutes, just to see if he’s messaged you.
It’s an hour before the first text comes through.
Where are you?
You sigh, quickly type back, out working, and close the thread. You’re only telling him, so he doesn’t worry about kidnapping or something. If you keep talking to him, you’ll just miss him more, or he’ll bring up last night and you’ll have to act like everything is fine.
Finishing work happens too fast, so you go for a walk. Then another walk. Then get lunch, and stare at your phone. At the little 3 notification on your calls, and the 10 on your messages. It might not even be Bucky. It’s still better to not look.
You only go home once the Sun starts to set, and you have it all rehearsed. If he stops you, you’re going to tell him that it’s not a big deal. It was only a kiss. You never have to speak of it again, and nothing has to change. If he pushes it, you’ll keep your head level, because you’re an adult. You’ve had a lot of failed romances, and this wasn’t even an actual relationship. So it’s not a big deal.
One failed kiss hurts more than any previous break-up, though. Feels like your heart is being split in half, and you’re never going to put it back together quite the same.
But that’s not Bucky’s problem.
So you’ll stick to your lines, and recover in your room, where he can’t hear your tears.
You open the door slowly, close it silently, and yelp as Bucky grunts your name from right behind you.
“Jesus fucking- James-“
“Where were you.” He snaps, and he’s standing really close. His arms are cross over his chest, eyes narrowed, and all the carefully practiced words are dissipating in the heat from his body. He sounds angry, his eyes boring into you like he’s going to pull the answer out of you with only a glare.
He might be able to.
You feel lightheaded again.
“Out working-“
“All day?” Bucky narrows his eyes, and you swallow.
“I had a lot of work.”
“Enough that you couldn’t pick up the damn phone?”
Your eyes are starting to blur again. “I was busy,” you whisper, and Bucky lets out a slow, heavy breath.
“Well don’t fuckin’ do that. I came home from a mission, someone coulda followed me, and if you-“ He shakes his head, glowering at the air. “Just tell me. Okay?”
“Okay.” You give him a small smile, rubbing your wrists behind your back. “Is that it?”
Bucky’s jaw tics. “Is it?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who cornered me-“
“And you’re the one who’s been ignoring me all day.”
Shit. “I wasn’t ignoring you-“
“Yes, you were.” He grunts, taking a step forward, then freezing as you take a smaller one back. Something like hurt flashes over his features, and it drives right into your heart.
“Bucky-““No, it’s-” His voice is low, and it doesn’t sound fine. “I’d never hurt you, doll. Nothin’ could make me hurt you-“
“I know.” You say quickly, and you want to cross over to him, so he knows, but your knees feel like they’re about to give out. “I just- I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I’m trying to give you space-“
He cuts you off with a frown. “Give me space?”
You nod weakly, and he stares at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“I don’t want space.”
“But-“
“No, I was callin’ you all fucking day, and you think I want space?” He takes another step forward, eyes driving into some raw, needy part of you that’s pulling to him like a magnet. “You’re the one dodging me, doll. Do you want space?”
You take a deep breath, trying not to sound like every thought in your head isn’t melting into Bucky. “I just don’t want it to be weird-“
Another step. “Why would it be weird.”
“Because I kissed you.” You mumble. “And- It’s just a kiss-“
“It wasn’t just a kiss.” He grunts, and it’s getting harder to remember what you’d told yourself you’d say.
“Well, it doesn’t have to be a big deal-
“No, it doesn’t.” Bucky stops, right in front of you, but he’s not touching you at all. It’s a small, strange torture. You can smell him, see twitch of his jaw and breath. But he’s not touching you. “But I kissed you, doll. So it’s up to you if we want to make it a big deal or not.”
The world does a stutter-stop. Time slows back to that honey, and his words take a second to skin under your skin. Another second for you to understand them.
When you speak, your voice is just a whisper. “What?”
“It’s fuzzy for me.” He mutters, and you’re trapped under his attention and low voice. “But I know I kissed you. So we can forget it, if that’s what you’re telling me to do. Is that what you’re tellin’ me to do?”
You shake your head. “You- You stopped kissing me-“
“I didn’t want it to happen like that.”
“Like… What?”
“Casual.” He mutters. “Just because you felt bad for me or some shit.”
“I-“
“If you want to keep doing your casual thing, I’m not going to stop you.” Bucky leans down as he says your name, and his breath is hot over your lips. “But I’m not going to be a part of it. I’m takin’ all of you, or none of you. Again, your choice.”
You feel dizzy. “You- You want me
Bucky chuckles, his lips curling into that handsome, teasing smile. “I’ve wanted you since I saw you, doll. You were the prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen. Smart, too. Spent a lot of nights wondering what mighta happened if I just asked you out instead of moving in.”
“What might have happened?” You’re half echoing, because your brain is caught in a loop of whatever Bucky is saying. But the other half is a question. Because he can’t mean what you think he means.
That would mean you hadn’t ruined it.
That would mean there was a chance.
“Between us.” He mutters, just his metal hand moving on trace over your wrist, sending small shivers up your spine. “We could’ve skipped all the fighting, doll. Just gone straight to spending time together. Doing crosswords. Makin’ dinner.” He gives you a small grin, something teasing behind his eyes as his voice drops. “I might be bendin’ you over the couch right now, instead of trying to convince you that I wanted that kiss more than I’ve wanted anything in eighty goddamn years.”
He’s still looking at you. It’s making your tongue loose, your core molten. “I wanted it to.” You whisper, and he nods.
“I know, babydoll. But,” one last step, and you’re almost pinned to the door by his weight above you. “You need to tell me what you want. I’m not old-fashioned enough that I won’t touch you, but if we’re doing this, we’re doing it for a while. I-“ He takes a long breath, looking down to where he’s still stroking your wrist. “I don’t get to keep things I love, usually. So I’m not just gonna mess around.”
The world is definitely blurry. It doesn’t hurt anymore. “You love me?”
Bucky’s throat bobs, but he looks back up, and nods.
You take his face between your hands, and give him a wide, bright smile, the glow from your chest seeming to burst through your whole fucking body as time comes rushing back. It’s going to keep moving.
You’re not going to be alone.
“I love you too,” you keep smiling, and Bucky’s eyes shine on yours. “And I don’t want it casual, I- I just want you.”
Bucky’s voice is hoarse, as he drops his brow to yours. “I want you, too.”
You hum, standing up a little taller, just enough for your lips to brush. “Can you show me?”
Bucky makes a low, deep sound from his throat, and time isn’t dripping anymore. It’s flying, rushing through you and sweeping you away, and it doesn’t matter if it’s the dead of night or the middle of the day or the end of the world.
All you can feel is Bucky.
His mouth crashes over yours, and this isn’t a soft, slow kiss like last night. It’s hungry. Rough and possessive, with his hands groping at your ass and hips, his pelvis pressed right against yours, and your grip on his shirt the only thing keeping you upright. Every single second the kiss only gets deeper, until you’re gasping against his lips for air and scratching at his chest for more, you can feel him pressing right into your leg, thick and big, and you need more-
“You have no idea,” Bucky almost growls, starting to kiss—open mouthed and wet—down your neck. “What you do to me, pretty girl. How hard it’s been,” he thrusts his hips forward, and you let out a high squeak as he sucks on a soft, pulse point. “To be a gentleman, to not get on my knees and fuckin’ beg you to give me a shot.”
“You- You wouldn’t have had to-” You let out a needy moan as his hand slips under your shirt, playing with your nipples as he kisses over your shoulder. “God, you wouldn’t have had to beg, Bucky, I’ve been thinking about it too-“
“I got that now.” He hums, grinning at you as he draws back, and you only gape at him as he slowly pulls your shirt over your head. “Fuck, you’re perfect, doll. Look at you.”
He leans back down, kissing your open mouth with an almost mocking sweetness, and unhooks your bra in one motion. You melt into him as he kneads at the skin of your hips, his cool, metal hand groping and squeezing at your breasts. His thumb runs over your nipple and starting to roll it, and you arch into him with a whine. The groan that rumbles from his chest is animalistic, and it vibrates right into your core, making your thighs rub together for a little friction.
“Oh, Bucky, I- Fuck-“
He pulls you up, keeping you trapped between the wall and his body. Your pants are quickly shed by your own frantic hands, and Bucky tosses them away, rubbing your pussy over your panties. You moan as his fingers tease your slit, then whine when they move away. He grabs your ass, lifting you a little higher, and your legs manage to wrap around his torso, your chest level with his face. He looks up with a hooded awe as you grind against his body. You throw your head back, a coil starting to build in your core, and Bucky groans your name.
“You’re like a fucking painting, baby.” He mutters, and you whimper as he kisses over your breast. “Think I could watch you try to fuck yourself on me forever.”
You shake your head, your hips rutting up as another needy sound leaves your throat, and Bucky chuckles.
“You want a little more, though, don’t you.” He takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue against the sensitive bud. You writhe above him, thighs starting to get sore as he doubles his efforts.
“Oh my- Ohmygod-“ Your words start to slur, and Bucky’s teeth graze against you.
He pulls back with a lazy grin, the metal hand slowly starting to tease back over your panties. “You’re soaking,” he says your name, a low reverence in his voice. “This for me?”
You nod weakly, and his gaze drops down to where you’re spreading your legs. You try to use your grip around him to pull him closer, but he pinches your inner thigh, and you squeak.
“Patience, baby.” He mutters, kissing your neglected breast as he slowly pulls your ruined underwear to the side. “I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good, treat you right.”
Two metal fingers drive right into your core, curving right against a bundle of nerves deep inside your cunt, and his mouth wraps around your nipple once again. Your mouth falls open in long, loud moan as he starts to pump in and out of you at an unforgiving rhythm, always crooking at that same spot, twisting slightly every few thrusts. His tongue plays over your nipple, taking the peak between his teeth before his tongue presses flat.
Your fingers fly into his hair, and you tug hard.
Bucky fucking moans around you, and the vibrates against your tit, shooting right down to your core. You yank again, grinding down onto his hand, and he grunts. Bucky pulling his fingers fully out and leans back, licking his lips as he glares up at you.
“You get bratty.” He mutters, spanking your clit once—just enough to make you shake and send a rush through your body—and kissing your neck softly. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna get you in bed before we even get a proper date.”
“A- Oh-“ Bucky’s fingers push back into you, now going at a torturous, taunting pace. “A date?”
He hums against your skin. “I’m taking on you on a date before I fuck you, baby. I told you, we’re not doing casual.”
You nod, voice breathy as his thumb presses over your clit. “But- We can still- Fuck-“
He chuckles, starting to rub slow, firm circles over the bundle of nerves. “Not until the date. But don’t worry.” His fingers start to rub fast against that spot inside of you. “I’m still gonna make you cum on my hand.”
Bucky’s mouth moves back to your breast, and you take a sharp breath as release threatens to snap in your core.
“James-“
“Shit,” he mutters, kissing on a bruise he’d left on your collar. “Keep saying my name, babydoll. Make all those sounds I’ve dream about.”
You moan, loud and lewd, and Bucky grunts, his fingers picking up the pace. You tug at his hair again, and his thumb starts to flick your clit.
“I- James, I’m close-“
“I know.” He growls, returning his to your almost abused nipple. “Play with your tits for me, baby, c’mon-“
You cry out, grabbing your free breast and pinching your nipple, pulling at Bucky’s hair as you fall right over the edge. Your vision goes white as you clench around Bucky’s fingers. He presses in further, every shake of your body only seeming to make him work harder. Your thighs press together, when his finger finally pull out, but then he refocuses on your clit. Gives it small, rough hits that make your breath short and eyes roll back.
You try to squirm away from him, but he’s stronger, and into not until you’re a shaking, soaked and panting mess that he pulls away.
Bucky grins, leaning up to press at sweet, gentle kiss to your lips, and you melt over him. It’s just a kiss.
But it feels like everything.
Like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.
Eventually you find your voice, murmuring against his lips. “Do you have to pay my father a dowery now?”
He chuckles. “I’m not that old, baby. And,” he nips the of your nose. “We aren’t gettin’ married right now.”
“Right now?”
Bucky hums in acknowledgment, you lean away with small grin, playing with his hair.
“If we do…” You focus on his lips, swollen from touching you. “What would it be?”
“Your dowery?”
You nod, giving him a small smile, and he rolls his eyes.
“How about I just get you a cat, doll.”
Oh.
He’s perfect.
You beam at him, moving back down for another kiss. Bucky meets you halfway, his hand rubbing gently against your still-sensitive skin. Holding you carefully.
Holding like he never plans to let go.
“You like that?” He mutters, and you smile.
“Yeah. I do.”
✦End note: I need those metal fingers to do unspeakable things to me okay. Please join me on that journey ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
— synopsis.ᐟ in which your bestfriend, Leo teaches you how to properly fuck (and make you his for once and all).
— warning.ᐟ fem! reader, switch! leo, CORRUPTION, first time, talking you through it, switch! reader, eventual MESSY smut, praising, degrading, hair pulling, swearing and profanities, car smash, riding, porn with plot, bestfriends to lovers, the condom broke, pulling out, inappropriate use of fire, temperature play, dacryphilia, oral (m receiving), dumbification, overstimulation, p in a v, past! leo/calypso, brief smash of leo with random person, leo's also drunk while doing it so, chem! side-major reader, yearning, pining, a sprinkle of angst, all of them are aged up!
— word count.ᐟ 16k (oopsie doosie 😝)
— a.n.ᐟ requested by anon! U and ur genius mind... by far the nastiest smut ive written 🤭 and please tell me if I have miscorrections for the spanish sentences!
Leo Valdez has never had sex before.
Sure, he's extremely charming and he just can't help it when people naturally flaunt to him like an overexcited birds (they do not, don't believe him). But all those times he spent blushing and throwing spanish fluffy innuendos that he's always been hopeful they can't translate it—because he usually compares them to one of his favorite science equations or his inventions—never treated him very well with his silly puppy crushes.
They always end up just brushing him off like he's not even comparable. And to be fair, he is not comparable to any of them.
Like this one time, during a meeting when the campers are talking about the connections of Percy Jackson's disappearance, someone with sweet written lips conjures up the most brilliant tactic right at the table. Every word of her mouth sounds like a siren's song—even when she's talking about the monster's threat and everything sorrow—all Leo hears is how much he wished that voice would be directed to him. To greet him. To acknowledge him.
She's completely out of his league.
But when has that ever stopped him?
So Leo starts slow, just a quick wit against her suggestion every time she's involved in a meeting. Just a quick meet up to talk about quest strategies and his position in the prophecy. Serious talks always leads to lighthearted ones. That's how he found out you and him are not so different.
Because one time during a meeting at the impending final, Leo spouts a brilliant (horrible) one liners when they're in the brink of getting finished by Gaea, she has the audacity to scrunch her nose, crinkle her brows, and try the hardest not to burst a sharp laughter. No way she's gonna ruin the atmosphere and get scolded by Jason Grace for laughing. And definitely not for Leo Valdez's jokes out of all reason.
Sure, the thing about the absurdity of their impending doom and the fact that they're only teenagers forced into fighting a god's war is funny.
So guess what, two years later?
That girl and him are now best friends. Practically inseperable, twins at birth (preferably conjoined), that is proven more when Festus constantly takes her side more than he does with Leo. The sheer audacity! For stealing his first homeboy, for stealing his hoodies, for stealing his handmade tacos whenever he looks away for one second, for stealing entire shower utensils (so he needs to make two birria tacos in exchange to share shampoo with Jake Mason), for being you.
You, who's his best friend. You, who's sitting in front of the operation table not far from where he's working. You, who's currently humming a song—and Wicked Game by Chris Isaak out of all songs. And you, who does all your small adorable habits, while his table are filled with notebooks of your school subjects and highlighters with colors Leo can't even count one by one.
He's being banished in his own bunker. Being mistreated, more so. The wire between his fingers sparks up as if knowing his prolonged attention on you. His situation is not so different from yours. Shards of micro metals scatters on the rugged floor, collections of screws all used up beside him, and the sketch of a small wasp engraved on the paper in front of him. It may look normal from upfront, but you're dead wrong if you think his innovations are gonna be any normal.
"You know, just a heads up," he starts off with that familiar snark, handling the unconnected wires that flies tiny fireworks from the chemistry. "No one but me can open this bunker before in a hundred of years. No one but me can sit so pretty while singing off tune and tries to write a new chemistry theory and start an argument with a dead scientist."
Your head flings upwards from the trashes of equations, eyes widening a slight before you turn from your very precious notes about Niels Bohr's phenomenons. "Excuse me?" your nose scrunches, face knitted in that sour mood as you swing in your (his) chair to meet his sitting figure. "We can just take it right outside if you have a problem with me."
Leo groans a loud one, and he'd run a palm over his face right now if he's not wearing a glove full off mechanical fluids, "Oh, trust me," he shares the same sour face as yours, shooting a frown. "I'd happily take that chance if you ever decided to get the hell out of my working space, asshole." he pouts for a good measure.
At that statement, your mood is quick to turn as coffee is to sugar. "Hey! It's an obligation to share things with your very struggling friend!" your hand gestures rapidly to the amount of books on the table, to which he only replies with an exasperated whining. "And why not make a use of my friend's very useful hideaway because I cannot focus studying in my own cabin?"
"Didn't my friend just threaten to chase me all through the woods if I don't give her the operating table earlier?" he gasps a dramatic one, like a victorian lady that just found her handmaid is stealing her gowns. Hands clutched on his face, and his brown eyes wide in that manic energy of his.
"That's not a good come—"
"To which she decided to threaten me more after the whole shenanigan and suggest we should take it outside and fight each other to death?" the last word intensifies louder than the previous ones, his tongue clicking in that sing-song disapproval before manifesting in a lyrical song. "No eres tan inteligente como piensas, cariño." and that aggravating, agitating smile of his? That produces the rainstorm over your head as you scoffs.
"Fine," your eyes roll, both in surrender and irritation. But it's not you if you don't match his streak of stubborness. So your arm raises, pen pointing at him while your eyes narrows—like a wizard trying to cast a spell at him. "But you're the one who gave me this chair anyway. So you don't get to play the victim, jerk."
"Oh, wow, look at that!" he raises the same arm as you, though he's pointing at you with a screw instead of a pen. "You just said your first words of common sense! Should we invite Chiron for this? Or oh!" he claps his hand in that ridiculous excitement that's reserved only on bullying you. "Should I ask Pollux to arrange a celebration? Maybe I should make fireworks that blows up in the sky and writes 'The first ever human to learn about common sense!'" a squeal escapes his mouth like over caffeinated squirrel, his eyes gleaming in pure cheer while his lips are tied into that big grin of doom.
With that statement too, the room falls in silence —burning in Leo's mocking grin and your fumed beet red cheeks. Right at that moment, you have the sudden urge to find Frank and strategize a way to embarrass him all out in public. Or find the Stoll Brothers and bribe them to prank the hell out of this jerky latino of a jerk.
"Sorry," you straighten up, still carrying the same defiance as you scoffed and turn in your seat. Back to Niels Bohr's cradle on spiking atom's theories up to your head. "I don't speak 'Asshole Language'." your tongue drips in upfront sassiness before you try to ignore him. Eyes on the prize, you remind yourself as you look over to the Chemistry's research on inorganic chemicals and other tricky topics.
You could feel Leo's gaze burning in to the back of your head, and you felt strange. Why isn't he spouting any sarcastic comments or jabs right now?
The rustle of the fan is more louder than any sentences could be uttered in this moment. You're far too engrossed in your writings anyway, that is until you hear a different kind of shuffle rustling behind you, footsteps that comes closer, and feel his finger poking on your cheek—successfully making a dot of soot on the apple of your face.
Your eyes widen, a stark contrast to Leo's playful grin and wiggling brows, "Oh, that's it—" you takes a sharp inhale of disbelief, head shaking just before you grab a particularly thin book and slam it to across his shoulder. That earned a yelp and stagger from him, backing off from your position before a sulk forms on his lips—hands still rubbing against the sore spot.
"Rude." he narrows his eyes at you. "I wonder how anyone could keep up with your crazy hands—OW, OW! Damn it, okay, okay!" you sigh as you plop back down from pinching his sore spot. The chair creaks under your weight while you place the weapon (book) back to the table.
"You're awfully cranky today." not even five minutes later, your dear best friend just cannot sit his ass tight and not bother you for a moment. In fact, he starts circling you like you're a fine bomb just in the ticking of a minute. He whistles behind you, and you realize that it's the same song you just hummed earlier when you take your eyes off the chemic's books.
"You shouldn't waste all this beauty by getting angry." now, he actually had dragged a chair nearby so he can sit beside you. His face is close to your sided one, his warm breath hitting your left cheekbones as you try with all might to focus on how the hell the Highest Occupied Molecular Orbital operates in a graphic. Fun-fact, the soot on your right cheek hasn't been wiped off yet before he pokes his finger on the crease between your brows, "These wrinkles gonna make you look like my grumpy grandma than my sexy best friend." his tone goes lower, like this is actually a serious phenomenon worth of his tears and grief.
"Right fist or left fist?" you finally force yourself to turn you attention towards. To which he immediately perks up and curls his grin like a cheshire cat.
"What about lips?" Leo throws you a wink, pearly whites flashing with eagerness of your impending annoyance.
"... I'm calling Will." the message is already clear in your head, 'Take this evil guy with messy dark hair and the ugliest grin ever and please give him something strong so he could have a rest for one day.'
"I'm calling grandma." he retorts, already pulling out a hand mimicking a telephone while he puffs his cheeks.
"You don't have one."
"Oh yeah," he blinks in mock surprise. "Right, because she's sitting in front of me right now."
He nudges your shoulder.
You flick him off with your fingers.
The room falls in that silent once more, the kind that you're not sure of what he's gonna say or act—considering his spontaneous personality. The fan hums, and you'd thought he's burning holes into your face before you realize he's rather focused on your work.
That's when you became a hypocrite yourself and peek a gaze at him. Observing how his dark locks falls over his forehead, his brows furrowed in that cute little concentration, and mouth unconsciously pulled into a pout.
"I think I learned this when I ran into a monster at twelve and tried to connect its tail to an electrical whirring."
"Oh, all hail Leo—the only living person in the world who learned the catalyst of organometallic at twelve—surely, the gods must be proud." you can't help but roll your eyes and whine in frustration. It's sad and it's pathetic. But he really should stop burning off the wire when it's already stressed out.
"I'm just joking, princessa," this time, he raises a hand to rub the soot he left on your cheek. "I'm a genius, but I'm not a self centered prick." especially when you know everything about him, he wants to say—but he cannot exactly do that, right?
You sigh, catching his gaze that gleams with a small smile. His assurance are always infectious, and before you could know it—a curl forms its way on your lips. "You're literally the textbook definition of self centered."
"Really?" he narrows his gaze, "Is that what you think of me? After all the bloodshed, the team-ups, and you catching me in my worst state when we're in the middle of a war?"
"Fine," you slump your figure to the chair, particularly his chair. Leaning your head over his shoulder when you shifts a little. "I know you're not like that," a pause, then you pinches his cheek once more. "But you do make it look like that, always."
You could feel the boy respond your touch, an arm flying its way to wrap it around your torso—bringing you closer to his natural warmth. "You know what you need?" he says, and you don't know if he's trying to steer the topic in a different direction or simply just wanting to tell you out of care.
"What do I need, genius?" you murmur, closing your eyes for a brief moment of recollection.
"Sex."
"Don't even bring that up right now." your tongue rolls out the syllables sooner than your mind could rethink it over. Though, you can't say you're not surprised. Sexual matters are basically a topic you guys hunched over at seven in the morning, and without even breaking composure or a stutter. Both of you are freshly nineteen, it's completely normal! It's just that...
He does not need to know that you never had one.
The first time Leo Valdez had ever experienced anything remotely close to having sex is when he's giving a girl a blowjob.
It was strong at night, the drinks were bubbling in the air of the room, and the suspense of excitement is just too big for him to ignore it. He initially came to this bar, just so he could drown out any memories of Calypso's sweet nothings and then her eventual sharp endings. Anything to get his mind off the goddess he just spent a whole tons of work on swearing by the Styx, get her the hell out of that island, and caring the hell out of her.
He understands that maybe she just wants something new, something that isn't broken like all the half finished rocks on her island. She wants something complete, something that can actually work. Something not sparking with uncontrollable chaos and unpredictability. Something grounding.
Leo is far from any of that description.
So yes, he's visiting a bar in New York, ordered a strong fire whiskey with his usual forced flirtation, and got drunk at Air Supply's playlist rolling behind the stereo—while other people are swaying their drinks and cry to the song. Leo would've joined, if he downed three glass of the whiskey in a span a minute for each time he chugged the drink.
But he downed six drinks, so here he is; holding up a single of plush thigh over his shoulder, running his palm over the skin as the girl above him whined in muffled mewls. As you can probably guess, yes—he and the cutie bartender that served him before is currently 101% high right now. Her lower back is against the rim of the sink, hand over her mouth to lessen her noises, and *NSYNC playing on the dance floor outside of the bathroom. The band can be suitable, but not when it's playing This I Promise You while he's literally kneeled on the cold tiles.
The slope of his nose brushes against her puffy clit, but Leo's too drunk and out of his mind to think of the girl's pleasure right now. It's a quick fuck, and he hopes he's doing well for a first timer.
A ring, from Star Wars's main theme rolls out just in time when *NSYNC's title shifts to a song called Gone.
That combined interruption, more specifically on his phone ring crashes over them both like waves of cold water over their very much messy brain. Leo ignores it at first, instead working much harder on her weakening hole as she tugs on his curls—a startled moan out of her mouth.
The phone rings and vibrates once again in his pocket.
"Fuck," he rasps out, pulling away with a lewd slick from both his spit and her fluids. Leo is dazed, and his brain seems to wreck even more when he grabs his phone and holy light stabs his face. He forgot to lower the brightness earlier, he curses. But he blinks for a few moment, scrunching his brows to make a good read for the reminder on the lock screen.
It's you.
"operation ASAP, need ur help right now." 23.03
"hermann kolbe is terrorizing me under my bed, so be a knight and save me from chemistry horrors?" 23.04
... How can Leo say no to that?
He clears his throat, tongue throttling with its own as he staggers his words. "S-Sorry—for breaking the mood." the sharp blade of the whiskey earlier still hits his brain repeatedly. But right now, he's not acting on logic. He's acting on heart, on familiarity, on comfort.
He rises on his feet, not even bothering to slip the phone back to its pocket while he simultaneously grabs his forgotten leather jacket by the next sink and trashes it around his torso. "I have to go. She just told me last second that she needs company or else she'll have nightmares—" he doesn't know why he's rambling to tell her the reason, she's just a stranger to him anyway. But Leo knows basic decency, and she should at least know the why to the what.
Even if it's a lie.
That's a long time ago anyways. And right now, he'd rather think about keeping you steady in his cradle. You would be whacking his head off if he places you in any uncomfortable position and you wake up with a sore on your neck. So his arm tightens around your waist, both of your chairs now practically plastered together by the hip like it was always meant to be one. Luckily, the work that has been buzzing your stress since earlier is finished partially with his help. Chemistry is still in one umbrella with his engineering understanding anyway—so it's not that hard of a feat.
His throat hums a song, it naturally tunes out of his memories with his mother either singing him the melodies or dancing carelessly to one. His other hand holds out your papers of doom—you always called it to be—inspecting the contents of your hypothesis and connecting the lines of each sub-stack and concepts in it. It's clear that you worked pretty hard to make this perfect, at least you try to in your professor's eyes. New Rome University's pretty strict when it comes to this matter.
Leo breaks his attention away from the papers for a split moment, feeling the shift of your body against his when you moved in your impromptu sleep. Seeing your fluttering lashes, your parted lips, and the way your forehead still has that small hint of tension even when you're in a nap cracks that smile out of him.
"What should I do with you?" his thumb reaches out, seeking to soothe that wrinkle on your skin like his touch has some sort of magic. And maybe it does—because the tiny frown immediately vanishes after he brushes it.
Leo decides to place the paper back on the table. Maybe you'll sleep better if he caresses you while you're at it.
"Clingy chica." a chuckle tumbles out as he too relaxes under her touch, if his touch soothes your stress—perhaps your touch heightens his instead.
There's a gleam passing his eyes when he can't help but trace your every feature. It's a rare opportunity, even when you're used to being this close—you'll never let him take a pause and appreciate you. Not just your looks, but you, in general. What you are, simply.
Leo swallows down a hard lump in his throat, feeling that familiar pump of rush that he always tries to deny and forget. A feeling he has when he first met you. The rush of blood running to his cheeks and quickening beat of his heart. A feeling he always tries to dispose by replacing it with attachment to other girls or boys.
He should've had it gone by now. It's been years since that stupid crush on you.
"... What should you do with my heart?" his voice cracks.
He always cracks when it comes to you it seems.
Always cracks when the sun rushes down to embrace the sea, when the sky paints ink of stars, and the moon rises from its hidden cavern. The transition from you sleeping, head on his shoulder and back to his chest—then to crackling flame with boozes of cans scattered on sand is almost too blurry. When Piper had the most horrible timing and suggested a spin the bottle game in your circle. The most terrible timing when the bottle spins to point at you beside the fireplace.
The most perfect timing when Annabeth raises up a dare—and it reads, "Do a lap dance on someone."
He'd expect that from Piper's dreadful matchmaking, or heck—even Percy's too fast tongue since he always likes to watch a new challenge everyday. But not from observant, calm, and scary Annabeth. That's one of his closest friend in the circle! And she just decided to dump an ice cold bucket at him?
Leo's not sure if he more terrified if you'll find another guy to flaunt the dare, or worse—him.
Gods, hopefully him.
Your eyes catches his light brown ones that crackles with the fireplace's spark.
And you actually approach him.
Claps and cheers soars from within the circle—some already set out a tune with their acapella, all melodious with Will's lyre tucking. Leo doesn't even register when you stand in front of him. His heart feels like a mouse getting chased by a fiery, ravenous cat. And he'd find a way to get out of the room.
If you haven't placed your hands on the slope of his shoulders, if you haven't trailed the fingers down his chest above his thin cloth, if you haven't actually lower yourself on his lap—he'd have done it right away.
Your hands traverse upwards, while your hips sways before settling properly on his lap—above his... he doesn't even want to talk about it right now. The acapella of the group is basically a backhanded sound to him right now, because somehow—your sigh is clearer than any sing-song or small drums.
The proximity is addicting to say the least—and he hasn't even chugged down on any beers all of you managed to steal from the Mr. D's stack. The hands of yours flies to the back of his hair, tugging at your roots before you move closer. Chest to chest, lips just a breath away. And he's inclined to wash that gap away...
Until you pull away.
To say you weren't affected would be a lie, a full on bullshit. Even when you force a smile and joke around to your friends, even in the midst of the glaring vulnerability of something more—you lock eyes with him, across from the crowd. He's always been easy to spot.
Or maybe you just notice everything about him?
... Maybe you should take up his advice and find a guy for a quick fuck.
The street buzzes in choirs of klaxon, raging old men, and fast paced pedestrian as you rush through the city lights. Besides the sea of fast moving people, your phone lights up inside the car's far speed room. A message pops up on the lock screen, one that caught the brunette boy beside you.
"Can't wait to see u!" 20.50
That's enough for Leo to bring up the lucky messenger once again. "You really gonna continue a deal with a guy from dating app?" his eyes paints a lighter streak to his brown eyes, almost like the luminance of sunset—even when the night city lights are the only thing hovering above them right now. You'd get lost in them, if both of your lives aren't at stake the moment, you'd take your eyes off the road for a second.
"So what?" an air blows out of your lips, both indicating nonchalance and exasperation. Because he's been acting kind of moody ever since he picked her up. Maybe he was testing some theories and it didn't work out. Maybe he was pranked by the Stoll Brothers before he came with his modified car, nobody knows.
Leo scoffs, "For starters," his back leans onto the chair, his arms crossing as he peeks another glance to your phone when it beeps. "It's just not like you to ask me to lend you my car and drive up to date some guy you barely even know." he runs a hand through his curls, just simply to distract himself from what's really bothering his mind. "Especially if the guy will probably turn out to be a serial killer. You know that happens in thriller flicks." then his mouth stumbles out a sour laughter.
"I already told you." a streak of frown creases between your brows, and you choose to steady your focus on the popping lights on the road ahead instead of him. "And you encouraged me to take the chance, mind you."
"That's before I knew you were gonna meet up with a guy you barely know." he echoes his previous argument, light crackles flick out of his fingertips—to which it didn't pass your attention. "I thought it's gonna be someone we both know, someone from camp, or maybe NRU!" he doesn't say the real reason. He doesn't say that he wishes it was him you're meeting up with.
He really should stop being a hypocrite and decease this hoping once and for all, he knows that. He knows that he's being a complete prick right now. But Leo is as stubborn as the hoard of cars suddenly lining up in front of you.
"Shit." you mutter under your breath, rising up from your slump to view the congestion ahead of you.
"And great," his hands claps to his thighs, a roll from his eyes as he grunts. "Just exactly what we needed in this fucking night."
"No need to swear because of me." you shoots him a look, because—hey! What kind of person doesn't take offense to that?
"No!" the word rolls out of his panicked tongue the same time a car honks in front of you. "I don't—" crackle of weak flames spurts out of his curls, probably reflecting both the annoyance and sour taste sitting in his brain. "Shit, I mean—" his eyes are a tad bit wide, mouth stuttering up staggered syllables before he surrenders completely. Suddenly dropping his back to the car seat, palms rubbing his face. "You know that's not what I meant..."
"You still said it." you murmur.
"Look—" he braces himself to speak up, even behind his guarding hands. To which he beckons a gap between his fingers so he could take a peek at you. You responded just the same, eyes flicking to him while car drags to a full pause. The city lights are shining brighter than ever when cars are piled up in the road. Yet, somehow—it doesn't seem more aggravating than the boy next to you.
"Let's just get this over with." he sighs. "You date whoever you want and I'll date whoever I want." It feels like he's coughing out expired ambrosia, because he doesn't feel like anything his mouth is saying. He'll care for you than he could ever care for himself, he's sure of that.
"Which is exactly what I've been saying since thirty minutes ago!" you cheerfully exclaim, a smile as sharp as a stygian iron pulling up on your lips. The irony is clear on your tongue. "You're the one who gets riled up by my own date for no reason!" your voice drives high pitched.
"And now you're the one who's telling me to mind my own business?" everything about him is infectious; his adorably disgusting smile, his incredibly horrifying laughter, his amazingly terrible sense of humor, even now his perfectly frustrating mood-swing is getting to you too. Everything about him is mixed feelings!
"Right, right," his hands lift up in surrender, the glowing warmth from the upper lamps are echoed in his eyes. "Don't worry, you're not gonna hear any bullshit from me again, princessa." Leo is not the type to lose easily in an argument. But this is you who's his debating enemy right now.
You, we're talking about here. You, who's existence is a voice that echoes in his head over and over again like a god's calling (maybe he should get on his knees). You, you, you, who undoes everything that he is.
"Oh, silent treatment, huh?" your forced smile draws even wider—not out of the blushing joy he always made you in—but out of disbelief at his gnawing attitude. "Real fucking mature, Valdez. Just keep on acting like you don't care and maybe it will actually happen. Go on, pretend like I don't exist."
Leo stays silent with his words, choosing to face the window instead.
Fucking great, you think.
The time counts for eight minutes before the congestion cracks up and cars moves like a bird free from its cage. Though, begrudgingly, your attention is more prolonged on the boy who's definitely not sulking on the passenger seat. In your defense, the way the city lights reflects on his face is distracting you more than you realize. Annoyance stems in your heart, which is a weird thing. Because why would your heart flutter for the second time?
A car honks up behind you. Signaling your frozen car when the others have already moved ahead of you.
"Maláka." you curse under your breath, momentarily imagining a moment where you scold yourself for being so stupid before you gas up the pedal. The car now moves in a speed much different than before. A stark contrast to the slow traffic earlier, now it's gliding under the moonlight.
And you force your mind to think about the mall, the same place where you're supposed to meet up with some unknown man and watch a movie with him. Probably fuck with him later on, that's your whole objective anyway.
Finally, your car enters the main gate of the destination. Wasting no time to search for a parking space when you slide down to the basement.
You beckon the car to a turn, and when an empty box lights up like heaven's pearl, you drive the car to fulfill that spot. Beeps of signal echoes in the car room, you face backward, focusing on whether you parked it correctly or not.
You finally stop.
Leo is still silent.
During this time, if he weren't in such a bad mood—you'd probably seek his advice. Just because you read inappropriate stuffs doesn't mean you're as experienced as someone who probably has done it. You know the first thing to approach a guy, you just don't know the first to actually keep the lust going.
Especially when he's only a stranger.
You're internally screaming in your head.
"Thanks," you force yourself to mutter, reluctantly turning your attention to him. "For letting me borrow your car."
"No problem." he replies simply.
That doesn't sound like him at all. He'll usually ramble up some mouthy wits before actually saying a respond as common as sentences in basic english books.
So you once again, stops just when your hand is at the door handle.
"Leo." you call out.
"Yeah?" he replies, and that unusually low voice out of his throat is tingling something familiar in your heart.
Thousands of confession lies like melting ice above your tongue. Each one worse than before, each one making your heart race in something definitely not because of the adrenaline from the fight earlier.
"... Nothing." the door flaunts open when you said the single contradiction. A sound is made from it, an echo of troubled tension between you as the fire crackles between blue and vivid orange. Your feet plants on the ground—ready to take another step further, yet you hear a voice from behind.
"Have fun with him. You deserve it after the assignment." in your understood translation of Leo's guard melting, this one means, don't let your day get ruined because of me.
Your breath hitches.
And your heart suddenly feels heavy—like something is anchoring you back to him.
You turn back.
"Alright," you burst in the car suddenly. Shooting your hands to block his way and pin him to his own seat. And Leo with his wide eyes doe look definitely did not expect the surprise at all. His jaw drops, mimicking his shock—and he was about to object if it weren't for your fast tongue. "We're not gonna act like we haven't talked about sex positions in a casual movie night at a random Thursday." maybe that's a terrible sentence even for someone like Leo Valdez, but hey! At least the hook catches his interest.
"What the—"
"I never fucked anyone." you could hear an explosion blowing up inside his brain simply through the immediate flame jolting out of his curls. "Never been fucked, and never been fucking. Ever. Not once in my lifetime. Even when my opinion about woman on top is better than your shitty doggy preference." there you said it, every lies you made him believe. It's not that dramatic, but the way his eyes dilates even more made you feel so.
"... Congratulations?" he blinks.
"Really?" you facepalm, your arm going stiff beside his head.
"Oh, no, no, no," Leo immediately cuts you off, and his tone is going hazard as if the explosion quite actually happened in his head. "I mean, I thought you've already done it before with the way you talked!" sure enough, actual flames combusts on top of his curls like they're forming a crown—if it was made by a snobby prince and not a proper blacksmith. Red rush heats up in his cheeks, painting his face in a flustered look that you can't help but acknowledge the butterflies in your stomach.
"But," contrast to his sulking face before, that heat in his curls now shifts to draw a grin from his lips. His eyes darts between your pinning hand and to your gaze, "That means all this time you're actually just an innocent princessa? No experience besides probably playing with yourself?"
"That," you swallow a hard lump, "I haven't done that too." you can't help but notice how a gleam passes in his light oak gaze. How that previously doe eyed shocked eyes are now lidded to one that basically reads as... recognition? Desire? Hope?
"Mierda," his grin shifts to something you'd never expect from him in this abnormally ridiculous situation. It's genuine. Purely joyful realization that coaxes a faint dimple from his cheek you never notice until now. It's barely there yet it's making your heart race. "He estado esperando toda mi vida por esto." he breathes out, shakily.
You tilt your head, confusion written on your face.
Noticing your expression, he quickly composes himself with a clear of his throat. The rosy cheeks still remain, though the wide smile shifts into something unbelievably serious. "... There's something I need to know." he voices out, light honey eyes burning into yours. "And I need you to be honest with me."
His hand glides to your own that rests beside your hip, slowly crawling in his fingers to interlock with yours—until you accept him fully. "Are you okay with me touching you?"
Something in the way his skin boosts warmer when your hand holds his is telling you that he's not simply talking about basic touch.
Gods, you want him to do more than touch.
You nod, any semblance of voice being stuck in your dry throat.
"I need to hear you say it." his hand tightens a brief strength in yours. A scrunch of brows heightening the crackle that hides behind his brown sight. "You know you've got a smart mouth, and I'm not gonna do anything until I hear your decision loud and clear."
You could feel a rush of blood running below your abdomen. And you wonder if the erratic pulse is a rhythm out of your heart or the sensitivity between your legs.
"Yeah," you stumble your voice. "Yeah, yeah," an inhale sucks into your mouth, "A thousand times yes, Leo." the tension is an erratic wire in the air between you, alive and burning.
Fumes of accidental explosions springs out of his curls in warm smoke.
"Santo dios, bebè." he gasps, and you notice how his pupils dilates like he's just seeing the world for the first time. "I'm gonna die. Right here, right now." and a smile conjures up like sugar has been hiding in his lips all the time, slow and in relief. Maybe he's already imagining the prospect of dying under sheer joy because you share the same feelings. "And now, you have the responsibility to bring me back to life too."
A sulk forms on your lips. "Don't be dramatic." you rolls your eyes playfully, your walls melting when his hand drifts from your own and slides down across your skin. He eventually settles on your waist, thumb caressing your partially side abdomen above your shirt.
"So," your gaze slips briefly to his mouth. "What do I do now?"
"You know," his nose scrunches, brows wiggling to hint at something seductive in his tone. "How about," without further ado, Leo sneaks in another to hand your other waist—and with your shudder, he successfully brings you on top of his lap. The car door shuts with a low clap as you seek steadiness by holding onto his shoulders.
"You test me that theory we've been fighting over?" his smile curves wider when he looks up at you.
"The one where you're jealous with my date?"
Leo blows an air out of his lips, a dry chuckle escaping his throat. "Well, that's a small part of it," then his eyes lights up, "But that's not what I'm talking about and you know it!"
"You have a smart mouth," tactfully, a teasing smile appears like you've been waiting to use something against him. "Don't you think you should put it to good use, hm?"
"Oh, gods." Leo cracks, actually cracks when a burst of laughter flings out of his throat. The sound is like honey carved out from its own nest, sweet and adorable. You wonder how he could bring out any sort of emotions out of you, at least back then you contemplate so. But now you know, you're just that into him, the same way he is to you.
"No puedo creer que te tenga a todos para mí." His fangs flashes out when his grins curls wider. The words are more of a murmur for his own erratic heart, each beat still has god's calling that basically spells out your name in his mind. He's creative like that. "I'm talking about you," he winks. "Arguing about positions, and you're really stubborn on liking to be on top." his head tilts a slight.
"Right." your voice cracks, gaze drifting rapidly from his face to the sight of you sitting on top of his thighs. "Well, maybe," your voice shifts lower, almost a whisper. "I need someone to teach me first?"
"You, asking for my advice?" he lifts a single brow, hand dangerously caressing closer to your hip. "Is the world ending any sooner? Is the earth flat? Is the sun blowing up any second?"
"Don't be dramatic!" you scoffs with a much higher pitch, eyes narrowing when all he does is stifle a laugh at your irritation. When you do tighten your hands around his shoulder, and he wince in mock pain—does he clear his throat and bury his laughter deep and deep.
"First," Leo drags his fingertips from the tail of your spine to upwards, slowly—like he's testing the waters to see what will made you crack. "You gotta relax. No need to overthink your pretty head around this thing."
"Second," his hand is now caressing its palm on your upper back, before bringing you closer to him in this intimate position. Until the only thing separating you both is one strand of breath away. His freckles are easier to count in this close angle, and his eyes are like glinting dew of warmth that's mixing up with a want that widens his pupil.
The slope of his nose brushes against yours, and his other hand reaches for yours. Just so he could drag your palm to his shuddering chest, the feel of his rushing heartbeat filling your senses. "All you have to do is sit still and make some pretty noises for me, m'kay?"
You scoff, rolling your eyes playfully. "Do you always start it out like this?"
"Always?" Leo blinks, once and twice before a nervous laughter staggers out. "Bebè, I haven't even done this with anyone before."
You frown. "So we're blind leading the blind? And here I thought you'd be more experienced than me."
"I am!" Leo grasps to clutch at the front of his chest—only that it's your hand that's gripping it as he guides you. "It's just..." he clicks tongue, the sound echoing inside the cramped space while he glances sideways. Deciding that the view of the parking space is more intriguing than you on top of his lap. There's a crack in his tone that suggests something more than simply sex. Something painful. "It's a bit complicated, and I don't want make this moment about me."
He lets go of your hand, bracing himself with an inhale before sliding his warm palm to your cheek.
"It's all about you, princessa." his gaze softens, lips parted like he wants to say more, though only a soft inhale is heard from his mouth.
"Then at least," you interrogate, eyes narrowing in search of any hidden meaning in his gesture. "Have you actually tried putting it in yet?"
He pulls a lopsided smile. "Well, I know the first thing to loosen it up, that's for sure." suddenly, his thumb and one finger moves to pinch your cheek. Wiggling it as if he's playing with mochi as your head shakes slightly from his hold.
You grumble, though you make no effort on swatting off his offensive hand. You know it's just a body language response so he could lighten up the mood, hence you let him—just this once. "And if someone sees? The mall's pretty crowded today, who knows we're gonna get interrupted while we're at it."
"You thought I don't put full black frames for the windows?" he raises a brow, though his pinch on your cheek fractions more before he finally gives mercy to you. Choosing to slip his hand behind your nape.
"Now," his breath fans against your mouth, his head pushes off slightly from leaning to the chair—wanting to lean towards you, instead. The scent of him is filling your mind till all you can think about are cinnamons and bitter honeydew aroma. Till all you can think about is him.
Both of your lips brushes against one another.
Leo's eyes fleets to yours, drawn stars swimming in those brown irises as he looks at you in half lidded shape.
You understood the message.
Hence, you surrender to the overwhelming surge of flame, bursting off in tiny sparks inside your veins when you smash his lips to yours. Your teeth clashing against one another which makes your groan against his mouth, Leo takes the hint easily. His hand behind your waist brings you closer to him, practically pressing chest to chest.
Your lips are inexperienced, that's for sure. But enthusiasm burns brighter as you shift on his lap—your hands crawling to slip around his face, then to hold his curls. Just lightly.
Leo gasps.
Both of your salivas are basically swapped to one another's mouth, you're merciless, to say the least. So, Leo, like any other good teacher would do—tugs at your hair instead. Collecting the strands in his palm before he forces it to pull back. Successfully separating your lips in apparent exhales and messy connected line of spit.
"If I didn't know any better," a breathless laughter fills in the space between you, his smile widening to a messy grin as his gaze darts between your eyes and your mouth. "I think you should be the teacher here. Seems like you move a lot for a first timer, hm?"
You were too busy catching your breath to respond at his teasing. The heat is unbearable, or maybe you're just that affected by him. You want nothing more than to wipe that grin and kiss him senseless. Throwing logic off the window and just let him steal every breath you'd inhale or exhale. Just let him steal your lungs.
"... Shut up."
And your lips crashes into his like a tidal released from the deep restrained trenches. If the previous one was more battling and experimenting—this one's definitely the result. His tongue tied into yours, his hand unbearably warm against your lower back, and his nails clawing at your roots when you whine into his mouth.
The effect is immediate. Leo snaps by digging his fangs on your bottom lip, turning your shy exhales to a full on groan when the sharp of your teeth caught on the pout of his lower lip. Tugging hard enough to pull a strangled sound from the depths of his throat that seemed to surprise both of you.
"So good," he breathes away from yours, just to take no second on plunging in once more. His curls brushing against your forehead while his nose nudges into yours, a testament of how close you are in just a span of minute. "You're too fucking good, princessa," then finally, need of air interrupts between the both of you.
"I don't—" you attempt to speak, but your words shifted into a low mewl when his mouth moves to your jawline instead. The position makes you jolt slightly on his lap, to which you notice—something is poking you from down below.
"What? You don't taste good?" Leo rasps out, attention too focused on peppering your neck with kisses it deserves. And when your neck tilts to give him better access, you could practically feel his grin against your fragile skin. "You can't say that when I'm losing mind over you here."
A breathless laugh flows out of you. Feeling Leo's teeth nibbling your skin, to the point you could imagine light hickeys on your neck is making your head spin. And you wonder, why haven't you done this since ages ago? "You're babbling again, Leo."
"Of course I am," he bites on a specific skin pulsing against his lips, then darting out his tongue to soothe the ache. "Why should I shut up when I could use my mouth," he inhales, dragging his tongue along the slope of your throat. "To make you wet," he makes a point by grinding his hips against yours. "And tell you how pretty you look doing this to me?"
"Oh, now you blame me?" you huff, chest heaving up and down as your eyes are lidded shut—just to relish in his touch fully. You're not even doing anything to him! If anything, he's the one doing things to you.
"Yeah, you." along with his tongue, his teeth is no less ferocious. He moves to your collarbone now; nipping, suckling, and licking at every hickey he carved onto you. His breath is a hot exhale when he speaks, "You're the one fucking me up, that's for sure."
You sigh.
Leo chuckles, voice somehow shifting lower than it should be. "See? That," his hand slides from your waist to your abdomen, fondling against the hem of your top, seeking your body beyond the fabric. "That one sound is already making me hard, bebè."
"I know that since five minutes ago," because yeah, that prominent bulge is hard to dismiss when it's brushing against your heat with every movement in this cramped space. "It's kind of hard to ignore." and you melt into his warmth when his calloused palm slips in your shirt, grazing against your bare skin.
"Kind of?" his laugh is a sweet smoke against your flustered skin, which's beaming in red from every heat he spread onto you. You find that only his affection is infectious, but his naturally warm body is too. "You think it's not hard enough for you?" he finally pulls away from your close cradle, just to take the chance to shoot that aggravating grin of his when he squeezes the underside of your breast.
You can only groan in disbelief.
He has the audacity to spout that sassy words and twisting your mouth while dangerously going to the touch the one spot you never thought anyone would touch? Bastard. Yet he only kisses your anger away when his lips molds into yours, his thumb brushing against your bra's surface before he murmurs. "Take it off."
You pull away and look at him like he just asked a thousand drachmae's from you.
"I mean," he clears his throat, hands freezing under your shirt. "If you want to, of course. We could do it with clothes on. You know, there's this preference—" and he goes on and on with his tongue.
It's no use to fight him with words, you know that since he started rambling about quantum mechanics when you first entered his bunker. Not that you minded it, though.
So you reach for the hem of your top, and pulls it upwards with your arms crossed. And you definitely noticed how his words fades to a pathetic stumble as his jaw dramatically drops. Which goes the same for your shirt, which is now lying on the empty driver seat.
The cold air is a sensitive pleasure against your warm skin.
A flame sparks up in Leo's hair.
"Holy shit—" your mouth falls.
"Okay, OKAY!" Leo's hands frantically throws upwards, desperate to usher off the smoke and combusting fire stirring up a flambé on his head. His face is the same color as the element too, red and panicked. He can't believe he just spiraled in front of you, when you're looking all perfect and he's a complete disaster! "First of all, all of this is just—" a new of burst flame tickles off. "You never saw this! And I never acted like a total loser when you expect me to be all suave and flirty and attractive," pause, "Which I am, but—!"
A finger presses onto his lips, effectively shutting him up with a shush out of you. He notices, that laughter that seems to bloom armies of peonies, flowing in the space between them with such eagerness and joy. "C'mon, teach," you wiggle your brows, lips pulled wide as a series of giggle still flies out naturally. "Are you gonna touch me already or do I have to make the move?"
"No need." it's almost comedic worthy—how fast he immediately composes himself with that serious look when sparks of fire still jumps from his curls. He adjustes his collar as if tidying an imaginary tie, light honey eyes darkening with the invitation of your half bared form. "That was just a moment of weakness."
"I like your weakness when it involves me." your arms circles around his neck now, fingers playing with his curls.
"That means you like all of me, then," his mouth trails from your collarbone to the pad of your bra. Huffing a heavy inhale to the scent of you driving him insane. "I'm always weak," his mouth closes around the fabric—which surprises you a little bit considering he hasn't even took it off yet. The slope of his grazes your skin as he juts his tongue and circle it around the small area of the pad. The area where your nipple should be behind it. "And you're always on my mind."
He bites on the fabric, tugging your bud of nerves through it.
Your head jolts back, back arching a slight while you tug at his curls tighter. It feels dizzying, yet your mind has never been any clearer. His tongue and lips are like sweet nothings carved into your skin. Making you sigh and mewl.
It takes approximately fifteen seconds before he finishes making out with your bra (long story short). Not to mention how his other palm squeezes against your perky flesh, the heat spiking up further in your veins. There's a damp of saliva on the surface when he pulls away, eyes slowly dragging to peek at you from his lashes, pupils nearly swallowing his brown irises.
The sight makes you swallow.
His hand glides, tracing the waistline of your bra before plucking off the strap, with such ease too. The fabric loosens slightly, and Leo halts—eyes burning into yours like he's still asking for your permission, after all that suspense.
Words has never been good between the two of you, so you take things into your own matters—you tug the fabric past your arms, before throwing it to the next seat.
Leo throws himself in the crook of your neck.
"Oh gods, mierda, oh my fucking gods," he whines, full of embarrassment and shameful need—which is ironic because the word shame and Leo Valdez is like two things on the opposite. His hands don't ever dare to go anywhere near your skin, and you notice how they tremble in the air. "I'm actually going to die, this is elysium, yeah, I don't deserve this—"
"Leo," you pull him out of his hiding place, cupping his cheeks on your palm as you force him to meet your gaze head on. "I want you to touch me," his breath hitches, "I want you to fuck me," you could feel immense uprise of temperature blowing like a steam out of his skin, "Is that so hard to believe?" and your thumb caresses against his cheek gently, prompting his eyes to flutter close.
"But I don't want to fuck you," his head shakes under your hold, eyes still closed for a brief second before he blinds them open, "I want to love you," he wants reassurance, because as much as he is spontaneous and careless—he's weak for you, just a boy wanting to be loved without being left behind. "Is that so hard to believe?"
His eyes gleams in what closely resembles the sun dimmed down, vulnerable and desperate. And when he nuzzles against your palm? That's when you melt in the spot. Even more so when he lands a kiss on the center.
You shift much closer, pressing your bare chest against his thin shirt—the sensation is a tickling arousal to your brain. But you want to focus on him fully for a second, and you flies a small kiss on the corner of his eye—the intimate moment feels heartwarming in their shared desire, "Then," you mutter, "Teach me how love's supposed to feel like."
A shudder crawls toward Leo's spine.
In a span of seconds, his head dunks down. His hand finally gathers the courage to collect the back of your hair in his palm, slowly guiding it upwards as his moth drifts low. Lower than before. Low enough to catch one of your mound right into his mouth. You gasp, arching your spine before he gives a light suck on the nipple.
"O-Oh, gods," you mewl out of breath, closing your arms against his neck with a lot more force when he eagerly sucks on that bundle that makes you whine under his touch. You knew with the way he's biting your neck that his would be relentless, but your chest is more sensitive with his natural heat, and you could feel it harden as he licks and circles his tongue around it.
"Leo, that feels so..." you couldn't finish your words. Not when he latches off your breast only to go on another round to your other one. Eager with mouth with its nipple hard—you don't even know how it went like that. All you know is how good his mouth feels and the erratic thump of your heat is spreading hot rush to your cheeks. You want more, easily more. Hence your hips whine against him, grinding just on top of his bulge to feel anything of relief to your ache.
"Keep doing that," he groans against your perked up mound, making your skin feel hot all over with his heavy breaths. This time, a hand surges upwards to fondle with your untended one as he continues to suck, kiss, and bite at your sensitive hard nub. While the finger does just the same to your sloppy one, flicking it then pinching it playfully, "Mierda, ngh—hahh, yeah, bebè, that feels so good, doesn't it?"
"L-Leo," your head throws back, lips falling apart when another gasp echoes right out of them. You can't stop saying his name, it's like every bite he does onto you is seducing out that sound of your chest. Rasp and full of need. It's no surprise that you responded with another roll of your hips, making him suckle a bit rougher on your aching bud.
"Can't get enough of this," he breathes out, ravishing your breast like someone starved off any drink or food for days. "A-Ah, that's right," it's hard to think of anything concrete even when he's supposed to be teacher in this moment, he just can't keep control, especially when it comes to you, "Just like that, you're moving your hips so good—" and a small whimper is ripped out of him the moment your shift and grind against him.
"Oh, f-fuck—!" you feel it pulsing and crying below when he bites onto the hard nub outrightly, leaving draws of hickeys all over your skin not like a claim—but a mold of your body together. How much you trust each other to the point of doing this. It becomes more proven as your spine arches and your body automatically jolts at this point. Seeking friction to soothe the cry that your pussy wails down below. It hurts, and you need him to do more—to burn you more.
That is when you realize, you feel his tent becoming more wet and embarrassing, more so than before.
And the snap of his head to the chair's rest, his mouth falling open, sweat gathering in forehead while he curses in a series of spanish syllables is driving your body to grind against him harder. To the point of your wet pussy folds imprinting against your useless panties, to the point you could feel every heat and rough presses of his bulge against your clit.
"Haaah—!" you're not sure if that loud moan toppled off the car came out of his throat or yours, but nothing seems to matter except the ecstasy you imprinted on each other. How he came in absolute ease, and how you succumb to his warmth like you need him all the time. The wet tent below you feels painful even to you, and you don't even register you own actions when you hand slides into the hem of his shirt.
"Oh, quieres que me quite la ropa? Oh, está bien, joder, está bien—" you know he's practically running off his mouth with boundless and mindless babbles that you could never comprehend in the rising heat between you. Both of you doesn't waste your time on getting him out of his top, which is a red sweater that you definitely didn't notice it peeking out his happy trail when he arches his back to the chair... nope, definitely not!
Now, all that meets your heady gaze is the span of his bare torso. All dribbled in sweat that you shamelessly begin to be turned on by it, tan skin graced with light muscles dripped down to his abdomen, and a faint brush of brunette tricks spreading out from his pants. The sight making you hump against his wet tent just to hear him whimper once more.
Only then does Leo comprehends the very possibility that you might not like his body. "Mira, sé que parece—" and only then too he realizes that his tongue is still working on full spanish mode. "Shit, I'm sorry," he babbles on, eyes blown wide and cheeks inflammable red. "I know I don't look that good or strong or hot or—"
"What d'you mean?" you reach a hand to pinch at his biceps, which tenses and got a lot more prominent under your touch. "You look just fine to me, pretty boy." and Leo mewls at that nickname, body shifting against yours in search of pleasure.
"You are insane." he breathes shakily, hips jolting up against yours in weak humps, considering he just released after the first one. "You are evil and you're going to kill me in this car and the police is gonna find my body and I'll end up in a true crime podcast by some stranger who doesn't even know that I died because of this insanely hot and beautiful angel!"
Told you he babbles.
"But seriously," you near your mouth to his ear, using the knowledge of every platonic sex talks you guys both had in previous times. You know that his ears are sensitive, and you used that to your advantage.
"You look as good as I am naked." your teeth nibbles on his earlobe, looting out a trembling sigh out of him. "And besides, it's not fair if I'm the only one bare, that feels spiritually misogynistic." and you babble on too.
"Right," he nods almost eagerly, head bobbing up and down before he swallows a lump through his adam's apple. "Right, but—"
"No buts," you teasingly nudge a light bite on the side of his neck, like a small ant's carve. But maybe he feels a big one instead, because he trashes under your body—one hand fisting your hair to a tight grip while the other holds your waist even stronger.
"Fuck, that's what I'm talking about." he tilts his head as his eyes closes for a brief moment. Letting you litter his body in sweet and sloppy kisses that he never knew he could have it ever in his life. You feel like a miracle to him, an angel sent to torment him specifically as his hips suddenly raises when you digs your fangs into his shoulder.
"I'm just copying what you did to me." because even with your bravery, you're still picking up on his cues on how to do this whole sex thing, it's a bit confusing, but as long as you followed him, it'll be okay, right?
Another mewl falls from his parted lips. "Bring it down," he breathes in harsh staggers, swiftly grabbing your hand and trace it along the slope of his chest, then to his faint abs, then to rest at the surface of his wet pants. "Touch me there, pretty."
And you do follow his words, just with a twist of your own tease. Your tongue glides on the sweat glistening his chest like drops of paint all over his body. Leo shudders, bringing his arm to hover above his fluttering eyes as he arches more and more to the seat. Littered kisses, soft sighs, and quiet praises flows out of your mouth like waterfall, and you're not sure if you're cooling down his heated body or intensifying it.
"That's it," his words are a trembling inhale when you nuzzle your face against the hot linens of his abs, though that's not what earned a yelp from him next. Your arms extends to reach your hand for the seat adjuster, suddenly springing the chair to drop backwards to beckon him for a lying position.
"Ah, oh, you want me to—" Leo blinks out of his daze, seeing how you begin to lower yourself on his lap, "Shit, uhh, you sure you can take it?"
You peer at him briefly, "You think I can't handle it?"
"Not that!" his hands wave uselessly, a frantic look on his face before he rises with the help of his elbows, "You sure you're not gonna..." he coughs, "Look at me weird after you see it or something? I mean, I don't want to gross you—"
"Are you like big down there or something?" you take the opportunity to ghostly brush your tongue against the peeking trails above his pants.
"M-Mierda—" he arches his spine, a breathless gasp breaking out of him, "You are a terrible student. Really, I should give you a hard D or maybe throw you out or maybe—" his ramblings are cut off when your mouth closes on his belt's strap. Suddenly all that echoes in his brain is how cute you look kneeled down like this, your tongue uselessly flinging at the iron handles before your hand lifts to open it instead.
And suddenly, his belt is tugged off by your own mouth, like you were too impatient for him. It clangs against the car's door, while you drag down his zipper line by your teeth.
"Hold on," since you're a newcomer at this, he should be a good teacher, after all. So with a gulp down his adam's apple, he drags his pants to his knee, and slowly pulls down his underwear.
You're astonished, to say the least.
It's true, he is big. If you do the math, he's approximately 6 inches, or more so. It's slight curved and has that blushing warmth coupling in his bulbous tip that you could already imagine it hitting the back of your throat—
"Do you like it?" Leo asks much quieter, like an exhale mixed with a whisper. His eyes are keen on your face, taking note of every reaction written on it. He feels hot and bothered, but he still wants to know if you're as eager as him.
You are.
"Well, now I know," you brush your palm to the underside of his cock, and you could feel the girthy veins around it tense to your brief touch. "Where all that height went to." your tongue juts out to lick at your upper lip, a grin pulling on your face.
"Excuse me?" he attempts to argue, but his spine stiffens against the seat, a loud whimper breaking out of him, "Did you just—" fire crackles on his fingertips, his voice tuning high pitched while he tries with his whole strength not to buck against your hand. "Did you just call me short while—" another whine interrupt his words, just when you brush your palm deliberately along his shaft.
"Mhm," you nod, eyelashes flicking up to him, "Got a problem with that?"
Leo catches on that look on your face, and he swear—he could come just by staring at that eyes of yours.
"Yeah, I got a problem with that," he gathers his previous composure, sliding his hand to your hair, "I got a problem when you're not using that smart mouth for something useful," there it is, that familiar cocky Leo Valdez that always bullies you for any inconvenience you made.
"Come on," he licks his lips, voice shifting lower, "I'll guide you, pretty girl."
With the fingers collecting your locks in his palm, Leo slowly pushes you forward—a muffled whimper tumbling out when you leave a kiss on his aching tip. Then, still with your hands under his shaft, you start to widen your mouth and take him partly in. It's a bit hard to adapt to his girth, but you managed, with each reassuring coos he whispered to you.
"That's it," he huffs, "That's a good start," he couldn't take his attention off of yours. With your eyes fluttered shut, mouth partly full of his cock, and hair collected up in his hand. And when you grazes your tongue along the veins, he melts like a poodle.
"A-Ah, told you you've got a smart mouth—" it's addicting, to hear his sweet nothings when you explore his shaft like a popsicle. His slick liquids are coating the surface, and you suckle on every leftovers of release you could taste on him. It's sour, but it doesn't bother you much. Instead, you double down. Gliding your hands to his tight balls before squeezing them.
"Mmm—haah—!" instead of buckling against your mouth, he arches his back against the seat. Head thrown to the back while his mouth continues to sputter more heated whimpers.
"Fuck, yeah, just like that, bebè," his tug on your hair strengthens a slight, just so he could push you down on his cock fully. Just so he could hear you gag and whine below him, his pre-cum mixed with your drool dripping down your chin. "Atta girl." he murmurs in low bass, and suddenly—you feel his fat tip slamming against the roof of your mouth when your eyes widen.
Repeatedly, his tip snugs between the tightness of your throat, hard enough for him to feel every swallow you took— it's almost surreal, no one could explain the emotions he was going through as he lolls his head back, jaw parted, mewling your name as you glide your fingernails along his thighs, playing with him, stroking his length and suckling tight.
"You're—ah—too good at this, you know that right?" his words are a string of blurred rambles and deep whimpers. The sight of your head bobbing up and down till you take him all in, and at this point, he fully lost all control of his power. Flame crackles in the air, and he didn't know some of his high temperature also flows down to the blood gathering in his cock before you muffle and gag against him.
"Mhmm," you could feel your tears brimming in your lashes when he suddenly tastes too hot around your tongue. Yet you don't waste your effort, instead you suck him off violently now, twisting your tongue over the twitching veins as he cries and moan, the flesh of him is searing against your tastebud, but you swallow every hot cum he spurts out. Every buck of his hips against yours like he too had surrendered fully to the lust.
"Shit, I'm gonna, I'm gonna—" he gasps a loud one, right before bitting his lip harshly to stifle a cry down. He knows he's probably burning up your mouth now, but he just can't seem to control it. Not when you're so pliant and accepting of him. Not when he slaps the back of your throat and your eyes rolls back because of it. He's sure you're seeing stars right now.
"Dios, I'm gonna come—" he staggers in his breath. But you don't stop, if anything—you swallow him much deeper and faster. Being the one responsible for the cries escaping his mouth and the rising temperature in the cramped room. Your tongue swirls and your mouth sucks, and he's on the edge already.
"F-Fuck, a-ah—!" that over rush of pleasure happens when you redirect your hands to squeeze at his runny and tight balls—the effect is as you expected, maybe even better. Harsh and hot sprays of cum shoots into your throat, milking down your tongue. And you release your mouth with a wet slop! echoing in the room, saliva and thick whites glistening your lips. You thought it'd be over by now.
Well, maybe a giving a small peck at his tip is a fault. Because suddenly, sprays of warm whites shoots into your face. Directly. Painting some parts of your cheeks and your lashes before you blink in surprise.
Huh?
"Shit—lo siento, lo siento, dioses, estoy muerto," and Leo seems to realize that too with his babbling mouthful curses. Suddenly, he springs up from his laid position, leaning down to catch your messy face in his hands. "I'm sorry—" he wipes some of the dripping pleasure on your lashes, a frantic look adorning his face with that blushing cheeks and wide eyes. "A-Are you okay?"
Did he just came so hard that he literally painted your face with cum?
"Cariño, I swear, you can be mad at me—" all words are burned to ashes the moment you smash your lips in a mindless kiss. More like eating each other's faces as you surge your tongue deep in his cavern, ripping out a startled moan out of his pouting lips. The drops of cum on your face rubs partly on his nose, and the view is just a hot mess of pleasure.
"Ngh—mhm," his mouth falls and closes with every flick of your tongue, he could taste his own pleasure—and the sensation is like a mindfuck all over his concentration. Leo brings you upwards, tightening his hold on your cheeks while you mewled against his mouth. Your knees feel sore, not used to being on the ground for ten? Fifteen minutes straight? You don't know.
All you know is how good his groan vibrates into you when you palm his painfully tight cock once more. Rubbing it up and down as you slather his liquids all over his flesh, some on his thighs, some on his abdomen, it's just a mess at this point.
Leo bucks into you, "Mierda, ni siquiera sabía que podías ser así..." he inhales your exhale, taking your breath away before he bites on your bottom lip and twist your tongue too easily.
Your hand handles him with erratic speed now, eager to bring another release of pleasure. Another break of his walls. And when you finally sit fully on top of his lap, you can't help but direct the tip to your weak folds transparent to your damp panties. Even when your skirt is not that short, you must be so driven by your desire to start humping against his bare cock.
"O-Oh, gods, oh mamî—" Leo's cries are high pitched when you swallow the rasping gasps whole. His nails are digging a slight into your hair when he moves them, guiding your head to the side while he leans forward to steal more of each moans ridden out of you. You could feel the strain between his brows, his curls ticklish against your forehead before he pushes you to the seat's board. It's a faint slam, but nonetheless startles you while Leo continues to shorten every chance of breath you could have.
In retolt, your palm squeezes around his shaft—a rough and tight one, enough for him to dig his fangs into your bottom lip till you're sure it probably bled a hint of ache. Another spark of cum escapes his veins, ruining the skin of your chest with hot slicks spread like the ones on both of your faces. It's a real fucking mess, and you don't think anything could be better than this.
Leo pulls away with a tug on your bottom lip, which are now sore and red from his ravish. You couldn't even inhale when the air is too hot around you, your head swimming in flames while you feel like every touch of him is searing a mark into you. Sure, your eyes are still closed when he already opened his, and for a second, no exhale flowed out of you.
Leo's pupils dilates, because yeah—even he can lost his breath after that intense make out. His eyes tracked over your chest heaving up and down, and to his spots of release slicked on the surface of your beautiful and perfect skin. He just loves everything about you. So with a dart of his tongue, Leo leans in. Suckling on the traces of his pleasure on you, licking every mark clean with occasional nibbles on it. Making you arch and trash around under his cradle.
"A-Aaahn—!"
"Mhm, you're lucky I made the car soundproof." he groans a muffled one. Mouth far too focused on ravishing and drawing hickeys to your chest. While your back is against the board, Leo makes sure to keep your lower one upright, occasionally tracing small circles against your hip as if it could soothe you from moaning out loud.
"Leo, I wanna—" you know what should happens next, and you want it so badly for him to focus on your lower ache too. "Please—I wanna..."
"I don't hear her begging yet." Leo murmurs, eyes glazing upwards to yours in swirls of darkness engulfing his irises. It feels like he's consuming you, body and soul.
"Her?" you blink, tears from before dimming your eyes to glassy ones.
"Her." in span of fire eating up oak, Leo's fingers found your sensitive wetness underneath your skirt. Pressing to your squelching folds in spite of your undies, in fact, he relishes on that. Playing with your cute clit like he's fixing something in those automatons he has. Everything feels ten times more sensitive, especially with the warmth on his hand being borderline on injecting a flame.
"S-Shit, oh—" you blinds your eyes shut, drop of tears trailing down your cheeks. "Not there—ngh-aaah!" his middle finger teases your cavern, nudging it against your excited hole through the transparent fabric. Even with him not fully in you, it sucks him the moment he got too close and threatens to plunge his finger right there. With your sweet panties on.
He lost his mind, you see.
Leo clicks his tongue, lifting his head so he can tip his words right to your ear. "All I hear," he pinches the clit till your head throws against the board backward, seeing stars in your peripheral. "Is 'Leo, yeah, right there,'" his tone is deep, not because it's low bass or anything. But deep in a way that is full hoarse and invokes lust all through your veins, stemming in your heart with burning roots. "'Fuck me right there.'" he bites gently on your earlobe, and you feel it electrifies your body the same way he rubs his finger pad along your wanton slit.
"I think that's what she's telling me." his fangs are peeked out when he grins against you, it's a whole contrast. You, crying and moaning—while he's being all cocky and domineering. He has that complications, acting all nervous then suddenly bullying you through every shameless pleasure you're having.
"Please," you buckle against his searing hand, your slick coating his calloused digits in a way that makes you want rip your panties already.
"Leo, right there." your lashes flutters to focus on him, thousands of words stuck in your throat, and you hoped he could read them through your tears. "Fuck me right there, Leo."
... Crap.
Your body leaps forward, and you yelp and fall immediately—if it weren't for him handling you to sit properly on his lap. Leo is laid on the chair again, dark curls showered in sweat against the seat's head. Yet, all he focuses is on the harsh slide of your clad pussy against his bare cock, the shaft running along the slit as he suckles a fang on his bottom lip. Trying to resist and keep things in control.
He opens a drawer nearby, just at the center of the car's board before hoarding through it. You raised an eyebrow at his action, wondering why he's plunging his hand into the drawer instead of inside you.
Oops...?
It became clear to you once a small packet of protection is caught between his fingers. Swiftly, he tore the package's end with his teeth, right before pulling out the clad stretch and he catches it on his hand. The gesture is almost hypnotizing, you're very much aware of how wet you're suddenly becoming with your liquid now dripping on his lap.
"Last chance to back out." he says, but he knows you won't. Not with your impatient pussy beating its pulse against his abdomen, and your eyes glassy with desire and arousal. Still, he wants one last consent from you.
You open your mouth, attempting to string a response. Instead all that comes out are staggering breaths and muffled cries. So when your throat is locked, you move with your hand. Which is now resting against his shoulder. Slowly, like that one time he taught you, your finger taps against him.
"Yes." a morse code.
Leo sighs a long one.
"Tell me if it's too much." he mutters, eyes desperate and gentle when he tangles in yours. "Or," he smiles, surprisingly less cocky and more genuine, "If it's not enough."
Gently, so careful, he lifts you up by the hips. Pulling your panties down and guiding you upwards a slight to position you while you hold onto his shoulders. The tip creams out come slicks that falls underneath the condom's stretch. "Breathe with me, m'kay?" his voice is so soft, and you follow. Inhaling the same moment as he does when you feel the bulbous head sears in your folds. "Take it in."
Ticklish sting signals your entire body to a fight or flight mode. But you stay and bite your lip, focusing on his words to take it easy. To take him easy. "And out." he exhales, dragging you downwards through the flesh in slow motion. You need time to adapt and get used to all of this. Though it's proven difficult when pain mixes in with pleasure in your lungs.
"Hey, hey, focus on me." he assures, drawing small circles of comfort to your hips that crackles some seconds. It's not that hot arousing one you feel him mark onto you earlier, this one is plain warm—like the fireplace in cold winter.
"Let's go through this again, okay, cariño?" his words feels like a kiss to your sting, and you nod, your gaze speaking a secret language only he could understand.
"Alright," he mumbles, "In," you take a deep inhale, blinding your eyes shut just so you can focus on him and not the mix of emotions indescribable to your heat. It's only halfway now, you know by how his girth became more obvious against your clad walls.
"And out," finally, you're sat fully on top of him with his cock warming up and snuggling in your pussy muscles. It's breathtaking, but so fucking relieving. Like all the problems steamed off your back and flies to whatever hell it should be.
"See?" he coos, "It doesn't hurt at all, right?" you shake your head, and he lifts his head just to peck a fleeting kiss to your outer wrist.
Then he rolls his hips—just enough to make you gasp again—but keep it shallow and teasing.
"I’ll go as slow as you need," he whispers, "Or… we can stop."
"But if we keep going? I’m gonna love you so deep you forget your own name." He kisses once again at your wrist. "Promise."
You take opportunity at his moment to relax your muscles, to blink your eyes open and simply appreciate how wrecked he looks right now. You know you're no better though. Still, it gives you a heartwarming assurance, that all of this is mutual. That the love is mutual.
He knows you're strong—goddamn fierce, actually—but right now? You're allowed to be slow. Allowed to be soft. Allowed to need.
And if you needs him quiet? He’ll stay silent.
If you needs words? He’s got a thousand lined up just for moments like this. But mostly? He just wants you present. With him. Not running off in that pretty head of yours.
Just here.
With his name on your lips and his body part of yours for the first time ever.
"Can I," you mutter. "Can I move? I'm not gonna go too fast though, I'm... still getting used to this." a small laugh escapes you.
"Whatever you want, princessa." he smiles, faint dimples forming on his apple cheeks.
With the knowledge of a regular erotic reader and a complete virgin, you shift with his cock inside you a bit terribly. But it's not you if you don't learn quickly along the way. Slowly, you get the hang of it.
"Like that, exactly like that, bebè," he guides you too by helping you circle your hips and lines them up and down vertically. "Gods, you can jump on it and kill me and I still would think you can do no wrong." he nuzzles against your palm that has moved to caress his cheek, right before placing a small kiss on your hand.
Then he opens one eye just to wink at you, "Best way to go."
"Really?" it's not you if you dismiss a challenge as tempting as that one. So with a streak of tease curving your lips upwards, you grip your shoulder a lot stronger and let your hips do the talking.
You push a long smooth forward, falling a gasp when you feel him carve his nails on your hips as you grind against him. Testing the waters by taking notes of every strangled whimpers and groans breaking out of him. And you feel a bloom of satisfaction when he throws his head back.
"Holy fuck—" he curses out, trying his damn hardest not to dig at your hips and bounce you up and down his fat cock like he wanted to. Your body's whine is like a waterfall of elixir blessed to cure all his broken parts, yet his words are half sin when he darts out a tongue to gleam his grin, "This soon, bebè? Are you trying to prove me wrong or her wrong?"
At the exact moment, a squeal of pure filth rasps from the needy lips between your thighs. And with every attempted bounce you ride on him, an electric surge of lewdness strikes a slam to your clawing walls. Like your pussy is trying to suck the life out of him and lock him inside forever, like your bodies feel natural to be one.
Leaks of pre-cum trickles from your pussy lips, basking his brunette trails in covers of it. Even more so when your clit and slight traces of yours grinds against the travels. You curse out, your head tilting backwards as your eyes flutters meekly. "Aahn—ngh—Leo—"
"Come on," seeing your ass echo up and down with every slam is doing something to him, something crackling and dangerous. While he lets you take control of the cardio, Leo's hands are restless. It glides like a man starved to your breasts, pinching your nipples just to mock at the weary moan you induced. Then down so quickly to your puckering lips, slipping half his digits inside and collect your clit teasingly. It swells and tears up, turning red with the blood gathering in it making you weak and stumble above him.
"L-Leo—!"
"Mmnh, say my name again." he has the audacity to crack a laugh under you, the sound a melodious torture whispering naughts and searing flames to your skin. He takes his thumb and his finger to ripe apart your swollen folds, licking his lip at every spurt of slick crying out of them as his gaze is transfixed to it. It's addicting, even better than any projects or engines he worked on 24/7. Maybe he should replace you as his specialty now.
"Leo, gods—!" a muffled groan tumbles out of you, and you feel your inner muscles gathering up blood in them. Making you weak and pliant above him.
"Y-Yeah, gorgeous, fuck—you're squeezing me so hard," he rasps a long moan, his voice raw and broken as your walls clamp down around him—tight, hot, perfect.
He freezes for a second—fingers clenching the side of your hips—because if he doesn’t, he’s going to come right then and there. And no way in hell is that happening. Not when you're just starting to unravel.
So he counts backward from ten in Spanish. (Diez... nueve... ocho…)
And when he can trusts himself again?
He moves.
Slow at first—a long, deep glide that makes you sob into the heated air—but then faster. Not rough, never rough with you, but sure. Confident. Like every stroke is a promise: 'I'm here. You're safe. I’ve got you.'
"My princessa," his hand slides from your tearful clit to press onto the bulge evident against your abdomen. And the squeeze of your walls becomes tighter when he nudges a palm against your pubic bone.
You cry out his name in a loud whimper. Not only for the intense crash of his cock imprinted to your cervix, but also for the sudden faint but startling burn you felt when he presses a palm onto you.
"My perfect girl, my everything, my goddess—fuck," his head throws back, thrusting up too abruptly as his bulbous cock hit the sticky muscles surrounding your cervix, the tip bulging hot when he buckles up a sharp slam. "I'm gonna make you feel so good—I'm gonna—s-shit, ngh—o-oh—!"
"Leo, Leo, Leo..." you mumble out series of gullible wordings on his name, head far too blown out to think of anything clearly. Your nails etches in his shoulder blades, making him arch under you before you lift a bounce on him, "I don't think I can—" you feel a surge of stars clouding your sight, blurry in tears of your mixed pain and pleasure.
"I know, bebè, I know," he shudders, obvious warmth forming into hue of flames on his curls. His calloused fingers keeps your body to not fall on him, bobbing your hips up and down to his hard cock, "But you can take it, just a bit longer."
"N-No," you stagger a breath, sniffling a cry brimming in your nose, "That's not—f-fuck—!" and that repeated slam of his cock is starting to burn your throat, the echo of skin to skin slapping is becoming a hazy sound in your ears. Yet, you're still able to comprehend one thing.
"Leo," you managed to say, although hoarse with his heat flowing inside you to the brim. "I think the condom broke."
"Oh." he blinks a thousand times.
"Oh." his eyes widens.
"Mierda," he rubs his hands on his face, as if he could wipe the embarrassment off, "Leo Valdez, eres un pervertido estúpido y vergonzoso." he curses under his low breath, hips surrendering to the seat. His cock warming halts inside you, unsure to succumb for release or pull out safely.
"You have another one, right?"
Leo smiles nervously.
You pick up your weight with his hands helping you lift, and the view below you is nothing short of a crumbling mess, one that arouses you even more if that's possible. The protection sure is leaking, burnt off on the top, and the tip stutters out heated slicks that shoots weakly.
So he broke it by setting the condom on fire?
Huh...
"I'll take over this time." you flick off the useless stretch of fabric, throwing it somewhere you wouldn't care where it dangles.
"Oh, dios," his breath runs shakily, eyes dilating even more when you settle above his red and bulging cock, repressed with straight up hotness in the tip. Then, with your slow movement that seems to irk him, he huffs a stagger when you sink down on him. Your nails clawing in deeper in his shoulders, and your moan bellowing deeper while you arches.
The thought of you taking him raw is already a heart arrest to his dreams, and now it's actually happening?
He can just come right on the spot immediately.
"You—aah—are so unserious." your eyes flaps close for a brief second, soaking in the warmth he infects you by filling your entire walls—you're sure it moves differently now that this is the second time. More easy to slither in since your muscles probably shapes the way his cock does. "How many chances are there in the world for a condom to get burnt?"
"Not many, for sure." he knows you're probably a bit pissed off at him currently. So he attempts to goad you by his usual charming smile, pearly whites peeking through his cheer. "But, there's also minimal chances in the world to get fucked by my best friend."
At that, you stutter in your pace—though you're quick enough to hide it by rolling your hips then jolting above him. Making him wither and whine under you.
"Leo," you call out, voice glinting low while you track the sweat and occasional sparks of pyro jumping from his skin. The linen of his abs are burning and prominent, in a way has drawn the details of each mole and hue instead of the muscle. "You sure as hell ruined a lot of things today."
Step number one on breaking down Leo Valdez's walls: challenge him to admit his own greatest fears.
"W-Wha—" his voice is cut off when another slap of skins echo in the cramped room. His lips falls apart, unable to say any noise before he registers your nudge. "No! What do you—aah-ngh—" you are cruel. Far too cruel to test him on 'what are we?' questions and confrontations about the cross they've discarded now. Far too cruel when he can't even speak the next cue when you simply take his breath away. His cock twitching and smashing against your cervix, and you—somehow—looks like you can stay calm through it all while he's an absolute pathetic mess.
"First, you ruin our friendship," you hoarse out, leaning down to reach his level and near your lips to his ear. "And you acted like a self righteous bastard earlier," he gasp to the crook of your neck, gliding his hands to grasp at your torso—cradling till your chests are mushing against one another. "You can't even control yourself not to cum like a dog in heat." you chuckle a breathless one.
Sure enough, your prediction is correct. He always burn his hair off and have his skin rise up abnormally in temperature, even his cock is searing hot in your sticky pussy—that's the reason why he broke the protection after all. And he lets out that little broken whine, "I'm gonna, I'm gonna, fuck—mhm—gonna—"
His light brown eyes shoots wide.
And you lift your hips just in time when both of you resides in that sweet fulfilling pleasure, washing you in immense warmth that weakens your spine and drops your jaw. Even you can't help but whine and yield out a moan, resulting from the chaotic yet perfect sex both of you will probably only had once in a lifetime. With him. With you.
"Lo siento—" suddenly, through your blurry peripherals and ringing ears, a crackle of his pyro tendencies acts up out of control. You'd thought that maybe he did it on the air, on the seat, or maybe even your skin.
The radio right on the center of the headboard? It's news telling voice for a music channel blurts out in the car. The loud boom startles you till you glance at the device from your laid position—fully on top of him. You were about to ask him how the tech device operates on its own without a brain-ware, but Leo only spouts another, "Lo siento—"
Right before the radio static churns off. And works of pyro-manship blurts out of the screen, burning off the screen till it's having a seizure of green screen then turning off fully.
... Seriously, is your pussy that special or something to the point he broke a condom and the frickin' radio in span of five minutes?!
"Cariño, I'm—" but another thing came up to your attention, something more urgent. He may be able to suppress it at first, but after the whole degrading and bullying you did on him—it turns him into a weak pathetic disaster. Weak enough to come like a dog in heat and pathetic enough to sob into your shoulder, just like each words you spitted at him. "Gods, shit, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just..."
Leo finally cracks, "I wanted you for so long, needed you ever since I see you laugh at my awful puns, dreamed of you ever since you argued with me and you actually made great points at that—" he whimpers, tightening his hold around the rib housing your frantic heart. "I was a dick, a coward for acting like I don't care about you. Like I don't think about your wellbeing more than mine. Shit, mamî, I'm just so—"
He pulls away from your neck, glassy eyes meeting your intense ones.
"I thought," he murmurs, trying every breath he has to steady his voice while you blink at him, not in confusion—but something borderline on reverent. "I could just ignore my heart and listen to my brain. Logic's always gonna keep you alive, so I tried to support you with your crushes, try not to think of what we could be if you can just—" he inhales full of trembles, "Notice me."
"So, yeah," his palm—no longer burned till it imprints to your skin like before. It slips to your cheek like comforting warmth, like what Leo had always been to you. "I ruined our friendship," his thumb brushes against your bottom lip, but his eyes are a gentle anchor on meeting yours. "Because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody. You want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."
He exhales, having finished releasing all the weights trampled deep within his heart. Given now that you notice how it starts to slow down. Like this moment doesn't need to be dramatic or full of fireworks, it can be peaceful and calming. Especially with the previous heat now shifting into gentle warmth blanketing as how a cocoon would around you.
In finalization, you decide for yourself. For the hidden waves of beats that always seem synchronize with his own pulse. For how it only gets to slow down right at this moment, with him too.
"Come on up and get dressed." you rise up from your position. Breaking off the silence, not out spite for the comfort or the resting chance. But for something you always wanted to say to him.
"Uh... for what?" he stutters, and you definitely dumbed down this man for now.
Your lips curves up a smile, as easy and genuine as the new understanding you connected in your synchronized pulses. You already finished wearing your bra properly while he's still wide eyed like a deer in headlights. "I'm taking you out on a date."
a/n: I decided to make both nsfw and sfw. hope you like it ! ♡ + I opted more for my perception of Leo than for the concept of "jealousy" in general.
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— ୨ৎㅤ˳ NSFW
Leo’s jealousy doesn’t explode—it festers. He’ll act chill, crack jokes, make a snarky comment about the way that son of Hermes looked at you. But that night? He can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessing. Touching himself with his jaw clenched, whispering your name like a curse, trying to come hard enough to forget that someone else might get to touch you.
He needs to make you laugh when he’s jealous. It’s his only weapon. He’s insecure as hell about being the “funny one,” the guy you hang out with, not the one you fuck. So he flirts harder. Tries to make you smile until your eyes crinkle. And if you kiss him mid-laugh, straddle his lap and grind down until he’s gasping? That’s when he finally believes you want him—and only him.
Sex with jealous Leo is desperate, uncoordinated, raw. Clothes half-on. Hands in the wrong places. He’s shaking while he fucks into you like he’s trying to stake a claim. Voice breaking. “Please don’t leave me. Please.” You cup his cheeks, tell him “I’m right here,” and he comes just from that. Doesn’t even last a full minute. He buries his face in your chest and begs for another chance to make you feel good.
He cries during sex sometimes—quietly, shakily. Not every time. Just when he’s been stewing in the fear. When someone else flirts with you and it confirms every worst thing he thinks about himself. When you whisper “You’re mine” while riding him and it breaks him. He gasps. Chokes on a sob. “Gods, I love you—I’m so scared you’re gonna find someone better—” And you shut him up with your mouth. With your body. You fuck the doubt out of him.
He never thinks he’s enough, so he overcompensates. Tries to finger you just right. Goes down on you like he’s solving a mechanical problem—what makes you twitch, what makes you moan, what makes you say his name like it’s gospel. And when you come on his tongue? He smiles through tears. Because he made you feel good. He did something right.
Leo’s obsessed with praise. Not praise for his jokes. Not even for his skills. Praise for him. Whisper “You’re so good to me” while you ride him, and he’s gone. Gone. Fingernails in your hips. “Say it again.” You stroke his curls and tell him he’s perfect and he comes so hard he forgets where he is. Because you saw him. You chose him.
After sex, he clings. He doesn’t even mean to. You’re catching your breath and suddenly he’s curled around you, face in your neck, fingers tracing circles on your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You run your hands through his hair and he mumbles, half-asleep, “I’d burn down the world if it meant you’d stay.”
Leo gets physically sick when he thinks you might leave. The first time someone else touched your arm too long? He laughed it off. Said something dumb, bit his tongue. But when he got back to Bunker 9 alone? He threw up. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t focus. He fisted his cock in the shower and cried when he came, whispering your name like a spell, like a prayer, like maybe it would keep you tethered to him.
His jealousy makes him reckless in bed. He doesn’t know how to be chill. He’s biting your neck too hard, rutting into you with a desperation that makes your thighs ache. He keeps saying “Mine” under his breath like a chant, like he’s trying to curse you with it. “Say it,” he hisses, teeth on your shoulder. “Tell me you’re mine. Tell me no one else gets this.”
He makes things with your name on them. A little brand. A stylized, hidden engraving on his tools, on his gloves, on the buttons of his jumpsuit. A ring with your name carved inside the band. He won’t say a word about it unless you ask—but when you do? His voice breaks. “I just… I needed something that made it real.”
He’s a switch, but his jealousy flips a switch in you. You grab his wrists. Push him onto the worktable. He stutters. Gasps. “Wait, I thought—” But when you ride him with your hand gripping his jaw, whispering “Don’t even think about anyone else touching me,” he shatters. Comes deep and hard with his mouth open, eyes wide, begging for you to do it again.
He jerks off to the memory of you marking him. Scratches down his back. A bite just under his jaw where people can almost see it. One time, you called him pretty boy while you were riding him—and he still dreams about it. Wakes up with sticky boxers, whimpering and guilty and so in love with the way you ruin him.
Jealous Leo is mouthy during sex. But not cocky—panicked. “You’re so hot—please—please don’t leave me—fuck, no one gets to see you like this, right? Just me? Just me, baby, c’mon—please—” He’s shaking when he comes. Buried deep. Gasping into your neck. He needs the closeness like oxygen.
Sometimes he goes quiet afterward. Just lays there holding you, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like he’s counting how many ways he could mess it up. You ask him what’s wrong and he just kisses your forehead. Says, “Nothing. I just… I don’t know how I got lucky enough to have you.”
He’ll never forgive himself if he hurts you. If his jealousy makes you cry, if he snaps and says something cruel—he shuts down. Fully spirals. Doesn’t talk for hours. Builds half a dozen machines trying to distract himself. And later, he gets on his knees in front of you, palms open, eyes wet. “I’ll never be perfect. But I’ll always come back to you. Please… let me make it right.”
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— ୨ৎㅤ˳ SFW ㅤ
He laughs it off… at first. If someone’s flirting with you, Leo’s immediate response is humor. He’ll crack a joke, nudge your side, maybe say something like, “Wow, I didn’t realize I had competition today.” But his eyes are watching closely—too closely—for someone who claims he’s totally chill.
But his smile never quite reaches his eyes. You know that Leo can light up a room when he’s happy—but when he’s jealous, there’s this flicker of doubt behind his grin. It’s not dramatic, not obvious. Just a slightly too-tight laugh, a sarcastic edge to his jokes. And the way he holds your hand a little tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.
His insecurity bubbles beneath the surface. Leo’s smart. He knows when someone’s checking you out. And no matter how much you love him, there's a voice in the back of his head whispering “They’re better than you. Cooler. Less broken.” He doesn’t say it out loud—but it lingers in the way he avoids your gaze after.
He gets fidgety when he's jealous. Playing with his tools, spinning a screwdriver between his fingers, clicking his pen over and over. It’s subtle, but his nervous energy ramps up when he feels threatened. He’ll start working on some random project just to keep his hands busy—and his thoughts in check.
He pulls you closer. Not in a possessive way, but a quiet reassurance kind of way. An arm slung over your shoulder. His fingers brushing yours until you're holding hands. His knee bumping into yours beneath the table. He doesn't say "you're mine," but he doesn't have to. His touch says it all.
He overcompensates with affection. Extra compliments. Silly flirting. Dumb pick-up lines. He’s laying it on thick—not because he thinks you need reminding, but because he does. If someone else is making you smile, Leo needs to prove he can make you smile more.
He won’t start a fight—but he’ll remember. Leo doesn’t get angry easily, but if someone crosses a line, it sticks with him. He’ll joke about it days later—“Remember that guy who was two seconds away from getting roasted by my flamethrower? Good times.” And you’re never sure if he’s entirely kidding.
When you reassure him, he melts. A kiss on his cheek. A hand in his curls. Telling him “Hey, you don’t have to compete. You already win.” It destroys him in the best way. He’ll blink fast, then grin like the sun just came out. And suddenly he’s leaning into you like gravity doesn’t work unless you're touching.
He’s fiercely loyal. Jealousy doesn't come from possessiveness—it comes from fear of loss. Leo loves hard. And when he finds someone who sees him—really sees him—he’ll do anything to hold on. Even if that means quietly battling his demons with a wrench in one hand and your heart in the other.
He tries to act unbothered… and totally fails. Leo’s first defense is pretending like he doesn’t notice. He’ll joke, mess with his tools, or suddenly get very interested in something else. But then he starts mumbling under his breath, tossing out little comments like, “Oh, wow, that guy sure talks a lot, huh?” or “Wonder how long it takes to build a personality from scratch.”
His pride gets a little bruised. Leo’s not cocky, but he’s proud of being the funny, clever one. If someone else makes you laugh in a way that rattles him—especially if it’s someone taller, buffer, more “heroic” in the traditional sense—he shuts down just a little. You’ll notice the quiet pause in conversation, the way his knee bounces, the silence between punchlines.
He becomes hyperaware of you. Where you’re looking. Who you’re standing close to. If someone’s hand brushes yours. He starts watching all of it without realizing, his jaw ticking subtly, like he’s working through a problem he knows he shouldn’t be bothered by—but is.
He’ll do dumb, adorable things to get your attention back. Like dramatically pretending to electrocute himself in Bunker 9. Or building you a tiny robot that throws heart-shaped sparks. Or randomly picking you up bridal-style and spinning you in a circle while yelling, “Best girlfriend ever! Science confirmed!”
He won’t say “I’m jealous.” He’ll say, “Do you even like me like that?” Leo’s jealousy doesn’t come out in confrontation—it seeps out in insecurity. He’s not possessive. He’s just scared. Afraid he’s too much, or not enough. If he’s quiet for too long, it’s because that little voice is whispering, They’re better. Why would they stay with someone like you?
Physical affection helps him come back to himself. If you notice he’s spiraling—if his jokes are a little too sharp, or he keeps pulling away—grab his hand. Kiss his cheek. Bury your fingers in his curls and tell him, “Hey, I’m right here.” That’s all it takes. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
He loves when you get possessive for him. If you slide your arm around him, or lean into him when someone else is being too flirty? He melts. His eyes go soft, his voice goes quiet, and for once, he doesn’t make a joke. He just murmurs, “You picked me,” like it’s the wildest miracle in the world.
He builds when he’s upset. Jealous Leo? Bunker 9 becomes loud. Metal clanking, gears spinning, music blasting. He channels it all into invention—sometimes messy, sometimes brilliant, always a little bit sad. If you come in and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, you’ll feel the tension leave his body immediately.
He doesn’t need revenge—he just needs you. You being steady. You choosing him, over and over again. You telling him he’s enough. That’s all it takes to dissolve the storm behind his eyes and bring back your boy.
hi, could you do a leo valdez x fem!reader smut where she's distracting him while he's gaming (leo's got a secret gaming room in bunker 9). after a while, he gets annoyed and teases her while she's sitting on his lap. the leo valdez x fem!reader smut drought is killing me. </3
Ofc!
All Fun and Games
Leo Valdez x Reader
Warnings: smut, teasing, cock warming, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (please be safe irl, this is fictional), overstimulation, not proofread
Summary: You put Leo’s ADHD attention span to the ultimate test
You had originally been playing with Leo, but you had long since lost interest in the game. You didn’t quite understand how it worked and you tried to pay attention because it was something he liked to do, but every part of your brain told you that you could just learn tomorrow. You had a long day and to be completely honest, you were just far enough out from your period that your hormones were driving you insane. Leo was simply minding his business and existing right now, and all you wanted to do was ride him into next week.
You sat out of the next round and watched Leo concentrate on the game. He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth as he worked through the level and you thought you should probably take a cold shower and possibly visit a church for some holy water even though you were the daughter of a Greek God. But, it wasn’t your fault Leo was so damn hot. You inched your way closer and closer to Leo which he didn’t mind at all. Leo leaned into all of the love languages because he rarely got shown love growing up after his mother passed away, so any form of love was special to him, but physical touch was a big one for him. Leo wanted to constantly be touching you in some way, so he actually welcomed your body against his as he gamed without really looking up. Leo had never once pushed you away. Even when Leo was sick and miserable and didn’t want anyone near him, you were the exception, he always wanted you near, especially when he wasn’t feeling well. The game he was playing ended when his character died, which you thought was ironic. His break from a world of wars and battles was playing a character in a game doing the same stuff. Unfortunately for you, Leo helped save the real world so he was pretty damn good at saving the fake ones too. He was no where near the end though and you wanted him so badly.
“Leooo,” you whined burying your face in his shirt, “why are you so good at this?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it with practice, I’ll teach you.” Leo said, completely oblivious to how much you wanted him and what you had meant by that. You wanted him to be done.
You sighed and climbed onto his lap, wrapped your legs around his waist, and let your head rest on his shoulder. You knew he was really good at this and he deserved some down time after all of the hard work he did, so you would settle for holding him as close as humanely possible. Both of you had ADHD though so this was a test of both of your abilities to focus, but mostly Leo’s. After about a minute of not bothering him, you started playing with his curls and absentmindedly twirling individual curls around your fingers.
“Mi amor.” Leo warned, drawing in a sharp breath.
You grinned, realized what was happening. Your hands almost always went straight to Leo’s hair when things got heated and some of the loudest moans poured from his lips when you tugged on his curls.
“What’s wrong?” You teased tugging lightly on a few of his curls at the back of his head.
“Please,” Leo begged, “I’m going to get ambushed and die.”
“I know CPR.” You whispered brushing your lips across his forehead.
“Y/n!” Leo whined.
“Can’t you take a little break?”
“This game doesn’t pause, after this round.”
You sighed, but accepted that answer and behaved all of about thirty seconds before shifting to get more comfortable and gasping when you felt Leo’s zipper through the thin material of your panties since you wore a skirt. Slowly, you rocked your hips again, and again the zipper sent jolts of pleasure from your cunt to all of your nerves. The third time you rolled your hips Leo noticed and groaned. You felt him hardening beneath you and you grinned.
“Amor.”
“I need you so bad.” You murmured, “Please.”
Leo was frustrated, but he was still a human being and when a he had his hot girlfriend sitting on his lap pleading for his cock it only made his pants tighter. Leo hid his character in an abandoned building and turned to push you off his lap slightly. Leo quickly undid his pants and pushed his boxers out of the way just enough to free his cock that had already started dripping with precum.
“Take your panties off.” Leo ordered. You had never listened to an order quicker and soon your panties were thrown aside as Leo put his hands on your hips pulling your skirt up higher on your waist. “Now listen for once and sit on my cock.”
Leo’s tip pushed through your folds and slowly you began to lower yourself down until you were fully seated on his cock. You both moaned and after a few seconds you raised your hips up and sunk back down until his tip was pressed against your cervix again filling you so well you wanted to cry. You were going to repeat the action and pick up your pace when Leo’s hands on your hips stopped you.
“Ah—uh,” Leo scolded, “you get a taste of what it will feel like if you’re a good girl, but for now you will sit on my cock and you won’t move until I finish up this round and tell you that you can move.”
“But Leo—“
“Shh,” Leo said giving you one singular rough thrust, “if you’re a good girl and I don’t die because of you, I’ll flip us over and fuck that pretty little cunt into the mattress so hard you’ll forget what it feels like to not have me buried inside of you. Now behave.”
His words only made you want him more, but you didn’t dare move as he resumed his game, desperately wanting him to keep up his end of the deal. As he played, if his body tensed, you felt his cock twitch and he felt your cunt squeeze in response leading to stifled moans from both of you. Leo had less of an attention span than most demigods, but he seemed to become razor focused when it came to teasing you.
Just when you were starting to accept your fate and relax into his arms, Leo gave one singular rough thrust. You gasped and dug your nails into his biceps with a loud whine as he laughed.
“You’re a dick.” You growled, using all of your self control to keep yourself from just letting him die in his game and riding him until he was a moaning mess beneath you.
“I thought you loved my dick, amor, but if that’s not what you want I can take it back—“
“Move and I’ll have Harley and Nyssa help me super glue your Snap On tools to the floor.” You hissed.
Leo faked hurt and laughed as he went back to his game. Finally after what felt like centuries in the deepest pit of Tartarus, the game ended. Before you could even think about moving he grabbed your hips and pulled you off of him.
“Leo Valdez!” You hissed, frustrated with the sudden feeling of emptiness.
“Patience, amor.”
Leo slowly pushed you to lie down on the bed and pushed your skirt farther up on your waist. Leo took his sweet time pushing your knees apart and slotting himself between your legs. As he kissed you, you could feel his cock brushing your inner thighs, still wet with your arousal. His hands were warm and roamed your body hungrily, knowing exactly where to linger, squeeze, and caress to make you sigh. Finally, with your legs wrapped around his waist and he slid back into your dripping cunt.
“You were made for me, amor.” Leo groaned as he pushed deeper and deeper.
“Maybe you should have realized that fifteen minutes ago.” You grumbled.
“I’ll make it up to you, amor.” Leo said grinning as he pinned your wrists above your head.
Before you could come up with some sort of remark, Leo pulled almost all of the way back out and snapped his hips right back into yours. You pressed your head back into the pillow and moaned as your fingers desperately scratched at his back. Leo placed sloppy kisses everywhere his lips could reach as he kept up his brutal pace. If you weren’t so distracted by the feeling of his cock stretching you out and his tip probably bruising your cervix at this point you probably would’ve noticed the absolutely sinful noises. The sound of skin slapping, your wet cunt, and your moans that seemed to answer each other and get more desperate with every thrust filled the room. He was trying to maintain some semblance of total dominance, but he was practically whimpering at the feeling of you squeezing him. Leo dipped his face to rest in the crook of your neck where he attached his lips to your skin and whimpered. You let one hand tangle itself in his curls and tugged gently.
Warmth was pooling in your abdomen and it felt as if a rubber band was about to snap, you were so so so close and Leo knew it. Leo reached between your bodies and used his calloused thumb to circle your clit.
“Are you finally going to be a good girl and cum for me sweet girl?” Leo asked, voice low and husky.
“Please.” You moaned, not sure what you were even pleading for.
It wasn’t much longer before pleasure burned through every single nerve in your body. Leo didn’t stop though, he kept up his pace and only slowed down when you started getting overstimulated. Tears of pleasure and overstimulation streamed down your face. Leo slowed down, but he didn’t stop. He just slowly rutted his hips into yours and the pleasure was almost too much. Both of your hands grabbed Leo’s curls and you pulled his face to yours. You kissed him sloppily, barely able to concentrate.
“Pretty girl.” Leo whispered.
He was so deep and going so slow that you felt the pleasure in your very core and spine. Leo held you close to him and repeatedly told you how much he loved you.
“Oh, fuck.” You groaned letting your head fall back.
Leo took the opportunity to graze his teeth along your throat and smooth over the little bites with his tongue.
“I—I’m going to cum again.” You said, arching your back impossibly higher off the mattress.
“Let go, I’m right behind you.”
You finished for the second time and every feeling was more elevated than before. The feeling of him finishing with you was something you never wanted to lose.
“Good girl.” Leo whispered, thrusting a few more times to push his cum even deeper inside of you.
When both of you were finally coming back into reality, Leo stopped rutting his hips into yours, but he did not pull out. Instead, he collapsed on top of you putting most of his weight on you. He peppered kisses all over your face and whispered soft praises.
“I need to distract you from your games more often.” You finally sighed.
✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 10.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦
You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“
“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”
“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“
“Yes, you have.”
Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”
You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”
“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.
“You should go try that.”
That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-
Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-
“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.
“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“
“No, he was looking before-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Yes, he was-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Who wasn’t what.”
You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-
“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.
I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.
“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”
You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-
He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.
Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.
And you’re not. You know you’re not.
You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.
You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.
But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.
They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.
The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.
Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.
She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.
Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.
You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.
In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.
You need to get a fucking grip.
“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-
Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”
You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“
“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”
“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”
Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”
“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.
“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.
It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.
You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.
“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-
“Kid, you already have.”
Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.
Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.
“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.
With his presence. His closeness.
How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.
“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”
You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.
“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“
“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.
The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.
“Everything’s fine.”
Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.
But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.
And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.
“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.
You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”
I dressed up for you.
“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.
“Is the printer out of paper still?”
“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not-“
“Yes, he is-“
“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”
Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”
“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”
“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”
You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.
“Hi, Stacy.”
She almost glows. “You remember my name?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”
Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”
Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”
Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“
“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”
You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.
“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”
Right. Lunch.
“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.
“I took a photo with the guards.”
“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“
“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“
“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”
Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“
“But you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it-“
“Steven Rogers.”
You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.
“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.
“Next time, tell them no.”
“But then I can’t come upstairs.”
You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“
“Or I can just do the photos-“
“No-“
“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.
“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.
He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.
No hope. It just makes everything else harder.
If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.
His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.
You can’t handle this at all.
The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.
You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.
Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.
You want to shoot yourself in the face.
It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.
“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.
“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”
He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.
You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.
Not that you’re much better about that, either.
“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“
“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”
He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”
You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”
“Why not-“
“It’s unethical.”
“I… don’t think that’s true-“
“Well, I didn’t earn it.”
“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“
“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.
Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”
You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.
“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”
You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.
“No. You don’t.”
That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.
“There she is-“
“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”
“A lot.”
“Like what-“
“You have to ask me to find out.”
You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.
“You suck.” You grumble.
He shrugs. “I know you think that.”
You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.
“I’m going to punch you in the face-“
“I’d like to see you try, kid.”
Kid.
You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.
“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”
“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”
Of course he will.
And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.
This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.
You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.
But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.
And that just makes it all hurt even more.
Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.
Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.
Consciously.
But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.
You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.
And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.
But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.
Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.
But you still kept saying no.
Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.
Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.
Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.
But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.
And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.
More than usual right now. But all the time.
“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.
“Wait- I’ll come with you-“
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”
You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.
You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.
“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.
“I’m a journalist-“
“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.
That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.
“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”
Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”
“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.
“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”
He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“
“Only to people who deserve it.”
That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.
You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.
There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.
And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.
The same way he smiles at you.
You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.
There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.
You tried to be his friend. You really tried.
But you can’t.
“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.
“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”
You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.
“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”
Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”
“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.
“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”
“Stuff.” You snip.
Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”
“What the fuck does that mean-“
“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”
You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.
But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.
You have to go now.
“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”
And Stark laughs, as you turn away.
“Oh. I’m sure I will.”
You avoid Steve for a week.
Properly avoid him.
He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.
You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.
To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.
Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.
You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.
Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.
You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.
There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.
And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.
Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.
You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-
You yank the door open, and freeze.
Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.
This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.
He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.
“Steve-“
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”
You blink. “I- What are you-“
“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.
“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“With whom.”
Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“
“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”
You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”
“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.
“Is he nice.”
Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.
“Who?”
“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”
“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.
“What did I do?”
His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.
“You didn’t do anything-“
“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“
He waves to your outfit, and you frown.
“It’s just a date-“
“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.
“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“
“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”
He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.
Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.
Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.
Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.
A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.
“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“
“Steve-“
“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“
“You can’t fix it!” You shout.
He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.
“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”
“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“
“Stop being so nice to me.”
He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.
“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”
“Can’t-“
“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“
You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.
“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.
Letting you go.
You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.
But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.
A dream.
You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.
Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.
You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-
“God- Screw it.”
A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.
Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-
It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.
You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.
Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.
Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.
He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.
But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.
This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.
He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-
This is a hit.
And you need to have more.
You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.
He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.
You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.
He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.
“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“
“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.
“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.
At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.
Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.
He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.
But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.
“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.
Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy.
His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.
“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”
You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.
Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.
“Look at me.”
His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.
You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.
“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”
You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“
“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”
“Wha- Oh-“
He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.
“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”
“You- You didn’t lose me-“
“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”
You glare up at him. “You let me-“
“No, I didn’t.”
Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.
Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.
Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm.
“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.
“Ruin…”
“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”
You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.
“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.
“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”
You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”
You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.
“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”
It does.
Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.
You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.
Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.
“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”
You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I-“
“I just came on your knee.”
His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”
“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.
Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“
You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.
You’d very much like to see him give up.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.
Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.
“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”
You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.
“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“
“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”
“’M sorry about that-“
“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”
“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“
“You weren’t.”
“I got that now-“
“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.
He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.
“Fucking me.”
Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.
You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.
Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.
He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.
You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.
He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.
“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“
He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.
“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“
That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.
“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“
“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”
“I- Um- Ooooh-“
You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.
“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.
“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”
You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“
“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.
“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“
You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.
Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.
“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”
He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.
“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”
“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“
“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”
He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.
“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“
Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.
He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.
“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”
You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.
Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.
“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.
You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.
He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”
He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.
“Jesus, Steve-“
“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“
“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”
You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.
“Dude?”
“Um-“
“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e
“Sorry, sir.”
You say it half to mock him, half to test something.
Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.
“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No, sir.”
Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.
Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.
He never does anything halfway.
“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”
You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.
The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are.
Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.
“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”
“Steveee-“
“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.
You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.
“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.
“Sweetheart-“
“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“
He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.
He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“
Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.
“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“
“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“
Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.
A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”
You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.
“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.”
Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.
“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“
You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.
“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”
You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.
He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.
“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“
That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.
“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“
He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you. Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.
It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.
Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.
“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“
Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.
“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”
You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.
“Steve- I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”
The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.
It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-
You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.
Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.
“Woah.”
“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“
“Steve-“
“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“
“Steve-“
“I’m so sorry-“
“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.
You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.
“Does that happen every time?”
He swallows, and nods.
“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”
Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”
Steve blinks. “Okay?”
You nod, and he shakes his head.
“I ruined your room-“
“I liked it.”
He stares. You smile.
Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.
“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.
“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“
He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.
“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”
You smile. You have no plans to do that.
Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.
✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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Word count: 6.4k
Tags: smut, minors DNI!🔞, skinny dipping, fingering, threesome, Landoscar content (making out), oral (both f and m receiving), overstimulation, unprotected sex, soft dom!Osc, (kinda) switch!Lando, (kinda) sub!reader, face fucking, turth or dare as plot device lol, bit of a self indulgent cliffhanger at the end
Summary: A game of truth or dare on a warm summer night leads to unexpected events.
Author's note: A tiny bit late for Kinktober, but I hope you'll enjoy nevertheless! Thank you for the super fun request @dessashippr, I hope it will live up to your expectations, hehe. 💕 This is the longest oneshot I've written on here, and I'm a bit self-conscious about it tbh because I've never written Oscar (nor Lando) before, so I'm a bit worried I couldn't capture him well enough. But oh well! Enjoy the smut, y'all!
You’ve always wanted to go on a lakeside getaway – the idea of getting to be around water and gorgeous mountains and pine forests at the same time seemed like the best of what the universe could offer, and finally after all the years of nagging, you managed to convince your friends to do it.
Oscar, your friend from school, and all his colleagues and friends who you’ve got to know through the years as well.
And that’s why on that warm summer evening you were gathered around the campfire, some of you curled up in camping chairs, some of the couples cuddling together in makeshift blanket nests. Laughter filled the air around you, the only light around was the campfire and the faint lights coming from the small cabins in the forest behind you.
You were sitting on the ground next to Oscar, hugging your knees as you watched Liam play the guitar across from you, George singing Wonderwall a bit off-key with a drink in his hand. On your other side, you heard Lando try to hold his laughter as he watched the scene unfold, before he joined at the next chorus.
You were so engulfed in the scene in front of you that you completely forgot about the marshmallow that you held into the fire.
“Ah, shit,” you hissed, pulling the sweet out of the fire, which was merely a crisp at that point. The sound of warm laughter drew your attention towards Oscar, and he was looking at you with a boyish smile that always caused your heart to skip a beat ever since you were teenagers.
“Do you want mine?” He asked, holding out his perfectly toasted marshmallow towards you, like it was the greatest achievement.
“Nah, I’m fine thank you,” you replied, waving your hand a bit and trying to cast the burnt marshmallow back to the fire so it can meet its inevitable demise.
“Sure?” He pressed, nudging the sweet closer towards you. “I can make another one, unlike you,” he teased, and you shoved his shoulder playfully.
“Fine, whatever,” you said in pretend annoyance, but took the fluffy piece away from him, and when you took a bite of it, you caught his eyes dropping to your lips, mouth slightly agape before he swallowed hard and averted his gaze. You tried to pay no attention to it – it was only natural to watch someone taste the food you gave them, right?
After he looked away his eyes settled on something behind your back, expression unreadable. You turned your head slightly and you saw Lando looking at Oscar with a similar expression, before a beaming smile found its way onto his lips.
You decided to ignore that as well.
As the night grew older, the number of empty beer bottles grew, the songs and laughter became louder, before eventually fading away as people left into their cabins, trying to catch some sleep.
By the end only the flickering flames of the campfire remained together with Oscar, Lando and yourself, laughing about something stupid. You weren’t drunk, but the alcohol helped to lower your inhibitions a bit, letting go of some of the anxiety. The stars were blinking above you, the silhouette of dark pine trees framing them into a perfect picture.
“I’m booored,” Lando whined, elongating the syllables for dramatic effect as he leaned back against a large log, sitting next to Oscar. You were curled up against the covers on the ground across them, a stray pillow holding you up.
“Jeez, sorry we don’t hit the bar for the usual company you keep,” you teased, one brow raised as you looked at him, Oscar chuckling under his breath. Lando’s eyes darted to match yours, a daring look flickering in them.
“Let’s play something,” he started, contemplating – like he didn’t already know what he wanted to say. “May I propose some truth or dare?”
Oscar snorted next to him, a rosy colour of pink creeping up to his cheeks. You laughed at the proposal before you spoke.
“What are we, fourteen?” You asked, holding the gaze of the older driver. He stood the challenge, his features unreadable. Was he daring you? He should know you better than to think you’d back down. “Or do you just want to kiss us so bad? If so, you can just tell, you know?”
Lando’s eyes lit up, a sly, shit-eating grin settled on his face, while Oscar choked on his own spit before he laughed as well.
“You can just admit defeat if you want to,” he retorted, one of his hands slightly gripping his thighs. Oscar squirmed a bit next to him, but his eyes were locked on your expression, heartbeat loud in his ears.
“Fine, but you go first. Truth or dare?” You asked, leaning forward in your spot, resting your elbows on your crossed legs. Lando chuckled and mirrored your position.
“Dare, obviously. I’m not twelve,” he teased, resting his chin in his palm. Oscar watched the scene unfold with tense curiosity, his eyes darting between the two of you from the sidelines.
“Of course you’re not,” you replied, your tone drenched in mockery, before coming up with your challenge. “Then I dare you to jump into the lake butt naked.”
Oscar snorted across you before he started laughing, Lando’s eyebrows shot towards the sky at the request before he smiled at you. You just sat in your spot, waiting for the events to unfold.
“Oh darling,” he started as he stood up, pulling his shirt above his head before dropping it on the ground next to him. “If you wanted to see me naked so bad, you could’ve just said.”
Your mouth fell slightly agape from his words and from watching his movements as he took his t-shirt off. Your eyes lazily moved down his body from his face, carefully etching the view of his toned chest and abs into your memory.
Oscar’s eyes were locked on your face, as he studied the way you looked at his teammate like you wanted to devour him. He wondered whether you knew how much was written on your face. He wondered how much was written on his face.
Lando pushed his shorts down as well, standing only in his boxers, that left very little to the imagination. The bulge in his underwear was already prominent, and he chuckled at the look on your face as you took him in. Oscar’s body – to his misfortune – also reacted to the scene unfolding in front of him, and he had to rearrange himself to hide it. His teammate started to walk towards the edge of the water, and you scratched your throat before you spoke.
“I thought I said naked?” You questioned, and he turned back towards you with a playful smile.
“Don’t be greedy darling, I have to leave some to the imagination,” he replied, then stopped at the edge of the jetty, facing away from you before getting rid of the last piece of his clothing, and jumping into the water in a cannonball. The water splashed around him, ruining the mirror image of the moon on the surface.
You laughed together with Oscar in your spots as he resurfaced from under the water, running his hands through his wet hair. The dark of the night and the water covered his body from the chest down, hiding him from your curious gazes.
“Will you join, or what?” He asked from the lake, pushing the water around him to stay afloat. Your eyes locked with Oscar’s, and he spoke first.
“Don’t feel pressured,” he offered, but the slight darkness behind his eyes told you differently.
“Come on Osc, live a little,” you replied playfully, patting his arm before you took your shirt off, leaving you in your sports bra. Oscar swallowed hard, then followed your motions. “You go first, then you can turn away while I jump in, what do you say?”
He didn’t reply just nodded with a smirk on his face as he pushed his shorts down and repeated Lando’s actions – stopped at the edge of the water, got rid of all his clothes than jumped in, headfirst. Lando whistled and laughed before looking your way.
“Turn away, assholes!” You exclaimed, getting rid of all your clothes, leaving them in a messy pile at the edge of the jetty before jumping in. The cold water engulfed your body completely before you resurfaced, air rushing into your lungs as the water prickled your skin, causing goosebumps to form.
There you were, the three of you, completely naked, separated only by the dark body of water between you, and the thought sent a shiver down your spine that settled low in your stomach.
“We really are like teenagers,” you scolded, shaking your head slightly.
“No, if I remember correctly, as a teenager you didn’t have any friends other than me,” Oscar quipped, and your eyes widened while Lando laughed on the other side of you.
“Prick,” you answered and splashed some water towards him, which he dodged with ease. He retorted with another splash which you tried to evade, but you bumped into Lando instead, the hot skin of his chest pressing flush against your back, sparks crawling on your skin where he touched you. You flinched away in surprise, like his touch burnt you.
“Shit, sorry,” you mumbled, paddling a bit farther away, trying to deny the twisting feeling in your belly. You settled at a spot where the water was shallower, and you could anchor your feet to the bottom.
“So, now what?” Oscar asked, a few strands of wet hair sticking to his forehead.
“Should we continue the game?” Lando asked, and you huffed out an annoyed puff of air.
“I told you Lando, if you want to kiss us so bad, just ask,” you retorted, thinking you had some kind of high ground. Boy, were you wrong.
“Maybe later, darling. But now I dare you to kiss our friend Oscar here,” he replied, the smug smile never faltering on his face.
“Lando!” Oscar scolded his teammate, and his voice held a bit too much weight, before he looked at you. “You really don’t have to,” he all but whispered, your loud heartbeat in your ears almost drowning out the sound of his voice.
You really, really wanted to kiss him. It would be the perfect, innocent occasion – without complicating anything. A silly dare in a summer campfire truth or dare, outside of the borders of the real world.
“I know,” you finally answered. “But can I?”
Oscar’s gasped when hearing your question, but he nodded in silence. “Of course,” he muttered, his eyes burning into yours with an intensity you’ve never seen from him outside of racing related situations.
You stepped closer to him in the water, the dark liquid still covering your body from his eyes, but you felt the heat radiating off him under the water. You placed your hand on his nape and pulled him down to meet your lips. You kissed him tentatively, brushing your lips against his, exploring gently.
His hands found your elbows under the water and slowly moved up to your shoulder, caressing lightly before he cupped your face between his palms and tilted his head, deepening the kiss. He licked against your lower lip, urging you to open up for him, and you happily obliged.
You felt the faint taste of beer on him as the kiss grew hungrier – you placed your hands on Oscar’s hips and pulled him closer as his hand was now tangled in your hair, tongue exploring hungrily.
As you pressed yourself against his hot body, you felt his now painfully hard length press against your stomach and you whimpered, before you moaned into the kiss. His hand tightened in your wet hair, pulling you into him closer, as he instinctively rolled his hips, grinding his erection against your soft skin.
“Osc,” you breathed against his lips, and your fingers dug into his skin harder, trying to keep them from moving where you wanted to touch him so bad. Your body was burning under the cold water and the dull ache between your legs was stronger with each swipe of his tongue.
“Fuck.” The barely audible curse came from behind you as a reminder that you were not alone. Oscar broke the kiss to move his gaze to his teammate, as heat rose to your cheeks in embarrassment.
His gaze moved back to you, the sweet, shy demeanour in his eyes already gone, they were now darker, hungrier. He gently grabbed your shoulders and turned you around, your back flush against his hot chest and you felt his length press against your ass and your breath hitched.
Lando was standing a few metres away from the two of you, his gaze cloudy, mouth slightly agape as he watched the scene unfold. Oscar’s lips brushed your ear as he leaned closer to whisper something to you.
“Look at him,” he said accompanied by a mocking chuckle. “So desperate, isn’t he?”
His hand moved from your shoulder to caress your arms before they settled on your hips, pulling you close when his hips gently rocked against you, while he plastered open-mouthed kisses into the crook of your neck. You looked at Lando through half-lidded eyes and you felt your walls clench around nothing when his eyes met yours, his hand very obviously between his legs, but he didn’t move. Your hips involuntarily pushed back against Oscar, chasing pleasure.
“Do you want to give him a taste, hmm?” Oscar mused, slightly biting down onto your shoulder before kissing the soft spot just under your ear. “I saw how you looked at him earlier.”
You couldn't help but whimper at his words, pleasure mixing with a bit of shame about how much you enjoyed this. You nodded briefly, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Use that pretty mouth of yours.”
“Yes, I-, I want to kiss him,” you confessed and you heard Lando try to stifle a moan. “If that’s okay.”
Now it was time for Oscar’s breath to catch in his throat. His heart swell – you were asking permission from him? He laughed sweetly before answering.
“You can get anything you want tonight.”
Lando stood still like a statue until Oscar signalled for him to come closer. Then he closed the gap between you quickly and put his hands on your face, planting his lips on yours without hesitation.
He wasn’t careful – he kissed you like a man starved, licking into your mouth immediately, pressing and prodding and biting until you moaned into the kiss and pressed back against Oscar. He rolled his hips against you a few times, pressing his length against your ass, until you whimpered into his teammate’s mouth. Lando’s lips only left yours when they moved to your neck. You buried your fingers into his wet curls and pulled him closer, trying to occupy your hands as your mind went hazy.
Oscar’s hand snaked from your hips to squeeze your ass, before he caressed you further south – fingertips gently gazing your folds, when a low groan rumbled in his chest.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, his accent thicker than usual. “Are you always this wet?” Your cunt fluttered and he felt it even without his fingers being inside you. You shamefully shook your head, eyes squeezed shut, trying to hide from this messed up, sinful situation while chasing even more of it.
Lando’s hand moved to cup your breast, fondling it gently before swiping his thumb across your nipple. You gasped, and your hips moved on their own accord as heat rushed to your face. His lips traced your jawline, pressing soft kisses on your skin, hot breath causing shivers to run down your spine. You gasped when his lips suddenly left you, your eyes shot open at the same time you heard Oscar’s voice against your ear.
“Where are your manners?” He asked, his hand buried in Lando’s curls. The older driver bit his lip to try and fight back the smile forming on his lips before answering.
“I’m sorry, Osc.”
“Good boy,” he answered and you clenched your thighs together. You knew there was some history there, but not to what extent. Oscar never really spoke about it to you. You never imagined your sweet Oscar being like this in bed, but truth be told - you were more than happy with such turn of events.
“Do you want him to touch you, pretty girl?” He whispered, finger still caressing between your folds back and forth without pushing in. You were desperate, electricity prickling your skin as the unbearable need built up in your body.
“Yes, please. I need more,” you whined. Oscar chuckled and nodded to his teammate, whose hand and lips were on you again in an instant, switching his hands on your breast to his mouth, tongue circling and flattening against your nipple.
You couldn't help the cry that fell from your lips when Oscar finally pushed a finger inside you from behind, without any restraint whatsoever.
“Fuck, baby. You want it bad, don’t you?”
He started to move his finger in a steady rhythm, dragging against your walls with perfect pressure and precision. You threw your head back against his shoulder and closed your eyes, and he used the opportunity to plant open-mouthed kisses into the crook of your neck while Lando continued his ministrations on your breasts.
“Do you want his fingers on you?” Oscar whispered into your ear, so low that only you could hear. You nodded and responded a breathy “yeah”. He smiled against your temple before reaching out to grab Lando’s hand under the water and guide it between your legs.
“Make her feel good.”
You felt your breath hitch when the older drivers finger found your aching clit, swiping against it gently while Oscar pulled his finger out of you to spread your arousal around before pushing back, accompanied by a second finger.
Your soft whines and whimpers filled the air as their hands moved in perfect synch, Oscar moving his free hand to your front to spread your folds, giving his teammate better access. You felt flustered, trying to bury your face into Oscar’s neck. You were clenching around Oscar’s digits with each perfect flick of Lando’s fingers and he groaned into your neck.
“She’s so tight, she fucking loves it, Lan.” He spoke of you like you weren’t even there, and that spurred you on even more, nerves igniting in your body as you felt your orgasm creeping up inside you. “You like it, don’t you baby?”
“Yes, please-,” you begged, delirious from the pleasure they were giving you. You squeezed your eyes shut, engulfed in the feeling of their fingers working their magic on you, their hot bodies burning against your own, soft lips dragging against your wet skin wherever they could reach.
You heard the wet sound of lips pressing against each other and then a stifled moan – you opened your eyes, and you saw the two men kiss just a few inches from your face, their tongues hungrily tasting each other in off-centred kisses, eagerly trying to get more of each other. Oscar’s free hand was buried in his teammate’s hair, gripping it and guiding him as he wished.
Your gaze was glued on the two of them making out while they were pleasuring you, and when you saw Oscar biting down on Lando’s bottom lip and the other man moaned into the kiss, something snapped inside you and your muscles tensed up and released all at once, your fingers digging into Lando’s shoulder, vision turning white as you came hard around their fingers.
“I think someone liked the show,” one of them said, but you were too spent to identify who. Their movements never stalled until your walls stopped spasming and your body went limp in their grasp. You rested your forehead against Lando’s shoulder, catching your breath when he put his finger under your chin, lifting your face to match his gaze.
“Are you okay?” He asked, a sweet smile on his face as he searched your expression, Oscar’s touch gently brushing your sides.
Your gaze dropped to his lips, then back to his pretty eyes before you nodded. You flattened your palms against his toned chest and pushed your body closer to him, making Oscar follow you, chasing your proximity.
“I need you,” you whispered, before pressing your lips against Lando’s.
The warmth inside the cabin was a sharp contrast from the feeling of cooling air against your wet skin as you stumbled towards the bed. Your back hit the soft covers and Lando was on you in an instant, kissing you like there was no tomorrow, like you were his last meal.
Soft whimpers fell from your lips when he moved, peppering kisses on your skin, your jaw, neck, collarbone, as he moved down your body. Oscar made himself comfortable next to you, cradling your face and kissing you, lips tracing you where his teammate did the same only a few seconds ago.
Said teammate was now settled comfortably between your legs, wrapping his arms around your thighs and spreading them to give him better access to you. You looked down at him, his eyes catching yours – and the intensity of his gaze made you flustered, trying to hide your face into Oscar's neck, but he gently gripped your face and directed it back to look at his teammate.
“Don’t hide, baby. Look at him,” he mused, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke, watching Lando from the corner of his eye. You felt his grip tighten on your thighs, spreading them a bit more before he leaned down, gently blowing some air onto your clit, which caused your hips to move, chasing some kind of friction.
He never broke eye contact when he leaned down to finally wrap his lips around your sensitive bud, swirling his tongue around gently as his eyes fluttered close, getting lost in the feeling.
You threw your head back and squeezed your eyes shut, back arching off the bed. Oscar nuzzled his face into your neck, covering your skin in sloppy kisses before sucking a dark mark onto you. You hissed at the prickling sensation, and you buried both your hands in their hair – one in Lando’s, one in Oscar’s, trying to pull them as close as possible.
The Aussie driver moved his hand to cradle your breast with his lips following suit, flattening his tongue against your nipple exactly when his teammate did the same between your legs, causing you to cry out.
“Oh my-, fuck-,” you moaned, already finding it impossible to form coherent thoughts. Oscar moved his head to kiss you before he whispered against your ear:
“Does he make you feel good?” Your only response was a weak nod as Lando’s tongue softly traced your lips up and down, teasing before pushing his tongue inside you and wrapping his lips around your swollen cunt, causing you to cry out.
Oscar gently grabbed your chin to direct your gaze between your legs once more, where his teammate’s head was buried.
“Tell him how good he feels,” he mused, causing your breath to hitch and your hips to grind against Lando’s mouth, but he flattened his palm against your stomach, pushing you back down. Just as if he wanted to give you a bit of encouragement, he pressed his middle finger inside you slowly, dragging against your walls with perfect pressure, before he curled it slightly, caressing your sweet spot.
“Holy shit-,” you cried out, muscles wound up, grip tightening in their hair. “So good, baby,” you whimpered. “You’re making me feel- s-so good, Lan.”
He groaned between your legs, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine, before he added a second finger, moving it in perfect harmony with his tongue. His hips rolled against the bed, trying to chase some friction to ease his own building frustration.
“You taste so good, darling,” he moaned, lips barely leaving you, his hot breath fanning against your sensitive folds. A high-pitched whine formed in your throat, but it didn’t get the chance to escape as Oscar wrapped his lips around yours, swallowing it. He ground his hips against your side, his length pressed flush against you, letting you know just how much he wanted you.
You moved your hand from his hair between his legs to palm him slowly, before wrapping your fingers around his cock, teasing the tip with your thumb. His grip tightened in your hair and he bit your lip, hips twitching towards you, wanting more of you.
Your senses were overwhelmed by them – Lando's mouth sucking on your clit gently, his fingers stretching you in perfect motions, Oscar’s lips wrapped around your nipple, his cock heavy in your palm.
You felt your orgasm build with each flick of their tongues, with each soft moan falling from Oscar’s lips, electricity tingling on your skin, muscles tensing up.
“Come on his tongue, baby, show him what you got,” Oscar whispered to you, and when he gently bit down on your nipple and Lando curled his fingers just right, you came – your orgasm violent and all consuming, back arching off the bed, pleasure rolling through your body like waves. You tried to close your legs to make the British driver stop but he didn’t - he forced your legs open and kept lapping at your oversensitive cunt, causing you to cry out.
“Fuck, Lando, I can’t,” you whined, tears prickling your eyes at the overwhelming feeling. Oscar made you to look at him, his eyes dark, hair a mess from your fingers running through it constantly, lips swollen from making out.
“Yes, you can,” he reassured, but it sounded more like an order rather than comfort. Your whole body was trembling; muscles wound impossibly tight, your free hand was gripping the sheets under you like your life depended on it.
“Give it to me, baby. Make me proud,” Oscar whispered against your skin, and you felt your second orgasm ripping through you, shaking your whole body and making tears fall free from your eyes as your walls spasmed around Lando’s fingers.
After helping you through your high, he carefully removed himself from you, trying not to unsettle you in your oversensitive haze, gently wiping your juices from his chin with the back of his hands. His eyes raked over your naked body – chest heaving, eyes closed, completely spent, like you were on another planet.
“Good fucking girl,” Oscar murmured, pressing soft kisses against your temple. “Are you alright?”
Your eyes fluttered open to match his gaze, slowly nodding as a soft smile found its way to your lips. Your eyes fell to his mouth, moving your hand up to his nape, pulling him into another kiss.
“I want more,” you purred against his lips, before adding a shy “please”.
“Yeah?” He asked, accompanied by a low chuckle. “Greedy.”
A breathy laugh escaped your lips as you looked between the two of them.
“I want to make you feel good.”
You saw the muscles flex in Oscar’s jaw as he swallowed hard, caressing your cheek before moving away from you.
“Turn around,” he ordered and you obeyed, moving and turning over to your stomach.
You felt the bed dip next to you from the movement of the two men, before you heard Lando’s muffled moan fill the room. When you looked over your shoulder, you saw Oscar’s hand buried in the older driver’s curls, pulling him into a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth. Lando’s skin was flushed from his chest all the way to the tip of his ears, his chest heaving when they broke the kiss to catch some air.
“You were right. She tastes good,” Oscar hummed, catching your eyes as he looked over your naked form, and you shuddered under his gaze, suddenly feeling so exposed.
You buried your face in your arm, trying to hide from the intensity of the situation. Oscar moved quickly on the bed, settling behind you, gripping your thighs and pulling you up a little to your knees, while Lando settled against the headboard in front of you, his cock only a few inches from your face.
You bit your lip when you made eye contact with the Brit, and he reached out to caress your face gently.
“You sure you want this?” He asked, eyes gleaming with admiration.
“Yes,” you breathed and he smiled. You felt Oscar press up against your folds before he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your back. His hand wrapped around your throat gently, not even squeezing, just letting his presence known.
“He can have your mouth,” he mused against your ear before slowly tracing your folds with his middle finger. “But this cunt is mine, you hear me?”
The sudden possessiveness caught you off guard, causing your insides to twist and your walls to flutter. Oscar read your body like an open book, smirking to himself while noting your reactions.
“Tell me.”
“Only y-yours, Osc,” you whimpered, anticipation burning in your veins. He pressed a quick peck on your cheek before moving away, kneeling behind you.
Lando cupped your chin, thumb slowly caressing your bottom lip as in urging you to use your mouth. You looked up at him through your lashes – eyes shimmering with pleasure, and the desire to please. He bit his lip to try and fight the groan bubbling up in his chest, nodding barely noticeable for you to go on.
You leaned on one of your elbows, wrapping your fingers around his base before you licked his flushed tip, swirling your tongue before flattening it against the underside of his dick, licking from the base up to the tip agonisingly slow.
“Fuck, just like that, baby-,” Lando moaned, his hand tangling into your hair, holding it away from your face. Not forcing or guiding yet, just letting his presence known.
You took him into your mouth slowly, sinking down onto him as much as you could, using your hand to pick up the slack. With hollowed cheeks you started moving, sucking him off slowly, never breaking eye contact.
Oscar’s fingers moved to your drenched folds, spreading your wetness around before pushing one, then two fingers inside you quickly, moving them in a steady rhythm before he pulled them out. You felt his length press against your entrance and your walls fluttered in anticipation before he finally pushed in.
He moved slowly, sinking into you inch by inch, allowing you (and himself) to savour the feeling. He stretched you so perfectly, causing you to linger on the edge of perfect pleasure and slight pain. When he bottomed out, he stilled for a second, allowing you to adjust to the stretch, using the occasion to watch you blow his teammate.
Your skin was burning, body wound tight from feeling so full – just the fact that you had them both like this could make you come right then and there.
When he finally started to move, his pace was steady – his movements weren’t tentative, there was no doubt behind them. Like he knew exactly what you needed, his hands gripped your waist, guiding you while his hips snapped against your ass as he buried himself in your tight core.
Muffled moans got caught in your throat as you pushed yourself further down onto Lando’s cock with each bob of your head, eager to make him feel good.
“Christ, I knew... I knew you’d feel like this,” Oscar said, his voice breathy and ragged between thrusts. “Like heaven.”
Your walls gripped Oscar tighter, the feeling of being so full starting to be overwhelming. Lando’s grip tightened in your hair, trying to hold himself back.
“Baby, fuck... Can I-,” he started, but choked on his words as a moan took their place. “Can I use your mouth?”
You opened your eyes and looked at him – completely wrecked, skin flushed, hair a mess, eyes shining with tears, chest heaving. You just nodded, and you heard Oscar’s groan from behind you, his movements stuttering as he took the scene in.
He kept his steady pace, rolling his hips against you in perfect motions, his cock hitting your sweet spot with every thrust, causing you to see stars behind your eyelids. Lando adjusted his hold on your hair and pushed your head further down on himself.
“Tap me if it’s too much, yeah?” He managed to breathe out, and you nodded, taking a long breath through your nose, bracing yourself.
He started to guide the pace of your head, thrusting upwards at the same time, chasing the feeling of your throat tightening around his length, while Oscar fucked you from behind, trying to find a pace to match his teammate’s.
You felt Lando’s cock hit the back of your throat and you gagged around him slightly, but he kept you there for a second, savouring the wet gagging sounds that escaped from you. Oscar moaned behind you, his own breathing ragged.
“Fuck, she’s gripping me-, d’you like that, baby?” He asked before Lando let go of you – you pulled off him to try to catch your breath, wet coughs leaving your mouth, but you didn’t complain and sank back down onto him, tears burning your face.
The room fell silent for a while, only the sound of skin on skin, heavy breathing and your muffled gags filled the air.
“Baby, my God-, so good,” Lando mumbled, words starting to blur together.
“Feels so good... been wanting this for s-so long,” Oscar said through gritted teeth, and you whimpered from the confession, their shared praise filling every crevice of your being, pleasure flooding through your veins.
Oscar picked up the pace and so did Lando, his head thrown back against the headboard, a thin layer of sweat glinting on his skin, and praise never stopped falling from their mouths.
“Good fucking girl, feels so perfect-”
“That’s it, baby... m-making me feel so good. Don’t stop, fuck-”
You felt your orgasm build once more – tension knotting in your belly, muscles tingling with electricity as all thoughts left your mind and all you could do was surrender yourself to the sensations.
“Don’t stop, baby ‘m gonna come,” Lando groaned. “Will you be good for me?” His voice was raspy; you could tell he was holding back already so you just nodded as much as you could.
His grip tightened in your hair as he snapped his hips against your face one last time, burying himself in your mouth up to the hilt. You felt his cock twitch in your mouth as he came with a loud moan, tears rolling down your face as he emptied his load down your throat, Oscar still fucking you in a steady pace, groaning and moaning sweet nothings.
Lando pulled you off him and gently caressed your face, but you were too overwhelmed by Oscar to really pay attention anymore. You buried your face against Lando’s thighs, as his teammate moved his hand around your body to caress your clit, before his other hand grabbed your hair and pulled you up against him.
You cried out, now kneeling in front of Lando, naked body on full display, back pressed against Oscar’s chest, his hot skin burning against yours, and sticky with sweat. The world narrowed down to this room, this bed – where Oscar touched you, where he was buried in you so deep.
“So fucking perfect, baby. You did so good.” He pressed a wet kiss onto your shoulder before biting down on your neck, sucking another dark mark onto your skin. His fingers drew perfect circles on your clit as he pounded into you, and you felt your orgasm build and build and build.
“Give me another. I know you can,” he said, voice like gravel, and with that you reached the turning point – your building orgasm came crashing down, pleasure overwhelming your senses, walls spasming around Oscar as goosebumps rose on your skin and your vision turned white.
Feeling you come around his cock was the final straw for him – he finally let go as well, a string of incoherent curses fell from his lips as he came deep inside you. For a few seconds nobody spoke, Oscar hugged you close and kissed your shoulder while both of you tried to calm your breathing.
You didn’t even realise that Lando moved from the bed, only when he kneeled in front of you with a wet towel, taking you from Oscar’s arm and offer some stability.
“Thanks,” you whispered and took the towel, cleaning up your shared juices. Lando just held you and pressed a soft kiss onto the top of your hair, while the two of you waited for Oscar to be back from the bathroom.
“Everything good?” He asked, voice uncharacteristically shy after all that just happened.
You just smiled at him gently and nodded as the two of you climbed up against the headboard, tangling up under the covers. When Oscar came back, he joined the two of you – him on your right, Lando on your left.
It was surreal, but somehow it felt like the best possible place for you to be. You snuggled up against Oscar’s chest, and he wrapped his arms around you, slowly caressing your hair before he pressed a kiss onto your forehead. Lando spooned you from behind and rested his hand on your waist, drawing lazy circles onto your skin.
You were so spent, so out of this world, that you felt like you were drunk, so out of it. Maybe that, or the feeling of your face buried against Oscar’s warm chest, his strong arms wrapped around you that caused you to open your mouth to speak.
“I love you,” you murmured, so low that it sounded like you were talking in your sleep. Maybe you were.
Lando’s head snapped up to meet the gaze of his teammate, both their expression laced with confusion. Oscar’s heart hammered against his ribcage, even though he tried his best to hide his reaction to your words.
He just shook his head at his teammate, before settling against the pillows and pressing another soft kiss on the top of your head. Lando snuggled against you as well and wrapped his arm around your waist – whatever you meant, it was a discussion for another day.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: you broke up with percy because you thought that he deserved someone better but that's not the case at all.
ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 2.7k
a/n: this is the first time I'm writing on tumblr so any tips are highly appreciated!!
you and percy jackson had been dating for almost three months until you decided to break up with him.
It wasn’t that he was ignoring you or was a bad boyfriend, but something deep down made you feel like you were dragging him down with you.
you never really understood why percy seemed to have feelings for you, it kept you up at night but you never found the courage to talk to him about it. you found those doubts stupid and so you tried to move on with your day.
but those doubts kept growing every day and some part of you thought that you weren’t good enough for him. you two had always been total opposites and at first it didn’t bother you, but as you and percy became closer you realised that you both were making a terrible mistake.
you felt as if you were failing on the role of the ‘good girlfriend’ and made you feel so anxious that you almost threw up.
so, you did what you were good at.
you run away.
you broke up with him, leaving percy no room to react or fight for this so-called relationship. you collected some hoodies and pyjamas that you had forgotten in his dorm and left.
you felt guilty for leaving like that, without giving him an actual reason, just a dry ‘there’s no future in this relationship’. you still couldn’t forget the way percy tried to reason with you, find a solution to this problem that he had no idea existed and was jeopardising your relationship.
“tell me what’s wrong and I’ll fix it” you kept replaying this conversation in your head like a movie stuck in a loop. his voice was soft and you had to refrain from taking your words back.
“you can’t fix it this time percy” you said and almost immediately; a frown formed on his lips, looking as if you had stabbed him on the back.
that’s all you had said and had walked out of his dorm.
it had been a month since you had broken up and everything felt weird. no one was sending you good morning texts, no one knocked at your door to walk you to your class, no one stayed over and watched a cheesy romcom with you and kept saying how similar you two were to the main characters.
just silence.
when your friends annabeth and grover (you had met them through percy and had somehow instantly clicked) found out about the break up, they thought that you were pulling a prank.
you had decided to meet up in the library and you had to burry your face deep in whatever essay you had to write, in an attempt to ignore how intense they were looking at you.
“but percy is crazy about you” grover reasoned, and he looked as if someone had discontinued his favourite snack.
“we were too different” you clenched this admission as tight as you could so you wouldn’t think you made a mistake. This was better for the both of you and you could imagine percy doing better now that you parted ways.
even if it hurts you.
annabeth pulled you out of your thoughts by placing her hand on your shoulder and gave you a look that you knew all too well. she was silently offering you comfort without judging you or feeling pity.
you gave her a smile and the three of you silently tried to finish your essays without saying anything else. maybe they didn’t understand why you broke up with him but they made you feel a little less shitty about yourself.
**
your dorm was uncharacteristically quiet.
usually, you would have music blasting through your laptop or have some friends over and gossip about your college life. you didn’t have the energy to do anything though, so you were simply laying on your bed.
you were supposed to feel better.
you weren’t allowed to want him back when you knew that you weren’t the best girlfriend. there had been a lot of times where it was hard for you to open up or simply enjoy the moment without overthinking it.
perseus jackson deserved the whole god damn world and even though you loved him, you knew that you weren’t the one for him.
it hurt more than you could admit.
was this even possible? to love someone but know that you are hurting them unintentionally?
you decided that at least now, you'll try to be better. you didn’t know if you would be able to move on but you could try and get rid off the ugly parts of yourself.
you took one glance at your lock screen-it was a picture of you and percy that you had forgotten to change-and let out a sigh. you might have broken up but that boy was still the owner of your heart and you weren’t sure if you actually wanted him to give it back.
**
you thought that percy would be doing a lot better now that he wasn’t yours anymore.
well you couldn’t be more wrong.
when you walked into your english class, you had taken a glimpse of him from his seat and your breath hinged.
percy was leaning against his chair, black circles covering his beautiful face and his hair was a mess. he was wearing a black hoodie and seemed like he was zoning out.
you had learnt through a trusted source (annabeth) that percy had been rejecting every girl that had tried to take up your spot. you would be lying to yourself if you said that you weren’t surprised.
you sat down in your seat at the back of the class and tried your hardest to ignore the way his eyes followed your movements.
you couldn’t help but start to worry about him because he needed to move on. you knew that you weren’t good for him and deep down he knew it too.
but a part of you seemed to be relieved at the fact that he hadn’t done anything with another girl yet.
at the cafeteria, you saw him sitting at a table near the corner. percy was sitting alone, looking like a completely different person.
your percy would be talking excitedly, moving his hands in the air to give more emphasis to his words and his eyebrows would be knitted together as he tried to concentrate at the story he was telling and not have his attention drift away.
this one was sitting quietly in his seat, looking at his food like it had betrayed him.
it perplexed you as to why he was sitting at that particular table when he usually sat at the center of the cafeteria, talking to either jason or grover.
but then it hit you.
that was the table where you first met.
it had been a hectic day and your friends had been nowhere to be found. you scanned the cafeteria, hoping to find an empty table and somehow you saw a table near the corner that seemed empty.
you had walked towards it and sat down.
as you let out a sigh, you realised that someone was sitting on the other end of the table.
percy had stared at you, surprise and curiosity flashing in his eyes as you gave him an awkward smile. he hadn’t been rude; didn’t tell you to sit somewhere else, just stared back at his phone and ate his sandwich.
you never really learnt why he sat there; at the time you thought that he also couldn’t find his friends and just sat at a random table.
but now you know.
he had admitted it to you once, when he had stayed over and was cuddling you like you were something fragile.
“it was an excuse to talk to you” he had said, tracing absentmindedly circles on your waist. he had said it so casually like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“but why?” you couldn’t help but ask as you buried your face on the crook of his neck.
“my friends had been begging me to make a move on you and well, that’s all i could come up with” he admitted with a sheepish smile and you could only laugh.
you felt butterflies in your stomach.
percy still remembered, you thought that he was silently inviting you to sit next to him and pretend like everything was like before.
and you so badly wanted to pretend but you didn’t.
because you knew how it would end.
a part of you wondered if it had been a mere coincidence but you knew it wasn’t. it was the way he was staring at the seat across from him like if percy wished hard enough, you would appear in that seat and keep him company like before.
like how it should be.
you dragged your legs at your friends’ table and tried to eat your food without bursting out in tears in the middle of the college cafeteria.
**
you couldn’t really remember what made you come to this campus party but here you were.
everyone had been talking about it for the past week and even if you didn’t have the energy for it, something told you that it would be a good distraction.
the music was loud, people were dancing and screaming at the top of their lungs and it was enough to ignore the racing thoughts in your head.
your friends were also there and they had dragged you into the dance floor and you couldn’t help but just relax. you moved your body and shook your head like it was the first time that you felt so carefree. even for a few minutes you felt better.
you decided it would be a good idea to go grab a drink and so you moved through the crowd of sweaty teenagers.
when you arrived at the table with the red cups filled with beers, you went to grab one and suddenly your hand grazed someone else’s. somehow they went to grab the same cup.
you didn’t even have to look at the stranger to know who it was.
“oh” percy stared at you and your breath hinged. it had been two months since your break up but your heart still fluttered at the sight of him. he was wearing a light blue shirt with baggy jeans. he had also left three buttons undone and it took everything in you not to stare at the way a part of his torso was peaking out.
you had no idea what to say. what was the appropriate response in seeing your ex at a party? you just stared at him, hoping that the ground would swallow you whole.
you decided to stay quiet and took a sip off your cup. this was way too awkward for you to handle so when you saw that percy hadn’t replied to you a few seconds later, you turned around to hide among the crowd.
but before you could walk away; you heard his voice, soft and quiet and you wondered how you were able to hear it.
“why?” one word that was somehow more painful than him completely ignoring you. at first you froze, blinked a few times to make sure that it wasn’t your mind and as you were about to answer, percy took you by the hand and was leading you away from the party.
you two ended up in a room (it was probably the host’s but you couldn’t care less) and percy closed the door as he let out a sigh.
you stared at him again, debating on whether you should admit the truth or bury it even deeper.
“why did you leave?” percy rephrased his question and was now leaning against the door. you found it normal that he wanted an explanation since you never bothered to give him one.
“percy-”
“tell me the truth” he cut you off as if he knew that you would try to avoid the question. you hated how well he could read you sometimes.
you took in a quick breath and felt your heartbeat ringing through your ears.
“does it matter?” you asked and took a step back, creating more distance between you. but as if on instinct, percy took a step closer and clenched his fists in a way to prevent himself from pulling you into his arms.
he would be lying if he said that he hadn’t missed you but right now he needed closure. it had bothered him a lot; the way you decided to walk away without an explanation but percy couldn’t blame you for that.
he knew how clingy he got when he was comfortable with people let alone with his girlfriend. he could be rambling about random stuff that popped up on his brain and had to share it with someone or else he would explode.
percy understood how you could get bored of him.
he just wanted you to verbalise it so he would stop going back and forth, analysing every moment you two had and try to see when exactly you started feeling this way.
“I think I deserve to know why you broke up with me out of the blue” he wasn’t pissed. how could he be when you were still looking at him with those big eyes that could make him turn the world upside down?
“because you need someone better” you admitted while fidgeting with the ends of your skirt. percy’s eyes widened at your confession but didn't say anything. he left you space so you could explain yourself and it was so hard not to fall for him deeper.
“I'm not the best person to be around” you carried on. “I..Ι thought that you’d be better off without me”
”that’s not true” it surprised you how fast he was in disagreeing with you. after everything; he still managed to see the best in you.
he let out a sigh of relief.
and now everything made sense; you hadn’t gotten bored of him but simply thought you weren’t good enough for him.
which was a huge lie.
silence fell between you but not an awkward one. you could see how percy was trying to put his racing thoughts into words and you ended up fidgeting with your hands.
“there hasn’t been a day where I haven’t thought of you” he confessed which caught you completely out of guard. “you might think that I deserve someone better but all I want is you”
your breath hinged in your throat. you hadn’t really thought about the fact that percy loved you no matter what.
percy cupped your face with his hands and rested his forehead against yours. a part of you told you to pull away from him, get away fast before it was too late.
that’s what you’ve been telling yourself; running away was the right thing.
but him holding you so close made you realise that you didn’t want to be scared anymore. you wanted him to know everything about you, your favourite dessert, your biggest fear, literally anything you could think of.
you were determined to make things right this time, no more hiding and endless what ifs. percy was still trying to fix things so why couldn’t you give it another shot?
“I’m-” you tried to say but he immediately cut you off.
“I don’t care what you are, we’re doing this together and you don’t have a choice” he said firmly, earning a chuckle from you. you had forgotten how stubborn percy was so even if you wanted to tell him every romantic thing you could think of, it died in your tongue.
“I don’t mind your overthinking or your doubting” percy reassured you, placing a kiss on your temple. “I’ll overexplain everything if I have to”
your heart was beating so fast making you believe that percy was able to hear it. “sorry for running away” you said and that only made him place a hand on your waist and pull you closer.
“just promise me that you’ll never do it again” he brushed a few strands of hair away from your face and you almost got lost in his eyes.
the next thing you know, you’re leading percy back to your dorm and you try to hide the huge grin that had formed on your lips. the two of you enter the dorm and before you could say anything, percy’s lips are on yours.
Summary: You keep trying to beat him. He keeps trying to love you. Somewhere in the middle, you let him.
Requested: yes, anonymous
"You're dead, Jackson!"
Percy laughed as he dodged your swing, backing up with his hands raised. "Babe, come on—"
"Don't 'babe' me!" You advanced on him, sword still raised even though you both knew you weren't actually going to hurt him. Much. "You let me win!"
"I did not let you win!"
"Percy." You lowered your blade, crossing your arms. "I know when someone's holding back. My dad's the god of war, remember? I can read combat like you read the ocean."
Your boyfriend had the decency to look guilty, running a hand through his blonde hair. A few campers training nearby were trying very hard to pretend they weren't watching the show. You and Percy arguing was always entertainment.
"Okay, maybe I was a little distracted," he admitted.
"By what?"
"You." He stepped closer, that troublemaker smile spreading across his face. "You had this really cute concentrated look, and the sun was hitting your hair, and I just—"
"Oh my gods, stop." You felt heat rising to your cheeks, betraying you completely. This was the worst part about dating Percy Jackson—he could make you go from war-ready to flustered in seconds. "You're not allowed to use the boyfriend card to get out of a proper fight."
"Pretty sure I am. It's in the boyfriend handbook."
"There's no handbook."
"Sure there is. Rule one: always tell your girlfriend she looks amazing, even when she's threatening you with a sword."
You tried to maintain your glare, you really did. But his grin was infectious, and despite your Ares-given temper, you felt your lips twitching. "You're impossible."
"And yet you're dating me." Percy closed the distance between you, gently lowering your sword arm. "Rematch? For real this time. Full effort."
"Promise?"
"On the Styx."
You narrowed your eyes. "That's serious."
"I'm seriously not trying to get murdered by my girlfriend for throwing a fight." He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. "Even if she is really cute when she's threatening me."
"Jackson—"
"Sparring! Right! Going!" He jogged backward toward his starting position, Riptide already uncapped.
As you raised your sword again, you caught sight of Clarisse making exaggerated gagging noises from across the arena. You shot her your middle finger without breaking eye contact with Percy.
"Your sister's watching," Percy noted.
"She's always watching. She thinks we're 'disgustingly soft.'"
"Are we?"
"Probably," you admitted. Then you lunged forward with a real strike—no holding back this time. Percy's eyes widened as he barely parried. "But I'm still going to kick your ass."
"There's my girl," he laughed, meeting your next strike with genuine effort.
The fight was fast and fierce, exactly how you liked it. This was better—Percy matching your intensity, reading your moves, pushing back with his own offense. This was the kind of battle that made your blood sing, made you feel alive.
When you finally managed to disarm him, sending Riptide flying, you had him backed against the arena wall with your blade at his throat. Both of you were breathing hard, sweat-soaked and grinning.
"Yield?" you asked.
"Never," Percy said, but his eyes were sparkling. "You're amazing, you know that?"
"Flattery after you've lost?"
"Just facts." His hand came up to gently wrap around your wrist—not forcing your blade away, just touching you. "I'm crazy about you."
Your heart did that stupid flutter thing again. "Even though I just destroyed you?"
"Especially because you just destroyed me."
You lowered your sword, shaking your head with a smile you couldn't suppress. "You're lucky you're cute, Jackson."
"Yeah, I really am."
"Shut up." You leaned in and kissed him, tasting salt and sweat and victory. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer despite the armor and weapons between you.
Someone—definitely Clarisse—yelled, "GET A CABIN!"
You pulled back just enough to shout, "MIND YOUR BUSINESS!" before kissing Percy again.
"Your siblings hate me," he murmured against your lips.
"They hate everyone. You're actually growing on them."
"Really?"
"Well, you make me happy. And you can hold your own in a fight. That's all that matters to children of Ares." You stepped back, extending your hand. "Come on, seaweed brain. I'll let you buy me fries at the pavilion."
"You mean I'll let you steal my fries."
"Same thing."
Percy laced his fingers through yours as you walked out of the arena together, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your skin. The gesture was soft, sweet—everything your siblings would mock you for.
You didn't care. Let them talk. You were a daughter of war who'd somehow found peace in the arms of a son of the sea.
