Summary: On a dangerous quest, Percy learns the weight you carry as Hades and Persephone’s daughter—and realizes the real threat isn’t the Underworld, but how close you both are to wanting something you’re afraid to claim.
Being the daughter of Hades and Persephone meant everyone thought they understood you.
They didn’t.
They saw death and assumed cruelty. Saw spring and assumed softness. They whispered about balance like it was something you’d been handed at birth instead of something you’d learned the hard way—again and again—every time the world tried to pull you too far in one direction.
Percy Jackson figured that out gradually. Unwillingly.
The quest took you north, through land that felt thin, like the earth itself was holding its breath. The farther you traveled, the quieter Percy became. He could feel it—pressure behind his eyes, a low hum in his bones—but for you, it was different.
You moved like you belonged there.
“You don’t slow down much,” Percy said on the third night, jogging to keep pace as you cut through a stretch of blackened trees.
“You don’t need to keep up,” you replied.
“That’s not an answer.”
You glanced back at him, moonlight catching the faint silver-green glow at your temples—signs of exhaustion you refused to acknowledge.
“I slow down when it’s safe,” you said. “This isn’t.”
Percy frowned. “We’re not being followed.”
“No,” you agreed. “We’re being noticed.”
He didn’t ask by whom.
That night, the monsters came anyway.
It was fast and brutal. Percy fought like a breaking tide, water snapping to his command, while shadows answered you without being summoned. The ground itself opened when you struck—skeletal hands clawing upward, dragging enemies down just long enough for Percy to finish them.
When it was over, Percy stood still, chest heaving, staring at the earth as it sealed itself again.
“You didn’t call them,” he said quietly.
You wiped ichor from your blade. “I didn’t have to.”
He looked at you differently after that—not afraid. Something closer to wary respect.
“Does it ever…” He hesitated. “Pull at you?”
“All the time,” you said simply.
Percy swallowed. “I’m glad you’re here.”
The words hit harder than any blow. You stiffened, armor sliding back into place.
“Don’t say things you don’t understand,” you replied, softer than usual.
The entrance to the Underworld wasn’t supposed to open.
It did anyway.
The ground split like an old scar torn open, cold air rushing up, thick with stone and forgotten prayers. Percy took an instinctive step back.
You didn’t.
“Stay close,” you told him.
“Wasn’t planning on wandering,” he muttered, then paused. “You’re… different down here.”
You smiled faintly. “So are you.”
Shadows bent toward you as you descended. Spirits whispered your name—not reverent, not fearful. Familiar. Like you were inevitable.
Percy hated how invisible he felt beside you.
A shade stepped into your path and bowed low. My lady.
Percy bristled. “Hey—”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly, though your jaw tightened. “I told you not to call me that.”
The shade bowed again anyway before fading into the dark.
Percy crossed his arms. “You don’t like it.”
“I didn’t earn that title,” you said. “I was born into it.”
“So?”
You stopped walking.
“So one day,” you said quietly, “they’ll expect me to choose. Death or life. Stillness or growth. And no one ever asks what I want.”
Percy stepped closer. “What do you want?”
You laughed, short and humorless. “That’s the problem. If I say it out loud, it becomes real.”
The ground trembled.
The entrance began to close.
You swore, grabbing Percy’s wrist and yanking him forward as stone slammed shut behind you. His fingers tightened around yours without thinking.
Neither of you let go right away.
When you finally did, Percy’s voice was rough. “You don’t have to decide everything now.”
You met his eyes. “Easy for you to say. You get to belong to the surface.”
Percy shook his head. “I belong where the people I care about are.”
The words lingered, dangerous and unfinished.
You turned away first.
The quest ended in victory—technically.
Camp celebrated when you returned. You didn’t.
You sat alone on the hill overlooking the strawberry fields, knees pulled to your chest, night air cool against your skin. You felt Percy before you heard him—like the tide shifting.
“I figured you’d be up here,” he said.
“You always do,” you replied.
He sat beside you, close but careful, like he was learning the shape of your boundaries.
“You scare me,” Percy said suddenly.
That made you turn.
“How?”
“You act like you’re already halfway gone,” he said. “Like you’re practicing leaving before anyone can miss you.”
Your throat tightened. “That’s rich,” you said quietly. “Coming from someone who keeps almost dying.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I come back.”
You looked at him then. Really looked.
“What if I don’t?” you asked.
Percy didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll come get you.”
Something cracked—not enough to shatter, but enough to hurt.
You stood abruptly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I’m good at impossible promises,” he shot back. “Ask anyone.”
You were close again. Too close. Breath mingling. That same pull neither of you named.
For one terrible, perfect second, you thought he might kiss you.
Instead, he said your name.
Just your name.
It hurt more than rejection ever could.
You stepped back, walls snapping into place. “Get some sleep, Seaweed Brain.”
He watched you walk away, fists clenched, knowing—deep down—that this wasn’t something either of you could outrun.
It wasn’t an ending.
It was a fault line.
And sooner or later, it was going to split wide open.
Here is part 2 my lovelies of this series im doing! If you guys have any requests pls put them in the comments. I want to write more fics but have no inspiration
Summary: A prophecy names you for a deadly quest, and Percy refuses to let you face it alone.
The quest announcement came three days later.
Of course it did.
Chiron cleared his throat. The Oracle’s voice echoed. The prophecy was vague, irritating, and unmistakably dangerous.
And your name was in it.
Percy didn’t like the way you reacted—not fear, not excitement, but something closer to resignation. Like you’d been expecting this.
“I’m going alone,” you said afterwards, already strapping your knives back into place.
“Absolutely not,” Percy snapped at the same time.
You turned, eyebrow arched. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t get to disappear into something suicidal without backup,” he said. “That’s not how this works.”
You laughed. Not kindly. “You don’t know how this works for me.”
“I know enough,” he shot back. “You deflect. You provoke. You never stay long enough for anyone to—”
“To what?” You cut in. “Care?”
The word landed harder than any punch you’d thrown at him.
The camp seemed very far away suddenly.
Percy swallowed. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
You searched his face—really searched it this time. Whatever you saw there made your smirk falter.
“Careful, Seaweed Brain,” you murmured. “You keep saying things like that, and I might start believing you.”
He stepped closer. Not touching. Not yet.
“Maybe you should.”
You didn’t answer.
But you didn’t walk away either.
That night, the campfires burned lower than usual, embers glowing like watchful eyes. You sat on the edge of the Athena cabin steps, sharpening one of your knives more out of habit than need. Percy hovered nearby, pretending to retie his shoelaces for the third time. Neither of you mentioned the quest, but it sat between you anyway—heavy, inevitable. Finally, you broke the silence. “I leave at dawn,” you said quietly. It wasn’t a challenge this time. It was a fact.
Percy nodded once, jaw tight. “Then I’m coming with you.” When you opened your mouth to argue, he added, “Not to slow you down. Not to babysit. Just… so you don’t have to keep looking over your shoulder the whole time.” He met your eyes, steady in that infuriatingly sincere way of his. “You deserve someone watching your back.”
You exhaled, long and slow, like you were letting go of something you’d been gripping for years. “You really don’t quit, do you?” A faint smile tugged at your lips—tired, but real. You stood, sliding the knife away. “Fine. But we do this my way. No heroics. No self-sacrificing nonsense.”
Percy grinned, relief flashing across his face. “Deal.” As you walked back toward the cabins, side by side, the camp no longer felt quite so distant. The prophecy still loomed. The danger was still real. But for the first time since the Oracle spoke, you didn’t feel like you were facing it alone—and that, somehow, made all the difference.
Summary: Percy becomes fixated on you—the one camper he can’t predict—and realizes what unsettles him most is that you see him differently than everyone else
If anyone asked Percy Jackson when things started going wrong, he’d say it was the moment he stopped seeing you as a problem to solve—and started seeing you as a variable he couldn’t predict.
Which, frankly, annoyed him.
Camp returned to normal after Capture the Flag. Or at least, mostly normal. Clarisse was still loud, Thalia was still smug, and the dining pavilion still smelled faintly of burned offerings and teenage chaos.
You were the anomaly.
You didn’t sit with a cabin, not really. You drifted—sometimes with the Hermes kids, sometimes with Hades’ table, sometimes alone, perched on the edge of the pavilion roof like gravity was optional. You laughed easily, fought viciously, and vanished whenever Percy thought he’d finally figured you out.
And gods help him—he noticed everything.
The way you never turned your back on open water.
The way your humour sharpened whenever someone mentioned prophecies.
The way your hands stilled—just for a breath—whenever the Underworld was brought up like it was a joke.
It bothered him.
Which is how he found himself training harder.
“You’re overdoing it,” Annabeth said one afternoon, watching him hack at a practice dummy that had already been reduced to splinters. “You’re going to break something.”
“Yeah,” Percy muttered. “The dummy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re thinking about them again.”
He froze.
Annabeth sighed. “You’re not subtle.”
“I don’t—” He stopped, exhaled. “They’re suspicious.”
“You said that about Rachel. And Beckendorf. And that one harpy who tried to eat you.”
“This is different.”
Annabeth tilted her head. “Because they beat Clarisse?”
“No,” Percy said automatically.
Then, quieter: “Because they don’t look at me like everyone else does.”
That night, you caught him watching you.
He was sitting near the campfire, flames reflected in his eyes, when you dropped down beside him uninvited. Close enough that your shoulders brushed.
“Careful, Jackson,” you said lightly. “If you stare any harder, people are going to start rumours.”
He didn’t look away. “You already started those.”
You smirked. “I don’t start rumours. I curate them.”
Silence settled—not awkward, but weighted. The fire popped. Someone laughed in the distance.
"You didn’t have to go easy on me,” Percy said suddenly.
You blinked. “I didn’t.”
“You did,” he insisted. “In the woods. You could’ve ended it sooner.”
Your expression shifted—just a flicker. Gone before he could pin it down.
“Maybe,” you said. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d keep fighting even when you thought you’d lost.”
Percy frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
You stood, brushing ash from your hands. “It will.”
Hey everyone, im on SOOO much pain rn due to the fact that i cant find ANY Percy jackson smau in their hastag. JUST BECAUSE YOUR WRITING A FIC IN THE PJO FANDOM DOESN'T MEAN U A HAVE TO USE PERCY JACKSON X READER. IM SICK OF IT.
That is all. Thank you for listening to my ted talk
-GregoryEddie, a germ-obsessed teacher, meets the new English teacher, Miss L/N, whose teasing charm and surprising sanitation skills spark an instant connection.
-use of l/n, fluffff
Gregory Eddie pressed his thumb against the hand sanitizer dispenser for the third time in five minutes. The sharp citrus smell filled the tiny space between him and the faculty bulletin board, where someone had touched the new fall schedule with—he was certain—unwashed hands. He exhaled through his nose, wiped his palms on his slacks, and resisted the urge to realign the crookedly hung "Welcome Back, Teachers!" banner above him.
The staff room door swung open, letting in a gust of chatter and the distinct, horrifying sound of someone blowing their nose without a tissue. Gregory’s shoulders tensed. Another year, another parade of biological hazards is disguised as colleagues. He was halfway through mentally composing an email about proper hygiene protocols when a voice cut through the noise—bright, effortless, and alarmingly close. "You look like you’re about to disinfect this whole building with your mind."
Gregory turned to find the source: a woman leaning against the copy machine, grinning. She had one hand wrapped around a steaming mug (no sleeve, fingerprints smudging the ceramic) and the other holding a stack of papers that were definitely not in a neat, corner-aligned pile. His eye twitched. "It’s statistically probable someone here has touched that machine with unwashed hands after using the restroom," he said, voice flat.
She laughed, unfazed, and extended the mug toward him. "Want some? It’s just tea. I’m Miss l/n by the way—new English teacher." The liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim. Gregory stared. There were approximately twelve ways this could end in cross-contamination. But her smile didn’t waver, and—against his better judgment—he noticed her nails were short, clean, and free of chipped polish. Small mercies.
The staff room chatter faded as she leaned in conspiratorially. "I saw you recoil when Janine sneezed into her elbow earlier," she murmured. "You’re not wrong—she did wipe her nose on that sweater afterwards. But if you keep grimacing every time someone breaches CDC guidelines, you’ll give yourself an aneurysm by October." Her tone was teasing, but her eyes flicked meaningfully to the Purell clutched in his white-knuckled grip.
Gregory opened his mouth to retort, but the intercom crackled to life with Principal Coleman’s nasal announcement about fire drill procedures. The sudden noise made miss l/n jolt, sending tea splashing onto her blouse. He instinctively recoiled—until she rolled her eyes and produced a travel-sized disinfectant spray from her blazer pocket, spritzing the stain with practised ease. "See?" She winked. "I’m not completely feral."
The realization hit him like a misplaced stapler: she was watching him back. Calculating, amused, and—most unsettlingly—aware. Gregory’s throat went dry. This was worse than flu season. Far worse.
Across the room, Jacob attempted to eat a granola bar while adjusting the SMART board, sending crumbs scattering onto the keyboard. Miss L/N didn’t flinch, but her fingers twitched toward her own pocket—where Gregory now suspected an entire sanitation arsenal resided. “You’re staring,” she said lightly, blotting her blouse with a napkin. “Which, statistically, means you’ve either memorized my microbial footprint or you’re debating whether I’m a threat to public health.”
Gregory’s ears burned. He should’ve stayed in law school. “I don’t stare,” he lied. The banner above them chose that moment to sag further off-center. They both looked up simultaneously, and when their gazes snapped back, something unspoken crackled between them—equal parts exasperation and reluctant camaraderie.
The intercom buzzed again. “Five minutes till homeroom!” Principal Coleman trilled. Miss L/N sighed, crumpling the napkin into a perfect sphere before depositing it into the trash—without touching the lid, Gregory noted with absurd satisfaction. She paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder. “Race you to the hand sanitiser station before Ava starts her morning hallway hug-a-thon?” Her grin was all challenge. Gregory found himself reaching for his own spray bottle before he could stop.
Game on.
By October, their unspoken sanitation standoffs had become routine—competing for the least-contaminated microwave buttons, leaving disinfectant wipes on each other’s desks like cryptic love notes. Gregory caught himself cataloguing her habits: the way she flicked doorknobs open with her elbow, the surgical precision with which she peeled oranges (gloves optional, but the rind never touched the fruit). It was maddening. It was…
impressive.
The turning point came during midterms when Gregory walked in on her verbally, eviscerating a janitor for mopping the hallway during the passing period. “Do you want us to break our necks?” she hissed, gesturing to the wet floor sign that had toppled over. The janitor blinked. So did Gregory. Her outrage was… oddly touching. Later, she’d cornered him by the copier. “I know you agree with me,” she muttered. He handed her a wipe without comment. Their fingers didn’t brush. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.
December brought snow, sniffles, and an outbreak of stomach flu that decimated the third grade. Gregory arrived one morning to find Miss L/N already there, bleaching the entire teachers’ lounge. No gloves. No protection. Just sheer, reckless determination. “They puked in the pencil sharpener, Gregory,” she said hoarsely. He wordlessly handed her his spare mask. When their pinkies bumped in the exchange, neither pulled away.
By Valentine’s Day, Jacob had nicknamed them “The CDC Power Couple.” Gregory nearly choked on his black coffee. Miss L/N just grinned and stuck a heart-shaped “Wash Your Hands” sticker to Jacob’s forehead. Later, as they passed in the hallway, she flashed Gregory a knowing smirk—the kind that made his pulse stutter faster than an unwashed cafeteria fork touching his lunch tray.
March was worse. Spring allergies turned the staff into mucus factories. One afternoon, Gregory found Miss L/N slumped against the broken laminator, clutching a tissue like it owed her money. “I can feel the germs winning,” she groaned. He hesitated—then pressed his personal bottle of industrial-strength hand sanitiser into her palm. Their fingers lingered a second too long. “Truce?” he ventured. She snorted. “Never.” But her smile was soft, private.
The last day of term dawned suspiciously quiet. No sneezes. No outbreaks. Just Miss L/N leaning against Gregory’s classroom doorframe, holding two coffees—both in double sleeves. “So,” she said casually, “hypothetically, if I asked you to inspect my apartment for biohazards over summer break…” Gregory’s grip tightened on his gradebook. “Hypothetically,” he echoed, “I’d demand photographic evidence of your cleaning supplies first.” Her laugh warmed him better than the coffee ever could.
They walked to the parking lot together, dodging rogue glitter from Ava’s “End-of-Year Dance Party.” Miss L/N suddenly stopped mid-stride, glaring at a discarded juice box leaking onto the pavement. Gregory watched, mesmerized, as she produced a mini trash bag and tongs from her purse like some kind of sanitation vigilante. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, softer than intended. She tossed the bag into the dumpster with a flourish. “And yet,” she countered, “you’re still here.”
The summer sun glinted off her lanyard as she turned to face him fully. For once, neither reached for sanitiser. Gregory swallowed hard. “About that apartment inspection,” he started, then froze—because she was stepping closer, close enough that he could count every freckle dusting her nose. “Statistically,” she murmured, “this is a terrible idea.” His breath hitched. “Horrendous,” he agreed. The first kiss tasted faintly of minty mouthwash and recklessness, and Gregory decided—just this once—he didn’t mind living dangerously
Hi all, this is my very first fic. It is a coworker to lovers between buck and the reader. There is no use of y/n. This is a sexual fic.
I hope you enjoy!!!
The vodka bottle was empty, which Buck considered a personal betrayal. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at the bartender like it was somehow his fault.
Across the bar, you were doing shots with Hen, laughing too loud—the kind of laugh that scraped against Buck’s nerves. He hated how your shirt dipped just low enough to tease, how your fingers drummed the counter like you owned the place. You’d been like this since day one: all sharp edges and stolen glances, the kind of tension that made his jaw clench.
“You’re staring,” Chimney muttered, nudging Buck’s shoulder hard enough to slosh his beer. Buck didn’t answer. He was too busy watching you lick salt off your wrist, slow and deliberate, before tossing back the tequila. Your eyes locked with his over the rim of the glass, and something hot coiled low in his gut.
The bar’s neon sign flickered, casting your face in red and blue, and Buck decided he was done playing nice. He stood, chair screeching, and you smirked like you’d been waiting for this all night. Maybe you had.
Hen raised an eyebrow as Buck stalked over, his boots thudding against the sticky floor. "You look like you're about to start a fight or fuck someone," she murmured into her drink, and your laugh was a challenge Buck couldn’t resist.
He leaned in close, close enough to catch the scent of tequila and your shampoo—something citrusy, sharp, fucking infuriating. "You’ve been pushing my buttons all night," he growled, voice low enough that only you could hear. "What’s your game?"
Your fingers trailed up his forearm, slow and deliberate, and Buck’s pulse jumped. "Who says I’m playing?" you whispered, and just like that, the air between you crackled like a live wire.
The neon hummed above you, casting shadows sharp enough to cut—his jawline, your collarbone—when suddenly Hen cleared her throat and slid off her stool. "I’ll just… go find Chimney," she muttered, and the space she left felt like permission. Buck didn’t move, didn’t blink. His hand twitched at his side where he’d been gripping the bar edge hard enough to leave marks.
He could taste the challenge in the way your lips quirked, slick with tequila. One wrong move and this would combust—but wrong never felt so right. You arched a brow. "Cat got your tongue, Buckley?" The taunt was gasoline.
His fingers dug into your hip, dragging you flush against him, and the groan you choked out was worth every second of torture. "You talk too much," he growled against your ear, biting just hard enough to make you gasp.
The bar noise blurred into static—somewhere, a glass shattered, laughter rose, but all Buck registered was the hitch in your breath when his thumb found the soft skin beneath your shirt. You shoved back just as hard, nails scraping through his hair, and fuck, he wanted to ruin you right there on the sticky countertop.
Someone wolf-whistled. Buck flipped them off without breaking eye contact, your thigh pressing dangerously between his legs. "Still think I’m playing?" Your voice was molten, and his grip tightened.
The bartender coughed pointedly, but neither of you moved. Not when your teeth caught his lower lip, not when his hand slid higher. Let them watch. Let them see exactly whose game this was.
Your knee jerked up just enough to make Buck hiss—an unspoken dare—and he countered by twisting you sharply, pinning your back to the bar edge. The wood dug into your spine, the pain sharp and bright beneath the heat of his glare. "Try that again," he warned, voice rough, "and you'll regret it." You grinned, arching into him just to hear the curse he bit down.
Somewhere beyond the haze of tequila and neon, Hen's distant "Jesus Christ" barely registered. Not when Buck's palm scraped up your thigh, rough and claiming. Not when your nails raked down his neck, drawing a sound from him that wasn't meant for public spaces.
The jukebox clicked over to some pulsing bassline, but the rhythm was already lost beneath the pounding in Buck's ears—your pulse under his fingertips, your breath hot against his jaw. He knew this was reckless, knew the team would never let him live it down, but right then? He’d burn the whole goddamn bar down if it meant dragging you into the back alley first.
You sucked a bruise into his neck, sharp and sudden, and his hips jerked forward on instinct. The friction was brutal, delicious, and your answering moan curled around him like smoke. "Still think I'm all talk?" you taunted, but your voice cracked halfway through, betraying you. Buck filed that sound away for later, determined to hear it again when he had you stripped bare and shaking beneath him.
The bartender slammed a tray down hard enough to make you both flinch. "Take it outside," he snapped, jerking his thumb toward the exit. Buck barely spared him a glance, too busy memorizing the way your pupils swallowed everything but slivers of color—how they flicked to his mouth like you were starving.
"Your place or mine?" he murmured, dragging his teeth over the shell of your ear. He already knew the answer—had known since the moment you smirked at him across the rig bay three months ago, since you’d "accidentally" brushed against him in the locker room last week. This was always going to happen. Just not nearly fast enough.
You twisted just enough to slide out from under him, grabbing the front of his shirt to yank him toward the exit. The night air hit like a slap, neon buzzing behind you as the door swung shut. Buck barely had time to register the alley’s damp concrete before you shoved him against the brick wall, your mouth crashing into his with enough force to split his lip. He tasted copper and tequila and victory.
Somewhere, a dumpster rattled, rats scattering as Buck’s hands found your waist, hauling you up until your legs locked around him. The brick dug into his back, but the pain was nothing compared to the heat of your tongue against his, to the way your hips rolled against him with intent. "Always knew you’d fold first," you gasped, but the tremor in your voice gave you away.
Buck’s laugh was dark, hands sliding under your shirt to map the skin he’d been imagining for months. "Keep lying to yourself," he growled, nipping at your jaw before wrenching your head back by the hair. Your gasp was raw, unfiltered, and his grip tightened. "Let’s hear you admit it." The alley smelled like trash and rain coming, but all Buck could breathe was you—desperate and unraveling in his arms.
Your fingers clawed at his belt buckle, the metal clinking loud in the narrow space. "Fuck you," you hissed, but the way you ground against him betrayed the venom. Buck caught your wrist, pinning it to the wall beside your head, his other hand slipping past your waistband. Your choked moan when his fingers found you was sweeter than any taunt. "Yeah, that’s what I thought," he murmured, lips brushing yours as you shuddered.
A siren wailed in the distance, the red flash bouncing off wet pavement, and for a heartbeat, you froze—too many shifts, too many emergencies between you. Buck didn’t relent. "Not tonight," he promised, voice rough as gravel. "Tonight, you’re mine." His thumb circled slow, deliberate, and your hips jerked against his palm like you’d forgotten how to lie.
The first raindrops hit as your teeth sank into his shoulder, muffling a cry that’d haunt his dreams. Buck kissed you like he’d die if he stopped, drunk on the way your body arched into his, on the way your nails scored his skin like you wanted to brand him. The storm broke overhead, water slicking your hair, your clothes, but neither of you noticed. Not when the only thing that mattered was the way you whispered his name like a curse—like a prayer.
His fingers worked you ruthlessly, dragging out every hitch of breath, every broken noise you tried to swallow. “Say it,” he demanded, rain dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone. You writhed, slick and desperate against his hand, but he slowed his pace just to watch your frustration twist into something feral. “Tell me who you belong to tonight.” Your hips stuttered, thighs clamping around his wrist as you came with a sob he swallowed whole.
The alley spun, or maybe that was just your vision tunneling, but Buck didn’t give you a second to recover. He flipped you hard against the wall, your back hitting brick as he shoved your soaked shirt up, mouth closing over a nipple with a groan that vibrated through your ribs. “Buck—*fuck*—” You tugged his hair hard enough to sting, but he only laughed against your skin, nipping the tender spot beneath your breast.
Somewhere beyond the pounding rain and your own ragged breaths, the bar’s back door creaked open—Hen’s unmistakable “Oh hell no” cutting through the haze. Buck didn’t lift his head, just growled against your stomach, “Five more minutes,” before you yanked him up by his belt loops, crashing your mouths together in a kiss that tasted like rain and recklessness. He’d pay for this tomorrow—with hangovers and merciless ribbing—but right now, with your legs hooking around his hips and his name on your tongue, Buck couldn’t bring himself to care.
His palm smacked against the wet brick beside your head as he ground into you, the friction maddening through soaked denim. “You’re gonna kill me,” you gasped, but the way your hips canted up told him you didn’t mind the thought. Buck’s chuckle was dark, fingers twisting in your hair to tilt your head back. “Keep moving like that,” he murmured against your throat, “and I’ll make sure you go first.” The shudder that rolled through you had him biting back a groan. God, he should’ve done this months ago.
The distant wail of a ladder truck—their damn ladder truck—made you both freeze. You blinked rainwater from your lashes, staring at each other for one suspended second before Buck’s radio crackled to life on his hip, Bobby’s voice slicing through the storm. “Shit,” he hissed, forehead dropping to yours, but you were already pushing him back with a smirk that didn’t reach your eyes. “Saved by the bell, Buckley.” The nickname landed like a punch now, all sharp edges where before it’d been gasoline.
Buck caught your wrist before you could flee, thumb pressing into your rapid pulse. “This isn’t over,” he growled, but the radio’s insistent static turned it into a plea neither of you acknowledged. You yanked free, shirt clinging to your skin like a second layer of shame, and the alley suddenly felt too small, too exposed—Hen’s raised eyebrows from the doorway burning hotter than Buck’s hands ever had.
The rain plastered your hair to your face as you shoved past him, but his fingers caught your belt loop, jerking you back with enough force to make your breath hitch. "Run now," Buck murmured against your temple, lips brushing skin gone cold with rainwater and adrenaline, "and I'll chase you down in front of the whole damn crew." His grip loosened just enough for you to feel the tremor in his hands—not from the chill, but from the way your hips had fit against his like missing shrapnel finally dug free.
You turned, mouth open with some half-formed barb, but the words died when his thumb swiped across your split lip—gentle now, almost apologetic. The shift was dizzying: from teeth and nails to this quiet reverence that made your stomach drop. Behind him, Hen coughed pointedly, holding up Buck’s abandoned jacket like a white flag. "Bobby’s on the warpath," she called, but her smirk said she’d already memorized every detail for retelling later.
Buck didn’t move, didn’t blink. The siren’s echo mingled with the drip of rainwater off the fire escape above, each drop hitting the pavement like a ticking clock. You could still taste him—copper and salt and something darker—but the radio’s next crackle shattered the moment. "Copy that, Cap," Buck barked, jaw tight as he stepped back, though his fingers lingered on your hip for a heartbeat too long.
The alley door swung shut behind Hen with a finality that shouldn’t have stung, leaving you both soaked and stupidly breathless. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, the gesture too rough to be casual, and Buck’s slow once-over was a brand. "Next time," he promised, voice low enough to curl in your ribs, "I won’t stop when the bell rings." The challenge hung between you, sharp as the scent of ozone before a strike, and you knew—god, you both knew—this was just the first spark.
Hi all, this is my very first fic. It is a coworker to lovers between buck and the reader. There is no use of y/n. This is a sexual fic.
I hope you enjoy!!!
The vodka bottle was empty, which Buck considered a personal betrayal. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at the bartender like it was somehow his fault.
Across the bar, you were doing shots with Hen, laughing too loud—the kind of laugh that scraped against Buck’s nerves. He hated how your shirt dipped just low enough to tease, how your fingers drummed the counter like you owned the place. You’d been like this since day one: all sharp edges and stolen glances, the kind of tension that made his jaw clench.
“You’re staring,” Chimney muttered, nudging Buck’s shoulder hard enough to slosh his beer. Buck didn’t answer. He was too busy watching you lick salt off your wrist, slow and deliberate, before tossing back the tequila. Your eyes locked with his over the rim of the glass, and something hot coiled low in his gut.
The bar’s neon sign flickered, casting your face in red and blue, and Buck decided he was done playing nice. He stood, chair screeching, and you smirked like you’d been waiting for this all night. Maybe you had.
Hen raised an eyebrow as Buck stalked over, his boots thudding against the sticky floor. "You look like you're about to start a fight or fuck someone," she murmured into her drink, and your laugh was a challenge Buck couldn’t resist.
He leaned in close, close enough to catch the scent of tequila and your shampoo—something citrusy, sharp, fucking infuriating. "You’ve been pushing my buttons all night," he growled, voice low enough that only you could hear. "What’s your game?"
Your fingers trailed up his forearm, slow and deliberate, and Buck’s pulse jumped. "Who says I’m playing?" you whispered, and just like that, the air between you crackled like a live wire.
The neon hummed above you, casting shadows sharp enough to cut—his jawline, your collarbone—when suddenly Hen cleared her throat and slid off her stool. "I’ll just… go find Chimney," she muttered, and the space she left felt like permission. Buck didn’t move, didn’t blink. His hand twitched at his side where he’d been gripping the bar edge hard enough to leave marks.
He could taste the challenge in the way your lips quirked, slick with tequila. One wrong move and this would combust—but wrong never felt so right. You arched a brow. "Cat got your tongue, Buckley?" The taunt was gasoline.
His fingers dug into your hip, dragging you flush against him, and the groan you choked out was worth every second of torture. "You talk too much," he growled against your ear, biting just hard enough to make you gasp.
The bar noise blurred into static—somewhere, a glass shattered, laughter rose, but all Buck registered was the hitch in your breath when his thumb found the soft skin beneath your shirt. You shoved back just as hard, nails scraping through his hair, and fuck, he wanted to ruin you right there on the sticky countertop.
Someone wolf-whistled. Buck flipped them off without breaking eye contact, your thigh pressing dangerously between his legs. "Still think I’m playing?" Your voice was molten, and his grip tightened.
The bartender coughed pointedly, but neither of you moved. Not when your teeth caught his lower lip, not when his hand slid higher. Let them watch. Let them see exactly whose game this was.
Your knee jerked up just enough to make Buck hiss—an unspoken dare—and he countered by twisting you sharply, pinning your back to the bar edge. The wood dug into your spine, the pain sharp and bright beneath the heat of his glare. "Try that again," he warned, voice rough, "and you'll regret it." You grinned, arching into him just to hear the curse he bit down.
Somewhere beyond the haze of tequila and neon, Hen's distant "Jesus Christ" barely registered. Not when Buck's palm scraped up your thigh, rough and claiming. Not when your nails raked down his neck, drawing a sound from him that wasn't meant for public spaces.
The jukebox clicked over to some pulsing bassline, but the rhythm was already lost beneath the pounding in Buck's ears—your pulse under his fingertips, your breath hot against his jaw. He knew this was reckless, knew the team would never let him live it down, but right then? He’d burn the whole goddamn bar down if it meant dragging you into the back alley first.
You sucked a bruise into his neck, sharp and sudden, and his hips jerked forward on instinct. The friction was brutal, delicious, and your answering moan curled around him like smoke. "Still think I'm all talk?" you taunted, but your voice cracked halfway through, betraying you. Buck filed that sound away for later, determined to hear it again when he had you stripped bare and shaking beneath him.
The bartender slammed a tray down hard enough to make you both flinch. "Take it outside," he snapped, jerking his thumb toward the exit. Buck barely spared him a glance, too busy memorizing the way your pupils swallowed everything but slivers of color—how they flicked to his mouth like you were starving.
"Your place or mine?" he murmured, dragging his teeth over the shell of your ear. He already knew the answer—had known since the moment you smirked at him across the rig bay three months ago, since you’d "accidentally" brushed against him in the locker room last week. This was always going to happen. Just not nearly fast enough.
You twisted just enough to slide out from under him, grabbing the front of his shirt to yank him toward the exit. The night air hit like a slap, neon buzzing behind you as the door swung shut. Buck barely had time to register the alley’s damp concrete before you shoved him against the brick wall, your mouth crashing into his with enough force to split his lip. He tasted copper and tequila and victory.
Somewhere, a dumpster rattled, rats scattering as Buck’s hands found your waist, hauling you up until your legs locked around him. The brick dug into his back, but the pain was nothing compared to the heat of your tongue against his, to the way your hips rolled against him with intent. "Always knew you’d fold first," you gasped, but the tremor in your voice gave you away.
Buck’s laugh was dark, hands sliding under your shirt to map the skin he’d been imagining for months. "Keep lying to yourself," he growled, nipping at your jaw before wrenching your head back by the hair. Your gasp was raw, unfiltered, and his grip tightened. "Let’s hear you admit it." The alley smelled like trash and rain coming, but all Buck could breathe was you—desperate and unraveling in his arms.
Your fingers clawed at his belt buckle, the metal clinking loud in the narrow space. "Fuck you," you hissed, but the way you ground against him betrayed the venom. Buck caught your wrist, pinning it to the wall beside your head, his other hand slipping past your waistband. Your choked moan when his fingers found you was sweeter than any taunt. "Yeah, that’s what I thought," he murmured, lips brushing yours as you shuddered.
A siren wailed in the distance, the red flash bouncing off wet pavement, and for a heartbeat, you froze—too many shifts, too many emergencies between you. Buck didn’t relent. "Not tonight," he promised, voice rough as gravel. "Tonight, you’re mine." His thumb circled slow, deliberate, and your hips jerked against his palm like you’d forgotten how to lie.
The first raindrops hit as your teeth sank into his shoulder, muffling a cry that’d haunt his dreams. Buck kissed you like he’d die if he stopped, drunk on the way your body arched into his, on the way your nails scored his skin like you wanted to brand him. The storm broke overhead, water slicking your hair, your clothes, but neither of you noticed. Not when the only thing that mattered was the way you whispered his name like a curse—like a prayer.
His fingers worked you ruthlessly, dragging out every hitch of breath, every broken noise you tried to swallow. “Say it,” he demanded, rain dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone. You writhed, slick and desperate against his hand, but he slowed his pace just to watch your frustration twist into something feral. “Tell me who you belong to tonight.” Your hips stuttered, thighs clamping around his wrist as you came with a sob he swallowed whole.
The alley spun, or maybe that was just your vision tunneling, but Buck didn’t give you a second to recover. He flipped you hard against the wall, your back hitting brick as he shoved your soaked shirt up, mouth closing over a nipple with a groan that vibrated through your ribs. “Buck—*fuck*—” You tugged his hair hard enough to sting, but he only laughed against your skin, nipping the tender spot beneath your breast.
Somewhere beyond the pounding rain and your own ragged breaths, the bar’s back door creaked open—Hen’s unmistakable “Oh hell no” cutting through the haze. Buck didn’t lift his head, just growled against your stomach, “Five more minutes,” before you yanked him up by his belt loops, crashing your mouths together in a kiss that tasted like rain and recklessness. He’d pay for this tomorrow—with hangovers and merciless ribbing—but right now, with your legs hooking around his hips and his name on your tongue, Buck couldn’t bring himself to care.
His palm smacked against the wet brick beside your head as he ground into you, the friction maddening through soaked denim. “You’re gonna kill me,” you gasped, but the way your hips canted up told him you didn’t mind the thought. Buck’s chuckle was dark, fingers twisting in your hair to tilt your head back. “Keep moving like that,” he murmured against your throat, “and I’ll make sure you go first.” The shudder that rolled through you had him biting back a groan. God, he should’ve done this months ago.
The distant wail of a ladder truck—their damn ladder truck—made you both freeze. You blinked rainwater from your lashes, staring at each other for one suspended second before Buck’s radio crackled to life on his hip, Bobby’s voice slicing through the storm. “Shit,” he hissed, forehead dropping to yours, but you were already pushing him back with a smirk that didn’t reach your eyes. “Saved by the bell, Buckley.” The nickname landed like a punch now, all sharp edges where before it’d been gasoline.
Buck caught your wrist before you could flee, thumb pressing into your rapid pulse. “This isn’t over,” he growled, but the radio’s insistent static turned it into a plea neither of you acknowledged. You yanked free, shirt clinging to your skin like a second layer of shame, and the alley suddenly felt too small, too exposed—Hen’s raised eyebrows from the doorway burning hotter than Buck’s hands ever had.
The rain plastered your hair to your face as you shoved past him, but his fingers caught your belt loop, jerking you back with enough force to make your breath hitch. "Run now," Buck murmured against your temple, lips brushing skin gone cold with rainwater and adrenaline, "and I'll chase you down in front of the whole damn crew." His grip loosened just enough for you to feel the tremor in his hands—not from the chill, but from the way your hips had fit against his like missing shrapnel finally dug free.
You turned, mouth open with some half-formed barb, but the words died when his thumb swiped across your split lip—gentle now, almost apologetic. The shift was dizzying: from teeth and nails to this quiet reverence that made your stomach drop. Behind him, Hen coughed pointedly, holding up Buck’s abandoned jacket like a white flag. "Bobby’s on the warpath," she called, but her smirk said she’d already memorized every detail for retelling later.
Buck didn’t move, didn’t blink. The siren’s echo mingled with the drip of rainwater off the fire escape above, each drop hitting the pavement like a ticking clock. You could still taste him—copper and salt and something darker—but the radio’s next crackle shattered the moment. "Copy that, Cap," Buck barked, jaw tight as he stepped back, though his fingers lingered on your hip for a heartbeat too long.
The alley door swung shut behind Hen with a finality that shouldn’t have stung, leaving you both soaked and stupidly breathless. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, the gesture too rough to be casual, and Buck’s slow once-over was a brand. "Next time," he promised, voice low enough to curl in your ribs, "I won’t stop when the bell rings." The challenge hung between you, sharp as the scent of ozone before a strike, and you knew—god, you both knew—this was just the first spark.
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