layliloo

leon kennedy and jason todd stared at me across a bar and told me they liked my vibe and then we did it. it was awesome.

[layliloo]

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Welcome ໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১

愛 layla ᯓ 8teen+ blog . she / her . reblogger with a lot of things to say and a lot of people to support . share ur character thoughts with me .

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT , I AINT TRYNA CATCH A CASE , STAY AWAY FROM ME N MY BLOG PLS

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Masterlist

leon kennedy

[lovee-potions]

GIVING IN

thinking about 'just the tip' with jason...

tags — 18+ minors dni | f!reader, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), teasing, begging, slight choking, kinda rough sex, pet names (doll), creampie (0.7k wc)

jason has you spread open beneath him, legs hooked over his thighs as his free hand grips your hip. his thumb presses into the soft flesh, holding you open while he rocks his swollen head against your throbbing clit. 

his cock is thick and heavy between your folds, gliding through the mess of his precum mixing with your slick. jason drags the flushed head of his cock up through your glistening arousal, coating every thick inch until he’s covered.

you whimper pitifully, hips twitching uselessly as you try to chase him. jason chuckles shakily, slapping your clit with his cock. your whole body jerks, a high, needy moan ripping from your throat as the heavy weight of it lands against your sensitive bundle of nerves.

he continues to drag his cock through the mess between the both of you and the lewd sound of it causes another whine to tumble from your lips.

“such pretty noises,” he rasps.

“jay…” your voice cracks.

his hips jerk involuntarily and his tip catches at your entrance, stretching you open before he pulls back again. he rolls his hips slowly, sliding the swollen head inside you once more and stilling. jason’s eyes flutter shut as he relishes in the sensation of your warm cunt fluttering around him and trying to pull him in deeper. 

its absolute torture as he drags his hips back, pulling out and pressing only the tip back inside. over and over. you reach down, fingers brushing through the slick between your bodies and circle your clit to try and dim the deep, empty ache of wanting him. 

your thighs tremble, voice turning hoarse from begging for just a little more and only when you’re nearly sobbing his name does jason finally give in. his hand slides up from your thigh, up your side until it's wrapped around your throat.

“so impatient,” he tuts, surging forward in one long, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your whole body going rigid as he splits you open, stretching you wide, forcing you to take every thick, pulsing inch.

his hand tightens around your throat, tilting your head up and forcing you to look into his eyes as you take him. a filthy squelch merges with jason’s guttural groan as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours. 

“happy now, doll?” he grunts, pulling back only to roll his hips back into you again, harder.

he sets a punishing rhythm, hips driving deep and knocking the air from your lungs. jason groans under his breath, watching the way you struggle to take him. each thrust is loud and wet, the slap of skin on skin filling your bedroom. 

your mouth falls open, a silent, helpless whimper slipping past your lips. you can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t think—any chance of a coherent thought disappears as your mind goes blank. 

your moans break into choked off whimpers as he angles his hips to hit that spot that makes you see stars. your head spins, your whole body trembling as heat coils tight in your belly. your nails sink into his shoulders, legs trembling around his waist, as your orgasm crashes over you. 

it’s overwhelming as wave after wave of white-hot pleasure ripples through you. jason groans, his hand dropping from your throat and landing on your thigh as he fucks you through it—dragging out every last drop of your release until your cunt is twitching around him. 

jason isn’t far behind you. he can feel his release approaching, his cock throbbing and straining inside you with every little clench of your overstimulated cunt making his hips stutter. 

his rhythm turns desperate, frantic, as he chases his own release. with a sharp, wrecked groan, the pressure hits him all at once. his hips jerk, snapping forward one last time as he drives his cock deep—pulsing thick ropes of cum inside you, painting your walls and filling you up until you’re dripping all over the mattress.

jason’s fingers are bruising against your skin as he continues to slowly rock his hips until you’re both a wrecked, sweaty mess. one of your hands reaches up into his hair, curling into the sweat-dampened strands.

“just the tip, huh?” you tease breathlessly.

“shut up,” jason chuckles, hiding his face in the crook of your neck and gently nipping your skin.

note — post #2 for my 1k celebration!

(req) — can you write something for jason todd… literally anything (i need him)

[fancy-possum]

𝐂𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐨𝐝 || 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐱 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐞

masterlist || based on this request || 1k event

The rooftops of Gotham had always been a battlefield, but lately they felt like something else entirely — a stage where two shadows danced around each other in a game neither wanted to end. You had been Selina Kyle’s protégé for years, trained in the art of the steal, the graceful leap, the quiet confidence that came with knowing you could slip through any lock and leave no trace behind. Where Selina was all sleek elegance and playful seduction, you were quieter, sharper, a shadow with a purpose. You stole not just for the thrill, but for the people who needed it more than the wealthy elite who hoarded their treasures in glass cases. Selina approved. She called you her favorite little cat, the one who reminded her of herself before the world had taught her to smile while she clawed back what was taken.

Jason Todd, the Red Hood, had been a problem from the moment he appeared on the scene.

He was everything you weren’t supposed to want: brutal, unrelenting, a storm wrapped in red and black leather who left broken bones and fear in his wake. He protected the streets in his own violent way, but he didn’t play by the same rules as the Batfamily. He didn’t pull punches. He didn’t hesitate. And he especially didn’t tolerate thieves who thought they could operate in his territory, even if their intentions were noble.

The first time your paths crossed, you were lifting a diamond necklace from a corrupt businessman’s penthouse — the kind of man who funded weapons that ended up on the streets Jason tried to clean. You’d been silent, efficient, already halfway out the window when the Red Hood dropped in like a thunderclap.

“Nice try, kitten,” he’d growled, voice distorted through the helmet. “But this city’s got enough stray cats causing trouble.”

You’d fought then — a blur of acrobatics and precision against his raw power. You were faster, slipping through his grasp like smoke. He was stronger, relentless, refusing to let you disappear into the night. In the end, you’d escaped with the necklace, but not before he’d left a bruise on your ribs and a strange, electric tension in the air between you.

From that night on, it became a chase.

You’d plan a heist. He’d show up. You’d tease him with a smirk and a clever escape. He’d growl threats and pursue you across rooftops, the city lights blurring beneath you both. Sometimes you won. Sometimes he did. But neither of you ever really tried to end it.

It was almost like a game.

A dangerous, addictive game.

The night everything changed started like any other.

You were on the roof of an old art gallery in the Diamond District, the wind whipping through your sleek black suit as you disabled the security system with a few careful flicks of your tools. The target was a stolen artifact — a ancient cat statue that belonged in a museum, not the private collection of a mob boss. Selina had tipped you off. You were almost done when the familiar weight of his presence settled behind you.

“Stealing again, kitten?” Jason’s voice was low, rough, like gravel under boots. “Thought we talked about this.”

You didn’t turn around immediately. Instead, you finished securing the statue in your bag, a small smile playing on your lips. “We did. You talked. I listened. Then I decided I didn’t care.”

You spun then, leaping gracefully to the next rooftop. He followed without hesitation, the chase beginning like it always did — exhilarating, heart-pounding, a dance of shadows and sparks. You were faster on your feet, slipping through narrow alleys and across fire escapes. He was relentless, cutting you off with calculated jumps, forcing you to improvise.

But tonight, something felt different.

The rain started halfway through the chase, slicking the rooftops and making every leap a little more dangerous. You landed hard on a wet ledge, slipping slightly, and Jason was there in an instant — catching your arm before you could fall, pulling you against his chest with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.

For a moment, you were pressed together, rain pouring down around you, his helmet inches from your face. You could feel the heat of him through the armor, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his grip on your arm was firm but not bruising.

“You’re going to get yourself killed one day,” he growled, voice distorted but still unmistakably his. “And I’m not going to be there to catch you every time.”

You looked up at the blank black domino mask, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the chase. “Then maybe you should stop chasing me.”

He didn’t let go. His hand slid from your arm to your waist, holding you there on the ledge as the rain soaked through both your suits. The city lights blurred below, the world narrowing to just the two of you — enemies, rivals, something neither of you had named yet.

“I can’t,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ve tried. You’re under my skin, kitten. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

The tension snapped.

You kissed him first — impulsive, desperate, the rain mixing with the taste of him as your hands fisted in the front of his jacket. He froze for half a second, then kissed you back like he’d been starving for it, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other pressed into your lower back, pulling you flush against him. The kiss was messy, urgent, full of all the frustration and want that had been building for months.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against your own, white eyes through the mask unreadable.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he said, voice rough. “You’re everything I’m supposed to stop. But I can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t stop chasing you. Can’t stop wanting you.”

You smiled, small and breathless, fingers tracing the edge of his helmet. “Then don’t stop.”

He kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, like he was savoring every second. The rain kept falling, but neither of you cared. In that moment, on a rain-slicked rooftop in the middle of Gotham, the line between enemy and something more finally blurred beyond recognition.

And for the first time in years, Jason Todd felt like he wasn’t alone in the dark.

The days after that rooftop kiss were a strange, beautiful chaos.

You still stole. He still chased. But the chases ended differently now - with stolen kisses in alleyways, with his hands on your waist as he pressed you against brick walls, with whispered confessions between breaths.

He started showing up at your apartment after patrols, helmet off, armour scuffed, looking at you like you were the only real thing in his world. You’d patch him up, fingers gentle on his scars, and he’d pull you into his lap, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough.

One night, after a particularly long chase that ended with both of you laughing on a rooftop, he held you close, arms wrapped around your waist as the city lights twinkled below.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted quietly. “But I don’t want it to stop. You make the night feel less heavy. Make me feel like I’m more than just the Red Hood.”

You leaned back against his chest, smiling. “You are. You’re Jason. My Jason. The one who chases me across rooftops and kisses me like the world might end tomorrow. And I don’t want it to stop either.”

He turned you in his arms, kissing you slow and deep, hands sliding under your suit to trace warm paths along your skin. The touch was possessive but gentle, full of all the want he didn’t know how to put into words.

When he pulled back, forehead against yours, he whispered, “Stay with me tonight. Not for the chase. Just… stay.”

You nodded, kissing him once more. “I’m not going anywhere.”

In the quiet dark of his apartment, with Jason’s arms around you and his heartbeat steady under your ear, the rivalry that had defined you both finally felt like the beginning of something better.

Something that felt a lot like home.

a/n: I think I peaked at this.. I’m feeling kinda down about my writing atm arghh I miss people’s sweet reblogs

[fancy-possum]

𝐂𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐨𝐝 || 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐱 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐞

masterlist || based on this request || 1k event

The rooftops of Gotham had always been a battlefield, but lately they felt like something else entirely — a stage where two shadows danced around each other in a game neither wanted to end. You had been Selina Kyle’s protégé for years, trained in the art of the steal, the graceful leap, the quiet confidence that came with knowing you could slip through any lock and leave no trace behind. Where Selina was all sleek elegance and playful seduction, you were quieter, sharper, a shadow with a purpose. You stole not just for the thrill, but for the people who needed it more than the wealthy elite who hoarded their treasures in glass cases. Selina approved. She called you her favorite little cat, the one who reminded her of herself before the world had taught her to smile while she clawed back what was taken.

Jason Todd, the Red Hood, had been a problem from the moment he appeared on the scene.

He was everything you weren’t supposed to want: brutal, unrelenting, a storm wrapped in red and black leather who left broken bones and fear in his wake. He protected the streets in his own violent way, but he didn’t play by the same rules as the Batfamily. He didn’t pull punches. He didn’t hesitate. And he especially didn’t tolerate thieves who thought they could operate in his territory, even if their intentions were noble.

The first time your paths crossed, you were lifting a diamond necklace from a corrupt businessman’s penthouse — the kind of man who funded weapons that ended up on the streets Jason tried to clean. You’d been silent, efficient, already halfway out the window when the Red Hood dropped in like a thunderclap.

“Nice try, kitten,” he’d growled, voice distorted through the helmet. “But this city’s got enough stray cats causing trouble.”

You’d fought then — a blur of acrobatics and precision against his raw power. You were faster, slipping through his grasp like smoke. He was stronger, relentless, refusing to let you disappear into the night. In the end, you’d escaped with the necklace, but not before he’d left a bruise on your ribs and a strange, electric tension in the air between you.

From that night on, it became a chase.

You’d plan a heist. He’d show up. You’d tease him with a smirk and a clever escape. He’d growl threats and pursue you across rooftops, the city lights blurring beneath you both. Sometimes you won. Sometimes he did. But neither of you ever really tried to end it.

It was almost like a game.

A dangerous, addictive game.

The night everything changed started like any other.

You were on the roof of an old art gallery in the Diamond District, the wind whipping through your sleek black suit as you disabled the security system with a few careful flicks of your tools. The target was a stolen artifact — a ancient cat statue that belonged in a museum, not the private collection of a mob boss. Selina had tipped you off. You were almost done when the familiar weight of his presence settled behind you.

“Stealing again, kitten?” Jason’s voice was low, rough, like gravel under boots. “Thought we talked about this.”

You didn’t turn around immediately. Instead, you finished securing the statue in your bag, a small smile playing on your lips. “We did. You talked. I listened. Then I decided I didn’t care.”

You spun then, leaping gracefully to the next rooftop. He followed without hesitation, the chase beginning like it always did — exhilarating, heart-pounding, a dance of shadows and sparks. You were faster on your feet, slipping through narrow alleys and across fire escapes. He was relentless, cutting you off with calculated jumps, forcing you to improvise.

But tonight, something felt different.

The rain started halfway through the chase, slicking the rooftops and making every leap a little more dangerous. You landed hard on a wet ledge, slipping slightly, and Jason was there in an instant — catching your arm before you could fall, pulling you against his chest with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.

For a moment, you were pressed together, rain pouring down around you, his helmet inches from your face. You could feel the heat of him through the armor, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his grip on your arm was firm but not bruising.

“You’re going to get yourself killed one day,” he growled, voice distorted but still unmistakably his. “And I’m not going to be there to catch you every time.”

You looked up at the blank black domino mask, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the chase. “Then maybe you should stop chasing me.”

He didn’t let go. His hand slid from your arm to your waist, holding you there on the ledge as the rain soaked through both your suits. The city lights blurred below, the world narrowing to just the two of you — enemies, rivals, something neither of you had named yet.

“I can’t,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ve tried. You’re under my skin, kitten. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

The tension snapped.

You kissed him first — impulsive, desperate, the rain mixing with the taste of him as your hands fisted in the front of his jacket. He froze for half a second, then kissed you back like he’d been starving for it, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other pressed into your lower back, pulling you flush against him. The kiss was messy, urgent, full of all the frustration and want that had been building for months.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against your own, white eyes through the mask unreadable.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he said, voice rough. “You’re everything I’m supposed to stop. But I can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t stop chasing you. Can’t stop wanting you.”

You smiled, small and breathless, fingers tracing the edge of his helmet. “Then don’t stop.”

He kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, like he was savoring every second. The rain kept falling, but neither of you cared. In that moment, on a rain-slicked rooftop in the middle of Gotham, the line between enemy and something more finally blurred beyond recognition.

And for the first time in years, Jason Todd felt like he wasn’t alone in the dark.

The days after that rooftop kiss were a strange, beautiful chaos.

You still stole. He still chased. But the chases ended differently now - with stolen kisses in alleyways, with his hands on your waist as he pressed you against brick walls, with whispered confessions between breaths.

He started showing up at your apartment after patrols, helmet off, armour scuffed, looking at you like you were the only real thing in his world. You’d patch him up, fingers gentle on his scars, and he’d pull you into his lap, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough.

One night, after a particularly long chase that ended with both of you laughing on a rooftop, he held you close, arms wrapped around your waist as the city lights twinkled below.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted quietly. “But I don’t want it to stop. You make the night feel less heavy. Make me feel like I’m more than just the Red Hood.”

You leaned back against his chest, smiling. “You are. You’re Jason. My Jason. The one who chases me across rooftops and kisses me like the world might end tomorrow. And I don’t want it to stop either.”

He turned you in his arms, kissing you slow and deep, hands sliding under your suit to trace warm paths along your skin. The touch was possessive but gentle, full of all the want he didn’t know how to put into words.

When he pulled back, forehead against yours, he whispered, “Stay with me tonight. Not for the chase. Just… stay.”

You nodded, kissing him once more. “I’m not going anywhere.”

In the quiet dark of his apartment, with Jason’s arms around you and his heartbeat steady under your ear, the rivalry that had defined you both finally felt like the beginning of something better.

Something that felt a lot like home.

a/n: I think I peaked at this.. I’m feeling kinda down about my writing atm arghh I miss people’s sweet reblogs

[f41ryb0nes]

⌖ unconventional methods ⌖

USSTRATCOM was hell, and brutal training made many recruits desperate to blow off steam. For you? That resulted in earning the title of barracks bunny.

But Leon? You liked him too much to reduce him to a notch on your belt, so you avoided him as much as you could since he caught on. Easier said than done being Krauser's top two recruits.

And Krauser? Nothing got past him. He knew exactly what had you both distracted, and he knew how to fix it.

ao3 ⌖ wc: 14.5k ⌖ insp part _ of three’s company

tags: Leon Kennedy/Reader/Jack Krauser, m/f/m smut, cisfem!reader, mostly leon/reader but also spitroasting, repressed feelings, p in v, creampie, degradation, slut shaming, begging, orgasm denial, cockdrunkenness, overstimulation, hair pulling, voyeurism, krauser backseat gaming from the cuck chair, krauser is a sadist, boot kink, dacryphilia, corruption?, slapping, choking, knife play, extremely dubious consent/noncon (reader enjoys/is non-resistant but the dove is in hospice, you’ve been warned)

a/n: I would like to apologize to feminism and also to god. wc is like 80% spice

Personal lives are nonexistent for the poor souls who train at USSTRATCOM; in fact, they’re outright forbidden. But the human will is a stubborn thing, and experiencing constant, extreme conditions makes many recruits willing to do extreme things to fulfill any personal desire at all. Whether it be sneaking a book to their bunk or rubbing one out in the showers, there’s only one rule: don't get caught.

But none are more stubborn than you and Leon Kennedy. It's why you’d each survived the experiences that landed you in military custody in the first place. You’re too stubborn to fail, too hard-headed to die. At least that’s what Krauser always says; that that’s how you both so quickly rose to be his two most-promising recruits

But being on Major Krauser's pedestal came with crippling pressure to keep ahold of his fickle approval. Every trainee lives under his constant scrutiny, and no slip-up is too small to go unnoticed. And his attention, good or bad, isn't something anyone wants to have. 

Krauser stated his goal explicitly on the very first day of training— "I will break you" —and he makes good on that promise every single day. Those who he sees as weak are given extra drills and rounds in the fighting ring until they puke from overexertion, and those he believes in are pushed past their limits, resulting in the exact same end.

So to say that you’re stressed would be a laughable understatement, and you blow off steam in equal measure when you can. And since you’re constantly reduced to nothing but a primal instinct to survive, your vice of choice is somewhat primal as well.

You’re a classic barracks bunny. Sue you for having needs, but there are worse things to be. Besides, all female recruits are on a steady diet of birth control, so the number of risks are relatively few.

Leon, however, didn’t exactly seem to approve. He never brought it up, but you once locked eyes with him as you snuck out of the men’s barracks, and it didn’t take a genius to guess what you’d been doing there at such a late hour. He’d never make you feel bad about it, and you hardly had time to dwell on it in the scarce minutes of the day not spent training or sleeping, but you were sure you caught a sour look of disapproval in his eyes. 

You and Leon were once as close to friends as anyone could be in a hellscape like USSTRATCOM, so if you’re being honest, yeah, you’re a bit embarrassed that he’d caught you like that, and you haven’t been able to fight off the pangs of guilt you feel in his presence now. So although the topic has gone untouched, it's been a little tense between you ever since; just enough to notice but not enough to address. 

Besides, the kind of tension is the only thing that’s new between you and Leon. Tension sprouted within the very first days of group training and had grown ever since, and other people noticed, too. They all chalked it up to being competitive rivals, but it was anything but that. 

You have the fattest, most hopeless crush on him ever. Hell, you’re one bad day or BOW incident away from admitting that you’re in love.

That’s what makes you feel so guilty about the subtle glint of disappointment you keep finding in Leon's gaze now. Wondering what he thinks about you makes you beyond anxious, and you doubt you'll ever have the time or courage to find out.

There’s a reason you sneak off into nearly everyone's barracks but his, after all: you like him far too much to seek him out for a quick and dirty indulgence. Leon means far more to you than a notch on your belt, and you wouldn’t be able to stand it if you put yourself in a position where he categorized you as a hookup and nothing more.

But what cuts the most? Assuming he feels disappointed in you might be wishful thinking. He most likely thinks you’re a whore, that you’re reckless and irresponsible, probably shares all the typical judgments you know get whispered behind your back. 

Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if he hates you with how he’s been acting cold. 

So despite how much you want him and how often you imagine his face while someone else is balls-deep inside, you’ll never invite yourself into his room, much less admit your feelings for him. Plus, it’s kind of comforting to pretend sleeping around will help you get over your crush.

But your vice of choice has more consequences than those of emotional repression. You have to sacrifice a non-insignificant amount of your already scarce sleep hours to sneak around— and today, the exhaustion has finally caught up to you.

Your aim isn't as sharp, you don't anticipate the most obvious counterattacks, and you’re all-around slower on your feet. Careless mistakes that are totally unlike you, big and small. And no matter how hard you try to muster your strength and focus, dammit, you just can’t stop fucking up.

And none of it got past Major Krauser. That results in him keeping you late for after-hours training, but he isn't one to make a recruit suffer alone. Knowing you’ve dragged someone else into it is a part of the punishment in itself. 

So naturally, being the top two recruits, he chose Leon to join you. Just your fucking luck. 

That's how you find yourself here in the indoor ring somewhere after 23:00 hours, the air pushed from your lungs as you crash back-first onto the floor with a knife against your throat for the umpteenth time in a row. 

Krauser is seriously a sick bastard for making you spar with sharpened weapons, by the way, but that isn't breaking news. Just another "privilege" that comes with being his top recruits.

Leon never goes easy on you, either, but this feels different. Like he really does hate you and is taking his frustrations out with each painful blow to your body. The idea doesn't help you focus, and it isn't long before another miscalculation sends you back against the ground, staring at your tired eyes in the reflection of a knife that would've gouged them out in anyone else's hands. 

"You're tired. It’s pathetic. You think the enemy will care that you didn’t get your beauty sleep?”

“No, sir,” you reply through a wheeze as you try to recover your breathing. 

“Again.”

Despite your screaming muscles and the tiredness clouding your head, you stand up at once. You make yourself small as you shift your weight between your feet, poised to move wherever you’ll need to. As your combat knife shines in the gymnasium lights where you hold it in front of you, raised within your fist, you look Leon dead in the eyes and gear up for yet another fight. 

“Go!”

Leon beats you to the opening move. You dodge to the side. For some reason you put your fucking hand out to block him, and it does nothing to stop his knee from reeling straight into your gut. 

You cough and sputter but remain on your feet, stepping back to create a touch of distance to calculate your next move. But you’re more tired than ever now, and your body can’t keep up with your brain. 

As riled up as Leon is, the late hours are getting to him, too.

In a second, he came at you again with a strong left hook. Too stong for an opening blow, especially with a fist instead of his weapon. At last, you see an opening for attack. 

You use his momentum against him, pulling him through by the wrist. He twists sideways to stay upright, and needing to adjust your own balance, you send a sharp kick onto his back. Your eyes widen with adrenaline as it lands just as harshly as you intended; the upper hand finally seems within your reach. 

Or not. He hooks an arm around the back of your knee while your other leg is still mid-kick, and with nothing more than a shove to your chest, you’re on the ground again, pinned in the exact same position as before. 

“Absolutely disgraceful,” Krauser barks. “You’re distracted, rookie.”

You blink once at Leon who’s looking down at you with a similarly confused expression. Although you both fit the title, ‘rookie’ has long since been exclusively reserved for Leon. But you were the one who was called here tonight to be punished; why was Krauser drilling him?

Your knit brows turn to widened eyes as Leon attempts to rise but is stopped by a boot on his back. 

“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind, pretty boy?”

It’s clearly a trap question, and the pet name is laced with anything but admiration. Leon purses his lips and opens them as he attempts to think of an acceptable answer, but he’s obviously at a loss. You wonder what sadistic plan Krauser has in store as he awaits Leon’s response, and you grow somewhat fearful for the younger man.

Though he speaks with a sure tone, Leon only manages a single word, like he thinks he can get around it by gathering more information first.

“Sir?”

Krauser adding weight to his stance on Leon’s back is all it takes to know it didn’t work.

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No, sir,” you and Leon say in unison. 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Krauser spat in your direction. 

“Then tell me,” Krauser continued, his attention returning solely to Leon, “why you’re face-to-face with what’s distracting you, and you can’t tell me what it is. Do you think I haven’t noticed?” 

You get halfway through the thought of “noticed what?” before Krauser pushes Leon down further, so close that the wispy ends of his bangs brush against your cheekbones. You gulp against the knife that still hovers over your neck, but the sharpened edge doesn’t make you feel nearly as nervous as whatever the fuck is happening right now.

You’re used to being in close proximity with Leon in training, but this is entirely different. It’s intimate. Uncomfortably so. It makes your head spin too fast to think about what Krauser just implied.

Instead, your attention is preoccupied with avoiding Leon’s eyes like you’ve been doing for weeks now, but with him this close-range, he’s everywhere, so close that your eyes threaten to cross. You can see every pore on his nose, the moles that constellate his neck, the lines in his forehead where he’ll have wrinkles in ten or so years. 

God, he even looks good this up close and personal. Every detail makes your heart skip and your ears get hot, even in a nerve-racking situation like this. Even when you look away from his stupidly beautiful face, all you can see are his biceps straining as he holds himself over you, flexing against his shirt as he holds himself up against Krauser’s unyielding boot. 

Your adolescent anguish is cut short by Krauser’s attention returning to you.

“That’s why you’re so tired today, isn’t it? From being in this position?”

Oh. Oh no.

A cold wave shoots through you as you realize what all of this is really about. Of course word got around about your late-night escapades; you just didn’t think it’d find its way to Krauser unless he caught you in the act. You now know what a fool you were for ever thinking that.

Krauser and Leon are by far the last people you're ready to address it with, and Krauser just had to bring it up while he keeps you pinned inches beneath the latter. 

It has to be some kind of divine punishment. This is the absolute worst-case scenario. Far worse than you ever could've imagined. The only place to hide is behind the refuge of your eyelids, so you squeeze them tightly shut.

Krauser keeps on twisting the metaphorical knife with a devious laugh that rumbles in his chest.

“You’re awful quiet, rookie. Not gonna defend your lady’s honor? Or, don’t tell me… are you the only one she hasn’t fucked?” 

Your heartbeat turns into a war drum that threatens to beat through your ribs. You're sure Leon can feel it thrum in the air between you. You pray to god in all his mercy to open the ground and swallow you whole, but no such thing will happen.

Leon, however, is praying to a wrathful god to smite Krauser where he stands. He can’t handle it. The humiliation, the intentional offensiveness. The stunning accuracy. Being confronted with it in such a demeaning way. He could maybe take it on the chin if it'd only been about himself, but Leon has long since become protective of you, and he carries your degradation as if it's his own. It's the perfect setup to make him seethe, and Krauser pushes him further with every syllable.

“I asked you a question. Have you fucked her or not?”

Leon’s chest becomes thick with heat as his rage dials up to a fever pitch, nostrils flaring and knuckles whitening around the combat knife. It's hardly at your neck anymore, but you're keenly aware of it.

You're beyond uneasy, but you can’t do anything. You can’t move except to squirm, you don’t have a white flag to raise, and you don’t dare speak out of turn. Anything you say right now won’t be helpful anyway; you’re ultimately the reason you three are here, and any attempt to deescalate would absolutely be thrown right back in your face.

You scream internally to Leon as you see his anger dial up to ten, hoping he’s close enough that if your thoughts are simply loud enough they’ll be able to reach him.

Don’t put yourself on the line for me, you think over and over. But telepathy doesn’t happen to be a weapon in your arsenal, and Leon seldom possesses the ability to bite his tongue. So however reckless it might be, he tries to change the subject by steering it towards an argument.

“Go fuck yourself, sir.”

You wince as you prepare for Krauser to skin him alive, but to your surprise, he doesn’t take the bait. Leon avoiding the question is answer enough, so Krauser coolly clicks his tongue, and his level-headedness makes the situation all the more terrifying.

“Just as I thought. Is that why you threw all those haymakers? Want to keep pinning her down just to get a taste? You know damn well that won’t work on the field.”

It’s insane, the way Krauser can tie anything back to training, but his words hit right where he aimed them, and it’s Leon’s turn to be unable to face you as he tries to keep his cool. Tough work, since Krauser’s on a roll.

“She’s obviously easy; why haven’t you just asked her, Kennedy?”

Leon’s jaw sets tighter. 

“Afraid that she’d reject you?” 

Krauser hits a bullseye. It’s all too clear now that humiliation is Krauser’s goal, and neither of you can leave without it being shoved down your throats. Watching Leon reel between emotions is giving you secondhand whiplash, but it’s only a few seconds before he grits his teeth and lets go of his dignity. 

“Because I—” he swallows hard, “I like her, sir.”

The confession hits you like a battering ram, and for a moment, the room is so quiet your ears ring. 

He doesn’t hate you. He likes you. A part of you could cry you were so happy, but with the situation at hand, how could you possibly be content? It brings on a wave of emotions that surfaces all the ones you’d been shoving down for months.

Feelings like that are impossible to foster in a hellhole like this. Sleeping around is one thing, but romance? What could even come of it being mutual? For those reasons and many more, you’d accepted it being hopeless a long time ago. And now that Krauser knew— and had apparently set this all up because he’d known for a while— you were now sure that he’d brought you here just to murder your dreams in cold blood. 

So there you and Leon lay on top of each other, no warmth or sweetness about it, faced with each other as symbols of your failures to cope. All you can do is wait for Krauser to rip your hearts out and incinerate them so they’ll never distract you again.

“What a goddamn sweetheart,” Krauser tuts, shaking his head. “You’re too soft. And you’re letting it get in the way instead of taking the clear fucking solution.”

The air goes still as you brace for whatever twisted “solution” he might have in mind, mentally preparing to run drills until sunrise or engage in some sick psychological simulation where you’d come to hate each other. Either would be perfectly up Krauser’s alley.

You were once again a fool to think you could predict him. You never would have expected what happened next. 

He crushes his boot into Leon's lower back until his navel is fixed solidly against your center. Hissing at the sudden contact, Leon swiftly pushes away as much as he can, but it isn’t much; although you aren’t quite face-to-face anymore, the Major’s full bodyweight keeps Leon’s lower half trapped flush against you. 

Startled astonishment washes over your face as you realize what exactly it is you feel pressed against you: at some point during tonight’s training, Leon got hard. You hadn’t noticed, but Krauser apparently did. 

Oh my god you feel like an idiot. You were too distracted by your fucking feelings to notice that he was hard. What the actual fuck.

You’re trying not to panic. You’re exactly where you want to be, but it’s in the least conceivable scenario possible. You scan Leon’s face wildly to find some sort of confidence in him that you can hold onto, a muscle memory of the looks you’ve often exchanged to get through training, but he’s just as frantic as you are as he tries to stay still, to not move an inch against you. 

Leon is very keenly aware of the fact that you didn’t ask for this, haven’t said that it’s okay, and the shame he feels at his exposed arousal sits like a death grip around his neck. He has no reason to think you were even interested in him; you hadn’t said anything since whatever the fuck this is began— and if you didn’t want it, what could you even do about it? It felt like a noose around his neck, and Krauser kept dragging him by it, tightening the rope with each syllable he spoke. 

“Close encounters really do it for you, huh? You like holding a pretty girl down, feeling her struggle against your cock? Maybe you’re not such a boy scout; you’re more like me than you think.”

Any thoughts you had about his statement went in one ear and out the other as Krauser moves his heel to rut Leon back and forth against you, grinding his cock smoothly and firmly against your clothed cunt. You nearly choke at the electric current it sends rushing through your core.

Even though Leon isn’t moving on his own accord, even if the inner war he’s waging against himself is written all over his face, he’s pressed so staunchly against you that you feel every twitch of his cock as it grows harder. 

It shouldn’t send a rush of thrill through you, but it does.

You bite your lip as another ebb of downward pressure increases the friction and makes the feeling too bright to ignore. Just as Leon can’t help his body reacting to yours, you’re resistless to the way you unconsciously arch into him. 

“Don’t be so shy. Look at her, she likes it.”

That makes Leon finally look at you head-on, and your face floods with a blush so hot it burns, because it’s undeniably true. You did like it. It felt good. A mental hell alongside physical heaven, but heaven nonetheless.

His hips grind into your core again—shaky, but this time of his own volition— before he raggedly whispers, "Do you…? Do you want me?”

You struggle to keep the intensity of his gaze, but you know what he’s really asking for: the truth. You try to show as much surety as you can as you nod your head against the padded ground, sharing it like a lifeline.

“Y-yeah. Yes.”

Krauser interjects with an eye roll and his trademark condescension. “You’re still too goddamn soft. You still have a knife in your hand, for god’s sake, that’s all the permission you need.”

Twisted fucking bastard, Leon thinks, his grip tightening around the hilt of the blade where he holds it beside your head. He stares straight into your eyes with an intensity that says he isn’t readying it for you. Your gut churns all the same. 

Luckily for you both, the major moves on from it. His boot leaves Leon’s back and he shudders in relief, exhaling deeply as he’s able to part his body from yours. 

It’s a short-lived reprieve as a broad shadow falls from overhead. Krauser looms from above with menacing casualness, thumbs hooked in his belt loops as he cocks his head in amusement.

"Go on, then. Kiss her."

You freeze in place and watch Leon as you remain stuck under him, breathlessly waiting to see if he takes the opportunity, heart pounding as you wonder if he should. 

Leon hardly pauses. An order is an order, and he’s getting used to that, as unconventional as they may be. He huffs, leans in halfway, and then retracts another inch; knits his brows together and shakes his head, either deciding against it or shaking off his last bits of resistance. You couldn’t tell which, at least not until he suddenly closes the distance.

It's the gentlest kiss you've ever received. His plush and impassioned lips skim lightly over yours as he still struggles to take what he so clearly wants. And god, you want him too, and you lift your chin in an attempt to press your mouths closer together, but it’s no use; he retreats just enough to leave you attached by the cupid's bow and a brushing of noses.

Krauser is less than impressed by the soft display. Gripping Leon by the crown of his hair, he admonishes, "I said kiss her, rookie," and all but crushes his face into yours.

You inhale sharply as Leon's lips fuse together intensely with your own. He twitches in surprise, grinding into you again inadvertently. The friction evokes a needy rasp from him, lips parting from the sound just enough for your tongues to meet— fleetingly at first, then reckless and deep as passion wins out against restraint. 

Leon grinds again, this time with intention as you start to melt into each other, having nowhere to go but further into each other’s bodies. Krauser's hand leaves Leon's scalp as he becomes pleased, finally, with his energy. He circles like a shark as he keeps a watchful eye.

Leon becomes more intense as he gains full room to move on his own, like the levee broke for his desire to surge violently and freely, a desire that’d been held back for months of anguish. 

The knife he’d held became forgotten on the ground as his hands grasped for you without instruction, shakily at first, then fervently all around you. His calloused fingertips run across your jawline and down your neck before roaming to your breast, but he doesn't squeeze, not until you arch to push into him yourself. 

It instantly gives him permission to squeeze your flesh firmly, and every movement suddenly becomes urgent. Your tongues clash sloppily, his stiff bulge ruts back and forth against your core, and you can’t help but clamor for him in turn— your thighs hook tight around his waist to pull him further in, to help you relieve the growing pressure between your legs as your head becomes thick with need. 

You nearly forgot Krauser was there at all until he speaks again with a gruff and low tone you've never heard from him before.

"Good. Keep going.”

You can't deny that someone else being in the room turns your brain somewhat mushy. In fact, it turns you on. You're adventurous, sure, but that's a shocking revelation even for you.

More shocking than that, the third party is your major, and he's telling Leon what to do as if he's giving normal orders. Those are ideas you'd laugh yourself sick at half an hour ago, but now here you are, and you feel your underwear slicken with each directive word and the ache to be permitted more.

But unbeknownst to you, that's the first of many things Krauser will awaken in you tonight. Right now, you don't even know how far he plans to take this. But you've spent months being primed to do whatever insane things he demands, and what you do know is that you'd do just about anything to earn more of the young man on top of you. So ever the good soldier, you let your commander lead you wherever he sees fit, and Leon does just the same.

“Take her top off.”

The cool gymnasium air contrasts with Leon's warm hand as it drags your shirt up your torso, leaving goosebumps in its wake as you shuffle to allow him to lift it over your head, lips parting only as long as they need to. Your top becomes discarded somewhere on the floor, forgotten before it lands. 

You tremble under Leon's touch as he roams the soft curves of your stomach, gliding upward until he traces the top hem of your sports bra. He hooks his fingertips under the hem and pauses with trepidation, resting his forehead against yours as he bucks into you. By the look on his face, his trousers are becoming a painful confinement.

Leon waits for permission or to have the rug pulled from under him and be told this is all a sick joke, until Krauser gives the former. Just not before making him sweat first.

“You wanna fuck her, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Leon shudders while looking down at you, relishing the slightest touch he currently has on your body.

“That’s ‘yes, sir.’ How many times have you jerked off thinking about it?”

Leon gulps before answering, feeling every ounce as humiliated as Krauser intended him to. 

“T-too many to count, sir.”

“Then take it off.”

It crosses your mind that no one’s asked if you’re fine with being stripped in front of an audience of two, but you’re not exactly apt to complain about Leon getting you naked.

Leon fumbles briefly with the tight elastic band before it’s whisked over your head and added to the growing collection of forgotten garments on the floor mat. You turn your head to the side, shying away as Leon takes in a full view of your nipples as they pebble in the cool air. But when you look to the side, your gaze lands on Krauser. 

“Mistake” is your first thought. “Was it?” is the immediate second. All you know is that he’s leaned coolly against the edge of the arena rubbing his thick bulge through his pants as he watches intently. The sight makes you feel like you’ve caught on fire, and you quickly look away.

You have no more time to dwell on it as Leon pinches your nipple between his index finger and his thumb, rolling it between them with a reverent sigh at your reaction, then pulling it up and letting it drop. He repeats it on the other side, and your thighs clench around his hips as the stimulation goes straight to your core. 

You can barely stand the teasing, and your hands find their way underneath Leon’s shirt. The feeling of his taut abs does nothing to quell you, though. It only drives home that the current sensations you’re being afforded aren't anywhere near enough. But right as you feel like you’re going mad, it all comes to a stop.

“Sit up, rookie.”

You whine as Leon does as he’s told, your hands leaving the heat of his stomach as he sits back on his haunches, , still with the exception of the labored rise and fall of his chest, his hands clasped behind his back, and your spit still wet on his lower lip. You’re left deprived of all touch, breathless and exposed, brows twisted up with neediness as you wait.

Krauser’s heavy and measured footsteps towards you are menacing. You don’t dare to look until he comes into view on his own, and from the steep angle up that you have, the large tent in his pants is imposing. It nearly obstructs his face as he stands directly over you. 

“Pretty…” He hums as he appraises the skin that’s been exposed on you so far, and it’s perhaps the first kind thing he’s ever said to you. It sounds foreign in his voice, but then he goes right back to his usual demands. “Strip down, all of it.”

You hesitate for a brief moment before sitting up and unlacing your boots with shaky hands, all too aware of the eyes on you as you discard them and lay back down to fumble with your belt and zipper. It feels all the more exposing to be undressing yourself as opposed to it being done for you somehow, and you try to push away the feeling of awkwardness as you raise your hips and push your bottoms down in one go. You keep your knees together as much as you can as you foot them off of your ankles and kick them away beside you, and rest back down, now totally bare.

The cold air is nothing against the heat of their gazes as you lie there totally bare, awaiting the first touch. It comes from the rubber of Krauser’s boot as he parts your legs with it.

If Leon weren’t already on his knees, he would’ve fallen to them right then and there. He practically salivates as your pussy is revealed before him, and every nervous twitch of yours makes your wetness glisten in the fluorescent lights. His hands flex where they’re clasped behind him, and his throat tightens as his cock becomes painfully hard within his pants. Still fully clothed, he feels hot, far too hot, as the first traces of sweat begin to form on his skin from the sheer effort it takes not to dive into you.

Krauser hums at the sight of you and takes the toe of his boot to the soft crease where thigh meets ass, and lets the rubber press onto your flesh to pull your cunt open to them. You whine as you feel your slick pool out as your opening flutters for touch. 

“Look at that,” Krauser muses. “No wonder everyone wants a taste. A pussy like that is just begging to be ruined. Isn’t it, Kennedy?”

What is Leon supposed to do here? Say he doesn’t want to ruin you for anyone else? It’d be a bold-faced lie, and he’d agree with just about anything Krauser says right now if it lets him get what’s being dangled right in front of him.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Your cock even big enough to ruin her? Or is that why you haven’t gotten with her?” 

For perhaps the first time in Leon’s life, he suddenly feels unsure. He’s never been insecure about his size before, never had a reason to be. He knows he’s well-endowed. But the major always has impossibly high standards. What if this is no different? What will happen if he doesn’t meet them now?

Leon gulps before answering with a shaky breath, although he tries to sound more sure. “Yes, sir.”

“Let’s see it then.”

Leon nearly gets cold feet, but seeing you spread before him is enough to throw his modesty to the wind. His fingers are clumsy in their quickness as he undoes his pants just enough to get his cock free, and he hisses at the contact of his fingers pulling it out by the base. He can’t stop himself from pumping it once between his fingers, but it takes nothing more than a disapproving glance from Krauser for him to put his hands back at his sides.

His fists become white-knuckled as his hardness hangs obstinately in the air. It’s framed by his still-on t-shirt falling over his navel, the waistband of his briefs sitting snugly under his balls, and his cock springing free between his parted zipper; not much skin is showing, really, but it’s all the more lewd a sight for it.

“Oh, shit,” is all you manage to breathe out.

Short, dark blond hairs silhouette the base, and his tip is an angry pink as it begins to shine with the emergence of a clear bead of precum. It hangs heavily in the air, jolting up once as he bites his lip in arousal, and you catch sight of the coursing vein that runs up the side. He’s long and so thick in girth, and your toes curl at the thought of him trying to fit it all inside of you.

God, what a fool you’ve been for jumping between barracks for sex that was often unsatisfactory and only a means to an end. All this time, you could’ve had Leon instead.

It’s an undeniably captivating sight, even for Krauser, who inhales through his teeth as he too takes it in with his eyes. But still, he isn’t one to give his praise so easily.

“Not bad. Let’s hope you know how to use it.”

You whine in surprise as Krauser suddenly fixes the toe of his boot into you and slowly circles around your clit, and Leon grimaces as he tastes copper from how hard he bites down on his lip.

“Because if you don’t,” Krauser taunts, “I’ll have to take over.”

Your pulse soars at the prospect, fear and arousal intertangling into one. Whether or not that’d happen lies entirely with Leon, but it could very well be a trap; the same as being told that training could end early if you do well enough, but no one can ever do well enough for Krauser. He gets too much sick pleasure in dangling hope over your head, fully knowing you’ll never reach it and enjoying watching you struggle to anyway, and this situation is no different.

A moan leaves your parted lips as Krauser presses his boot more firmly into your clit and rubs it left to right. He chuckles thinly at your response.

“She really is easy, soaking just from my boot. Fucking filthy.” He glides it up and down to literally rub it in, making your legs twitch as he presses into your clit, then looks at you and nods towards Leon. “You like what you see?”

“Mmhm,” you nod needily through pursed lips as you tremble under the crude ministrations against your pussy your eyes still fixed on Leon’s increasingly leaking cock.

He lands a soft kick to your clit, nowhere near enough to hurt, but enough to feel the threat and a sharp jolt of pleasure up your spine. 

“Yes, sir,” you correct yourself breathlessly.

He spreads your slick a little more, purely playing with it now as he addresses Leon again.

“Don’t let it go to your head. How many cocks have been in here just since training started…? Bet this whore could cum just from my goddamn boot.” 

Krauser finally steps back, leaving you shaking and untouched yet again, your lips pressed into a thin line as you pray the question remains rhetorical. It does, at least for you.

“But you don’t mind, do you, Kennedy? You like her enough that you’re alright with sloppy seconds? Thirds? Twentieths maybe..?”

Leon's chest flares. Your body count has never once factored into his envy. He just wants you— evidently, by any means necessary. And you being degraded like that? It stokes his anger all over again, and he once again fails to bite his tongue, the contempt clear in his tone as he speaks through a snarl. 

“She’s the whore? You’re the one treating your recruits like a harem, sir.”

Krauser seizes Leon by the bangs, making the younger man yelp as he’s yanked forward by the hair until he’s on all fours in front of you, his face inches away from your cunt. Leon hisses as thick fingers pull viciously at his roots and shake his head in front of your center like a cruel owner admonishing a dog.

“Shut your goddamn mouth— put it to good use before I fuck her and make you watch.”

With no precursor at all, Leon is shoved face-first between your legs. You gasp in shock at the suddenness; with no prior warning for him to begin with any sort of finesse, he lands against you with panting, parted lips, his nose is squished down from the position, pressed just beside your clit.

It takes Leon a second to collect himself, though he does so as quickly as possible once he wraps his mind around his position, nose deep in the part of you he’s been starving for the most. 

Krauser continues to hold him there harshly even as he begins to lap frantically. 

“Where’s all that snark now, huh?”

Leon doesn’t answer— Krauser doesn’t pull him back for him to be able to— instead he moans hard at the taste of your cunt.

Your folds wetten with Leon’s spit as his face collects your arousal, and you whine continuously as he sloppily makes out with your cunt. Being constantly pushed into you makes each stroke of his tongue press firmly wherever it lands around and within the whole of your cunt. It drags up and down, drawing quick and sloppy circles around the expanse of your vulva and the soft skin between your lower lips, flicking over your clit at the top and darting fully into your hole at the bottom.

It’s so vulgar and divine, but it’s too intense too suddenly, and your thighs clamp down around Leon’s head. Krauser just presses him in even further and Leon sucks your clit in compliance, flicking his tongue against the bud inside the vacuum of his mouth, and you yelp and tense your legs harder around his face. But Krauser still has one hand free, and he uses it to hold you open by the knee nearest to him, and despite your whining efforts, his grip is far too strong to budge free of.

You groan in relief as Leon moves on from his onslaught of your clit and dig your nails into the padded floor as he assaults the whole of your core instead, all while Krauser keeps your legs spread wide for him.

The wet sounds of his tongue along with frantic moans from you both fill the room as you reel towards your seventh heaven, and Krauser can tell— of course he can. It’d be obvious to anyone that you’re on the brink from the way you increasingly arch against the floor. But the absolute sight of you isn’t the only thing that makes it obvious; you’re finding it increasingly difficult to muzzle yourself and you mumble pathetically between labored breaths.

“I– ah, ahhh, Leon fuck— oh-hh…”

And it’s borderline petulant the way you whine when Leon’s mouth leaves you all at once. Your head shoots up in shock at the loss, looking to see what caused your release to be denied, but nothing had happened except for Krauser’s cruel whim.

You’re equally shocked to see the look on Leon’s face. Still on all fours and held back by his hair, his mouth is swollen, pink, and shining with slick from the bridge of his nose to the cleft of his chin. His moans are light as if he’s breaking fever and his eyes are half-lidded like he’s drunk. His cock hangs neglected between his legs with a thick string of glossy precum connected from the head to where it’s dripped down to the floor. But the most shocking of all is the faint smile that pulls at the corners of his puffy mouth as Krauser pulls his hair a little tighter.

‘How’s she taste, huh?”

“Incredible, sir.”

“Yeah? You taste any cock still in there?”

Leon’s nostrils flare and his mouth opens into a snarl, but before he can spit whatever insult he has in mind, Krauser yanks his head back painfully and growls.

“Better watch that mouth, kid, or you’ll be eating my cum out of her next.”

Krauser sends him back on his knees with a shove to the head and then rises to stand again, jostling his hard-on thickly through his pants as yet another threat. “Or maybe I’ll shut you up another way, eh?”

The silent grimace on Leon’s face is much to Krauser’s amusement as he berates him with a smile, still stroking his bulge.

“That’s what I thought. Fucking ungrateful. I let you eat her out and you’re acting like a damn brat. You think I should let you fuck her? Huh?”

Swallowing his pride, Leon answers. “Please, sir.”

“That’s what I thought. Beg.”

That’s a demand Leon is a touch too stubborn to easily do. He clenches his eyes and grinds his teeth, still reeling from the lack of touch, and twitches restlessly as the words struggle to come.

But Krauser is impatient. He expresses it through a dull backhand to Leon’s cheek.

“That’s an order, Kennedy.”

Although the slap is ultimately harmless (and could even be considered kind compared to the many blows you’ve both received from the major throughout training), a sense of fear shoots through you. You suddenly realize just how badly this could end if it goes south. You’re still keenly aware that this began by sparring with real knives, a testament to how insane your instructor truly is.

But your wires are well and truly crossed, and although you tremble on the floor, it all feels thrilling just the same. You’re just as sick as Krauser, maybe, the way you ache for Leon to submit so he can give you what you need. Luckily for your throbbing heat and unluckily for Leon’s dignity, he complies.

“Please,” he begins through his teeth, “let me fuck her, sir.”

“You can do better than that. You’ve wanted this for how long…? Let her hear it.”

Your breath hitches at the thought that Krauser has seen what you couldn’t all this time. It’s reinforced by the way Leon hangs his head and his brows change from being knit with anger to upturning in a pained plea as he speaks straight into you.

“Please let me fuck her, sir. Wanted to for so damn long, I—” His cock twitches in the air as if to attest to it being true. “Wanna show her why she doesn’t need to sleep around, that I’d treat her better than all of them, that I am better. Tasted so good, she’s so— I just— fuck, I’d do just about anything, major, please.”

Leon looks up to search for a sign it’s good enough while you do a double take at such lewd words coming from his lips.

In a change of tone, Krauser speaks low and deliberately to the young man.

“You’re going to do exactly as I say. And I mean exactly. If not, I'll take over. You won't get to cum and I’ll make sure she never sneaks off into your bed. Understood?”

Leon nods rapidly and whispers the affirmative under his breath. Krauser nods once and turns around as he gives his first command.

“Take your shirt off and pull your pants down enough to do the job.”

As Krauser strides away, you and Leon shoot a look at each other behind his back. It’s perhaps your first unobserved moment of eye contact the entire day, you realize, and the brief moment seems to expand into something big and desperate and warm, like something that’s just yours. Then Krauser’s heavy steps land in the room and urge Leon’s hands to move.

Your eyes float down over his cut figure as his clothing finally joins yours on the floor. You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, sure, but never with the opportunity to stare, and certainly never with his pants around his thighs.

Your knees subconsciously part ever so slightly at the whole of him; his ashen hair unkempt and askew from Krauser’s disrespect to it, the valleys and peaks of each muscle on his whole torso and arms, and the kind of cock you thought only exists in porn you have to pay for—all of it flushed pink with pent-up desire for you and you alone.

The abrasive whir of a zipper steals your attention. Your eyes flick to the side and you see the major lean against the wall at the edge of the combat ring, pulling his own cock free as he settles in to watch. You feel like you see something you shouldn’t have for some reason, even though you hardly see his dick at all— and you yourself are naked and dripping on the floor, how can you still be embarrassed? Still, you immediately look away with your heart hammering in your chest.

“Kneel between her legs. Don’t touch yourself.”

You part your legs to make room and the flush spreads up from Leon’s chest to his cheeks as he shuffles forward on his knees. He winces as the head of his cock grazes hot against your folds, but he doesn’t dare to do anything about it.

“Slap it with your cock.”

Leon shudders as he holds the base and brings his head down onto your plump clit twice, pauses briefly, and then does it again and again at Krauser’s encouragement. Wet plap plap’s fill the room along with the sound of you sputtering at the teasing.

You fight the urge to curl your hips to get him to push it in; you know he won’t and can’t until he’s given the go-ahead. But it’s torture for you both as Krauser gives him no further instruction for minutes. Only when you both strain and cry out like you’ll break does he give his next demand.

“Stop.”

Not the one you want. Leon’s hands claw into his thighs to keep them fixed away from himself, and you feel hot all over as the head of his tip rests heavily on top of your clit.

Tense and restrained, you push your luck and start grinding against it, careful not to move to much to avoid detection. But if nothing else, Leon’s whine gives it away. Krauser doesn’t seem to mind.

“What a cock-whore,” he says through a devilish smile as he strokes himself leisurely. “She’s just dying for it. You still sure you can satisfy her?”

Leon can only moan and nod in response, and for once, the lack of formalities is accepted.

“Put it in. Stop when you bottom out. Let’s see how much she can take.”

As sadistic and unorthodox as Krauser’s methods are, the results of them are undeniable in the way Leon follows his orders at once.

He rests a hand against your thigh, his thumb rubbing up and down on the soft skin soothingly, as his other guides his shaft towards your entrance. You hold your breath as it notches there, and he wastes no time before he steadily sinks in with a hiss.

“Good god, you’re tight,” Leon chokes out as the head slips past your entrance.

You nearly wheeze as it does, your nerves on fire as they’re delivered the feeling they’ve endured all the torturous teasing for. The long shaft of his cock is hot against your walls and heavy as each new inch settles in, his girth burning the tight tissues of your entrance as they try to accommodate it. Despite the struggle, you keen into him, all to eager to take more, totally forgetting that when he gets to the hilt, he’ll stop.

Three long, tempered drags of his cock and he’s finally flush inside of you. His eyes roll back as he stills there, breathing harder than ever as he fights against thrusting instinctually. Your legs twitch as you sit with the feeling of his fat tip flush against your cervix, your walls hardly accommodating the whole of his dick, at least not yet, and Leon squeezes your parted knees with a frayed and empathetic look.

“Oh, oh f-fuck…”

Leon wants—needs— more just as much as you, if not more than, but he tries to focus on enjoying what he's presently afforded, and tries not to so much as think about how close he feels to cumming entirely too early.

“Enough sniveling— fuck her hard.”

Leon feels a pang of regret. He'd thought of this moment so many times before, ran through it like a waking dream on lonely nights spent lying awake in his cot. He’d always imagined starting slow, making you cum on his tongue and fingers before he entered you gently to hear your pretty breathless moans; to cradle you in his arms as he rocks into your perfect cunt, to hold you tight and kiss you all over—

—But that never happened, and while he dreamed of making love to you, you were busy getting railed in another recruit's room. Sometimes within earshot.

It’s an easy command to follow; he'll take what he can get.

Leon withdraws almost entirely before snapping in to the hilt. You cry out as he crashes powerfully against your cervix and fills every sweet spot all at once, acute pain sitting right alongside the overwhelming pleasure as your cunt stretches to its limits around him.

“Oh f-fuck, Leon—"

You cry out as he does it again with even more force this time, crashing into you so brutally that you slide back on the mat, but he just grips your hips to pull you back to him to continue.

With each new punishing thrust his navel smacks loudly against your center, and you desperately grasp at his wrists to hold on as you take it, moaning feverishly until your body adjusts to accommodate the brute impacts he delivers. When you do, it leaves only a fierce and overwhelming pleasure, and you arch off the mat like an animal in heat, writhing into and away from the intensity simultaneously.

He develops a rapid-fire rhythm he grunts in time to. It takes so much effort to take that you quickly become covered in a thin sheen of sweat that has you sliding back on the mat all over again.

“Grab her wrists and pin her down.”

Leon does it instantly, nailing you in place with an iron grip, your wrists fixed on either side of your head. It brings a new angle that has his cock beating mercilessly against your inner sweet spot, and with your ability to move being limited, you moan shamelessly as you take the bombardment.

He can’t keep himself quiet either, though he tries— he babbles through wet lips and grinding teeth as his eyes roll back in his head.

“Oh fuck, baby. Your pussy’s so perfect, god…”

Every time you twist in pleasure he hits a new spot that makes you see stars, and when you push against his hands, the fact that he so easily cages you in makes it all the better. But sweeter than anything, him pinning you down makes you face-to-face with him again.

The faces he makes are plucked straight from euro porn, full of lust as his expression contorts with every wanton moan. His full lips are a plump and rosy pink, occasionally being wetted by his tongue flicking over them mindlessly as he works; his blown pupils making his eyes a darker, oceanic shade of blue that you ache to drown in.

You tip your chin up to try and kiss him. God, how you want to kiss him again. And you're so close together, if you could just—

He looks at your lips and slowly closes the difference, and then—

Krauser barks your name, and you're yanked right out of your immersion.

“Look at me.”

You hesitantly turn your head away from Leon and towards your major. Your throat feels thick as you do, and your mouth goes dry as you see what, in the back of your mind, you knew Krauser has been doing the whole time.

At some point he's taken his shirt off and he stands bare-chested some five feet away, leaning against the edge of the fighting ring with a wide stance, his posture emphasizing the sheer broadness of his build. He's pulled undone his pants enough to pull himself out and nothing more, and now you know that truly every inch of him is imposing as he strokes his large cock with a strong, persistent grip.

Even sheathed in his big hands, it looks fucking huge. Perhaps equal in length to Leon, maybe an inch shorter, but absolutely formidable in girth and decorated in thick, bulging veins. Your breath hitches as you watch him tug hard up the length of it, squeezing out a bead of precum before smearing it slowly back down his length.

Your eyes flit between Krauser’s face and his cock, each one too imposing to settle on. He smirks like he knows the look in your eyes, like many people before have cowered in fear at his size, like he enjoys the terror that flashes in your gaze.

“Tell me what you think,” he tells you, holding his cock up by the base as if he’s arrogantly raising a weapon.

You struggle to speak with Leon holding your jaw tight in his hands and his cock striking the deepest parts of you— I mean jesus, it’s hard to even think coherently with how he’s rearranging your guts. But you don’t want him to be stopped more than you feel queasy, so you attempt it.

“I-I… you’re– oh– uh, ahh, big, and—”

Mercifully, perhaps, Krauser interjects with a ragged chuckle. “Cock-drunk already, huh? Try again. Come on.”

You completely and totally are, and it becomes twice as difficult to speak as Leon puts more weight into his hips, forcing your legs wider and barraging his cock at an even deeper angle in, like fucking you harder is all he can offer to distract you in the event you're watching something you didn’t want to see.

Do you want to see it…? You really don't know. You'd never looked at your instructor through this kind of lens before, and only were now because you were being forced to. 

You try again, blubbering through the drool that trickles down the corner of your mouth and onto Leon’s fingers.

“You’re… it’s… oh—” 

The air is pushed from your lungs as Leon sends his next thrust into you with aggressive force, sending your head tipping back as your eyes roll and a loud, wet smack echoes off the gymnasium walls. 

“So fucking useless…” Krauser grumbles. “Can’t take a little hard fucking without turning stupid? Choke her out, Kennedy; give ‘er a reason she can’t speak.”

With a grunt, Leon wraps a hand around the whole of your neck. Not enough to hurt, just enough to press you into the floor by it. Still, his ragged breath shakes in surprise at his own lack of hesitation. 

He’s even more surprised that he doesn’t hate it and that you don’t seem to either. He tests the waters and squeezes a little tighter, drawing a strangled moan from you that clearly isn’t from pain.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he hisses in time with each thrust, swearing more at himself than anything. 

He feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous. He shouldn’t think this is so hot. He could actually hurt you here. 

Your cunt clamps down on him as you gasp, and something new washes over him. He grits his teeth and squeezes hard.

You sputter silently as your airway becomes constricted and something daunting builds in your core. Your pulse pounds in your skull as the oxygen in your brain grows stale and dies, you feel your muscles locking up, and you know you’d be moaning if you could make any noun at all. 

Your vision slowly darkens around the edges, obscuring the vicious look on Leon’s face that sits in your periphery. In the center of the vignette stands the sight of Krauser’s hand working himself faster. Leon’s hold on your throat and the constant torrent against your inner walls are equally violent, and your pleasure grows violently in response. But all you can do is weakly keen into Leon’s cock as your body becomes completely flooded with unadulterated sensation.

“Slap her pretty face,” Krauser grunts.

Leon does. You’re barely cognizant enough to flinch and can hardly move enough to anyway, but it lands dully; not even enough to sting.

“Oh, don’t fucking insult me. Slap her.”

This time, your cheekbone blooms with heat in the wake of the rough calluses of his palm snapping against you.

“Harder.”

His hand crashes into your face and the whole room starts spinning. 

You’ve taken countless blows to the face before, and many from Leon himself; you knew all too well how hard he could hit. Hell, you’d already have bruises tomorrow from the training session that led you here. But that blow landed utterly uniquely from any other you’d endured. No pain had ever caused this kind of disorientation. 

Vision fixed on the voyeur and your cunt skewered on Leon’s cock, decreasing thoughts as your face tingles and your neck aches under a ruthless grip, lungs burning behind your ribs— clit swollen and oversensitive from each smack of Leon’s navel against it. Your eyes are bulging and body’s locking up, making your cunt grip around him tighter, pushing out a new surge of wetness around him—

Your vision darkens until all that’s left is the brute force of how good it all feels. Every ounce of pleasure and pain compounds into blindingly bright sensation, like white-hot lightning running through your every nerve, growing stronger and stronger as your faculties weaken. 

Your face feels hot as you try in vain to gasp for air, hips working sloppily to try to meet Leon’s pace as he thrusts into your sweet spots over and over. Krauser speaks, but you don’t grasp the words until Leon’s free hand frantically connects with your clit.

“Look at that, she fucking loves it. Go on, make her cum on your cock.”

The grip on your neck lessens just enough to seize a rough gasp of new air as your orgasm rallies. Your back arches so acutely, you feel like Leon’s hold is the only thing stopping you from levitating. Krauser’s mumbling between barks of orders as you tear at the seams—

“That’s it, give her what she needs. Keep her eyes on me.”

Leon captures you by the cheeks to turn your face back towards Krauser. You breathe desperately and watch him while your hands reach haplessly for Leon, nails dragging everywhere they land as you steal ragged breaths through the nose. It’s all so good, so much, and god the mindfuck of it all— your eyes glued to Krauser jerking himself off while another man pistons his cock inside of you, like they're both being cucked somehow as your physical and mental attention is divvied between them. 

It’s all just so insane— the fact that Krauser is getting off to you being split in half and manhandled by your opponent, telling him how and when to fuck you— like Krauser is the director and you and Leon are the stars of his own personal brand of violent pornography.

And it’s a role Leon plays well. He’s grown to be barbaric in his own right, a part of him no one including himself knew existed until now. 

Krauser had that effect on his recruits, and apparently this was no exception: he’d made the rookie into exactly what he needed to be to rise to the occasion. And the result is animalistic, further evidenced as Leon licks a flat-tongued stripe up your jugular and bites down before growling into your hair through sharp teeth.

“Fucking feel me.”

His voice pulls the pin on the live grenade of your arousal, and in seconds flat, you combust.

Your orgasm hits you like a devastating blow to the core, tearing through your body as if somewhere within your center an atom had split in half. You writhe like you’re dying, and high-pitched moans flood out of your pursed lips that are still squeezed taut in Leon’s grip. He has to hold you even tighter just to keep you from falling away, and he puts a hand on your stomach with weight that lets you both feel each time he bulges through your stomach. 

The cracking sounds of his hips connecting with your cunt become wetter and more crude as you gush around him with each shockwave of seizing bliss. Leon starts falling apart himself, moaning wildly as you tighten around him like a vice. He looks down to see the base of his cock covered in the creamy white slick of your cum, and that's enough to make him see stars.

“Oh fuck, jesus fucking christ I’m—“

Cruel as ever, Krauser makes his next command.

“Stop.”

Leon is in a full breakdown as he tries to; he lets go of you to claw his nails into the ground, pained sounds ripping from his chest as he struggles to keep still, but he can’t keep his hips from twitching forward to save his life. He was so close to cumming and he has to force himself not to as he keeps himself bottomed out again, a guttingly difficult task as your walls continue to pulse around his cock as you come down from your high. 

The stakes heighten as Krauser approaches with heavy boot steps, and Leon’s whole body strains as he fights to comply before he gets there. Leon swears under his breath as the tendons in his neck clench and small veins begin to pop against his temple, grabbing your weak body by the hips to fix you on his cock instead of fighting the involuntary jolts of his hips.

“Fuckfuckfuck, m’sorry, I’m t-trying, ahh…”

Krauser stands over you again, pumping his sturdy dick in a firm but leisurely grip at the absolute sight of you two. You can only imagine how obscene you must look lying numb and weak on the ground— you’re still panting as you come down from your high, your wild hair sticking to your sweaty neck and forehead, fucked-out and used with Leon’s cock still stuffing you full while you let your major jerk off above you.

But as downright shameful as you look and feel, Krauser takes his sweet time soaking it in, enjoying the unfiltered vulgarity of it as he pumps himself a hair faster. 

You’re grateful for the time to catch your breath, sure, but the longer you’re there, the more his attention burns. As seconds roll by, your sweat cools uncomfortably on your skin, you regain enough feeling in your body to feel a small amount of what it’s been through, but most of all, you become more aware of where you and Leon connect.

Your orgasm made you twice as sensitive, and the lack of motion is as maddening to you as it is for Leon as he throbs inside your walls. You can’t help but to squirm around for relief, and you can’t help but to moan as the movement drags the head of his cock against your g-spot. 

“Jesus, you still want more? Is one cock not enough? Should’ve fucking known,” Krauser tuts, twisting his fist around the wide base of his dick. “You’ve always been tough. Shoulda known you wouldn’t break so easily. Always making me get my hands dirty…”

He pushes Leon to lean back and out of the way for a thick droplet of spit to fall from Krauser’s lips all the way down to your clit. You jolt at the sensation of it landing, but it doesn’t compare to when Krauser drops to one knee and rubs it in with two firm fingertips.

He massages his spit into your clit with rough fingerpads that move in tight and steady circles, building you towards another bout of sensory overload with calculated precision. You look rapidly between Krauser and Leon and your own body through wet lashes, frantically trying and failing to get a grip. 

It’s all too much, but somehow, it isn’t enough. You need Leon to move like you need air to breathe.

“Nnhg, m-major…” you moan hesitantly

“What?” he says dryly, as if he isn’t causing your undoing. You only manage a throaty whine in response, and he chides you by increasing his speed on your clit. “Speak.”

You try, but your words are bracketed by thick heaving breaths. “Hhha, I… oh, ahh…. p-please…”

Krauser leaves his weighty cock to hang in the air as he adds his other hand to your body, staring at you intently as a high pitched shriek gets caught in the back of your throat. He pinches your nipples one by one before flicking them each sharply, matching his rhythm on your clit, stimulating every part of you continuously. He just smirks as your brain melts in your skull, your mouth falling open with nothing comprehensible coming out of it.

“Please what?” 

You squirm in an attempt to lessen the overwhelming feeling, but he doesn’t falter once, only leaving your clit to dip his fingers around either side of Leon’s shaft to gather your wetness to slicken your sore nub. Leon sputters at the brief yet unexpected feeling and he bucks into you so deep you both choke. 

“F-fuck, I… I need… ahhh,” you whine hard, your head flying back on the ground.

“You can take it. If you’re not gonna use your words, then be quiet.”

You really do try and stay quiet at that, biting your lip so hard you think you might taste blood, but you just can’t.

You can still feel Leon pulsating inside of you, can still hear the sweet sounds of his agonized grunts as you’re brought back to the brink. Leon holds your hips tight for his own sake so he doesn’t cum before he’s allowed, his fingers pressing deeply into your soft flesh to keep you from bucking into him more than you already are, and the dull pain where his short fingernails dig in just add to it all. You’re trembling severely, the meat of your thighs shaking uncontrollably, and it all just feels too good.

All at once, Krauser pinches a nipple painfully and strums you so quickly his hand blurs, and you all but fucking scream.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Krauser snarls and removes his touch altogether.

It’s easier to swallow your sounds as the sensation fades, but the damage has already been done. Your vision swims as Krauser grabs the since-forgotten combat knife and tosses it to Leon before kneeling beside your head. 

Leon catches it on pure instinct and stares dumbfoundedly at it in his hands.

Krauser frames your face with his thighs and his cock becomes inches away from your face. Close enough to see every short wheat colored hair on his navel, every vein that courses up his substantial width; close enough to smell the salt on his skin, even. 

He guides it to stroke the length of it overtop your plush, drool-covered lips.

It’s fucking denigrating, the way he does it, dragging his cock over your face with a gruff hum as he holds you in place by the crown of your hair. The shocked face of shame you wear only makes him leak with pre.

Krauser hooks his fingers behind your bottom teeth and pulls your mouth open to slap his tip against your tongue, and you shudder at the sweet taste of his precum. Then he lets go and notches the tip between your puffy lips.

Leon watches with the knife still in his hands, a quiet horrification in his tone as he speaks.

“Sir…”

“Hold it against her neck,” Krauser answers like it’s nothing, “or I’ll do it.”

Krauser plugs your mouth with his cock at the same time that cold steel meets your neck.

Leon watches the sight wide-eyed and disturbed. This is going too far, he thinks— but he’s gone too far to stop himself, too. 

Krauser is clearly getting off to the sight of you being borderline assaulted, and Leon is a partner to it. He’s the one holding the flat of a blade to your jugular while your superior sodomizes you, the one who’s still struggling not to cum and wishing he could fuck you fully again. He’s already an accomplice, or more accurately at this point, a willing participant. 

He thinks now that Krauser might’ve actually been right, that in these ways they’re alike. It horrifies him and shatters his self-image, but his cock aches with need regardless.

You’re mindless to it all as you start to suck Krauser off. Your lips struggle to stretch around his girth, your whines are muffled as you take more and more, and you feel so fucking dirty that you rock into Leon without thinking. 

Fuck, you’re actually enjoying this. A lot. 

‘Maybe I am a whore’, you think as your toes curl against Leon’s calves— but how could you possibly care about that right now? You don’t, and you can’t— all you can think about is making Krauser fit inside your mouth so he’ll let Leon keep going. 

Leon is harder than he’s ever been in his life, another fact that has him dumbstruck with himself. He even envies the man for getting to stuff his fat dick past your pretty lips, for being the one who’s making your face twist up like it is.

But the final nail in his moral coffin? The sight of you slowly being face-fucked, struggling to suck such a big dick with enthusiasm, while he holds a knife to your neck… it brings him right back to the edge of release. Not in spite of it— because of it. 

So when Krauser tells Leon to fuck you again with a reminder not to cum until he’s given permission, he does it without a hint of hesitation.

When he does, you’re no longer on planet earth; you’re floating somewhere above it, your senses more overloaded than ever. It takes focus you barely have to keep Krauser’s girth from hitting your teeth as he picks up speed to roughly fuck your face.

Krauser alternates between striking the back of your throat and holding your chin down to push it against the inside of your cheeks, watching his head bulge out your face before continuing his assault on your throat, using your mouth like exactly the kind of whore he’d made you out to be. All while Leon delivers blunt thrusts, each one thumping against the most electric spots inside your cunt, and each harsh snap of his hips cracks in the room like lightning. 

And every few seconds you feel the flat of the blade bump against your neck, a chilling reminder of the control you’re under.

Krauser truly is a goddamn psychopath. That’s never been more evident than now. But it fills you with a certain thrill to be at the mercy of a certified killing machine and his most promising rookie. Both of them are more than capable of causing you serious injury right now, but all their brawn and might is being utilized to ruin you in a way that feels good, and it’s the best, most exhilarating experience you’ve ever had.

Maybe you’re all psychopaths. Maybe Krauser’s promise on the first day of training held a particular purpose for you and Leon. Perhaps the training broke you long ago, and at some point you couldn’t place, he’d reassembled your bleeding hearts into corrupted, submissive subjects, ones perfectly crafted for him to play with, to even enjoy his sadistic demands.

Tears prick at your eyes as Krauser presses himself as far as he can go into your mouth and you choke around him. He’s too thick to take so deeply, and your throat seizes up in rejection. He slaps your cheek just enough to feel it sting as he forces you to keep trying. 

“That’s it, choke on it, bitch.”

And choke on it you do, with horrible sounds emanating from your throat as he likely bruises it. Your hands grasp for nothing at the overwhelm and Krauser pins the arm nearest to him under his knee, and Leon holds the other down by the bicep before Krauser even looks at him.

“There you go, now you’re fucking behaving,” Krauser pants at you both. “My two most obedient soldiers… hah.”

A thick string of spit connects your lips to Krauser’s tip as he pulls out suddenly, giving you a chance to gasp for air. He slaps its weight against the red welts in the shape of Leon’s hand on your cheek, making the sore skin shine with spit. Your tongue lolls out on its own and he goes right back to skull fucking you, holding you firmly by the sides of your head to keep you at the right angle. 

You moan as his cock vein drags up and down your wet, flat tongue as he thrusts in and out decisively, and your eyes roll back as he starts working your nipples again, catching them in his fingertips as they recoil with Leon’s thrusts.

Leon can’t help it; he can’t stop watching. It brings him closer than ever to breaking. His orgasm has been denied so many times when he’s right there on the edge, and the thought of holding it back again is devastating. So all on his own, he begs.

“Krauser, please, let me… let me cum, sir. I need to, I need—“

And Krauser is all too aware of his staring.

“You like watching me use her mouth that much? Gonna get off to it while you have a knife to her neck? You’re a sick fuck, kid.”

Leon chokes out a sob at the fact and that his plea went totally ignored. But looking between you, Krauser falters too, and he pounds your moaning mouth more wildly.

“Fuck, you’re both crying. You two are so damn dirty.”

Krauser grunts, and nearing his own edge, he makes sure to bring you with him. He reaches over to wedge his hand between you and Leon’s bodies to rub your sopping clit again.

You try to writhe, but you’re too pinned down, and too big of a movement sends your jugular dangerously close to the knife. All you can do is take it, teary eyed and pliant, trembling like an earthquake as you near another peak.

Leon whines as Krauser dips his fingers down to your cunt, but this time, they don’t pass there just to collect your slick. He keeps them fixed around Leon’s cock while he cups your pussy, and each time Leon thrusts, his shaft passes through the tight friction of his fingers. 

He braves a glance down at where you all connect and god, it is dirty, just like Krauser said— and Leon is weak to it. His gut twists as your cunt and the major’s fingers both grip around him, warm and velvety wet and threatening to milk him dry.

Ever the coach, Krauser starts encouraging you both, his steady tone in stark contrast to Leon’s as the younger man starts begging again.

“That’s it, take it. Cum for us so he can get his.”

“Please, oh fuck she’s so tight, m’not gonna make it sir, I—”

“Just a little more, Kennedy, don’t quit on me now. Where’s all that endurance?”

“I can’t sir I can’t, needta cum so bad, oh god it fucking hurts.”

Krauser’s own cracks finally show through, the grumbling under his breath the first sign he has any weakness at all as you suck him off with urgency, trying to catch him up to your contemporary.

“Shit, yeah, suck my cock just like that. Sound so good when you beg for me, rookie, jesus.”

A pathetic sound comes from Leon as his thrusts grow sloppy, and he leans over you on his forearm as his muscles begin to buckle. It makes you feel even more caged in, traps Krauser’s palm against your clit, forces your legs a little farther apart— and suddenly, you snap.

You convulse completely as you cum, and the rough sounds the two men make in response only bring you higher until the pleasure is blinding. Your ears ring and mute the strings of profanities they’re chanting as they feel it soar through you and gush around them, and you’re putty in Krauser’s hands as he pulls out and keeps your slack jaw open.

“That’s it, shit, cum for her, Kennedy, fuck.”

“Where, where—?”

"In her, fill her fucking cunt— ahh, fuck—”

You flinch in surprise at the first hot rope of cum that falls onto your tongue. While Krauser paints your open mouth white, Leon collapses over you, and you thread weak fingers into his sweaty hair as he cries out into the crook of your neck.

His words are only for you.

“Oh god, I’m cumming, I’m– oh, ohh fuck—”

He devolves into a mindless stream of consciousness as he pumps you full of it.

“Shit, you feel s’fucking good, fucking take me.”

And when he remembers the knife in his hand:

“Oh god, I’m so damn sorry.”

You can’t think enough to even wonder what he’s sorry for as you swallow your mouthful of cum, shuddering at the mild tang before suckling the last drops from the head of Krauser’s dick.

All the while, you feel every single drop that Leon buries inside of you, warm in the depths of your cunt and slightly stinging the sore skin at your entrance as tickles escape around his base. It seems like his orgasm will never end; there must be so much of it, and even when you no longer feel new ropes of his cum pooling into you, he ruts it shallowly into your cervix as he shakes with aftershocks. 

It takes a long time for you both to settle, and for lengthy minutes, you just lie there together, eyes closed and adrift. Your whole body is abuzz as you run your hands up and down his back, feeling it rise and fall with his staggered breathing as he lies flush against you, a drunken smile on your face as you come down for good. You sink heavily into the floor, no thoughts whatsoever in your head, and nothing behind your eyes but stars.

Leon too is perfectly exhausted from the way he’s been thoroughly drained, and he’s more than happy to join you in your empty-headed daze. So lie there you do, long enough to be overtaken by fatigue as your blown minds weigh down with sleep, even long enough to forget about what Krauser might be doing. 

Leon rolls off of you, knife clattering to the ground as it slips from his limp fingers, and you open your blurry eyes to see the cause: Krauser’s boot.

Krauser doesn’t look angry at all, more so inconvenienced. He shakes his head at the way Leon’s dead weight falls beside you, too tired to even react to his soft dick slipping out of your sopping cunt.

“Good god…” Krauser mutters under his breath, scoffing at the soft display of you and Leon in a puddle on the ground— an understandably dissonant sight after what you’ve all just done. But it doesn’t cut through your euphoric afterglow at all; Krauser’s disapproval is too familiar to blink twice at even now; if anything, it’s casual coming from him. You even weakly smile until he speaks again with a touch more bitterness in his tone.

“You two look just pathetic.”

Blinking away the stale tears that cling to your eyelashes, Krauser sharpens into view. He’s collected himself completely in the time you’ve been drifting away.

And there you are in stark contrast, completely naked on the floor, your limp limbs in a tangled heap wherever gravity took them, your hair a mess of sweat and frizz— and the most indecent sight of all, the cum drying on the corners of your mouth and leaking out of your swollen folds. 

Leon lies beside you in an equally tragic state: his hair is a disaster, his trousers are loose around his knees, and a final drop of cum leaks from the tip of his sore cock.

No wonder Krauser’s displeased. There’s truly no world where he’d be glad to see his top recruits looking half dead in front of him, especially when he somehow managed to be so unaffected himself.

“Get up before you stain the mat.”

You and Leon are all creaks and groans as you pull yourselves to your knees, not yet daring to try your feet and instead crawling to find your clothes. You fight against your lightheadedness as you sit upright to redress, trying to do it quickly before Leon’s cum spills out of you and onto the floor. You can feel how much there is, and you don’t know if you’ll have the strength to clean it up, which you’d surely be made to if it did.

But in the minutes you have somewhat to yourself, your throat feels tight all over again. You feel like you’re back at the beginning in the exact same predicament as before: How the hell are you supposed to look Leon in the eyes? 

When you’re finally dressed, you stumble to your feet, and you hardly look at him at all before you both shy away. But as you stand in the room on wobbly legs, you find a new predicament, too: What the hell happens now?

You’ve stumbled into completely uncharted territory, and you have only your major to guide you. So on pure routine, you both look to your superior to tell you what to do next. 

It has to be the most hilariously pathetic attempt at standing in formation ever, the way he looks incredulously at the two of you as he shrugs on his olive green overshirt, pausing at the sight.

“You’re both so fucking clueless” he grumbles and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hit the showers and go to bed.”

You stumble shame-faced through yes sir’s and turn heel to the gymnasium door, and your mouth goes dry with each new step. 

That’s it then..? You have to pretend it never happened without so much as an acknowledgment? You half wish Krauser had shaken you by the shoulders and told you what to think as usual, for him to set right your spinning head.

“Hey,” Krauser calls just before you reach the door. You both look back and wait, your hearts beating in your chest, but he only looks at you. “I don’t like rumors. I better not hear any more. Understood?”

He stares you down sharply with a lift in his brow. You inhale deeply as you catch his drift. “Y-yeah. Understood, sir.”

Krauser calms and nods once, then turns away. You take the opportunity to slip out of the door.

The walk back to the barracks is painfully quiet; neither of you know what to say. Your bootsteps are the only sound echoing in the dim halls, and your heartbeat is the only thing in your ears.

It isn’t a long walk before you reach the fork between the male and female barrack halls. Your steps slow until they reach a halt and Leon lingers behind you. You turn halfway to face him, but nothing comes of it; you both can only stand there with open mouths that don’t say anything.

You stiffly turn away, but then Leon speaks your name quietly and brokenly, and everything unspoken is left in the ellipses. He gulps once and feels his dry tongue cling to the roof of his mouth as he opens it to speak, and a shaky voice comes out that echoes your very same need.

“Tell me it’s okay.”

You turn around and finally manage to look at him, and it cracks your heart wide open. He looks so much like he did when you’d both arrived here, a scared young man who arrived fresh from the horrors he’d witnessed, who’d do anything to keep everything in one piece despite how much he himself needs saving. 

It’s the face you’d first fallen for and fell for all over again as it sharpened into the fierceness he had now. The same face that held you impossibly close just moments ago. 

You fall all over again and crash into his chest at terminal velocity, clinging to him with all the energy you have left in you to give.

“It’s okay.”

You hold each other there in the hall for a long time. Neither of you know what you’ll wake up to in the morning or how the hell you’ll pretend everything is normal, but right now, you don’t need to. You just need to hold each other long enough to know that the other one is there.

When you slowly pull away, your fingertips linger over each other’s before you finally break apart. And with one last breathless look into his blown blue eyes, you head towards the women’s showers.

You squint in the fluorescents and avoid your reflection. You step into the shower while it’s still running cold and let the tension wash away in the water as it grows to a calming steam.

You wash yourself with purpose— it’s well past one in the morning and you don’t have sleep to spare— but your fingers linger between your legs as you clean where you feel the most dirty. Feeling the slick slip of cum against your sore, swollen lips as it commingles with the suds, you smile.

⌖⌖⌖

The next morning, everything seems to scream. The wake alarm. Your muscles. Your head from three fleeting hours of sleep. Your thoughts as you remember the source of your freshly aching body.

The very beginnings of bruises bloom in greens and purples under your skin: on your wrists, your hips, and the distinct shape of fingers on your bicep. Your neck is sore and your cheek is tender, nevermind your throat and between your legs. As nervous as the evidence of last night being visible makes you, there's no cause to worry about the curious glances your comrades give you. It really does just look like you got your ass beat in combat, which is... true enough, you suppose.

Still, you can hardly look anyone in the eyes without your blood feeling hot about the new secret that you're keeping, but you don’t have many chances to.

First formation comes in place of breakfast. You’ve never stood so straight in your life; it wouldn’t be a good day to have Krauser pick on you. Definitely not.

Every time the major’s eyes glance over you, goosebumps prick your skin. You have no idea what he thinks about last night’s events, and so you dread his reprimands more than ever.

And when your eyes catch against Leon's, although you catch a hundred different things in his gaze, disappointment isn't one of them, and it's comforting somehow to know that he's feeling the same dizzying mix of emotions as you without having to ask.

But somehow, despite your cloudy thoughts, your aching body, and the ever-present signs of sleep deprivation, you excel.

And so the day goes on without incident as far as USSTRATCOM goes. You’re well ready for sleep by the time you’re relieved for the night, but you stay awake until you know everyone is asleep.

You take your time standing up from your cot, careful not to make it creak or shuffle the cheap blankets noisily. You watch your bunk mate snore as you tip-toe to the door in your socks. Boots would sound too heavy, and besides, you aren’t going far.

Your heart races as you scamper to the men’s wing and look for the right door, but you can’t seem to find it. Maybe it’s farther down than you thought? You turn back down the hall with knit brows to check the room numbers again. No dice. Maybe you passed it already.

You turn again and freeze as a doors opens and none other than Leon walks out.

There’s still no disappointment in his face, though. This is full-on despair. His face drops and his shoulders sink before he stammers and looks away, ducking back inside his room like he’s the one who shouldn’t be here.

“I’m, uh… sorry, I’ll just—“

“Leon, wait...!"

You cross the distance in seconds flat and catch his wrist just as he’s halfway enveloped back in the dark of his room.

“I… I came here to see you.”

end notes: pls infer that you and leon made sweet, comforting love all night long :) or that he violently fucked your brains out without krauser there to make him hold back. whichever

[familyvideostevie]

either way

leon s kennedy x reader | 8.2k

Leon falls asleep. You fall in love. 

Warnings: fluff, sleeping, leon being tired and injured and charming, r being mushy and protective of him…five times in a row. canon typical violence, mission talk, off-page suicide by a minor oc, leon’s raccoon city trauma, picture any leon you want

a/n: technically a 4-part prequel and 1-part epilogue to “no matter how it ends.” if you want to read about the mission that brings these two together in all its glorious, smutty detail, check out that fic. this fic references that one a lot!

--

MISSION: ARGENTINA, SURVEILLANCE OF SUSPECTED T-VIRUS MATERIALS TRADE LOCATION

The rain starts at midday.

The sun is there one second and gone the next, everything plunged into darkness like someone simply turned off the lights. The church tower that you're in is on the hill, looking down with a clear sight line to the supposed meeting spot of your target.

But when it's raining, you can't see shit.

"If this roof starts to leak, I'll be pissed," you mutter. "How much longer till shift change?"

Leon checks his watch. He's cleaning his pistol, one leg outstretched and the other bent at the knee, his back pressed to the cold, damp stone. If he feels the chill, he does a good job of hiding it.

"An hour," he says. "If they show up on time."

You press the binoculars to your face and peer through again, but it's a lost cause.

"Bravo team never shows up on time," you remind him. "This is so pointless."

Leon doesn't argue. He even smirks, mouth pulling up at one corner as he pushes the clip back into his gun with a click.

"We know the guy is here," he reminds you. "It's a start."

Your target is a former Umbrella employee who set up shop in a small Argentinian mountain town to allegedly make new viruses. But it's a delicate mission as far as diplomacy goes, so much so that you two, one of the best pairs in the whole damn organization, have been relegated to surveillance.

For now.

"I'm bored," you say. It probably sounds petulant. Usually, missions are not boring. But this is the most laid-back thing you've been assigned so far, and you both know it. "I wish I had a book, or something."

Leon perks up. It's subtle, but you're already fairly attuned to his small movements even though you haven't been partners for all that long. His shoulders roll back. He turns ever so slightly to face you more fully.

"What, I'm not entertaining enough?"

You mirror his position, turning from the vantage point to lean against the wall.

"I don't know, Kennedy," you tease. "Can you do a flip?"

You both know he can do a flip.

He doesn't bite. "You read?"

That gets an eye roll. "I know how to read, yes. Do you?"

He huffs, pleased as he always is when you show some attitude. He's full of it, though it doesn't always rise to the surface.

"I just read The Count of Monte Cristo," he says. "I don't have a copy to give you, but I can tell you about it."

That's just how he is -- sass one second, honesty the next. Leon doesn't say things he doesn't mean. It's like he doesn't see the point in being anything but truthful.

Still, you study him. He's singular, your partner. Better in the field than anyone else, sure, but it's more than that. Leon S. Kennedy is different down to his core, down to the golden heart that beats in his chest.

Sometimes it's just...hard to believe you're a witness to it. To him.

"Okay," you say. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it.

"And you're not going to read it?" he says. Leon likes to do this, you've learned. To check with you. To be sure. "You don't mind knowing what happens?"

"No, go ahead."

Something in him lightens as he talks. He's a good storyteller. He explains the main character’s imprisonment, his escape, the transformation. The revenge, the mercy, the forgiveness. It matters to Leon, you realize. That he gets it right, but also that you understand what it's about. That you learn what he learned, feel what he felt. He wants you there with him.

So you listen. You watch. You drink your fill just this one time.

Because while he's competent and beautiful and so, so good, you're partners. What you're doing here matters, even if it's raining and you can't see shit. And you're best at it when you're with him, so that's how it will be. Nothing can compromise that.

But you're allowed to look. To see the way he talks with his hands the deeper into the story he gets. The way he catches your eye even when you shift around a little. The way he leans forward just a bit and you mirror it, always meeting him wherever he wants to go.

By the end, he's basically resting his chin on a forearm slung across his knee. "But then the very last line --"

"HQ to Alpha Team, come in, Alpha Team."

You both jump, and Leon flips open his communicator. He looks a little irritated at being interrupted.

"Hunnigan, Alpha Team here."

"Bravo Team is delayed," Hunnigan says, her voice unusually staticky over the line. It drags you the rest of the way out of Leon's story and into the present – the mission. "Supplies restock went fine, but the road up is washed out. They're looking for an alternate route."

"Lucky us," Leon says, tipping his head back against the stone. "Thanks for the update."

You feel compelled to get to your knees and face the window again. It's a reminder of where you are, what you're doing.

The silence feels unwelcome. Not unnatural or awkward, but more like you expect it to be filled with Leon's voice. He's never said so much in one go, and you already miss listening.

"So he just...gives up on revenge?" you ask.

Leon nods. "He realizes it's an empty pursuit."

You finally look through your binoculars. Nothing, just rain.

"I admire that," you say. "I guess he wins, in the end. He's free."

"All human wisdom is contained in these two words: Wait and hope," Leon recites.

You turn back to him and meet his eyes. He swallows, looks away. Now he's shy. "That's the last line."

"Do you believe that?"

"I'm not very good at waiting," he says wryly. He picks up his gun, forgotten on the floor in his storytelling, and slides it into his holster. "Or hoping."

You don’t think either of these things is true. Leon is incredibly patient. He is also hopeful down to his bones, even if he won’t admit it. He believes in doing as much good as he can, and he believes in saving people. It’s as much a part of him as his rare smile and piercing eyes.

But he would never say such things about himself. He’s allergic to internalizing compliments.

"Let's practice," you suggest. "I'll start. I hope Bravo team shows up soon."

For a second, you think Leon won't play. But he hums and says, "I hope they're muddy and soaked for making us wait."

"Leon!" you laugh. "How unkind to our fellow agents."

He shrugs. "A little rain never hurt anybody. Your turn."

"I hope...we get a few weeks off after this," you offer. It's impossible to know what will come next. Truthfully, you always miss being in the field with Leon after too long away.

Your partner attempts to look professionally discouraging but fails. "We barely did anything on this one."

"Well, it's not over yet!"

Almost like it was listening, the sky rumbles.

"I hope I sleep on the plane home," he says. It's aptly punctuated with a yawn. After Bravo Team relieves you, it's back to the safe house for a quick hot meal and as many hours of sleep as you can catch. He never says so, but you don't think Leon is a good sleeper. He's too alert, too ready for something to happen.

Maybe he's different in his own space. You wouldn't know, you've never seen it. Never seen him outside of work at all, really.

But you know how he looks now. Tired.

Despite his golden heart and mystifyingly confident attitude, Leon is a man like any other. Now that you think about it, you know he hasn't been sleeping well. You can hear him on the other side of the wall in the safe house, the methodical way he takes apart and cleans his gun, the soft grunts of a workout instead of closing his eyes. Nightmares, maybe. You don't know how to ask.

And telling him he looks exhausted might not be great for his ego. But he's your partner, and your job is to take care of him as much as it is to complete the mission, however you can.

"Get some rest," you tell him.

He frowns. "What?"

"I'll keep watch," you continue with a shrug, like it's no big deal. It is, and it isn't. He's put his life in your hands countless times since you were assigned together, but this is different. You're asking for a new kind of trust.

He blinks at you, unreadable as he comes to a decision.

"Just a little," he says. "15 minutes. Tops."

"Whatever you say, Kennedy," you say with a salute. He huffs, but settles back against the wall a little more, eyes sliding shut.

You're not even sure he'll fall asleep, but before long, his breathing evens out, and his head tilts a little more to the side. He looks younger like this. Less burdened.

If anything came through the door right now, you'd kill it. No hesitation. Just so he would keep looking like that.

MISSION: NEPAL, RECONNAISSANCE REGARDING POSSIBLE NEW VIRUS LABORATORY

Leon has three broken ribs, maybe four, and the extraction point is really fucking far from the lab.

Why did Hunnigan make it so far?

You'd ask her, but both of your coms are long gone. Fried from the blast and smashed to pieces from what came after. Probably 10 bullets left between the two of you, a shitty knife, and two vials of herbs.

Which Leon needs, desperately.

He's trying not to lean his entire weight on you, but you both know he can't walk on his own right now, let alone stand.

You slow your already glacial trudge away from the carnage in your wake and adjust his arm around your shoulders. He's holding his own ribs, stabilizing them as best he can. You keep your gun at the ready between you, just in case. He's trying really hard not to drag his leg.

"We should just walk home," he says. The cuts on his face aren't bleeding anymore, but he's still got crimson smears on his neck. "Shouldn't take too long."

"Oh, yeah?" you say lightly. He can probably feel your panic anyway, attuned to you as he is in the field. This joke is probably an attempt to get you to calm down. "Over the mountains, through the woods, across an ocean, and to Washington DC we go."

"See? Easy enough."

His breath is hot on your ear, head almost entirely lolled onto your shoulder before you start walking again. You can hear the pain in his voice, though he tries to hide it. You glance at him and find his face ashen and sweaty, hair hanging limply over his eyes.

He shouldn’t go on much longer. The sun is already below the tree line, clouds the color of bruises stretching over your heads. You’re really fucked if it starts snowing while you’re out here and you lose visibility.

"Leon," you say. "I think we'll have to stop for the night. The choppers won't come until tomorrow."

"If they're coming," he mutters. It's probably meant to make you laugh, a jab at the occasional disorganization of your jobs, but instead it deepens your already poorly concealed panic.

He's been hurt before. Hell, he got shot in front of you on your second mission together. You pushed on the wound with your own hands. It took weeks for the feeling of his blood under your fingernails to fade.

But this is different. You can't call for early extraction, and you have to survive the night in this freezing abandoned village, an Umbrella lab burning behind you. And he's hurt, and you don't even know how badly.

The noise he made when he hit the wall --

A new thought, sharper and more dangerous than all the rest, shoves its way to the front.

What if Leon dies here, and you have to watch?

"Let's try that one," he says, dragging you back from the edge of your spiral. He jerks his chin down the path towards a ramshackle building. "The top floor has some good sight lines from those windows."

"Can you climb stairs?" you ask. His knee is so fucked you're worried moving even at all makes it worse.

"That's what you're for."

The snow is slippery as you slowly hobble to the two-story building at the edge of the village. 

It’s impossible to stop your brain from going a million miles a minute. You're going to have to double back and cover your tracks as best you can. Maybe you can make a splint for his leg with the shit in your pack and anything left in the building you trudge towards. Should you make him a sled? Could you pull him to the extraction point?

You’ll do whatever it takes to keep that horrible, horrible thought from coming true. 

It takes some time, but you get up the stairs and settle near the window overlooking the main path.

"At least it's warmer in here," Leon says. 

He's slumped against the wall, gingerly taking pulls from your canteen to wash down the herbs he finally swallowed. His forehead is slick and his breathing labored from the effort. "All things considered, it was a pretty successful mission."

You can't decide between watching him or watching the windows, which means pacing between each one and glancing at him every few seconds. It's unlikely you were followed, but successfully completing the mission, injuries aside, feels a little too good to be true. You're waiting for the other other shoe to drop.

"Leon, you got thrown 30 feet into a stone pillar."

He shrugs, then winces. "Just another day at the office."

He rolls his neck, pressing his fingers into it like he can will away whatever aches he's feeling. 

You both get injured in the field all the time. Nothing serious, not usually, and it's rarely enough to require immediate attention. But you also know that Leon sits with his pain. He doesn't call attention to it unless you ask, and even then, you know he downplays it.

But he doesn't lie to you. You don't do that in your partnership.

"Leon," you say again.

He sighs.

"Been better," he admits. "After the stairs up here, I can be pretty sure my lungs aren't punctured. The knee isn't great, though. Hurts like hell."

You walk between the windows again. Did you even clear the room properly? Maybe you should clear the whole building.

"Do you think you have a concussion?" If he does, you can't let him sleep too much, though he needs rest desperately. It's going to be a long night.

Leon says your name in his you’re not being very calm voice. You ignore it. 

"You saw," he continues. "I hit pretty much everything but my head."

Oh boy, did you see.

The whole thing felt like slow motion. The lab was meant to be a virus research facility. You were meant to figure out what they were making and destroy it. But you got there too late -- most of it had been cleared out. Everything important, anyway. Not much left in the way of documents and research, and certainly no staff.

But then you found the fucking plant.

Something left behind unintentionally or on purpose as a trap, you're not sure. What you are sure about is that some virus-juiced up weed caused the otherwise dormant facility to go into self-destruct lockdown. Your coms got fucked, and then you had to figure out how to destroy the plant.

Leon drew its attention while you messed with the door systems, trying to trap it without trapping yourselves. He took hit after hit, his bullets only doing so much against the thick, slimy vines.

You looked up to tell him you found a path to the exit right as the plant managed to hook itself around his knee. It squeezed, and he screamed. You can still hear it.

But that was nothing compared to what came next.

The plant hoisted him into the air by his ruined knee and threw him clear across the chamber. 

He hit the wall with a horrible wet thud before falling to the ground in an unmoving heap.

There are no words for your terror in that moment. Not that you'd ever tell him what it felt like -- you don't lie to each other, but there are things he does not need to know.

The plant turned toward you, thinking its opponent vanquished, and that was its mistake.

You killed that motherfucker. Fueled by terrified rage and capitalizing on the damage Leon had already done, you managed it. And when you finally fell to your knees next to Leon and saw his chest rise and fall, well. There are few better feelings.

But you're not out of the woods yet.

"Yeah, I saw," you say. You check each window again, one by one.

"Can you sit down?" Leon says. "You're making me nervous."

"You don't get nervous."

"First time for everything."

You face him. He looks amused.

"I need to cover our tracks," you say. "Will you be okay for a little? You can have the bullets."

"Woah," he says. Amusement turns to a frown. "Slow down. We saw no signs of staff or guards. 

No one is here. You don't need to cover our tracks. We'll be okay."

The knot in your stomach loosens just a little. Leon is careful in the field. Maybe not with himself, but with intel, preparation, and execution. If he thinks there's no one here, there's no one here. And if he's wrong, he trusts both of you to be able to handle it. He doesn't gamble with your life.

"Come sit," he says. "I'll beg, if that's what it takes."

Somehow, he gets a laugh out of you. "I should make you."

Still, you do as he asks. There's nothing to build a fire with, and while Leon's conviction of your safety is a nice one, you're not totally sold. Best to tough it out until morning.

Leon clears his throat, though it's more of a groan than a cough.

"That wasn't so bad now, was it?" he starts. "If they don't come tomorrow --"

The words fly out of you before you have time to think them through.

"Don't tell me to leave you."

His eyes betray his surprise. A little too wide, brows pulled together in the middle to form a crease you've often thought about smoothing with your thumb.

Embarrassment is hot in your throat. It's important to you to be calm in a crisis, to be able to think through it and come out the other side. But something about this whole fucking day is making you fray at the edges. The echo of his scream, of his body hitting the ground, plays on loop in your mind.

"I was going to say we'll need to find some food," Leon says, slowly. As if you're a deer about to bolt.

"Oh," you breathe. "Okay." You rub your palms on your pants. "You're right."

You need to get it together. You cannot fall apart until it's all over. You're not even the one who is hurt, for crying out loud.

"Hey," Leon says, so soft you have to close your eyes so you don't look at him and reveal everything you're feeling. "I won’t ask you that."

Someday, he might. And if that day comes, you’ll refuse just like you do now. The certainty of it settles in your chest, and it feels right. You’ll never leave Leon Kennedy behind. 

"Good," you reply. "Cause I wouldn't." You dig your fingers into your thighs and make yourself look at him with a smile that only feels half forced. "We can just walk home, remember?"

Leon snorts, then groans.

"Fuck," he hisses. "Damn ribs. Don't make me laugh."

"I'm too funny for you." Worry still simmers just under your skin, but all of this, his words, his laughter, just being near him, it's helping. "You've got a lot of blood on your neck," you say, softly.

The vines were covered in thorns that nicked him anywhere he was exposed. The small slices on his skin are shallow and already clotted, but your hands are desperate to help.

"It's always something."

"Stay still," you mumble. Leon seems to sense your restlessness and allows you to shift closer and clean him up with a bit of water and a bandage from your hip pouch.

"Look," he says, barely wincing as you work. "We got some intel, killed that thing, and the lab blew up. It's cold, sure, but we're inside, and tomorrow morning we'll make it to the field and get a nice, warm chopper pickup."

"You need medical now, though," you huff. The blood comes off easily. He swallows and you feel it against your fingertips. "I'm worried about your knee."

"It's not going anywhere." Leon cups your elbow gently, grounding you. And maybe himself. "We're going to be fine."

He honestly seems confused that you're not as sure as he is, like your fear has thrown him. 

Does Leon Kennedy believe in you that much? He trusts you, you know that. You wouldn't work so well together if he didn't. But he believes in you, in your partnership. The knot in your throat begins to twist into something else, something softer, something more dangerous.

He's not scared at all because you're here. Because you're together.

"Yeah," you allow. "Yeah, we are."

You ball up the bloody bandage and lean back against the wall next to him.

"I'll take first watch," Leon says. He sounds serious about it.

You check the clip on your sidearm and do him the courtesy of not laughing.

"Yeah, right," you reply. "You should rest. We'll have to walk the rest of the way to the field in the morning."

The absence of an argument is no surprise. He's stubborn, but he's able to be realistic. If you're getting out of here, he needs as much strength as he can find.

"The food in medical is going to be so bad," he mutters.

He rolls his head against the wall to look at you. The herbs are working because his skin is a little less pale, his jaw a little less tense. You can only hope he's not in as much pain.

"I'll bring you something good," you tell him. "Sleep, Leon."

He stays facing you, but closes his eyes.

"Fine," he says. "Just a few minutes."

You scoot closer to him so you're pressed together, shoulder to ankle. Leon runs cold, you've learned, but being this close means you can feel the innate heat of him in the otherwise frigid air. Heat means he's alive.

"Body heat," you say, mostly to yourself. "Don't freeze on me, okay, Kennedy?"

"I'll do my best," he huffs. "Just a few minutes, I'm serious. Wake me up if you need anything."

Leon sleeps through the night at your side.

You stay pressed against him with your gun in one hand, ready and willing to do whatever you have to to keep him safe. To get both of you home.

Something has changed. The place in your heart where he lives has shifted, softened, and grown. He is, you now know, essential to you. As fundamental as the blood in your veins, the air in your lungs.

Maybe everything has changed.

That's a problem for later. After you get him to the extraction point, after you see him to medical, after you write up your report and put this mission behind you.

MISSION: GREECE, ELIMINATION OF B.O.W.s AND CAPTURE OF SOURCE

You don't think Leon sleeps for the three days you're in Greece.

It's hard to tell. You feel well-rested each time he wakes you for your watch, which means he lets you sleep too long. And when you take over, he doesn't look like he's sleeping. It's not the soft, relaxed face you now know so well. He's just lying there, waiting for morning to come.

It must be nightmares. You just wish he would try.

The mission itself ends up being kind of fun. Greece is beautiful. Vibrant blue water and endless sky, picturesque beaches and a monastery with the most beautiful stained glass windows you've ever seen. You want to explore properly, to wander the streets for fun, not with a gun in your hand.

The island population evacuated before you arrived, so all you have to do is find the mad scientist billionaire living in the catacombs making B.O.W.s, and kill as many of them as you can on your way.

Bats with tentacles and lizards with thousands of teeth where you wouldn't expect teeth to be. 

Easy, right?

Except for the fact that you have to chase them up and down so, so many stairs.

And Leon falls down most of them.

Thanks to his body armor, he's only a little battered. His ego is probably more bruised than his skin.

But the whole thing takes a lot out of him when combined with how little rest he gets.

You apprehend the billionaire and send him off in his chopper. Your own extraction is quick after that, even if you have to basically haul Leon into the bird. He slumps next to you with a bleary-eyed fist bump.

The island is still below when Leon falls asleep. You turn to say something to him, to see why he's leaning on you with his full weight, only to find his eyes closed and his breathing even.

Just like that.

No nightmares.

Truthfully, this is why you wanted him to just try to sleep. But how would you say that? How would you tell him that you think his body knows he's safe with you just as much as his mind does? That he trusts you so deeply?

It is in this moment that you let yourself think it.

You love him.

Maybe this was inevitable. He's the best man you've ever known. You trust him with your life on a regular basis, and he returns that trust tenfold. You've washed his blood from your skin, relied on his steady aim in the heat of a fight, leaned into his warmth in the darkest, most terrifying places on earth.

Now that you've thought it, there's no going back.

There's no doing anything about it, either. It's too complicated.

Maybe he loves you. You're not sure. It doesn't matter, anyway. You'd never ask him to give more of himself to you. He gives everything to the world already. You won't be another person who takes from him.

So this? A successful mission, the weight of him settled firmly at your side, both of you alive and mostly well? This might be enough.

Leon turns his head so his face is pressed into your shoulder, his hair tickling your jawline. You let yourself lean into him, resting your cheek on the top of his head.

You make each other feel safe. Is that not love?

MISSION: U.S.A., AQUISITION OF ANTIVIRAL MATERIALS

It's too late.

You both know it the moment you arrive.

The pale door stands alone in the middle of the New Mexico desert, almost invisible among the hills of pristine white dunes unless you’re looking right at it. Just as the briefing said it would. A lab hidden from the DSO, from lingering Umbrella hostiles, from everyone. A lab working on antivirals of all kinds, invaluable resources that would be disastrous in the wrong hands.

But the door hangs open.

"Shit," Leon mutters, drawing his weapon. "Looks like we're late to the party."

You follow him through the door and down the stairs. The power isn't out, but the lights flicker when you walk under them like they want to hide whatever awaits you.

It's more bare bones than anything you've seen before. No lobby, no desk. No security room, no floor map. Just a corridor at the bottom of the stairs and doors on either side, all pushed open.

Glass litters the floor, as do crumpled wet papers. There is a sharp chemical smell in the air. You know in your gut that the antivirals are gone.

"No people," you whisper. "No corpses."

Leon nods, face grim. He knows what's gone on here just as well as you do. Whatever small operation was functioning before today is dead to the world. It’ll be a miracle to get any good intel from this place.

"We need to check every room anyway," he tells you.

But before you can start a sweep, someone coughs. It's so unexpected that you both twist on the spot and aim your guns in the direction of the noise.

"Is anyone alive down here?" Leon calls. "We're here to help."

Not entirely true per your mission, but Leon is always here to help. And where he goes, you go.

The coughing stops.

With a quick glance at him, you lead the way down the hall to the door you're pretty sure the survivor – god, you hope it’s a survivor – is in.

The closer you get, the more you hear it -- someone is crying.

The room ends up being an office, small and ransacked. Two people lean against one of the overturned desks.

A man and a woman, the latter crying softly into her hands. They're partners of some kind. You can tell right away. They occupy each other’s space in a way that feels familiar to you, that triggers a deep sense of horror once you put the pieces together. 

These are two people who love each other, and there is no other place they'd rather be, even at the end.

The man has his arm around her, but you can see his face.

He's infected. Not gone yet, but well on the way. Black veins run up his neck into his hairline. If the woman raised her head, you'd undoubtedly see the same.

You glance at Leon, but he's already looking at you, having reached the same conclusion.

"You work here?" Leon asks.

"I'm sorry," the woman mutters wetly. "I'm sorry, we didn't know they would come, we didn't know --"

"What happened?" you press.

"It's all gone," the man snaps. He barely spares you a glance. "Can't you tell? They took it all."

"The antivirals," Leon fills in.

The woman looks up. She doesn't have long left. Minutes, maybe. Her speech is slurred, and her eyes are cloudy, the whites of them spiderwebbed black. You don’t even know if she can see you.

"They... threw a gas grenade down the stairs and... then destroyed it all," she says. "We could hear them smashing vials while we were..."

The woman begins to cough, droplets of blood spraying the ground under her as she heaves. 

It splatters over her wedding ring. Fuck. You were right.

"Shh, Mack," the man tells her. "Don't talk."

She doesn't listen. "Simon," she manages to say, "The files, I--"

The man -- Simon -- rubs at her back until she pushes him away.

“I’m not leaving you,” he says. “Don’t ask me to.”

The words hang in the air. You can hear your own voice saying them back in Nepal.

"Please," she begs.

You take a small step towards Leon.

"What's she talking about?" he says. 

There's no tremor in his voice, but you can hear his horror, his rage. Neither of you can stop what’s happening here.

Simon gets to his knees and reaches for a drawer in the overturned desk. Using a key, or a combination, you're not sure which, he opens a secret compartment with a hushed snick.

And pulls out a stack of files.

"There's no time for us," Simon tells you, holding them out in a shaking hand. The veins in his forearms are steadily turning black. "But you can make more with these. We thought this might happen someday." He glances at his wife and the blood dripping down her chin. "Not like this."

Leon seems frozen in place. It's the worst-case scenario. Two people trying to do good who become victims, casualties, and there's nothing you can do to save them.

You surge forward to take the files. Simon collapses back beside Mack.

"Can we do anything?" you offer.

"Yes," Mack gurgles. "End it."

It's an ask that gives you pause, even after all of your time as an agent. You've killed many B.O.W.s by this point, and your fair share of human beings. It comes with the job. 

It keeps you up at night.

But could you kill someone like this, because they asked you to? To spare them the indignity of turning into a monster?

Leon saves you from deciding. He hands over his gun, and Simon takes it with wide eyes.

"We'll wait," Leon says. His words are shot through with regret. "Outside."

He turns on his heel before the pair can say anything. You think it might kill him to hear a thank you for this.

There's no choice but to follow. You don't want to be here for what comes next, nor should you. 

You shut the office door behind you and find Leon standing in the hall, arms crossed and back pressed against the wall. His eyes are on the floor.

What is there to say?

You stand next to him, shoulders brushing.

And you wait. And wait. And wait.

What does it feel like to die? To sit beside the person you love most as it happens? To be the one who kills them, who ends their suffering? To be the one who keeps them human, in the end. Could you bear that burden?

It's hard not to glance at Leon. For him, maybe you could. For him, you sometimes think you could do anything.

The first gunshot makes you both inhale sharply.

The second, only moments later, is an exhale.

Leon looks up from the floor and catches your gaze. He looks so young and so tired. You're missing something, something big that's making this harder for him. It settles over his shoulders and drags them down.

He heads back to the office and you follow. Of course you follow.

You won't make him do this alone.

The two of you stand in front of the closed door and breathe. It feels like before and after, like there's no coming back from whatever this is.

You squeeze Leon's shoulder.

He reaches for the knob.

The debrief back at base is awful and takes forever. The mission was technically a failure, since you didn't actually get the antivirals, but the files will help immensely. When you're finally done, you amble out of the windowless room into the hall and find Leon waiting for you.

He looks as exhausted as you feel, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He's showered and changed into stuff he keeps around for long nights post-mission, dark sweatpants and a hoodie. He looks soft but weary.

"Hey," he says, straightening up. "You okay?"

You offer him a small smile. "Define okay."

"Yeah, fair enough," he says. He runs a hand through his damp hair. "That was fucked up."

"Yeah." You step a little closer. "Are you okay?"

Leon tilts his head to the side, eyes on your face but not seeing you, not really. He's seeing whatever ghosts are haunting him about this.

"I will be."

"Leon," you say, without knowing what will come next. Just to say his name, to bring him back to this moment. It works, refocusing him, drawing him back to you. You both saw something horrible today. You can feel it in the air -- you can see his distress, the way he's carrying this differently than most other horrible shit you do in this job. It's weighing on him.

"I don't want to be alone right now," you say. It’s no lie, but it’s also disguising what you really want to do – take care of him. After what you saw, you don’t want to leave him alone. "Do you want to come over?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies you. You try not to squirm. Maybe it's plain as day on your face how concerned you are. Maybe he can see your care for him as easily as you feel it.

"Okay," he says.

It's not that unfamiliar. He's been over a few times when you've been injured over the course of your partnership thus far, dropped things off while you recovered. He even made soup once.

So when you're standing in your kitchen, each holding a sweating glass of water, it's not discomfort you're feeling. If someone asked, you'd say he looks at home in his soft clothes and socked feet, bags under his eyes. More relaxed than before, at least.

"Should we talk about it?" you say.

Leon sighs. "Do you want to?"

No, not really. But the pain in their voices, the horror on Leon's face. The way those two people, utter strangers to you, loved each other in the midst of this fucked up world of viruses and vaccines and corporations that you all find yourselves in. In the face of death, till the very end.

Here, in the safety of your kitchen, looking at the man you love, you think about telling him how you feel. It makes your heart feel like an open wound. You imagine it, what you'd do for him. What you suspect he'd do for you. 

Would it scare him away? How far you would go to save him?

"Not really," you admit. "But it might make us feel better. That shit was nightmare fuel. Not that we need any more of those."

Leon huffs. You still need to shower and change, but this is important. You hop up on your counter. He leans against the cabinets across from you.

"Thank you," he says. "For taking the lead back there. For talking to them."

You wouldn't describe it as such, but you don't say so. You've heard this tone from him a few times before. It's like he's somewhere else.

And he is.

"Did it remind you of something from Raccoon City?" you ask carefully. Not because you think he'll be mad, but because he deserves some care.

You've gotten bits and pieces from him about that day over the course of your partnership. You know how he carries it with him, how his entire life as an agent started there, with the people he lost, the things he saw. You often think about him as a rookie police officer standing as tall as he could against a crumbling city, against threats he couldn't even begin to understand.

You'll never know that Leon, but loving this one means you love him, too.

"Yeah," he replies. He sets the water glass on the counter and crosses his arms. "There was this man who owned a gun shop," he says. "Kendo. He was upset and scared. He told me I was supposed to know something about how it all happened because I was a cop."

The smile on his face is a bitter one. You don't like it, so different from the ones he saves for you.

"I didn't even know how little I knew, at that point," he says. "We're talking to him, and then his daughter stumbles into the shop from the back room. Emma."

You can see where this is going.

"Was she...?" you ask.

Leon nods. "It was too late. He told us to leave them alone and took her back to the room. And then we heard one gunshot. Didn't stick around to hear a second."

You breathe out. "That's...wow."

"A lot of innocent people died that night," he says. "And those scientists today -- Simon and Mack -- they were involved more than Kendo and his daughter, sure. But they were doing good, working against bioweapons. And they died for it."

He says it with resignation, with exhaustion. You know he'll never forget their names. Never forget that he couldn't save them.

"Like us," you tell him. Leon looks confused. "We're doing that, too," you continue. "And we'd die for it, right?”

For each other, you don't say.

He holds your gaze, then nods. “Yeah,” he says. "Don't get any ideas, though."

You smile at him even though his words are serious. "Okay, Kennedy."

Leon stands and holds out his hand for your glass. Your fingers brush in the exchange.

"You know," he says, turning to put it in the sink. "This was nightmare fuel, but I never have nightmares when you're around."

If asked, you'd say it's a strategic move not to face you. Giving you space to figure out how you want to respond.

The perpetual knot of feelings in your chest twists tighter. All those hours he's slept by your side while you watched over him, all those nights without a bad dream, it all sits heavy in your throat. How much it means to you that he trusts you, that he feels safe next to you.

"Really?" you ask, softly. Pretending not to have come to this conclusion yourself. "I'm glad."

Leon turns, blue eyes finding yours once again. He's told you this for a reason, but now that it's out there, you don't know what to do with it. If he feels the same way, if you are similarly essential to him, then what do you even do about it? What would change?

You're too raw for it right now. So you hold his gaze, but hop down from the counter.

"I'm going to shower," you tell him. "Help yourself to anything in the -- well, anything. You know where it all is."

There's no disappointment from him, no deflation. Just solid patience. Leon Kennedy, immovable object. Living weapon. Love itself.

"Take your time," he says.

When you come back, clean and comfortable, Leon isn't in the kitchen.

You find him asleep on the couch.

His face is turned into the pillow, one leg hanging off the side like he hadn't meant to close his eyes, but it happened anyway. It's like telling you the story about Kendo has lifted a weight from him, and he's exhausted from the memories.

All of it -- the entire mission, really -- just shows you what you already know. He trusts you, he feels safe with you. Maybe it's even more than that.

But tonight isn't for dwelling on that. It's for the two of you, safe and together for another day, to rest. Filled with gratitude for that, you brush his hair back from his face as carefully as you can before draping a blanket over him.

When you wake, you're curled up in the chair next to the couch with the same blanket draped over you.

MISSION: DATA NOT AVAILABLE

You usually tell people you like writing reports. It's not as exciting as actually going on missions, sure, but there's something satisfying about looking back on everything you did and explaining it, picking it apart for details and errors and good choices.

Maybe because you and Leon are good agents, which makes your mission reports much easier to write. But this one is taking you forever. And Leon is no help.

The mission, well. 

The mission went utterly sideways. You almost died. Infected with a mystery fever virus and no antivirals to be found, part of you really thought it was the end. That Leon was going to have to watch you turn and kill you.

But he saved you. He saved you by doing the unimaginable -- putting his body on the line for yours. With yours.

And you lived.

And now you know how he feels. How you both feel.

It doesn't mean he's helpful in writing the report, though.

You banished him to your bedroom nearly an hour ago because he was being too distracting. Without his quips and the temptation to touch him every five seconds, you're finally done.

"Sorry to whoever has to read that," you mutter, shutting your laptop. It's almost dinner time. 

"Leon?" you call.

Nothing.

You stand and stretch, the hem of your t-shirt -- it might be his, you're not sure -- riding up a little. Maybe he's got his headphones on.

There's evidence of him all over your place now. His jacket over the barstool, his boots by the door. Two books he wants you to read are stacked on the table, his gym water bottle is in the drying rack. But it's more than that. You know he's here. It's a strange feeling, the safety that comes with that knowledge. Like everything makes a bit more sense, your world righted just so.

You worried before that exposing your feelings would affect your partnership in the field, but you know now that you passed the threshold of a normal relationship a long time ago. You will do whatever it takes for Leon to be okay. It was true then, and it's true now. It's the light that guides your path, the direction your compass points towards. Him, always him.

You find Leon in the bedroom. He's in your bed, shoulders sinking deep into your pillows. A book you got him balanced on his chest, spine cracked.

He's asleep.

He looks younger this way, like he always does, jaw relaxed and brow smooth. His face is turned into the pillow like he's chasing your imprint on it from this morning, echoing the way he’s always aware of your presence when he’s awake. Orbiting you, filling the space you leave him, the answer to every question you’ve ever had.

You just stand there and look because you can. This man who loves you, who protects you, who trusts you. He's given you everything. His mind, his body, his heart, without hesitation. You would have happily spent the rest of your life watching over him, keeping him safe, having his back, and asking nothing in return.

But he loves you.

You sit on the edge of the bed and know he wakes immediately, but he allows you to pull the book from his torso, mark his page, and set it on the nightstand.

"Can I join you?" you whisper.

Leon opens his eyes and smiles easily, a delicate pull up of his mouth at both sides.

"Please do," he says, voice a little rough from his nap. "Mm, come here."

He sinks even further down into the pillows and holds out his arm. You go happily, your head on his shoulder and your leg over his hips.

Leon presses his lips to your hairline and inhales.

"How's the book?" you ask. His heart beats steadily under your palm.

"Good," he says. "Just thought I'd catch a few minutes. It smells so good in here. Smells like 

you."

He says shit like this all the time, now. It always takes your breath away.

"Well, it's my bed," you remind him. He just hums and closes his eyes again. He drags his fingers up and down your arm.

It's a revelation to touch him like this. You never get enough of it, how solid yet pliant he is under your hands. How many times have you wondered what it would be like to do exactly this?

"Can I hold you?" you ask, trying not to sound too shy.

Icy blue reappears between his long lashes.

"Sure," he says. He sounds amused but fond. "Are we sleeping?"

We, always we. Always in step with you, always ready to follow wherever you’re going. 

"For a little."

Leon turns onto his side, showing you his back. You curl yourself around him, puzzle pieces finally back where they belong. Your knee slides between his and his arm rests over yours where it's slung across his torso.

"You okay?" he murmurs.

He might not feel it, but you press your lips to his shoulder blade.

"Yeah," you say. "You?"

Leon squeezes your hand.

"Doesn't get much better than this," he tells you.

You can feel his heartbeat through his back, feel every breath in and out as you match it to your own.

There will be plenty of opportunities in the future for you to keep watch while he sleeps. But for now, you can rest together.

[cherryysunshine]

Something Borrowed, Something Bruised

Pairing: Jason Todd/F!Reader

Word Count: 11k

Rating: Explicit

CW: fake marriage, undercover as a couple, masquerade ball, mutual pining, sexual tension, secret identities, violence, blood/injury, guns, knives, suggestive banter, explicit sexual content, semi-public kissing/touching

Summary: Red Hood and Moxie know each other well enough to fight back-to-back, but not well enough to know each other’s real names. When a criminal masquerade admits only married pairs, Jason asks her to play his wife for the night, and the line between cover and confession gets dangerously thin. 

Author’s Note: this is my first reader-insert fic!! i know it's not really full on smut but i did my best...

Red Hood called you at 2:17 in the morning and opened with, “I need you to marry me.”

You stared at the comm where it sat on the edge of your bathroom sink, its tiny red light blinking up at you with the smug patience of a device that knew it had just ruined your night.

There was blood on your knuckles, rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair, and half a strip of medical tape stuck to your wrist because you had been in the middle of wrapping a split across your ribs when his voice came through. Gotham was still rattling against your window in a hard gray sheet. Somewhere below, a siren cut through the Narrows and vanished toward the river.

You picked up the comm carefully. “Say that again, but slower and less like a hostage negotiation.”

A pause. Then Hood, sounding annoyed in a way that meant he had probably practiced the line and hated that you had ruined it. “I have an infiltration job.”

“You need me to marry you for an infiltration job.”

“Fake marry me.”

“Oh, good. For a second there, I thought you were being impulsive.”

“Can you be serious for ten seconds?”

“I can. I just usually charge extra.”

A low sound came through the comm, almost a laugh, before he caught it and killed it. Red Hood had a habit of doing that, letting amusement slip halfway into his voice before remembering he was supposed to be terrifying. The criminals of Gotham still believed in the terrifying part. You believed in it too, mostly. You had seen him put a man’s head through drywall for threatening a kid. You had seen him walk through gunfire like pain was an inconvenience rather than a warning. Red Hood was not soft.

But he was funny when he forgot not to be.

That had been one of your first problems with him.

The second had been the way he trusted you at his back.

You leaned against the sink and pressed a clean cloth to your ribs. “What’s the job?”

“Masquerade tomorrow night. Private estate outside Bristol. Guest list is a who’s who of Gotham’s worst-dressed with too much money. Arms brokers, corrupt judges, traffickers, one Intergang accountant who’s either brave or stupid, and a host who calls himself Mr. Argent because apparently Gotham finally ran out of normal criminal names.”

“Argent,” you repeated. “Subtle.”

“He’s auctioning off a ledger.”

“You called me at two in the morning because of bookkeeping?”

“It’s a buyer list. Names, routes, shell companies, offshore accounts. Enough to gut a weapons pipeline running through the East End, the Narrows, and half of Blüdhaven.” Hood’s voice changed there, the humor thinning out into something harder. “Kids have been turning up with military-grade rifles in their backpacks because these assholes are selling like they’re moving party favors. I want the ledger.”

That sobered you fast.

You pulled the cloth away from your side and looked down. The bleeding had slowed. Good enough.

“What’s the catch?” you asked.

“No solo guests.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“The invitation admits married pairs only. Spouses. No exceptions. They verify rings at the door, cross-check the aliases, then keep paired guests together for most of the night. Argent’s paranoid about undercover cops and lone operatives. Thinks people are less likely to make a move if their partner can be used against them.”

“That is either deeply stupid or unfortunately insightful.”

“Both.”

“And you thought of me.”

The pause on the other end went a fraction too long.

You knew Red Hood in pieces, because that was how everyone knew each other in Gotham. You knew the red helmet, the leather jacket, the guns he carried like extensions of his hands. You knew the brutal efficiency of him in a fight, the dry commentary over comms, the way he always put himself between civilians and bullets before anyone could accuse him of caring. You knew Arsenal liked him enough to insult him creatively, Nightwing worried about him with the exhausted fondness of an older brother, and Oracle treated him like a migraine she would still guide home through a burning building.

You did not know his name.

He did not know yours.

That had always been safer.

“Yeah,” Hood said finally. “I thought of you.”

Your fingers tightened around the comm.

Outside the bathroom, your apartment was dark except for the neon wash bleeding through the blinds. Moxie had been a joke once. A stupid little word spat by men who thought it made you sound small, cute, harmless. You had been new to Gotham then, fresh from Star City with one duffel bag, two batons, seven knives, and Roy Harper’s warning that Gotham had teeth. You had kept the name because it annoyed people. Then, you had made it expensive to laugh at.

Red Hood had never laughed.

The first time you worked together, he had found you pinned behind a half-toppled bar with four rounds left, a dislocated shoulder, and a mouth still running badly enough to make three smugglers hesitate before rushing you. He had dropped through the skylight like divine punishment with a gun in each hand and said, “You always this chatty when you’re bleeding?”

You had said, “Only when I’m bored.”

He had trusted you after that. Slowly. In the grudging, suspicious way Gotham vigilantes trusted anyone, but it had counted. You had traded intel, patched wounds, covered escapes, and spent too many dawns sitting on rooftops while the city turned bruised and gold beneath you. Friendship had crept in under the armor. Attraction had followed like a bad idea wearing boots.

Neither of you had said anything.

“So,” you said, because your silence had begun to feel too revealing, “you need a wife.”

“I need a partner.”

“But the invitation says married pairs.”

“Yes.”

“Which makes me your wife.”

“Fake wife.”

“Still hearing wife.”

“Moxie.”

You smiled despite yourself. He only used that tone when he was trying not to react, which made it one of your favorites. “What, no other options? Arsenal busy?”

“He offered.”

“He offered to be your wife?”

“He offered to wear white and make it everyone’s problem.”

You laughed, and this time Hood did not quite hide the answering warmth in his voice.

“Nightwing?” you asked.

“Would spend the whole night making heart eyes at the security cameras so Oracle could laugh at me.”

“She’ll laugh at you anyway.”

“Probably.”

“You could ask one of the Bats.”

“I’m asking you.”

The room seemed to quiet around that.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. The mask was off, leaving only the tired face beneath it. A fading bruise shadowed your jaw. Rain had flattened your hair against your cheek. You did not look like anyone’s wife. You looked like someone who had kicked a gunman down a stairwell forty minutes earlier and still had glass dust in one sleeve.

“You trust me that much?” you asked, softer than you meant to.

Hood did not answer immediately. When he did, the modulator could not quite strip the honesty out of his voice.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

The stupid thing was, you trusted him too.

“All right,” you said. “Send me the details.”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at nine.”

You straightened. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s a married couple event. We have to arrive together.”

“You can meet me two blocks out like a normal person.”

“A normal fake husband.”

“You’re enjoying this too much already.”

“You’re the one who keeps saying husband.”

“You started this call with a proposal.”

“It was a mission brief.”

“It was a cry for help.”

This time, he did laugh, low and brief and rough around the edges. It slipped under your skin before you could stop it.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Nine. Formal. Mask. Minimal weapons.”

“Define minimal.”

“Enough to keep you alive. Not enough to start a war before dessert.”

“You take all the romance out of organized crime.”

“Wear something you can run in.”

“Wear something you can bleed on.”

“Always do.”

The line clicked off.

You stood there for a moment with the comm in your palm and rain tapping against the glass. Then you looked down at your half-bandaged ribs and sighed.

“Fake married,” you told your reflection.

By the next night, you had decided that if Gotham criminals insisted on being dramatic, you were at least going to make them regret inviting you to be attractive.

The dress was black because subtlety had its limits. It skimmed close where it needed to, moved where it had to, and hid more than one blade in the places people politely pretended not to look. The slit up one side gave your thigh holster room. The structured bodice concealed flexible armor. Your shoes had been modified by a woman in Blüdhaven who believed all formalwear should survive a rooftop chase and at least one attempted kidnapping.

Your mask was matte black, simple and sharp, covering enough of your face to preserve the fiction without interfering with your sightlines. It lacked the tactical comfort of your usual mask. It also made you feel less like Moxie and more like someone who had been invited into a room specifically designed to test whether she could lie prettily while armed.

You arrived two blocks from the estate at 8:56.

Red Hood was already there. He stood beside a sleek black car under the cover of an old stone archway, rain misting silver around him. He was not wearing the helmet. That was the first problem. The second was the suit.

You had seen Red Hood in body armor, leather, Kevlar, blood, soot, and once an ugly green hoodie he had stolen from a safehouse after taking a knife to the shoulder. You had never seen him in a black suit tailored so cleanly that it looked as if it had been built around the breadth of him. His shirt was dark red, open at the throat instead of strangled by a tie, and his masquerade mask covered the upper half of his face in black and oxblood leather. A white streak cut through his dark hair, which had been pushed back like he had fought it into submission and lost only once.

His mouth was visible.

That was unfair.

You stopped under the archway.

He looked up from adjusting his cuff and went still.

The rain filled the silence between you.

You lifted a brow behind your mask. “Problem?”

“No,” he said.

His voice was not modulated tonight. It was lower than you expected, rougher, human in a way that made something in your stomach tighten. You knew Red Hood’s voice through static and armor. You knew the shape of his threats, the cadence of his sarcasm, the way he said your name when he was warning you not to do something dangerous you were absolutely about to do.

This was different.

This was close enough to touch.

“You look…” He stopped, jaw working once. “You clean up nice, Mox.”

The nickname landed differently without the helmet.

You gave him a slow look from shoes to shoulders to mouth, because if he was going to make you feel off-balance, he could suffer too.

“You look expensive,” you said.

“Emergency tailoring.”

“Obviously.”

His mouth twitched. “That obvious?”

“You’re wearing a suit that actually fits, Hood. Either someone threatened you, or you threatened them first.”

“Little of both.”

“That sounds more believable than it should.”

His mouth curved. “You ready?”

“For the crime gala or the fake marriage?”

“Yes.”

You stepped closer, close enough to smell rain, leather, and something faintly smoky beneath his cologne. “Rules?”

He opened the car door but did not move out of your way. “We stay together. We get in, find the ledger, copy it if we can, and steal it if we have to. Argent’s people are running heat sensors at the door and wand checks inside, so anything metal better be hidden well.”

“It is.”

His eyes flicked down for half a second before he caught himself.

You smiled. “Professional, Hood.”

“You brought it up.”

“Are you going to be weird all night?”

“Probably.”

“At least you’re honest.”

Something shifted in his expression. The teasing stayed, but a different tension moved beneath it.

“Speaking of.” He reached into his jacket.

You tensed on instinct before you saw the small velvet box in his hand.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. Red Hood noticed everything, which was one of the most annoying things about having a crush on him.

“Relax,” he said. “If I were going to shoot you, I wouldn’t be standing out in the open like this.”

“You got a velvet ring box.”

“It’s part of the cover kit, Mox.”

“You have a cover kit with rings?”

“I have a lot of things.”

“That answer raises more questions than it resolves.”

He opened the box.

Inside were two rings. His was plain and dark, brushed black metal with a thin line of red through the center. Yours was simpler than you expected, a narrow gold band set with a small dark stone that caught the low light like it had a secret. It was not flashy enough to be ridiculous. It was not cheap enough to be meaningless.

For a mission prop, it looked dangerously thoughtful.

Your mouth went dry.

“Hood,” you said slowly.

“They verify at the door,” he said. “Needed to look real.”

“You bought rings.”

“I bought a cover.”

“You bought rings, Hood.”

His jaw shifted. “They verify at the door.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

He took the smaller ring from the box. His hand was bare, no gloves, and the sight of it did something stupid to your pulse. Broad fingers, scarred knuckles, a pale line across the back of one hand that disappeared under his cuff. You had seen those hands reload guns, set bones, pull you out of an exploding warehouse by the back of your armor. You had not imagined one holding a wedding ring.

That was a lie.

You would never admit to imagining it.

“Give me your hand,” he said.

You should have made a joke. You usually had one ready, sharp and easy and useful for putting distance between yourself and anything that looked too much like vulnerability. But his voice had gone quiet, and the rain had softened the edges of the city, and there was no helmet between you tonight.

You gave him your hand.

He slid the ring onto your finger.

It fit.

You looked down at it.

Hood held your hand a second longer than necessary. His thumb brushed the base of your finger, barely there, and the carefulness of it landed worse than any joke he could have made. 

“How’d you know my size?” you asked.

“I’m observant.”

“That’s a creepy answer.”

“In Gotham, paying attention is the difference between getting home and getting buried.”

The joke caught in your throat before it could fully form, because there was nothing theatrical in his voice when he said it.

“Fair enough.”

You took his ring from the box before he could close it, because letting him have the upper hand for too long was bad for your health. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he gave you his hand.

His ring slid over his knuckle with a little resistance. You felt the scars there. You felt him watching you.

“There,” you said, because your voice needed somewhere to go. “Tragically wed.”

He flexed his hand once, looking at the ring as if it had personally betrayed him. “For the mission.”

“Obviously.”

“Nothing else.”

“Never even crossed my mind.”

The lie sat between you, wearing formalwear.

“Names?” you asked.

“Anders,” he said. “Daniel and Elise.”

“Elise?”

“You hate it?”

“I sound like I own silk robes and poison my husbands.”

“Useful energy for tonight.”

“How long have we been married?”

“Three years.”

“Too long. I would’ve killed you by then.”

“Two years.”

“Better.”

“We met in Star City. You hated me.”

“That part’s true enough.”

“Got married in Atlantic City after a job went sideways.”

You stared at him. “That is the least believable thing you’ve said tonight.”

“It’s memorable.”

“It’s tacky.”

“It’s criminal.”

“It’s grounds for divorce.”

His mouth curved. “Then sell it, Mrs. Anders.”

He opened the car door wider. “After you, darling.”

You almost tripped on your own dress.

He caught your elbow immediately, steadying you with infuriating ease.

You looked up at him. “Don’t call me that.”

His thumb rested against the inside of your arm. “Noted.”

“You’re going to call me that again, aren’t you?”

Every guest wore a mask.

It made the whole thing feel less like a party and more like a confession waiting to happen.

Hood stepped out first and came around to your side before the valet could reach you. He offered his hand with the smoothness of a man who had absolutely been taught manners at some point and had chosen violence anyway.

You took it.

His ring flashed dark against his hand.

“Smile,” he murmured.

“I am smiling.”

“That’s your I’m-going-to-bite-someone smile.”

“It’s versatile.”

His hand settled at the small of your back.

The contact was light. Polite, even. It still burned through the dress like he had pressed his palm to bare skin. You hated him a little for being able to do that. You hated yourself more for leaning into it just enough that his fingers flexed.

At the door, a woman in silver looked over your invitation with the blank expression of someone paid well enough not to blink at murderers.

“Mr. and Mrs. Anders,” she said.

Hood smiled. It was small, controlled, and completely fraudulent. “That’s us.”

Mrs. Anders. You were going to murder him before midnight.

The woman glanced at your rings. Then at your faces. Then at the security guard beside her, who lifted a scanner.

“Hands,” he said.

Hood went first. Calm. Unbothered. The scanner passed over his sleeves, chest, waist, and legs. It did not beep, which meant either he had actually obeyed the minimal-weapons rule or he had spent the afternoon sourcing enough ceramic, polymer, and carbon-fiber problems to make the scanner irrelevant.

When it was your turn, Hood’s hand shifted against your back.

A warning.

You relaxed your shoulders, lifted your arms, and let the guard scan you. He found nothing. He did not know about the ceramic blade along your thigh, the garrote sewn into your hem, the lockpicks disguised as hairpins, or the tiny flash drive tucked beneath the dark stone of your ring.

Oracle would have been proud.

The woman in silver gave you both a final look. “Enjoy the evening.”

“We intend to,” Hood said.

You waited until you were inside, past the first curtain of security and beneath a ceiling painted with golden saints, before you muttered, “Mr. and Mrs. Anders?”

“You don’t like it?”

“I sound like I run a suspiciously profitable antique store.”

“You do have the vibe.”

“I’m divorcing you.”

“We’ve been married for fifteen minutes.”

“Annulment, then.”

His hand moved slightly at your back, fingers pressing once as a masked couple passed too close on your left. You caught the movement of the man’s hand toward his jacket and shifted before Hood had to pull you, putting yourself just out of reach while looking like you had only turned to admire a vase.

Hood’s mouth twitched.

“Nice,” he murmured.

“I know.”

The ballroom was a glittering fever dream.

Chandeliers spilled gold across polished floors. A string quartet played something elegant and mournful in the corner. The guests drifted in pairs, all silk, velvet, diamonds, and concealed cruelty. Masks transformed familiar monsters into myth. You recognized a judge who had buried evidence in three trafficking cases, a shipping magnate whose warehouses had burned twice under suspicious circumstances, one of Penguin’s accountants, and a woman from Blüdhaven who had once tried to stab Roy Harper with an oyster knife.

Above it all, on a balcony overlooking the room, stood Mr. Argent.

He wore white. Of course he did. His mask was silver, shaped like a fox’s face, and his hair was slicked back so severely it looked lacquered. Two guards flanked him. He lifted a champagne flute as the room applauded, and you felt Hood go still beside you.

“That him?” you murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Punchable.”

“Very.”

“Later?”

“If you behave.”

“I never promised that.”

“No,” Hood said, looking down at you with an expression you did not know how to read. “You didn’t.”

For the next hour, you were married.

It was alarming how well you both lied.

Hood kept you close, his hand at your waist or your back or curled around your fingers whenever someone looked too long. You let yourself be guided without seeming guided, answered questions with a smile, and invented a marriage with him in pieces. You had met in Star City, according to him. Blüdhaven, according to you. You handled private acquisitions. He handled security consulting. You had been married for two years, unless someone asked Hood, in which case it became three because apparently your fake husband believed in committing to details without warning you first. You disliked his driving. He admired your temper. You preferred clean exits, and he preferred making sure no one followed. Somehow, that was the most believable part.

Every time he called you his wife, your body reacted before your brain could remind it to be professional.

“My wife has better instincts than I do,” he told a broker with a scar cutting through one eyebrow.

“That must be difficult for you,” the broker said.

“You have no idea,” you replied.

Hood’s fingers tightened on your hip.

The broker laughed like he thought you were charming.

Hood leaned close to your ear as the man turned away. “Careful.”

“You brought me because I’m charming.”

“I brought you because you’re dangerous.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

“I could say sweeter.”

Your breath caught.

He did not move away.

The room kept spinning around you, music rising and falling, glass chiming against glass. Hood’s mouth hovered close enough to your ear that you felt each word more than you heard it.

“For the cover,” he added.

You turned your face slightly toward his. “Coward.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

The moment stretched thin.

Then a bell chimed from the center of the room, and Mr. Argent descended the stairs with his hands spread as if he were welcoming guests to a wedding rather than a criminal auction.

“Friends,” he said, voice carrying. “Partners. Devoted halves of dangerous wholes. Welcome.”

You felt Hood’s irritation through the line of his body.

Argent spoke for several minutes, all polished charm and predator’s teeth. He praised loyalty. He praised discretion. He praised the beauty of masks, of chosen names, of the sacred privacy between spouses. It was all ridiculous and unpleasantly effective. This crowd liked being told their secrets were elegant rather than filthy.

The auction would begin at midnight.

Until then, there would be dancing.

“Of course there will,” you said under your breath.

Hood looked down at you. “You dance?”

“I fight people on rooftops in steel-toed boots. What do you think?”

“I think that wasn’t a no.”

“It should have been.”

The quartet shifted into a waltz.

Couples moved toward the center of the floor.

Argent watched from the stairs.

Hood held out his hand.

You stared at it. “You’re kidding.”

“He’s watching.”

“Let him.”

“Sweetheart.”

There was the mission voice again. The one that made you want to argue and obey at the same time, which was probably why you usually chose to argue.

You placed your hand in his. “If you step on my dress, I’m leaving you for Nightwing.”

“Like hell you are.”

“He has better posture.”

“He has worse taste.”

“He still claims you, so clearly.”

Hood pulled you into the dance before you could look too pleased with yourself.

You had expected competence. Red Hood was good at nearly everything physical, which was obnoxious but useful. You had not expected grace. He moved like he fought, controlled and deliberate, except here the violence had been translated into something almost beautiful. His hand settled at your waist, the other holding yours. He led without forcing, gave you space when you needed it, adjusted to your rhythm so quickly you almost forgot to be surprised.

Almost.

“Where the hell did you learn to dance?” you asked.

“Crime Alley community center.”

You looked up sharply.

His mouth curved. “You should see your face.”

“I am going to widow myself.”

“You ask a lot of questions for a woman with at least six hidden weapons at a no-weapons gala.”

“Seven.”

“Anklet?”

“Hair.”

“Nice.”

“You missed it.”

“Did I?”

His hand shifted at your waist, just enough for his thumb to skim the reinforced seam where one of your hairpins had been before you tucked it into place. Heat shot down your spine.

You narrowed your eyes. “Show-off.”

“Observant,” he corrected.

The dance turned you beneath one chandelier, light sliding across his mask. For a moment, with his face half-hidden and his mouth bare, you felt the strangeness of knowing him and not knowing him. Red Hood had carried you once when smoke inhalation made your knees buckle after a warehouse fire. He had sat beside you on a roof while you stitched his arm and complained about his inability to hold still. He had told you which safehouses had clean water and which clinics would not ask questions. He had never told you his name.

You had never told him yours.

Yet his hand fit at your waist like it had always been meant to find you.

“Why me?” you asked.

His steps did not falter, but his expression changed.

“I told you.”

“You said you trusted me.”

“I do.”

“That’s not all.”

Around you, masked couples turned and glittered. Argent’s people watched from the edges. There were cameras in the chandeliers, guards at each door, predators in every corner, and still the most dangerous thing in the room felt like the pause before Hood answered.

“You don’t flinch,” he said.

You could have made that a joke. You should have.

“I do,” you said. “Just not where people can see.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

You hated the mask for hiding their color from you. You hated it more for making you want to know.

“I know,” he said.

The words were quiet enough that no one else could have heard them. They landed with brutal precision anyway.

The dance ended. Applause rose politely around you.

Hood did not let go.

You did not pull away.

Then Oracle’s voice crackled faintly through the tiny comm hidden in your earring. “Argent’s private office just went active. East wing, second floor. You have maybe ten minutes before the auction staff transfers the ledger downstairs.” 

You stepped back first, mostly because someone had to.

Hood’s jaw tightened like he had been pulled out of a thought he did not appreciate. “Copy.”

“And try not to make the cameras work harder than they already are,” Oracle added.

“I make no promises,” you said.

Hood shot you a look.

He joined you inside thirty seconds later.

“Cheekbones?” you whispered as the door clicked shut behind him.

“They were very proud of them.”

“You’re mean when you’re jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous.”

“They were looking at me.”

“I noticed.”

“That’s jealousy.”

“That’s situational awareness.”

“You’re very committed to being wrong.”

“Part of my charm.”

You grinned and headed for the stairs.

The office was exactly where Oracle said it would be, behind another locked door at the end of a corridor lined with bad portraits of dead men who had probably also committed tax fraud. Hood stood watch while you worked the lock. It took eighteen seconds, which was twelve seconds longer than it should have taken because he stood too close behind you and smelled too good.

“You’re hovering,” you whispered.

“I’m guarding.”

“You’re breathing on my neck.”

“Want me to stop?”

Your pick slipped.

Hood noticed.

You got the door open and shouldered your way inside before he could say anything smug enough to justify stabbing him.

Argent’s office was dark-paneled, overdecorated, and cold. A fire burned low in the hearth, more decorative than useful. The desk was massive. The safe behind the portrait was predictable. The pressure sensor beneath the rug was less predictable, but only because Argent had otherwise shown no taste.

“Left,” Hood said.

“I see it.”

“Camera above the bookcase.”

“I see that too.”

“Drawer’s wired.”

“You know,” you said, crouching beside the safe, “some husbands support their wives in silence.”

“You’d hate that.”

“You’re right. Keep talking.”

The safe took longer. Argent had invested money there, at least. You worked by feel while Hood disabled the camera feed through a device Oracle had given him with a warning not to break it. The room smelled like smoke and old paper. Music drifted faintly from the ballroom below.

When the safe opened, you found the ledger in a black case beside stacks of cash, passports, and a velvet pouch filled with diamonds.

“Bingo,” you said.

Hood came closer. “Can you copy it?”

You opened the case.

Inside was a slim encrypted drive and a paper ledger. Dramatic and paranoid. Gotham criminals really were exhausting.

“Copy the drive, photograph the paper,” you said. “Three minutes.”

“You have two.”

“You always say that.”

“You always take three.”

“And yet you keep asking me places.”

He stood beside you while you worked, close enough that his suit brushed your bare shoulder when he reached past you to shift the desk lamp. The contact made your skin prickle. You ignored it. Then his hand settled briefly over yours to steady the ledger page before it curled.

You stopped.

He stopped too.

For one suspended second, both of you looked at your hands. His ring. Your ring. Inked names of criminals between you.

Then footsteps sounded in the hall.

Hood moved first, crossing to the door with silent speed. He listened, shoulders going tense.

“Two guards,” he mouthed.

You closed the ledger, pocketed the drive, and grabbed the paper book because copying was suddenly less important than leaving.

The office door opened before you reached the safe.

Hood caught the first guard by the wrist and slammed him face-first into the doorframe. You threw the ledger case at the second guard’s throat, followed it with your elbow, and swept his legs when he choked. The fight was fast, ugly, and mostly quiet until the first guard got a hand on the panic button at his belt.

Red light flashed in the corridor.

“Well,” you said, breathing hard. “That’s unfortunate.”

Hood looked at the unconscious guard, then at you. “You said three minutes.”

“You said two. This marriage has communication issues.”

Shouting rose from downstairs.

Oracle’s voice cut in. “Alarm triggered. Multiple hostiles converging on the east wing. Also, Argent just noticed his ledger room is having a moment.”

Hood grabbed your hand. “Not the window.”

You glanced toward the glass. “I wasn’t going to suggest the window.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was considering all exits.”

“You were thinking the window.”

“Fine. I was thinking the window.”

“Too exposed. Service corridor.”

He pulled the office door open just enough to check the hall, then drew you out after him. The alarm had not yet become a full lockdown, but the estate had shifted around you. Music still drifted from the ballroom, strained and elegant beneath the first signs of panic. Somewhere below, a guard barked orders into a radio. Somewhere closer, expensive shoes moved quickly over the polished floor.

You made it down one hall, then another, before voices rose ahead of you.

Hood stopped so abruptly you nearly collided with his back.

“Storage room?” you whispered.

“Locked.”

“Can you open it?”

“Not before they turn the corner.”

“Then what?”

He looked at you.

You had just enough time to understand before his hand slid to your waist and he walked you backward into the shadowed alcove beside a half-open terrace door. Rain breathed cold against your bare shoulders. His body covered yours, broad enough to block you from the hall, close enough to steal your balance. The ledger pressed between you.

The sensible thing would have been to wait until the footsteps faded completely, then slip away.

The less sensible thing was Hood looking down at your mouth.

“Careful,” you whispered.

His eyes lifted to yours. “With what?”

“You know what.”

“We’re still undercover,” he said.

“You say that like it explains why your hand is on my ass.”

He had the decency to look caught for half a second before the corner of his mouth tilted. “It’s a convincing cover.”

“We’re in the middle of an active alarm.”

“Gotham criminals love drama.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Maybe.”

Then his mouth was on yours.

It was supposed to be a cover. You understood that. You understood it with the part of your brain still tracking footsteps, sightlines, cameras, and the weight of the stolen drive hidden beneath your ring. The guards were coming. You needed a reason to be tucked into a dark corner with his hands on you, and Gotham criminals were much more willing to believe in lust than competence.

Knowing that did nothing to save you.

Hood kissed like he had been waiting for permission and hated himself for needing it. His hand tightened at your waist, the other braced near your head, and when the first guard rounded the corner, you let yourself make a soft, irritated sound against his mouth as if being interrupted were the only crime happening.

“Hey,” the guard snapped.

Hood lifted his head slowly.

You had to give him credit. He looked exactly like a rich, dangerous husband being inconvenienced in the middle of something private.

His mouth was damp. His mask was slightly crooked. His hand tightened at your waist before the guard could decide whether to look embarrassed or afraid, and when his voice came, it was low enough to make the man rethink his life.

“You lost?”

The guard looked like he was seriously considering saying yes. His gaze flicked from Hood’s face to your hand fisted in his lapel, then to the ring on your finger.

“Restricted wing,” he said, but the authority had already leaked out of him.

You smiled from beneath Hood’s shoulder, breathless enough that it was not entirely acting. “We were looking for somewhere quiet.”

“This isn’t—”

“My wife gets bored at parties,” Hood said.

Your nails dug warningly into his jacket.

He did not even flinch.

The second guard muttered something into his radio. The first looked between you again, then made the obvious and incorrect calculation that two half-dressed socialites sneaking away from a masquerade were less urgent than the alarm coming from Argent’s office.

“Return to the ballroom,” he said.

“Eventually,” Hood said.

The guard looked like he wanted to argue. Then Hood smiled.

The guard chose life.

When they disappeared around the corner, neither of you moved.

The sensible thing would have been to break apart immediately and run.

Instead, Hood’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

“Convincing,” you said, but your voice had gone thin.

His thumb moved once against your waist. “Yeah.”

“For the cover?”

“That was the idea.”

“And now?”

His gaze lifted to yours.

The alarm wailed louder somewhere behind you. Your heart was worse.

“Now I’m waiting for you to tell me to back up,” he said.

You should have. The mission was still burning around you. Argent’s men were searching the estate, Oracle was probably developing a stress migraine, and you had a stolen ledger digging into your stomach.

Instead, you caught his lapel and pulled him down again.

The second kiss had no excuse at all.

Hood made a low sound against your mouth and crowded closer, one hand sliding from your waist to your back, the other cupping your jaw with surprising care. He kissed like he did everything else, with focus, hunger, and a barely leashed intensity that made your knees threaten to forget their job. You kissed him back just as hard, biting at his lower lip because you had wanted to know what he would do.

He groaned.

That sound nearly undid you.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth. “You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that?”

Your laugh came out uneven. “I was hoping it wasn’t just tonight.”

His forehead touched yours. Rain slid down between you. “Not just tonight.”

The admission settled under your ribs, warm and terrifying.

Then Oracle said, with the precise exhaustion of a woman who regretted every friendship in her life, “I know this is a very meaningful moment for whatever emotionally constipated thing you two have going on, but the armed men are still armed.”

You closed your eyes. “Oracle.”

“East stairwell is blocked. West service corridor is clear for maybe ninety seconds. Also, Hood, if you get lipstick on that suit, Roy is going to know the emergency tailor trip was for a date, and I refuse to moderate that conversation.”

Hood froze.

You pulled back just enough to stare at him.

Roy.

The suit.

Hood’s mouth tightened.

Your brain, traitorous and quick, began putting pieces together. Arsenal’s teasing. Nightwing’s fondness. The way Hood moved through certain rooftops like he knew the Bat-routes and hated that he knew them. The way Roy had texted you earlier that week, complaining that getting his friend Jason into a tailor’s shop had required bribery, threats, and the promise of post-mission chili dogs.

Jason Todd, scowling in Roy’s kitchen three months ago with a beer he barely drank and a book tucked under one arm like a threat. Jason Todd at a crowded charity event Roy had dragged you to, wearing a suit with the stiff irritation of a man who understood formalwear but resented having to surrender to it. Jason Todd, who had once apparently threatened a tailor over sleeve mobility.

Oh.

Oh, no.

“You’re Jason,” you said.

Hood’s eyes narrowed. “We are being hunted.”

“You’re Jason Todd.”

“Moxie.”

“I made fun of your tie at Roy’s birthday.”

“It was an ugly tie.”

“You said you liked my boots.”

“They had knives in them.”

“You noticed?”

“I notice a lot of things.”

You stared at him, outrage and desire tangling so tightly you could barely separate them. “Did you know?”

His expression shifted, something almost helpless moving through it. “Not until tonight.”

“Tonight when?”

“At the door,” he said. “You smiled like you were about to rob the place and insult me for helping.”

“That is not specific. I smile like that often.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice dropping. “That was part of the problem.”

The shouting grew louder.

Oracle cleared her throat over the comm. “The identity crisis is very compelling, but your ninety seconds is down to thirty.”

Jason—because it was Jason, because of course it was Jason—looked down at you, rain bright on his mask and your lipstick smudged at the corner of his mouth.

“We’re finishing this conversation later,” he said.

“You showed up in a custom suit, called me your wife, and let me figure out you were Jason Todd during an active alarm. We’re finishing several conversations later.”

His mouth curved. “Looking forward to it.”

“Thirty seconds,” Oracle warned.

You tightened your grip on his lapel, outrage and desire still tangled somewhere behind your ribs. “Run, husband.”

His grin flashed, sharp and delighted.

You ran.

The next twenty minutes were chaos in formalwear.

You and Jason moved through the service corridors like you’d done it a hundred times before. He covered your left without needing to be asked. You ducked under his arm when he fired over your shoulder. You broke a man’s wrist with one hand and held the ledger against your chest with the other. Jason used a serving tray to knock a guard unconscious, which you appreciated as both violence and commentary.

At one point, you vaulted over a dessert cart, and he caught you by the waist on the other side because the floor was slick with spilled champagne.

“Careful, honey,” he said.

You elbowed him in the ribs.

He laughed as he shot out the lock on a service door behind you. The door swung hard enough to clip one of Argent’s men in the face, which was probably not intentional but still felt like a gift from the universe.

Argent made it as far as the conservatory before his sense of self-preservation failed him. He had two guards, a silver briefcase, and the deeply unfortunate confidence of a man who had never been tackled by Red Hood while wearing formal shoes.

Jason hit him beside the orchid display.

The fountain took both of them.

Water surged over the marble lip. Argent shouted. Jason came up soaked to the chest, one hand locked in the back of Argent’s expensive white jacket and the other already reaching for a zip tie.

You handled the guards.

By the time Nightwing arrived through the shattered glass roof with far too much acrobatic flair, Argent was bound to a marble cherub, Jason was dripping wet in a custom suit, and you were holding the ledger in one hand and one of your broken heels in the other.

Nightwing landed lightly beside you and took in the scene.

Then he looked at Jason.

Then at you.

Then at the rings.

“Oh,” he said, with terrible delight. “This explains so much.”

Jason pointed at him. “Say one word.”

Nightwing’s grin widened. “Mazel tov?”

You covered your mouth with your hand but couldn’t hide your laugh.

Jason looked betrayed. “You too?”

“You’re soaked in fountain water and wearing a wedding ring,” you said. “I’m only human.”

Nightwing pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m honored to have been here for the reception.”

Jason started toward him.

Nightwing wisely flipped backward onto the fountain edge, still grinning. “Oracle says police are six minutes out. Arsenal also says, and I quote, ‘Tell the happy couple I’m claiming visitation rights.’”

“I hate all of you,” Jason said.

“No, you don’t,” you said.

He looked at you.

For a second, the wreckage of the night narrowed to the space between you. Broken glass glittered on the conservatory floor. Rain poured through the ruined ceiling. Your mask was still in place, and so was his, but the fiction was gone. He knew you. You knew him. Not completely, not all at once, but enough to make the wanting feel less like a dangerous mistake and more like a door neither of you had realized was unlocked.

Nightwing’s expression softened, which made you want to throw the broken heel at him.

“I’ll take Argent,” he said. “You two should go before the cops arrive and ask why she has seven knives and a ledger full of people who are going to want her dead by morning.”

“Six knives,” Jason said automatically.

Nightwing stared at him.

You stared at him too.

Jason glanced at you. “You lost one in the east wing.”

“You counted?”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said, and there was something warm under it. “You noticed.”

Nightwing made a sound that was suspiciously close to a laugh. “Go. Both of you. Before I start making a speech.”

“Don’t,” Jason said.

“Oh, I have several prepared.”

Not awkward, exactly. You and Jason had survived too many injuries together for silence to become fragile that easily. But this was different from your usual post-mission quiet. There was no helmet between his voice and your ears. No modulator to make his breathing sound distant. No way to pretend you had not kissed him in a dark alcove, learned his name while being hunted, and liked both too much.

The rings were still on.

You noticed every time his hand moved on the steering wheel.

He noticed you noticing, because of course he did.

“Say it,” he said eventually.

You looked out the rain-streaked window. “I’m deciding which thing.”

“That bad?”

“Oh, there are categories.”

His mouth twitched. The bruise along his jaw had darkened. There was still a faint smear of lipstick near the corner of his mouth, half washed away by rain and fountain water.

You reached over without thinking and rubbed at the mark with your thumb.

Jason went very still.

The car slowed at a red light on an empty street.

Your hand remained against his jaw. The stubble there rasped lightly beneath your thumb. His eyes flicked to yours behind the mask, and the air in the car changed so quickly it felt like a drop.

You withdrew your hand. “Lipstick.”

“Right.”

“Couldn’t let Roy win.”

Jason huffed a laugh, but his fingers tightened on the wheel.

Neither of you said anything for the rest of the block.

When he pulled into the alley two streets from your apartment, the rain had softened to a mist. He parked beneath a fire escape and cut the engine. The sudden quiet felt deliberate. You could hear the ticking of the car cooling, the distant hum of traffic, your own pulse refusing to calm down.

Jason removed his mask first.

You had seen his face before. That was the worst part. You had seen him across Roy’s kitchen, half-lit by the open fridge while he argued about takeout like it was a tactical decision. You had seen him at that charity event, bored and handsome and restless, as if all that polished wealth irritated his skin. You had not known then that he was the man who called you Mox over comms when he was worried. You had not known he was Red Hood.

Now the two versions slid together and made something sharper.

You took off your mask.

Jason stared.

Not like he was surprised, not exactly. More like the last remaining doubt had just been removed, and he had no armor ready for what came after.

“Hi,” you said, because apparently you had lost access to every clever line you had ever had.

His laugh was soft and almost disbelieving. “Hi.”

“That’s it? No dramatic comment?”

“I’m having a moment.”

“Should I wait?”

“Probably.”

You smiled, and his gaze dropped to your mouth again.

The car felt much smaller than it had a minute ago.

“We should talk,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“About identities.”

“Yeah.”

“And boundaries.”

“Definitely.”

“And the fact that you apparently knew my ring size.”

“I guessed.”

“You did not guess.”

“I made an informed estimate.”

“That’s worse.”

He dragged a hand through his damp hair. The ring flashed again, dark metal and red line catching briefly in the low light.

Your smile faded around the edges.

Slowly, you twisted your own ring. It slid halfway up your finger before Jason’s hand closed over yours.

“Don’t,” he said.

The word came out too raw for the joke he clearly meant to attach to it.

You looked down at his hand over yours. “Jason.”

His name felt new in your mouth. His fingers tightened.

“I know it was supposed to be a cover,” he said. “I know. But don’t take it off like it meant nothing.”

Your throat went tight.

There he was. The man beneath the helmet, beneath the suit, beneath all that practiced brutality. Not soft, exactly. Jason Todd would probably never be soft in any simple way. But honest, when cornered. Brave enough to bleed where you could see it, if not quite brave enough to ask.

You turned your hand beneath his, palm to palm.

“It didn’t mean nothing,” you said.

He exhaled as if something in him had braced for impact.

“But,” you continued, “you don’t get to fake marry me, kiss me in a hallway, let me find out you’re Jason Todd, and then look wounded when I try to return the prop.”

“I didn’t look wounded.”

“You looked extremely wounded.”

“I have a bruise.”

“Emotionally.”

He made a face. “That sounds like something Nightwing would say.”

“Nightwing is emotionally literate.”

“Don’t compliment him right now.”

“There’s the jealousy again.”

“Threat assessment.”

“Jason.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and all the banter thinned into something warmer and far more dangerous.

“I wanted it to be you,” he said. “Before I knew. The job, the partner, the whole stupid fake-married thing. I wanted you there. Then you showed up in that dress, and you were you, and I kept thinking…” He stopped, jaw working. “I kept thinking I was screwed either way.”

Your chest ached.

You had imagined, once or twice, what Red Hood might sound like if he ever admitted wanting something. You had imagined arrogance, maybe. A filthy grin. A hand around your wrist in an alley. You had not imagined this careful, frustrated honesty, as if desire were easier for him than hope.

“You could’ve said something,” you said.

“So could you.”

“I was being professional.”

He gave you a look.

“I was being emotionally avoidant,” you corrected.

“Yeah. Same.”

You laughed, quiet and helpless.

Jason’s thumb brushed your ring again. “You can take it off if you want.”

There was the out. Offered plainly, because whatever else he was, Jason had never once tried to trap you. He had asked you to trust him and then given you room to choose.

You looked at the ring. Something bought for cover. Something worn through gunfire. Something neither of you had meant to make real, except maybe that was not true. Maybe the wanting had been real for months, and the ring had only given it a shape.

You slid it off.

Jason’s expression closed before he could stop it.

Then you placed the ring in his palm and folded his fingers around it.

“Next time you want a date, ask me properly.”

He stared at you.

The silence lasted one breath. Two.

Then his mouth curved, slow and stunned and devastating.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t make me regret being romantic.”

“You’re calling that romantic?”

“I’m new at it.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You rolled your eyes, but your face had gone warm. “You owe me explanations.”

“I know.”

“Real ones.”

“I know.”

“And dinner.”

His smile deepened. “Explanations, then dinner?”

“That order, yes.”

He leaned closer. “What about kissing?”

You pretended to consider it. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How convincing you are.”

Jason reached out and touched your cheek, giving you plenty of time to move away.

You did not.

The second kiss was nothing like the first. There was no alarm, no audience, no cover to excuse it. It was slower, deeper, and somehow more dangerous for being honest. His hand slid into your hair carefully, avoiding the pins he knew were weapons. Your hands found the front of his shirt, still damp from rain and fountain water, and pulled him closer until the console dug into your hip and neither of you cared.

He kissed you until your breath broke.

Then he murmured against your mouth, “Tell me to go, and I will.”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt.

The heat between you flared so fast it almost startled you. It was not as if you had not wanted him all night. You had wanted him at the door, in the ballroom, in the dark alcove, in every narrow space where his hand found your back and his voice dropped low near your ear. But here, with your mask off and his name still warm in your mouth, the wanting became something else.

Still, you pulled back enough to meet his eyes.

“Not because of the mission,” you said.

“No.”

“Not because of the cover.”

“No.”

“Not because we almost died and adrenaline makes people stupid.”

Jason’s thumb swept along your jaw. “I’m always stupid about you.”

That should not have worked on you.

It worked on you.

You kissed him again, harder this time, and felt him smile against your mouth for half a second before hunger took over.

By the time you reached your apartment, you had both forgotten at least three reasonable boundaries about elevators, hands, and the general decency owed to security cameras. Jason kept one hand at your waist, his body angled between you and the hallway, even now, even here, and something in your chest went painfully soft at the thought.

Inside, the door barely closed before he had you against it.

He stopped before pinning you there fully, breath rough, eyes searching your face. “Still good?”

You hooked two fingers into the open collar of his red shirt and pulled him down. “Jason.”

His name was answer enough.

He kissed you as if the sound had snapped the last of his restraint.

The dress that had survived knives, guards, and a criminal masquerade nearly lost its battle against Jason Todd’s patience. He found the hidden zipper with insulting speed, paused only long enough for your nod, and drew it down slowly while his mouth moved along your throat. You shivered when the cool air touched your back. He noticed that too, pressing a kiss beneath your jaw as if the reaction pleased him more than he wanted to admit.

“Still six knives?” he murmured.

“Five,” you said, breath catching when his teeth grazed your skin. “Lost another on the way out.”

“Careless.”

“I was distracted by my husband tackling a man into a fountain.”

His hands stilled at your waist.

You smiled against his cheek. “Too much?”

He lifted his head. His eyes were dark, intent, and stripped of every joke. “Say it again.”

Your pulse jumped.

“My husband,” you said softly.

Jason made a sound that was almost a groan and kissed you hard enough to make your spine arch against the door.

After that, things blurred into touch and heat and the shedding of every last defense. His jacket hit the floor. Your heels followed. The dress slipped down, and Jason followed it with his mouth, kissing each place the night had left a mark as if he could argue with every bruise. You pushed his shirt from his shoulders and found scars beneath, old and new, a map of violence written into him. He went still when your fingers traced one across his chest.

You kissed it.

The breath left him all at once.

“Baby,” he said, rough and warning and wrecked.

The endearment settled low in your stomach.

You looked up at him. “That one for the cover too?”

“No.” His hands tightened at your hips. “That one’s mine.”

You should have had a clever answer.

You had survived worse nights than this. You had talked your way out of locked rooms, gun barrels, bad dates, worse missions, and once, memorably, a hostage situation involving a chandelier and three men who had severely underestimated your patience. You should have had something sharp ready for him.

Instead, you caught Jason by the front of his shirt and pulled him with you toward the bedroom.

His laugh followed you, low and breathless, half disbelief and half surrender. It lasted until you stumbled backward through the doorway, and then he was on you again, one hand braced against the frame, the other sliding firm and careful around your waist.

“Impatient,” he murmured.

“You’re still talking.”

That did it.

Jason kissed you like the words had snapped the last thread of his restraint. He crowded you back with the heat of him, with the rain still clinging to his hair and the city still written in bruises across both of you. His mouth found yours hard enough to steal the next thing you meant to say, and you let him have it. Let him have the sound you made when his hand settled at the small of your back. Let him have the way your fingers dug into his shoulders. Let him have the moment your knees hit the edge of the bed and you pulled him down with you because distance suddenly felt offensive.

He caught himself before his full weight landed on you.

Of course he did.

Jason Todd, who had thrown men through glass tonight, who had tackled Argent into a fountain like subtlety was a language he had never bothered to learn, stopped himself with one hand planted beside your head and the other cupping your hip like you were something breakable.

The tenderness almost annoyed you.

Almost.

“You can touch me,” you said.

His eyes searched yours, dark and intent. “I am touching you.”

“You’re treating me like evidence.”

That surprised a laugh out of him, rough and quiet. “You are evidence.”

“Of what?”

“That I’ve lost my mind.”

You smiled despite yourself, and his gaze dropped to your mouth like the expression had done him personal harm.

Then he lowered himself over you.

The weight of him settled slowly, carefully, and your breath caught before you could stop it. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His attention sharpened immediately, that same devastating focus he brought to fights and locks and exits turning entirely on you. On the way your fingers tightened in his shirt. On the places you tried not to flinch. On the places you leaned closer.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Words.”

The command should have irritated you. Instead, it went through you like heat.

“Yes,” you said. “I’m okay.”

Only then did he kiss you again.

This kiss was different. Slower. Deeper. Less like a collision and more like a decision. His mouth moved over yours with the kind of patience that made your pulse kick in frustration, like he had all night, like there were no sirens waiting in the distance, no bruises blooming beneath your skin, no ledger full of enemies, no blood drying at the edge of his collar.

Just Jason, above you.

Jason, kissing you until your cleverness dissolved completely.

His jacket hit the floor first. You pushed it off his shoulders with more force than grace, and he let you, smiling against your mouth when it caught at one wrist.

“Bossy,” he murmured.

“You like it.”

His smile flashed against your skin. “Yeah.”

The honesty in it landed harder than the teasing had.

You pulled at his shirt next, impatient with buttons, fabric, anything that kept him from you. Jason helped only when your frustration became obvious, sitting back just long enough to drag it over his head. The movement bared him to you by degrees: the broad line of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest, the scars.

Old ones. New ones. Some pale, some angry, some so familiar-looking in their violence that your throat tightened.

You reached before you thought better of it.

Your fingers traced a line across his chest, not the worst of them, not the newest, just the one closest to your hand. Jason went still.

Immediately, you stopped. “Sorry.”

He looked down at you, and something in his face shifted. Not away from you. Not quite toward you either. Inward, maybe. Somewhere you could not follow unless he let you.

Then his hand covered yours.

“Don’t be.”

His palm was warm over your knuckles. His heartbeat moved beneath your fingertips, steady and alive and too close to miraculous for either of you to joke about.

So you didn’t.

You lifted your head and kissed the scar instead.

Jason’s breath left him all at once.

For a second, he did not move. Then his hand slid into your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he needed somewhere to put the feeling before it broke loose. When you kissed another mark, lower this time, his fingers tightened.

“Careful,” he said, voice uneven.

You looked up at him. “You first.”

Something in his expression cracked open.

Then he was kissing you again, and this time, there was nothing careful about his mouth.

He was careful with the bruises. Less careful with your lips. You liked both. You liked the contradiction of him, the control and the hunger, the way his hands could disarm a man in three seconds but trembled once at the zipper of your dress. You liked the way he paused there, waiting, until you nodded. You liked that he needed the nod. You liked that he looked wrecked by it.

The dress slipped down by inches.

Jason followed it with his mouth.

He kissed your shoulder first, right where the strap had been, then lower, where the night had left a shadow on your skin. Each bruise earned a touch so gentle it made your chest ache. Each scrape got the brush of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the silent fury of a man trying to argue with every mark violence had put on you.

“Jason,” you whispered.

His name changed something.

You felt it in the way he paused against your skin, in the way his hand flexed at your waist, in the half-second when his control faltered before he gathered it again.

“Say that again,” he said.

You should have teased him.

You really should have.

Instead, you said his name again, softer this time, and felt him shudder.

His mouth found your collarbone. Your throat. The place beneath your ear that made your entire body go tense and then loose beneath him. Your hands slid into his hair, and he made a sound against your skin that you felt more than heard.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Not smoothly. Not like a line. Like the words had been dragged out of him against his will.

It hurt more than it should have.

You pulled him down until his weight settled over you. “You’re overdressed.”

His smile returned, brief and dangerous. “Still bossy.”

“And yet you obey.”

That got you his laugh again, but it broke when your hands moved over him, learning him in return. The strength of him. The scars. The heat. The places where his breath caught. The places where he tried, unsuccessfully, to pretend it had not.

Outside, thunder rolled over the city.

Inside, Jason bent his head and said your name.

Not Moxie.

Your real name.

You barely remembered when he had started saying it like that. Somewhere between the hallway and the bedroom, maybe. It mattered anyway. It mattered when he said it against your mouth. It mattered when he pressed it into your shoulder. It mattered when he used it like a promise, like a confession, like something he had no right to keep and wanted anyway.

Everything after that softened and sharpened at once.

The night had been all alarms and violence, all running feet and broken glass and blood under your nails. This was slower. Hotter. More dangerous in a way you had not prepared for, because Jason did not just want you. He paid attention to you. He watched your face, listened to your breath, checked in with quiet words and searching hands until you were almost angry with how much it undid you.

“You still with me?” he asked.

You touched his jaw. “Yes.”

His eyes closed briefly, like that single word had gone straight through him.

Then he kissed you through the next breath, and the next, and the next, until the storm outside felt distant compared to the one he built under your skin. You answered with your hands, your mouth, the tilt of your hips, the helpless little sounds you would deny later if anyone had the nerve to ask. Jason learned each one with ruthless attention. Worse, he remembered. He returned to every place that made you gasp, every touch that made your fingers twist in the sheets, every kiss that turned his name into something unsteady on your tongue.

By the time he moved over you again, bare skin warm against bare skin, the teasing had burned down to something quieter.

He paused.

Of course he did.

His forearm braced beside your head. His hair fell forward, damp and dark, and his eyes moved over your face as if he were trying to memorize you before the world remembered it had claims on either of you.

You touched his cheek. “Jason.”

“I know,” he said.

But his voice shook slightly.

Your heart turned over.

“Just looking,” he admitted.

The tenderness of it nearly undid you more than the hunger had.

For once, you had no armor left. No mask. No joke sharp enough to save you. There was only the warmth of him, the weight of him, the impossible gentleness in his hands after a night that had given neither of you any reason to be gentle.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer.

“Look later.”

Jason lay beside you with one arm under your head and the other across your waist, holding you like he was trying to pretend he was not holding on. His hair was a mess. There was a scratch near his shoulder that you were fairly certain you had left there. The bruise at his jaw had darkened, and your lipstick was long gone.

Your ring sat on the nightstand beside his.

Two mission props in a pool of warm lamplight.

You reached for his hand beneath the sheets. His fingers laced through yours immediately.

“Still awake?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“Thinking?”

“Dangerous habit.”

“About?”

He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. Without the mask, without the suit, without the red helmet or the ballroom or the gunfire, Jason looked younger and more tired and more beautiful than was fair.

“You,” he said.

Your chest warmed. “That’s vague.”

“I’m working up to poetic.”

“Take your time.”

His thumb moved over your knuckles. “I’m thinking I should’ve asked sooner.”

You looked at him for a long moment, then shifted closer until your forehead touched his shoulder.

“You did ask me to marry you.”

He huffed. “Fake marry me.”

“You should be more specific next time.”

“Next time?”

You smiled against his skin.

Jason went quiet.

Then he reached past you toward the nightstand. You watched as he picked up your ring, turning it between his fingers. It looked smaller in his hand than it had any right to, dark stone catching the lamp light.

He did not try to put it on you.

Instead, he held it out.

“Dinner,” he said. “Tomorrow night. No masks. No aliases. Explanations first, because I heard you the first three times. Then dinner.” 

You took the ring from him.

Your fingers closed around it. “That sounds dangerously like a date.”

“Yeah,” Jason said. His voice was rougher than it needed to be. “That’s the idea.”

“And if you completely screw it up?”

“I’ll ask for another one.”

“That confident?”

“No,” he said. “That stubborn.”

You laughed softly.

He smiled at you like he had won something he did not know how to hold.

You looked down at the ring in your palm, then slid it back onto your finger yourself.

His breath caught.

“For safekeeping,” you said.

“Right.”

“And because it’s pretty.”

“Obviously.”

“And because you look like you might pass out if I don’t.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

Jason rolled toward you, pinning you gently beneath him with a look that promised retaliation and probably more bruises you would enjoy explaining to no one.

“Keep talking, wife.”

The word should have felt like a joke.

It did not.

You reached up, touched the bruise on his jaw, and smiled.

“Make me, husband.”

Jason kissed you again as Gotham rumbled beyond the windows, all rain and sirens and secrets.

On the nightstand, his ring waited beside your mask. In the morning, there would be explanations, consequences, teasing from every mutual friend with a pulse, and probably at least one lecture about professionalism.

For now, there was Jason’s mouth on yours, his hand over the bought-for-cover ring, and the dangerous, wonderful realization that some covers were only lies until someone chose to keep them.

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider 🩵

[honeysucklewatr]

bulking season

short | smut | size difference | big ol’ beefy boy

jason todd bulks so easily.

he doesn’t even have to be super strict about it, like his body listens to him without much restriction. his muscles fill out and his stomach gets just a little pudgier.

you can tell when it makes him insecure, when his shirts that were already straining against his huge muscles start to barely fit over the extra pounds he gains. you try and convince him that it’s nothing to be ashamed of, that you know he’s just maintaining his physique. he tries to shrug it off, tell you that you’re being nice. still you kiss him extra, wrap your arms around him when you can and work around his diet with him so you can both eat together. he loved you for it.

but when he’s doing his meal prep on saturday morning, shirt nowhere to be found and his back muscles working in tandem with his huge biceps, you fight the urge to tackle him to the floor. you can smell the coffee he’s brewing you and normally that would wake you up entirely. though right now, all you want is to drag him back to bed. you stand there in the doorway, watching him move, admiring the layer of sexy pudge he put on for the winter months.

the way his thighs were bigger than ever and you gawked at them, imagining him over you. you knew he’d been hitting legs harder, training his glutes with hip thrusts and kickbacks that he upped the weights weekly. you were practically drooling at how his pants fit his perfect ass and tilting your head at it like something you wanted a bite out of.

without even turning, the heat of your intense gaze was enough to burn his back, he calls your name.

“you gonna stand there and stare all day babe?”

like a magnet, you pad over to him, drawn by his enormous stature. smaller arms wrapping around his huge frame like a ribbon around a gift. god, he was so hot.

warmer, bigger, and softer.

so when he fucked, it was way more intense.

as if every part of him had grown, he laid his weight just over you, not crushing but enough that you could feel the difference. his heavy palms pushing your legs over your shoulders, pressing down like he belonged there. his lips trailing over the shell of your ear, praising you for taking him like this. for letting him in so deep. grabbing at your thighs and just pushing them higher and higher. he always loved a mean mating press when he was bulking. and fuck, so did you, mewling when he buried himself to the hilt. scratching at his back when he folded you just right. crying out his name with every movement he made because it was just so damn good.

the first time, he looked at you wide eyed, pulled back a little just to make sure he wasn’t hurting you. repeatedly asking, “is that painful?” and “i’m so sorry sweets, we can stop.”

to which you immediately wrapped your legs around his waist, his stomach slightly poking out and hugging your chest. looking up at him with tears in your eyes, but definitely not because you wanted him to stop, “no! it’s good, it’s really…really good,” biting your bottom lip.

he still looked at you sideways and decided to let you on top, thinking giving you a little more control might be nice. then you straddled him, holding onto his big beefy shoulders, and struggling to take him all inside without his help. you let out sharp involuntary whines. bouncing and squeezing him tightly within your slick walls. he cups your ass and keeps you still.

“baby, are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, ever the sweet man he was.

you nod again, leaning down in exhaustion and slight humiliation for being unable to handle him on your own.

breathing his name out softly, “it’s perfect, you’re perfect. i just need your help.”

he knows it too, nodding and helping you back onto the mattress. taking his time at first, slowly easing you into it. then when he finally gets you under him again and he realizes that you really couldn’t fit him all on your own, he smiles. he doesn’t just give you that same charming and cheeky smile, but he gives you one reminiscent of the devil that finally gets you to give in to temptation. when he finally sees how much you like him like this, he’s entirely feral.

“fucking love this don’t you?” he groans out, heavy and tender in his thrusts, “you’re so sexy, fuck, i’ll bulk all the time if you like it this much,”

lips attaching to your jaw, kissing and sucking harder than he usually does. one hand kneading your breasts like damn stress balls and you can’t help it, moaning out like a pornstar.

he laughs at your neediness, “feel good sweetheart? feels good when i’m riiight,” dragging his palm up your stomach and touching the spot he repeatedly hits over and over, “here.”

then he’ll manhandle you onto your stomach, pulling you up by your hips and have you arch just right for him. he used the opportunity to slip back inside with ease and drive himself back home. his groans are even more animalistic, panting harder and gripping tight in a way that you knew would leave bruises. but you didn’t care. you couldn’t care less if anything and all he wanted was to make you feel good, repeating what he notices you like.

when he pulls you up so your back is to his chest, you mewl his name and wrap his arm around your neck. he understands it immediately, keeping you in a headlock and fucking into you deeper. watching your face contort into blissful pleasure and moaning with you because all it did was drive him wilder.

it’s too much and not enough at the same time. you have nothing to say, no words to express how he was making you feel. all you could do was claw at his forearms and push back into him, chanting his name like prayer, over and over.

he hisses dirty words just by your ear, leaving open mouthed kisses along the side of your face, “gonna fuck you so dumb, you know that? imma ruin you pretty baby.”

god, you loved bulking season.

masterlist | wanna be tagged?

[orteil42]

given the current climate this pride especially i feel i must mention that i love my trans friends, i stand with trans people in the fight against transphobic legislation and those who would enforce it, and this blog is not a good place for you to be if you do not vibe with that

[scissorhvnds]

      𝘀𝗰𝘂𝗳𝗳 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗸𝘀 - 02

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴! mechanic!jason todd x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆! jason finally fixes your car, but he has to make sure it still runs properly as well. for your safety, right?

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝘀! afab!reader, tension, inaccurate car information, time skips

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁! 4871

𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁! find it here <3

the familiar musk of jason's shop filled your nostrils once again.

your thighs were frozen to the thin metal chair that remained beside jason's work station. the rusted legs creaked under your weight, threatening to break with each movement.

you tried not to let your mind wander this time.

the events of the prior night plagued you through visions. his arms — the way they flexed with each turn of the wheel, the way his body leaned closer to yours as he retrieved his sweater from the back seat. 

his words stuck to your back for the rest of the night. "see you tomorrow, pretty girl," landing and ironing itself to your skin. 

you recalled his scent — vanilla musk, mint, and the faintest hint of the cigarette he had smoked earlier that clung to the tips of his hair.

in front of you was a familiar scene. dark wash jeans, and a black t shirt. brown boots. body laid supine on a trolly underneath your car.

"how long do you think this will take?" you asked, cringing slightly from the chair's loud screeching.

"tryna get away from me that quickly, darling?" he called back. you hear the smirk in his words. smug bastard. "i'm just getting started down here." 

"tim said that you said it would be an easy fix," 

jason's only response was a hum of confirmation. he hadn't lied — it was an easy fix. but he couldn't bring himself to let you leave just yet. he couldn't. he was selfish, he knew, he wanted to stay in your presence just a little longer. because you… you were off limits. you would go back to your life — school, work, tim, your friends. jason didn't believe that he needed to fit into your life alongside those factors.

"that it wouldn't take long?" you continued after his lack of response. 

"that was before i saw what a mess your car is," 

"shark is reliable," your voice rang back defensively. your car was beautiful. a 99 chevy cavalier. perfect for you. 

"you named your car 'shark'?" his lip curled above his top teeth. of course you had named your car. you had seemed like the type who would. the name was cute, jason would admit, you were cute, but denying it was easier than admitting it. 

"yeah," your tone was flat, defensive. "it's grey, and strong — therefore, a shark."

"right," jason agreed for your sake. the name of your car didn't change his life in any way. he rolled himself out from the undercarriage and stood in front of the hood of your car. 

he took a moment to inspect and assess. seeing him in his element was mesmerizing. his calculating gaze showed care and experience. his eyes roved over each part, and how they worked together. 

"come here," his voice called out, head nodding invitingly. your feet were moving over to him before your brain even realized it was happening. he was a magnet, one that you didn't think you could stay away from even if you wanted to. 

"see this?" he murmured as he stepped to the side to make room for you. you nodded. his finger remained pointing to a part on top of your engine. "that big thing is your engine. and this is your valve. it's leaking and is what is causing problems." 

you nodded again in understanding, leaning your upper half closer to inspect it. jason tried to keep his gaze on your car as well, and keep from wandering down your back. but fuck you were so close to him. and the smell of your perfume was flooding his senses. his fingers hovered on the small of your back, fingers brushing the hem of your tank top — black this time, and just as tantalizing. 

"the good thing is, your engine is fine," he explained. his words were so close to your ear, and you were aware of his proximity to your back. the way his "want me to show you how to fix it?" 

your head tilted back over your shoulder to regard him. his face was so close to yours, close enough to cause your breath to hitch in your throat. 

"yeah? so i can take your job?" the corner of your lip twitched upward. 

jason's expression softened fractionally, his eyes roving over your face. "you think that's how this works?"

words died in your throat. his gaze on you almost stopped your heart. your lips parted to respond, a witty response ready and shaped under your tongue. yet all you could do was press your lips back together and turn back towards the car. jason was entranced by the curve of your mouth. his own mind was short-circuting, just the same as yours. at the sight of your lips pressed together, he took that as a sign to step up closer behind you. 

"okay," he murmured, his arm circling you. his biceps caged you in, pressing against your shoulders. "we are gonna take this rag and wrap it around here,"

his voice was breathy against your ear, but still low and controlled. his weight against your back was grounding, yet completely debilitating. every ridge, every crevice of his chest pressed into you. 

"and then, we're gonna pull," a loud pop followed the end of jason's sentence. your eyes remained on your engine under the valve, scanning, questioning. 

jason's own gaze remained fixed on your face. your fascination, your concern, was evident on your features. your brows dipped slightly as your mind worked around the inner workings of your car — he was speechless by the sight. 

clearing his throat, he let go of your hand and removed himself from behind you. "and, she's all fixed up,"

you immediately felt the loss. a steady chill crawled up the back of your spine. his chest had been so warm and solid against your back. a small part of you was upset at how easily jason fixed your car. you almost wished there was more wrong in order to spend more time caged in by his arms. 

"thanks for fixing her up," you turned to face the front of him, gaze lifted to meet his. his height was towering, no matter the size of your own body. he commanded space. took it up without meaning to — without even wanting to. he was inescapable, a large mass that captured your attention. "how much do i owe you?" 

"don't worry about it," his response was short. dismissive. nonchalant. his arm reached by your head, unhooking the hood of your car and letting it shut.

"jason." you stated, disbelieving. "i'm serious." 

"so am i," 

"just tell me how much i owe you,"

"nothing. was a favour for your boyfriend," he shrugged, his expression remaining unchanging. 

"he's not my boyfriend," your face contorting into a look of disgust. tim was the last person you would choose to date. especially when there was someone else on your mind, someone who happened to be standing in front of you. 

"right, well, still a favour for the piece of shit," 

you gave him a look at his choice of words to describe tim. there were a few beats of silence between the two of you. 

"shop policy is that we need to test run the car," he gave you a sidelong glance, his hand brushing over the hood. "make sure it's running properly." 

"you do this with all your clients?" you raised a brow, unconvinced. 

"can't let you go unless i know you're safe in that thing," he ignored your question, "in good conscious." 

"do i get to drive?" you raised a brow. 

"in your dreams," his voice muttered. he had already opened the passenger door of your car, hand gestured for you to get in. 

"it's my car and i don't even get to drive," you snarked, slipping by him, your back brushed against his chest again briefly. 

"as long as you're with me, you don't have to touch the wheel again," jason's voice was barely above a breath, words uttered as he shut the door after you got settled. 

he hoped you hadn't heard. 

he hadn't even known why he said those words. he didn't mean them. he didn't know you, and he didn't want to know you. 

you were tim's friend, not his. 

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

the front of your hood burnt the bottom of your thighs. 

how you ended up in the meadow on the outskirts of town was beyond you. 

jason was perched beside you, arms folded as he gazed at the over grown grass.

"this place is quite far from town," your voice drifted into jason's ears alongside the gentle breeze that swayed the grass. 

he nodded, his eyes fixed ahead. 

you left it at that, following his gaze ahead. there was peace in the view. an endless expanse of green that contrasted with the cut of the sharp blue sky. 

"i come here quite often," he responded after a while of silence, turning to gaze up at you. 

"peaceful," you added. you didn't feel the need to add more, he understand what you were implying with your words. "do you ever go sit in the field?"

he shook his head, "i like to watch from here,"

you pushed yourself off the hood of your car, feet landing on the road below. rocks crunched under the sole of your shoes, dust settling into the ankles of your jeans. "well then, let's go,"

"no," he shook his head, shifting against the hood. he looked down, knowing that if he continued to look into your eyes he would give in. jason felt himself wanting to give him, wanting to do whatever you wanted. and it was terrifying him. 

you rolled your eyes at his response, "come on, jason,"

he fixed his gaze back ahead, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. it wasn't that he didn't want to — god, he fucking wanted to. he couldn't allow himself to. you were dangerous. 

you took his silence and nodded slowly. "well, i'm gonna go and enjoy myself. and you can stay here, loser," 

you smirked at him, nudging his arm before you turned around and took off running into the grassy area.

the sun cut down through the wind, warming your shoulders. you weren't gonna let jason's reluctance stop you. 

jason watched you run, watched the way your arms swung by your side. his body subconsciously pushed off the hood, moving to follow you into the sun. you felt like his sun, and he couldn't help but want to orbit around you. 

he let out a soft huff, his nails biting into his palm for a moment. 

"fuck," he muttered under his breath before he took off running after you. it felt good, but he wouldn't admit that out loud to you. it was scary how natural this feeling was for him, how easily this path to you opened for him to chase. 

it was scary how fast jason caught up to you. the head start you had was diminished in seconds. he kept a steady pace just behind you, not yet matching your pace, just watching. 

the smile you flashed over your shoulder was blinding. jason almost tripped over his feet at the sight. your teeth beaming with genuine joy, your tongue peeking out from behind the top row. and then your laugh. a breathless laugh from the belly that punched into his chest. 

"tag!" your hand reached back to swat at his arm, while you stumbled over the grass in the process. you righted yourself and cut immediately to the left.

you took off sprinting again in the opposite direction. the melody of your laugh continued to fill jason's void, and he followed without a second thought. 

he chased after you, breath barely puffing out of his chest. he wanted to prolong this moment for as long as he possibly could, to preserve this memory in locket and wear it around his chest — he didn't even know if he would see you again after this. 

all he was supposed to do was to fix your car, as per tim's instructions. that was all. it was only a favour. nothing more. yet, it felt like everything to jason in this moment. how quickly his life had been changed within a couple of days was something he was unable to comprehend. 

his arm circled around your waist, lifting you up into his chest and spinning you around to carry your momentum. you gasped through a shriek, legs kicking into the air at how suddenly you were airborne. 

"got you," his chest rumbled against your back. his other hand latched onto your thigh to steady you back on the ground. 

"jason, oh my—" your hands gripped his arm as the world suddenly spun off it's axis. your foot caught in a hole, your body stumbled forward. the ground was approaching faster than you could process, than you could react. your eyes shut as you braced yourself for impact. you could practically feel your body hitting the ground, the grass catching between your fingertips and sticking under your nails. you were already cringing at the thought. that was gonna be a pain to get out later.

only, you didn't hit the ground — not really. your bottom did, but not as hard as you had anticipated. the back of your head was cushioned, along with your upper back. you realized it was jason by the way his knees thudded against the dirt, bracketing your thighs. jason was practically straddling you. his hand crunched beneath your head before the arm around your upper back pulled you up, hovering your body a few inches off the ground. 

your eyes were wide and wild, gazing up at him. 

he was so close. 

again.

you had seen him up close before, the two of you had shared a few moments in a proximity that was closer than you should have been, but none of those times compared to this. 

he was right there. 

small freckles dusting his nose, blue irises that carried hints of green, and complete and utter perfection. 

and for, jason, god he was speechless. it was instinct on his end, really. his hands moved on their own — thrumming with the desire to protect you. he would let his arms take the brunt of any pain if it had meant you would never see harm. 

was he that pathetic? that you had managed to have him under your thumb within such a short time of knowing you? clearly, he was. 

your fingers instinctively curled into the collar of his shirt, keeping him close. your chest was expanding with breaths that never quite sat right in your lungs, leaving you more dizzy than anything else — or was that because you were close enough to smell jason's natural musk? 

jason lowered your body slowly — hand slipping from under your head, arm uncurling from your upper back and letting you rest on the grass. the green blades framed your head like a halo. angel. you were his angel. 

he followed you down, unable to put space between your bodies. his hands rested beside your head, further bracketing you beneath him. his eyes roved over your form in concern. 

"you okay?" he murmured softly. he checked for injuries, anything, he angled his head to gaze at your ankle — the reason why you had fallen in the first place. it looked fine to him, thankfully. 

you nodded slowly, lips parted in slight shock, eyes still transfixed on his face. 

"need you to say it. are you in any pain?" he repeated, gazing back into your eyes. "does your ankle hurt at all?" 

"i'm okay," you swallowed thickly. "my ankle is fine." 

he accepted your answer, visibly relaxing. "good."

"sorry," you blurted out, anxious from how close he was. from how you could count each and every single one of his eyelashes as they were attached to his eyelid.

"for what?" his voice was barely above a whisper. the breeze flowed through the grass, kissing over your cheeks and sending hair fluttering across your forehead. he brushed the strand back, memorizing the texture under his thumb. he knew why you were apologizing, and it was unnecessary. though, he recognized your words are more instinct than a genuine apology. 

your brain blanked, subconsciously pulling him closer by the collar. closer. closer. it wasn't close enough. 

jason followed willingly. it would agonize him to deny you right now, to deny himself. 

his head dipped down, the tip of his nose brushed against yours. his shaky breath fanned across your lips. 

"angel…" he whispered, eyes squeezing tightly. it was as if the darkness behind his lids could stop him, stop his desire for you. stop the fire that was spreading up his neck — one that could only be extinguished with the press of your lips. 

he wanted it so badly, wanted you. he knew you would taste good under his tongue, that you would mold perfectly with him. his fingers dug into the ground, denting the dirt with the force of his restraint. 

and when your hands slid up from his collar and onto his neck, jason knew he was done for. he was gone. completely at your mercy just by the touch of your fingertips. his neck burned at the spots where your skin met his. he was ready to carve his heart out of his chest and hand it to you with his own hands. his chest plating armour, his protection, his walls that had shielded the parts of himself that he refused to show the world melted instantly with a flash of your smile. 

"jay…" your voice was barely above the wind in his ears, but it cut through nonetheless, grounded him back to the moment where your chin was tilting up towards his mouth. 

oh god, no

he cleared his throat and slid onto his back beside you. the clouds, bright and blinding against the warm blue, were the most interesting thing jason could look at right now. though his eyes were desperate to settle back onto you. 

he wouldn't give in. not yet at least. maybe not ever. you would never be his. 

a spiked ball made it's way down your throat, forcing, shoving, tearing down any words that were about to leave your mouth. the pressure between the two of you was bordering on unbearable. 

you were so close to kissing him. so close. his distance was necessary. you never should have gotten that close to jason — close enough that you had felt the cool air from his nose brush your cheeks. though, feeling him pull away stabbed your heart deeper than you cared to admit. 

"hey, jason?"

he hummed in confirmation

"what were you doing under my car for so long?" 

"what do you mean?"

"well, it was the valve that was leaking right? you said that's under the hood. why were you under my car for as long as you were? you were also inside, like under the steering wheel. what was that?" 

jason remained silent. he didn't have a good enough excuse that didn't make him sound like a fucking idiot. after finding the initial cause of your car problems, he found another, and then another. and then it turned into him fixing whatever he could with the equipment that he had on hand — anything to keep you in the shop a little longer. just a little longer. 

"you know, just stopping some fluid leaks, making sure nothing was rusting. the oil pan gasket is down there, and your transmission," he kept his eyes trained on the sky, hand resting under his head. the same hand that was under yours. the same one that was just gliding through your hair and oh how he wanted to grab onto the strands and— "oh, and your exhaust. that needed to be touched up. i actually put some paste on there so it should be good for now, but you'll need to come in again soon for me to actually fix it—" 

"jason," 

"yeah," his own rambling had caught him off guard, but the way his heart was practically beating out of his chest was getting increasingly harder to ignore. his heart was still beating wildly out of his chest from almost kissing you.

"what the hell does any of that even mean?" 

"basically, you had more work that needed to be done than just the valve," 

"what?" you sat up, your lips jutting out in a exasperated pout. "why didn't you tell me? you have to let me pay you." 

"like i said earlier, i owed tim," he responded, propping himself on his elbow to face you. the sun floated just above your head, bathing you in its ethereal glow. the rays caught on your hair, glittering the wild strands that were mussed from the grass. 

"yeah but not for all of that," 

"well. if you wanna repay me so bad, then you can," 

you nodded in relief. "okay. how much do i owe you then?" 

"i want you—" 

the shrill of your phone ringing in your back pocket cut jason off abruptly. in a way, he may have been relieved that he never got to finish his sentence. you. i want you. he wouldn't have been able to take them back, no matter how much he may have meant it.

too much. way too soon. 

"hey," you pressed your phone to your ear. your fingers absentmindedly picked at the strands of grass beneath your feet. 

"what time are you coming over?" tim's voice rang through the speaker. loud. jason cringed at the sound. 

"huh?" you shifted, sitting up a little straighter. right. tim and you had plans tonight. dinner tonight at the manor, upon bruce's insistence. on days that you and tim had planned to hang out, you usually ended up in the manor. it was more comfortable for you guys rather than your shitty apartment. 

"b's asking, alfred's already started on dinner," tim says, you cam practically see him shaking his head. "so, what time should i tell him? also, why is your location off. i tried to check if you were at home and it says 'location not found'" 

"oh uh, i don't know. i'm on a walk right now, i'll be there in 'bout an hour?" you were distracted. jason was just laying there still, beside you, pretending not to listen but you know he was. the twitch of his nose when tim had mentioned bruce had given him away. 

"''kay, perfect, see you, and fix your location," tim waited for your own farewell before hanging up the phone. you let your phone drop into your lap, falling back into the electrically charged quiet that seemed to continuously engulf yourself and jason. 

"tim?" jason mumbled. 

you nodded, a thick glob of saliva catching in our throat. "dinner at the manor tonight." 

right. jason knew that. dinner at the manor tonight, as bruce had said in the family group chat. 

he knew he had to drive you back, to let you go. you car was fixed now. it was over. your car was fixed, and you were gonna go back to your life now. the dream bubble, the rose coloured world that jason had been fantasizing with you was now grey. 

but he wouldn't complain. he would let you go. and maybe, he would get to see you again. 

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

the manor had been bustling upon your arrival. you still felt like you were in a daze from your earlier encounters with jason. 

he was… different. not what you had expected. 

your first impression of him might have been skewered by tim, and the front that jason put up. the glares, the stone mask that he wore — you saw the softness that lay beneath it all. 

you were currently at the dinner table — seated beside tim — though you could still feel the grass tickling your ankles and jason's steady weight on your chest. you had been so close to kissing him, barely a centimetre between you. 

"so your car is alright then?" bruce's voice brought you back from your dream. 

"hm? oh! yeah, it's all good," your shoulders squared, spine snapping straight. the smile that plastered across your face felt gooey. "jason—"

"—littlewing?" dick's voice rang out in shock, his gaze fixed above your head. a lull settled over the room as the rest of the party's attention followed dick's. you slowly turned your head, your breath catching at the sight. 

speak of the devil. 

jason. he had stood in the entryway of the dining hall — the same navy blue jeans, leather jacket stretched taut over his strong form. 

everyone's gaze were on him, but his were on you. 

"jason! what a pleasure," bruce smiled, standing in greeting. 

"why are you here?" tim blurted out. 

"for dinner?" jason deadpanned.

"yeah, but why?" 

"i'm part of the family, aren't i? do i need a reason to show up for family dinner?" 

"how did you know this was happening,"

you elbowed tim hard enough that he flinched. his fork clanged against his plate at the force of his knee hitting the table.

"i'm in the groupchat, dumbass," jason's eyes narrowed at tim, a scowl forming across his mouth. 

"—yes! you are, no you don't need a reason, and we are so happy you're here," bruce's voice cut in quickly, breaking the squabble. his tone directed at tim. he stood up as well to welcome jason into the room. 

"come sit, littlewing, alfred already set up a seat for you," dick's words barely registered in your mind. jason had looked different, smaller, younger. dick's hand patted the space next to him, across from you, the only empty seat. until now, that seat had always remained empty — set up with a plate, cutlery, and a glass — but empty. now you knew why. 

he took his spot, sliding comfortably into the seat and letting dick clap his shoulder in friendly greeting. jasons eyes shifted from dick, to bruce, and then to you. darker, pupils dilated, head tilted slightly to the side as he took in your appearance again. outfit less casual, your hair done in a way that he could tell you put effort into — though he thought your hair would have looked nice regardless how you wore it. 

jason's gaze was hungry. devouring, though it wasn't because of the food that was being served in front of him, but because of you. 

dinner continued without a hitch. the dymanic didn't change when jason arrived, it molded around him — like he had always been there. 

the conversion flowed between everyone, changing constantly from someone's interjection. the only thing that didn't change was jason's focus on you. when he spoke, when he wasn't speaking. it wasn't the whole time, but it was enough for you to notice it. to feel it burning into your face from where he sat directly in front of you. 

eventually, after the second course of dessert, you excused yourself to the washroom. 

a break was needed. 

while you had developed close relationships with all of tim's family members, they still managed to overwhelm you very easily. 

the washroom was a moment of repreive in the chaos that was confined within the walls of the manor. you could still hear the arguments, the debates, the loud voices that knew how to speak above one another. 

you took your time on the way back, slow measured steps that followed the dark lines of the mahogany flooring. you didn't hear the footsteps behind you, didn't sense the presence that lingered too closely behind you for just a second too long before wrapping an arm around you. 

a large hand covered your mouth, the other pulling your body into the opened doorway beside you. once your back was against the wall, you realized. 

jason. 

he was close again. body pressed up against yours intentionally. he was warm in a way that was devastating — a warmth that you so desperately wanted to sink into, but you knew you couldn't. 

"what are you—" your voice muffled against his hand, palm sliding against your cheek and cradling your head. 

"i should have kissed you earlier," his words cut you off, hanging in the space between your mouths. his gaze was fixed on your lips, centimetres away from yours. "i should have. i need to. been thinking about it since i met you, angel, fuck." 

he was practically pleading. his whispered words were shaking between his lips. 

please. please, let me kiss you. 

"we… jason, we can't," your voice was just as soft, hands exploring up his arms and onto his shoulders. broad and thick under your palms. the desperation was burning the room, a fever beginning to heat up your spine. 

"we… yeah," his forehead softly hit yours, eyes shutting tightly. his nostrils flared with restraint. his other hand tightened it's grip on your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer to him. 

"they're gonna be looking for us, we need to—"

"fuck. i can't. i'm sorry," jason murmured, his snapping open to gaze at you one last time, there was a hint of apology swimming in his eyes, deep and longing beneath the surface. 

and then his lips met yours. 

an: I feel so evil leaving this chapter how I did

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁! @batwngs , @boo-123456 , @xuzui , @starshine-girl , @brinawing , @jasontoddsthunderthigh , @outpostsworld , @xx-kino-v , @currentblasphemy , @m-0ona , @vayabenson , @deadbeatphobos , @igotcrabs4u , @anne-chloe , @inesvisible , @ftkats , @branchesofmagic , @wrldbloom , @pantone2617c , @loserinadress , @optimisticalmondbananabiscuit , @sweet-cherry-kisses , @lovelymilijana , @starrydustedwinter , @wisefuncherryblossom , @wiishies , @apocal-ips , @bungunz , @pinklyred , @sluttybiscuitbabes , @venus-bby , @st4rl1ghtgrays0n , @vami , @loretheswiftie , @nerdjoenjoyer , @emma-dilemmax , @sofiasguitar , @artisticmindsunite-blog , @aesthetic-lyss , @sleepyyluciel

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[layliloo]

to cry or to goon hmm

[layliloo]

Do you have a different user??

wait i totally switched up my blog a few weeks ago when i posted. i prob shoulda made an update for the ppl who follow me. i used to be xx_kino_v but switched it to change the general vibe of my blog and i wanted to do a bit of reconstruction.

[afellowgoodsir]

Which do you trust more?

Wikipedia

Ai

Remaining time: 4 days 19 hours

if it pleases thee, reblog for greater sample size

[srenique]

⌑ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⌑ ⌇ @ 𝑠𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑞𝑢𝑒 | ‌ | ‌ | 𝑤𝑤𝑤.𝑏𝑒𝑑𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑚.𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 ( mdni )

CLARK KENT’S sexual awakening never happened. His ma did enough to hide him from the more carnal parts of life, so imagine his surprise and borderline nose-wrinkle in sex-ed junior year when he found out what adults did behind closed doors.

Even when he grew up, got a job in the Planet, made his alter-ego known, he still didn’t feel the need to… have coitus. He was too scared he’d snap some poor girl in half if he tried.

The first time he ever tried, he’d barely got the tip in before he came, embarrassingly quick. Maybe it was the nerves of it all, maybe his body was eager to get it over with. Safe to say, that girl — as lovely as she was — broke up with him a week later because she felt like he was just in pursuit of his own pleasure. Not true, by the way, his ma always told him to think of the lady first.

Like every Monday, he was pushing his way through the Metropolis work crowd, against the tides of people. Not really looking where he was going, trying not to drop an iced tea — Lois forced him to try it, just to be clear — on any unsuspecting people by holding it high above possible shoulders.

That failed.

In the pursuit of not splashing anyone with peach iced tea, he forgot to look straight and collided straight into someone, sending a drink flying into a silk dress.

Oh, no.

He watched in horror as the material dampened, clung to your body, and became slightly more sheer by the second. “Golly, I’m so sorry—”

The subsequent scoff nearly tore into his self-esteem battery for the day. “Hey, watch where you’re…”

Your eyes locked. All anger faded away, replaced by the dread that you hurt this sexy behemoth of a man’s feelings and he now hated you forever. “… you know what? No worries, don’t— don’t think about it too much.”

He instantly shrugged off his blazer and held it out to you. “But your dress— great dress, by the way,” it was a… really pretty dress, golly, “it’s ruined. I ruined it. I can pay for the dry cleaning.”

You waved your hand noncommittally, but you took the blazer anyway to cover up, it was massive on you. Lord— wait, he shouldn’t take his name in vain. “Seriously, I’m fine. I was on my way to a bachelorette party, one of my friends there will definitely have a spare, she has one for everyone.”

He blinked. “Everyone?”

“Yeah.” You grinned, gosh, it was a pretty smile. “She’s like that. Weird, I know. And— don’t worry about the dry cleaning, I’ve got it. I’m sorry about your drink.”

“No, you saved me.” He laughed nervously. “My coworker forced me to try it, to tell y’the truth, I did not want to.”

“So I saved you.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his curls, messing them up even more. “And please. Please bill me for the dry cleaning, I’ll feel bad if you don’t.”

“Fine. Fine.” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I’ll bill you.” Locking eyes with him once more took the words from his lungs. Good Lord, those eyes were sexy. All of him was sexy, in a cute way, bumbling gait, pushing his glasses up his nose, the rosiness of his cheeks. You checked your watch. Fuck. “Well, I’m in a rush, so—”

“Yeah, you gotta—”

“See you.” You began walking off at a fast pace. Something jolted in his navel. He felt hot from embarrassment. His relaxed-fit trousers felt… not so relaxed anymore.

He looked down. That looked like a sexual awakening.

“Clark!” He yelled loudly, head snapping up to stare at you like a dishevelled deer in headlights. What the hay? Why did he do that? Why did he yell that? He covered his crotch with his messenger bag.

Your smile told him you noticed. With an uptick in your heart rate and an increase in your breathing’s heaviness, a sweet smell tickled his nose. It wasn’t the bakery next to him, that’s for sure. You smiled, and shouted back your name at the same volume.

He hurried to the nearest bathroom to yell at his body.

Cat slid onto his desk, setting core in front of him. Not for him, clearly. “I was at a bachelorette last week.” She started, tapping her nail on his desk to get him to look at her. Deadlines needed to be crunched, so he barely did. She accepted that.

Clark’s fingers kept flying. “Cat, you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

She laughed. “I have a friend. She asked me about a dorky guy named Clark Kent who still writes his name on the tags of his clothes.” She dropped a sugar cube into her coffee, stirring it. “A habit I thought we left back in our sophomore year of high school.”

His neck turned red. His foot covered the name tag on his bag’s handle. But she laughed and dropped another sugar cube into. He sent a furtive glance of concern for her health. “Whatever.” She sighed, taking a long sip. “I told her you were single.”

He almost spluttered over no liquid. “What?”

“I told her you were single.” She repeated simply.

“Why?”

“She asked.” This time he almost choked on a gulp of straight, bitter black coffee. “I gave her your number. To bill you for the dry cleaning.” Pause for an effectively captivating sip of over-sweetened coffee. “Among other things.” She muttered under her breath, but he caught it. She smiled widely. “Toodles!” She got up and walked off.

He threw his hands up, tripping over his words. “Cat— you can’t—” But she was in her own world, singing Freak by Doja Cat.

His phone buzzed. With shaking hands, he opened it, unknown number.

Didn’t know they made clothes in your size. Underneath: Wanna come round to get it this weekend? To talk to bit.

He saved your contact first. Before typing out a clumsy agreement, which he didn’t know was possible over text. Judging by how you didn’t immediately get put off, you were into it.

He was on time, on the dot of the agreed time, which was two o’clock. After lunch, before it got too dark, but still enough time to talk.

He’d cleaned up a little more than usual. Tried to use a hair pomade to ensure his curls weren’t as wild as they usually were. Wear a slightly tighter fitting shirt than before. Brush his teeth. Pop a few breath mints. Avoid the morning coffee, put on copious amounts of hand lotion and lip balm. Everything had to be perfect. He even trimmed his happy trail for this.

You laid the plan. Took a shower so your skin was dewy. Prepped your hair. Kept the makeup minimal, because a full beat would give the plan away. You chose your best, flowiest robe.

You wanted him to unwrap you like a present.

When your doorbell rang, you dabbed on a final bit of lipstick before you chucked it onto a side table and opened the door.

You felt your thighs rub together on instinct the moment you saw him. He felt his breath leave his body when he saw you, checking his watch. “Maybe I’m early—”

“You’re on time.” It came out more breathless than expected. Nodding back into your apartment. “I… I have your jacket. I put it in the wash, the inside got stained with a little iced tea.”

“You can bill me for that too.”

“Seriously? No.” You waved your hand. “No. You’re fine.” You ushered him inside. “It was a thank you, for paying for my dry cleaning and lending me your jacket.” You waved him towards the couch. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

You.

“Um, I’m fine.” He sat on the couch, you sat opposite, picking up a glass of wine that was there before he came. You looked… stunning. He felt his collar get hot. He tugged at it. “You invited me to watch a movie.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you still want to watch a movie?”

“No.”

“Oh. Oh. I was under the impression that we’d be…” He gestured in between you two. So he had the same assumption you did.

Your lips curled up. “I was under that impression too.”

He nodded. You could see a bulge slowly growing in his trousers. “I mean, I— I have to warn you, I’m not that… experienced.”

You blinked, slightly amused. A little interested. “Oh? How so?”

“I…” He made a weird motion, he didn’t even know what it was supposed to mean. It’s likely get interpreted as something like flying a plane, “finish too quickly. Women find it off putting.”

The way you were looking at him, it seemed like you found it off putting as well. Just frozen in time, sat there, staring at him. “That’s…” You let out a whoosh of air. Then your hand gripped his jaw, “really fucking hot—”

Oh. You were into it.

Huh. You were kissing him.

Golly. He was kissing back.

His hand covered the one holding his jaw, pressing into your lips and your body instinctively like there was a magnet from him to you. You pushed back, swinging a leg over both of his till your knees knocked into his hips. This was new.

You smiled when you saw his other hand hovering awkwardly. Not knowing whether he had the right to touch beyond what was respectful. So you guided it to your thigh, fabric moving and bunching under his fingers. Allowing him to touch bare skin.

Oh, boy.

The soft whine from the bottom of his throat was a boost to your ego, a deep moan following when you pressed open mouthed kisses to his neck, rolling your hips forward. “Ohhhhh, gosh,” He breathed out slowly.

Oh, fuck. He was massive. Though you didn’t know what to expect, he was six-five.

Both his hands flew to your hips, pads of his fingers pressing into your skin, head tipping back against the sofa cushions, breathing in sharply. He could feel you gently sucking on his skin, he knew it wouldn’t leave a mark, but he whimpered quietly anyway, dragging your hips forward, so he could feel your pussy drag over his dick yet again. His head spinning as your tongue traced over his Adam’s apple.

Your hands slipped off his tie like you’d had practice, popping the buttons of his shirt slowly. You felt his warm palms burning up your waist, stopping at where your robe was tied at your front. His eyes were wide, blinking up at you through his lashes. “Can I…?”

Fuck, he was hot.

You undid the tie yourself but let him gently move the fabric off your shoulders, undoing his belt and letting you take off his trousers. His cheeks flushed as he dragged his boxers down, cock painfully hard. It was pretty, flushed at the tip, pre smeared just a little.

Oh, that was a lot bigger than you manifested.

“Oh, shit.” You grinned at the sight of him, watching his whole face turn red.

He adjusted his foggy glasses, stumbling over his syllables. “Will it…” He gulped, wondering how to say it, “fit?”

The look in your eye almost made his heart stop. Like you didn’t care. “Oh, honey.” You laughed a little. “We’ll make it.” You positioning yourself above him, ready to sink down onto his throbbing cock was not something he expected to see. He let out a strangled sound, placing a hand on your arm. “Don’t you want me to… prepare you?”

“I’ve quite literally been prepared since the first time we met.” You grabbed a condom from — wait where did you get that from? — and tore it open delicately, giving it to him to roll on. He did, safety was key, and when you finally did lower yourself onto him— holy shit.

His forehead pressed to your shoulder, before he started pressing sloppy, whining kisses, almost making out with it as he felt your pussy grip him deliciously. So this was what he’d never felt drawn to. Until now.

He was stretching you out. A lot. For a guy so shy about his own abilities his endowment was something women only experienced in their wildest dreams. The more you learned, the more turned on you were.

Huh. That usually didn’t happen with men.

You let out a deep sigh as you sank down further, feeling his size fill you in the best way. His tip nestled against your cervix, pretty vein brushing your g-spot, fuck, maybe moving would feel too good.

But you did it anyway, small, cut-short gasps and moans jumping from your throat as he kissed his way back up to your lips so he could feed his own noises of encouragement into your mouth. Holding your hips just tight enough so he wouldn’t bruise them, still guiding you firmly, still holding your hips just close to him as he disabled your brain with every push and pull of his hands and each wet smack of his lips and yours (and skin on skin, but we don’t mention that).

His head was fuzzy. Mumbling shit he couldn’t make out himself in between every collision of your lips, tangling one hand in your hair while the other slipped down to press his thumb onto your clit.

You clenched hard; he almost came right there.

His eyes rolled back for half a second and he willed himself not to finish too early but he couldn’t stop it once you clamped down with the second roll of his thumb, your name leaving his mouth, the highest you’d heard his voice be, cracks in between syllables feeding your ego. But he kept circling your clit like he was born to do it, mumbling encouragement, his forehead glistening as his head fell back.

“C’mon, sweetie, gotta make you feel good too,” He panted, gripping your hip so he could encourage you to grind forward into his thumb. “Please, please give it to me—”

It all felt too much. The onslaught of his thumb, his tip still prodding at your cervix, seeing him fucked out from one round (that made you more horny than you’d care to admit) had you coming too, him swallowing that moan by meeting your lips in the middle, stroking your hair back from your face and rolling his hips up a little so the high wouldn’t be harsh on you. His kisses turned slower, more languid, to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck, finally lifting your hand so he could kiss your palm and the back of your hand.

“You’re stunning.” He breathed, kissing your knuckles. “So beautiful, honey.”

How the fuck was he respectful after the best sex you’ve ever had? There had to be a catch.

“So… that was hot.” You smiled, brushing his curls back from his forehead. “You were being pretty modest.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t last past two minutes.”

Your tongue traced your canine as you smiled. “Well, I wanna see it again.”

He blinked. Oh, boy. “Golly.”

© 2026 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED : SRENIQUE. DO NOT MODIFY, REPOST, PLAGIARISE, TAKE DIRECT INSPIRATION FROM OR CLAIM MY WORK AS YOUR OWN WITHOUT PERMISSION OR GIVING CREDIT.

NOTES: again it may just be me but I feel this is a litttllleeee sloppy

[ally-ofthevalley]

Number Eight

re2r!Leon Kennedy x f!reader summary: at a crowded frat party you never wanted to attend, all you hope for is one night away from textbooks, stress, and the growing pressure of being the only inexperienced person left in college. wc: 12.4k content warning: SMUT MDNI!, inexperienced (virgin) reader, anxious reader, use of y/n, alcohol consumption, swearing, fingering (f receiving), protected p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), aftercare <3 note: there's genuinely nothing cuter than my baby re2 leon. guys i was kicking my feet and giggling writing this IT'S JUST SO CUTE ARGHH!! also i swear i tried to make this shorter but i don't know what got ahold of me...

-

“Come on, y/n! Get your head out of your books for once and come with me tonight!”

Your dormmate and best friend, Claire pleaded next to you. She was leaned up against your desk, where you were sitting in front of two different ten pound textbooks, writing in a notebook.

“Look Claire, if I could I would. But my midterm is in two days-”

“-Exactly! You can spare one of those days to come out tonight. Think of it as a break between studying,” Claire tried to convince. 

It was a Saturday afternoon, in the thick of midterm exams, the leaves on campus slowly beginning to turn colours and gracefully shed off the trees. You were captivated in your studies, as one of your biggest exams was only a couple days away. Being in the program you were in, it was hard to find free time for yourself. Most of your days were spent taking notes, practicing review, and rinse and repeat.

To say you weren’t struggling would be a lie. You knew college was going to be difficult, but this was on a whole other level. You couldn’t afford to miss a day of lecture or you would be completely behind, and don’t even think about trying to study the night before your exam.

But hey, that’s what it took to get a well paying career these days, right? 

It also didn’t help that Claire, your dormmate that was assigned to you at random when you moved in, was in a completely different program than you. She understood that you needed your time to do your work, but when it came to a massive frat party being thrown, like tonight, there were no excuses.

“Please, it’s my brother’s first party that he’s throwing as President, and I promised him I would invite as many people as I could,” Claire begs, closing your notebook on top of your hand. You audibly sigh, and finally meet her gaze.

“I don’t think one person will make much of a difference,” you mumble, crossing your arms over your chest. Claire’s eyebrows furrow together, her bottom lip pouting. 

“y/n… it won’t be nearly as fun if you don’t come with me!” She got onto her knees in front of you, her hands gripping both of your thighs in desperation. You would think she was a drama major by her performance right now.

You can see her brain working, coming up with one final way to convince you to get out. Her eyes light up, a wide, toothy grin covering her face.

“I know,” she begins, getting up from her knees and walking towards the middle of your shared room, “we can complete number eight on your bucket list tonight.” 

She points to a giant poster that you and Claire had made, stuck on the wall in between your beds. The poster read ‘Y/N AND CLAIRE’S COLLEGE BUCKET LIST’ in big, bold sparkly letters at the top.

It was an exercise that your residence assistant had you guys work on to get to know one another, but as the two of you got to know each other more, the list got more unhinged. 

It started with, ‘try every dining hall on campus’, and ‘meet each of your professors for each class’. But then the two of you brought it back to your dorm, and came up with some real bucket list goals.

Claire had some for herself, like ‘try a keg stand for the first time’ or ‘go skinny dipping at the pier’. Your goals were less ambitious than hers, as you were quite a lot less experienced than her. But for you, it was way out of your comfort zone.

Your goals consisted of ‘stay out all night partying’, ‘sneak out to the football field at night’, and of course, goal number eight.

‘Lose your virginity’

The words stuck out at you like a sore thumb. All throughout school, you never really had a boyfriend. You always prioritized your studies, your friends, it never really crossed your mind.

But now you’re in college, and the closest you’ve ever been romantically with someone is a cheesy game of spin the bottle in high school.

For the longest time, it felt like the person you were to “give your virginity to” had to be someone special. The timing had to be perfect, detail orientated, and with someone you were in a relationship with. And truth be told, you did still somewhat feel that way. You kept telling yourself if I’ve gone this long, I can wait a little longer, but time is running out.

Being dormmates with Claire really put things in perspective for you. The two of you were at opposite ends of your lives in that area, she had all of her “firsts” a long time ago and was definitely more spontaneous than you.

She would never pressure you into anything, but she helped you realize that your first time having sex is never usually a pleasant experience no matter who it’s with. So it was better to get it done and over with, as she had put it, so you’re not so nervous to do it with your first partner.

Your eyes widened, jaw slacked as you followed Claire’s finger to the poster. 

“No way Claire. Nuh-uh.” 

Claire sighed dramatically, planting her hands on her hips.

“y/n, you said you didn’t care who you lost your v-card to. I don’t see how tonight isn’t the best possible night to do so!” You run your fingers through your hair anxiously, head spinning with thoughts.

You had been studying for days already, your brain feeling impossibly full with material. As much as you didn’t want to admit it, Claire was right. A house full of frat guys, unlimited alcohol supply, and a chance to put the textbooks down. What could possibly go wrong?

“Fine, I’ll go. But I’m not promising anything-”

You were interrupted by high pitched squealing, and a strong hug around your shoulders.

“Thank you thank you! We are going to find you the perfect frat boy to hook up with tonight!” Claire ran to her closet, already beginning to plan out her outfit for the party. 

You sighed, closing your textbooks for the day. This would be the first frat party you’ve attended in college, and to say you didn’t know what to expect would be an understatement. You just hoped you didn’t make a bad decision, and worst comes to worst, you just cling to Claire’s arm all night.

-

From the moment you stepped into the frat house, you figured the former had come true tonight.

The place was a mess. College kids every square inch of the house, beer cans and solo cups covered every surface. There were people playing beer pong on the dining room table, someone funneling a drink in the kitchen, and couples making out on every step of the stairs. Needless to say, it was a typical frat party.

You immediately felt self conscious as you stepped in the door. You knew you looked hot, as Claire kept reminding you, in your mini light blue jean skirt and white low neck t-shirt. Casual for a houseparty, but enough to show off all of your best assets. What was making you anxious was how out of place you felt.

You felt like a little kid in these situations, feeling out of place and a million years behind everyone else. It was times like these where you wished you didn’t keep your nose in your books all throughout high school so you could at least pretend like you belonged. 

Claire waved a hand in front of your face, one eyebrow raised.

“Hello? Earth to y/n?” You blinked rapidly, exiting the zone you trapped yourself in, and focused on her face.

“Huh?”

“I can see on your face that you’re spiralling, y/n. Don’t overthink it, okay?” She smiled, placing a supporting hand on your shoulder. You only nodded, letting out a shudder.

“Yeah, okay. I think I just need a drink.”

You and Claire head to the kitchen, where a large bowl of some sort of spiked punch was. You pour two hefty cups of punch, and pass one to Claire. She raises her cup in a toast, 

“To you getting laid tonight!” You nearly choke on your drink as you take a sip, tasting the much too strong juice on your tongue. You hope that you at least get drunk enough to ease the nerves, and just try to have a good time tonight.

-

“God, it’s been a fucking hour and he’s nowhere to be found,” Claire whines, leaning against the staircase. You stand next to her, overlooking the whole house. Claire had been searching for her brother, the President of the frat, but no luck thus far. You two had made your rounds throughout the house, watching as Claire got stopped by multiple guys desperately trying to flirt with her.

And how could you blame them? Her light brown hair was long down her back, black tank top underneath her cropped red leather jacket. Her black jeans hugged her perfectly as she swayed her hips around the house.

Meanwhile, you just kept drinking, a buzz slowly flooding your senses. You were starting to feel defeated; although you had no expectations of someone catching your eye tonight, it did hurt to watch all the attention Claire was receiving and you get none. 

You tipped your cup up to your mouth to down the rest of the punch, a little spilling at the corner of your mouth. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and placed the cup down on a table.

You decided it was almost time to go. You’d have one more drink, possibly, then make some excuse that the alcohol isn’t sitting right in your stomach and head back to your dorm. As much of a bust tonight was, you were still proud of coming out tonight. 

You leaned over to Claire, raising your voice so she could hear you over the music and chatter,

“Hey, I think I’m-”

“-Oh my God! Chris!”

In your line of view, you saw a tall, broad shouldered man come inside the house from the back door. He had that similar light brown hair, and hazel eyes. He locked eyes with Claire, and opened his arms for a hug.

Claire turned to you, toothy smile on her face, “Wait here, I’ll be back!” She was already out of your line of vision before you could say anything back. You watched as Claire ran to her brother, jumping into a hug.

“Great, now I’m stuck here for at least another hour,” you mumbled to yourself, crossing your arms over your chest. You lean against the wall of the living room, watching as Chris introduces Claire to some of his frat brothers. 

You started to feel your stomach do flip flops. You were standing by yourself, spotlights suddenly feeling like they were shining down on you. As you watched Claire so effortlessly make new friends, you wondered why it was so difficult for you to go and talk to someone?

Why is everyone staring at me? Just go up and talk to someone! 

Your inner monologue was screaming in your head, anxiety starting to paralyze your body. You knew this was gonna be a bad idea to leave Claire’s side, you should just go-

“H-hey, can I get you another drink?”

Your head whips to the voice coming from your right, eyes wide and face tense.

The last thing you expected to see was one of the cutest boys standing right in front of you. He was tall, skinny but there was evidence of muscle building, bright blue eyes, and swoopy blond hair framing his face. 

He was perfect.

He stood in front of you, one hand scratching the back of his head, cheeks a warm pink unsure if it was from the alcohol or if he was… nervous? 

Why would someone as cute as him be nervous to talk to you?

Your throat dried up, an awkward cough leaving your mouth as you tried to reply, “Uh, s-sure, thanks.”

He only nodded quickly, and sped off to the kitchen. He wasted no time in grabbing two solo cups of punch, extending one arm to give one to you.

“You didn’t lace this, did you?” You teased, taking the cup from his hand, fingers grazing quickly. The boy’s eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head at your question, his head shaking violently.

“What? N-no! I wouldn’t-”

“-I’m kidding,” You chuckle, taking a sip from the drink, “thank you…?”

“Leon, Leon Kennedy.” Leon relaxes, shoulders loosening and a sheepish smile on his face. 

“Nice to meet you, Leon Kennedy. y/n.” You push yourself off the wall, turning yourself to face him completely.

“That’s a pretty name, I like it.” You begin to feel heat rise up to your face, definitely not from the alcohol. You mutter a shy, “Thanks”, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Leon just watches you intently, like he’s admiring your features. 

“So, what brings you here tonight?” Leon asks, stepping closer to you to be able to hear your response. You suddenly feel very aware of how close he’s getting, and your breath shudders.

“Well, my friend dragged me here because it’s her brother’s party, but I’ve seemed to have lost her,” You look around the room, Claire and Chris nowhere to be found. Leon’s brows raise, taking a large sip out of his drink.

“Oh, you know Chris’ sister? That’s so cool! He’s my President, actually.” 

Your head tilts to the side. Leon’s a part of this frat? Off of first impressions you did not expect him to be into something like that. 

“This is your frat? I’m not gonna lie, you don’t look like someone who’d enjoy something like this.” Leon’s shoulders shrug, looking around at the combobulation of drunk college kids.

“Because it’s really not,” he begins, “I joined just so it would look good on an application. This kinda stuff isn’t really my thing,” he gestures to the party, voice softening. 

You couldn’t help but admire him. He was dressed casual, a grey hoodie with the college’s name embroidered on the front, baggy blue jeans, and beat up white sneakers. If you had met him somewhere else, you would’ve thought he was a lot younger than he was.

You watch as he takes another sip of his drink, throat bobbing as he swallows. Your face felt like it was on fire, how could you get so flustered just from watching him drink?

“N-not a partier?” You stutter, internally cringing at yourself, “What are you doing here then?”

Leon reaches to scratch the back of his neck again, looking down at his feet.

“Kinda have to be at every party we throw,” He mutters, looking back up at you with rosy cheeks, “but I-I was also hoping I’d run into a pretty girl tonight.” 

This had to be a joke.

First, this gorgeous boy approaches you. He offers you a drink, brings it back untouched (so far), stands far too close for a casual conversation, and is now flirting? 

Looks like goal number eight might actually be achieved tonight. 

Although Leon seemed kind, he was still a frat boy. And one thing about them is they’re accustomed to sex. What would he think if he knew you were a virgin? It was better to pretend that you knew what you were doing, than having to embarrass yourself about the truth.

You step a tad closer to Leon, a small smile forming on your lips. 

“Yeah? Did you find what you were looking for?” 

Leon smiled, head tilting down to meet your gaze directly. 

“I think I’ve managed to find the most beautiful girl in the room.”

On the outside, you’re calm and collected. On the inside, you’re screaming. You don’t think someone has ever called you beautiful that wasn’t family. 

Okay, you can’t fuck this up. Leon obviously knows what he wants, and that’s you. He’s looking at you with half-lidded eyes, neck craning down to block you behind the wall. If that doesn’t scream, I wanna have sex with you, you don’t know what does.

You take one final sip from your drink, never losing eye contact with Leon. You flutter your eyelashes a little too quickly trying to be seductive.

“Is there somewhere quieter we can go?” You shout a hair too loud, trying to have your voice reach over the chatter around you two. Leon’s eyes widen a fraction, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He looks over his shoulder at the stairs next to them, then back at you.

“Follow me,” he whispers against your ear, placing his drink on a nearby table to reach for your hand. You do the same, almost slamming your drink down on the table and grabbing Leon’s hand. 

He guides you up the stairs, stepping over couples making out and stray beer cans as you head to the second floor.

The chatter dies down, as there’s far less people upstairs either in line for the bathroom or even more making out. Leon walks to the end of the hall, free hand twisting open a door that leads to an empty bedroom. 

He lets you in first, letting go of your hand to move to the small of your back, just gently guiding you inside. The room is small, with a double bed taking up most of the space, but it’s organized and private.

You hear the door close behind you with a soft click, turning to face Leon.

“Better?” 

The music and chatter is only a low hum below you, the air feeling fresher and calm. You turn to face him, and he’s a lot closer to you than you thought. You can smell the cologne he’s wearing, surprisingly it’s not that awful one every frat boy wears. He smells fresh and woodsy.

You don’t dare meet his eyes, nervous beyond belief, and take a look at the bedroom walls instead.

“Much better, yeah. Is this your room?” You ask, looking at the college memorabilia, a couple posters of movies like The Breakfast Club and Scream. You feel Leon move closer towards you, not even paying attention to the posters on the wall.

“Yeah, all the brothers live here. I try to keep the door locked during parties…” he trails off, and you finally turn your head to look at him.

His pupils are blown, darting from your eyes to your lips. His chest rises and falls rather quickly, like he’s reminding himself to breathe. You fully turn your body to face him, head tilting up. You feel butterflies exploding in your stomach.

Is this really happening? Is this frat boy about to kiss you? You’re not even quite sure how to kiss, to be honest. You figure you’d let Leon take all the lead, since he knows what he’s doing. 

“Hi,” You whisper, eyes rapidly scanning his face for any sort of expression. He smiles, hands hovering awkwardly just over your waist. His head dips a little lower, only inches away from your lips.

“Hey,” Leon whispers back, “you feeling okay?” 

You nod quickly, a nervous smile forming on your face. The butterflies felt like they were trying to escape out your throat, it amazes you just how gentle and sweet this boy is. His hands finally land on your waist, the touch warm and grounding. 

Leon’s eyes focus on your lips for a second, his own parted slightly and the bridge of his nose a deep pink.

“C-can, can I… kiss you?” 

“Y-yeah,” you breathe out, and slowly shut your eyes. You relax your lips, standing perfectly still until you feel the feather light pressure of Leon’s lips on your own.

By any means, this kiss isn’t perfect. His lips aren’t puckered enough, as if he’s afraid to be too forward, and you just barely reciprocate.

But it’s perfect to you. 

Your arms, laying still at your sides, nervously slide up to rest on Leon’s shoulders, which encourages him to deepen the kiss. He adds more pressure, lips firmer against yours, and you follow suit.

His fingers press into your waist more, one hand sliding up in between your shoulder blades to push you against his chest. 

No matter how much of that spiked punch you drank, nothing could compare to how drunk you feel kissing Leon. Your chest tightens, not only from the lack of oxygen but from the intense feeling of excitement.

You feel yourself gaining more confidence the more you kiss him, your lips match his rhythm and your nose is angled so it slots right against his.

For what felt like hours, the two of you pulled away with a wet clack, heavily breathing and foreheads resting against each other’s.

 “Do you w-wanna sit down?” “Leon whispers. You nod, eyes fluttering open and you pull your head away to look at him.

His lips are red and glossy, eyes still staring deeply at you without faltering. He nods as well, and slowly guides you backwards to his bed.

You feel the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you sit down, Leon following suit beside you.

Your thighs press against each other, the hands that were on Leon’s shoulders now folded awkwardly in your lap. The air is still for a moment, both of you gathering your bearings for what’s next to come. 

Leon shakily raises a hand, reaching to your face to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes scanning every inch of your face. You bashfully avert his gaze, eyes looking down into your lap.

“Thanks…” If Leon wasn’t paying so close attention he wouldn’t have heard you. But he was so engaged, analyzing every movement and expression. 

His hand moved to your chin and tilted it up gently, getting you to look at him. His eyes flicker between your eyes and lips again, breath shuddering against your face.

“Can I kiss you again?”

“Mhm,” you mumble, your eyes already beginning to shut and your face lean into his. Your lips slot together more effortlessly this time, the kiss still so gentle and reserved. Leon keeps his hand holding your chin, the other snaking its way back around your waist.

Your body relaxes more, getting used to kissing him. For it being your first time properly kissing someone that lasted more than a second, it was going a lot better than you expected. You almost thought you were a natural, the way Leon was reacting.

His hand on your waist started to move, trailing higher up your body ever so slowly. His thigh pressed harder against yours, trying to move impossibly closer to you. He kissed deeper, the suction on your lips more fervent and hungry. You felt his tongue poke sharply at your lips, a little unsure of its motives.

Okay, this is it. He wants to go further, and as nervous as you are, you also want more. You’d say you’re doing a pretty good job at making him believe that you know what you’re doing, or he’s just so eager to get in your pants he doesn’t seem to care.

You feel Leon’s tongue prod at your lips again, more persistent this time. The only thing you thought to do was open your mouth wider, and his tongue slid inside. The feeling was foreign, full in your mouth and slippery. But, you didn’t freak out, and let Leon take the lead.

Your hands folded in your lap reached back up to his shoulders, your nails scratching at the nape of his neck. Leon let out a sharp inhale, a quiet moan vibrating against your mouth. His hand on your waist, moving ever so slowly, reached the side of your ribcage. The base of his hand nudged the side of your breast, and it almost retracted like it burned him.

You grab a hold of the back of his hand with your own, and guide it to cup gently around your breast. You both gasped at the same time, Leon’s fingers flexing reluctantly over the mound. His hand trembles as he squeezes harder, and his kisses get uncoordinated, lips bruising yours and tongues twirling around each other.

Your heart is racing. You can feel Leon get more forward, cupping the underside of your chest and grasping hungrier. You try to get yourself to relax into his kisses again, remembering to slow your breathing and focus on the moment. But everything is happening so fast, and trying to pretend like you know what you’re doing is exhausting. It almost seems better to confess to Leon now, maybe he’d understand and might even-

Your thoughts are thrown out the window when Leon pulls himself off you, lips popping away from yours and hands flying off your chest to bury his face. 

“Fuck- I’m sorry,” he muffles in his hands, “I-I just can’t-” He pulls his hands off his face and runs his fingers through his hair. You frown, watching how flustered Leon’s getting. Was it something you did? Did he think you were a terrible kisser?

Your hands go to push yourself off the edge of the bed, “I’m sorry, I’ll just go-”

“No! Don’t- don’t go,” Leon puts a hand on your shoulder, pushing you back down on the bed. His face is tomato red, pupils dilated so much the ocean blue of his irises barely visible anymore. You only frown, your embarrassment turning into confusion. If he doesn’t want to continue with you why won’t he let you leave?

“A-are you okay?” You ask, watching as Leon breathes in through his nose and out his mouth. His eyes are wired shut, head up towards the ceiling. 

“I have to, fuck- I can’t keep doing this if I’m not being honest,” he stutters, head dropping to his lap, still refusing to look at you. Your eyebrows furrow, head tilting to try and look at him.

“Be honest about what?”

Reluctantly, Leon opens his eyes and looks at you. He scratches the back of his neck, and lets out a final shaky breath.

“Look y/n, I’m really sorry, but I…” He begins, averting your gaze again and looking down at the floor, “...I’ve never done any of this before. I mean, I’ve never even gotten to third base yet. If this isn’t what you were hoping for I underst-”

You cut Leon off with a snicker, which turns into a burst of laughter. You laugh, eyes closed shut and head thrown back, stomach almost hurting. You were so relieved. Of all of the frat guys you tried to hook up with, of course you managed to pick out the one who was in the exact same boat as you.

“I’m glad my virginity amuses you,” Leon scoffs, shaking his head. 

“No! No, Leon,” you calm down, controlling your breathing once more and subsiding the laughter. Reassuringly, you place a hand on his thigh, head tilting to catch his gaze.

“I’m laughing because I can’t believe this.”

“Believe what? That I’m a virgin?” 

“No, because I’m also a virgin,” you emphasize, pointing your finger into your chest. Leon’s eyes widen, head whipping to face you fully. His shellshocked expression makes you chuckle again, his eyes darting all over you. 

“Huh? Y-you’re a-”

“-Yeah,” you sigh with relief, propping your hands on the bed, “I didn’t say anything because I just wanted to get it over with. Figured a frat party would be a great place to meet experienced guys.” 

Still bewildered, Leon’s jaw is slacked open, eyebrows so raised they almost touch his hairline. Then, he begins to laugh. His nose scrunches, head thrown back with one hand holding his stomach. His laugh is infectious, and then you’re laughing again.

It’s light, relieving, and instantly calms your nerves. You feel like you can be more authentic, embrace the nervousness and uncertainty of the situation. Now you know you’re not alone in this, and the two of you can get to share this experience together, it makes you all the more excited.

You lean into Leon’s side more, giggles settling in your chest as a comfortable silence envelops the room. He slides an arm behind you, rubbing gentle circles on your back.

“So,” he murmured, cheeks pink again, “does this mean we can stop pretending now?” 

You look to the side of him, eyes trailing across his soft jaw, you can see the relaxation on his face.

“Yeah, I guess so,” your voice is soft and smooth. Leon shifts, facing you directly, and grabs ahold of your hands. They’re slightly shaky, but he brushes his thumbs across your knuckles to ground himself.

“Look, this is all so crazy. A-and I totally get it if you don’t wanna go through with anything anymore, but I wasn’t overplaying when I said you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

You look away from Leon’s face and to where your hands are intertwined, heat rushing up to your face and ears. If anything, you felt more inclined to continue with Leon. Not only did you find him very attractive, but he was incredibly caring, attentive, and was just as clueless when it comes to being intimate.

 “I want to keep going,” you look back up at Leon. He smiles, eyes lighting up with excitement and gives a couple squeezes to your hands.

“Are you sure? I-I can’t promise that it will be very enjoyable for you, but I want to try.”

“I’m sure, Leon. I want to do this with you.” You nod reassuringly, leaning in closer to Leon, placing a soft kiss on his lips. He melts immediately, lips slotting into yours and kissing you passionately, as if he’s trying to savour the feeling. He pulls back, a thin line of saliva connecting your mouths.

“Alright. If I do anything you don’t like, you tell me, okay?” 

“Okay.”

Leon nods before leaning to kiss you again, with more fire in his movements. He lets go of your hands to grip at your waist, pulling you almost flush to his chest. You drape one arm over his shoulder, the other hand pressing flat against his chest. 

You can feel the fast rhythm of his heart, his pectorals tensing under your touch. Leon goes to swipe his tongue over your lips again, softer this time, and you open your mouth to let him inside. A strained groan vibrated against your mouth, the sound giving you goosebumps. Who knew just by a sound alone could get you so riled up?

Leon’s hands, steadier and firmer, roam your waist, fingers slipping past the hem of your shirt to touch your ribs. You moan, the heat of his fingers melting your skin, and Leon pulls his lips away from yours. He takes a quick glance at your shirt before looking back up at you.

“Can I take this off?” Leon whispered, gently pulling at your shirt. You look at him with lustful eyes, lips swollen and parted. You nod quickly, going to reach for the bottom of your shirt. He stops you, placing his hands on top of your own.

“Wait- I need to hear you say yes. N-need to make sure you’re comfortable with everything I ask,” he places a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth, and you pull your hands away from your top.

“Y-yes, Leon. I want you to take my shirt off,” you whisper, smiling as you watch Leon nod affirmingly and go to tug at the hem of your shirt. You raise your arms and he lifts the shirt up and over your head, gently dropping it on the floor. Before he takes the chance to look at you, he pulls his hoodie off and drops it on the floor as well.

It’s a fleeting moment, but you both take the time to admire one another. Leon is slim, but you can see the muscle on his chest and faint ab lines on his stomach. His arms were the largest, biceps round and muscular on his arms.

You peel your eyes away from Leon’s body to his eyes, and he’s still transfixed on you. You were wearing a light pink bralette under your shirt, and that’s all where he was looking. You felt your face heat up, but you didn’t feel self conscious. It was more of an unfamiliar feeling of being admired.

His eyes meet yours once again, and he reaches out to caress your face.

“You are… breathtaking, y/n.” Leon kisses you, short but passionately, and rests his forehead against yours.

Your heart melts in your chest, his praise almost being too much for you. You’ve gone from no male attention whatsoever, to this absolutely lovesick puppy being so careful and attentive to you.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders again, fingertips putting pressure on his bare skin, “Sh-should I lie down?” 

Leon brushes the side of your face with his hand, watching the way his fingers thread through strays of your hair.

“Yeah, you can lie down,” he whispers, pulling away from you to let you adjust yourself. He watches as you scoot yourself up his bed, resting your head on the headboard. Leon stands, and grabs your legs to slip your shoes off. He neatly places them at the end of the bed, and kicks his own off before climbing back onto the bed.

He crawls up beside you, not entirely hovering over your body but propping himself to lean over top next to you. He uses his hand to turn your head to face him, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“I…I’d like to try something, if you’ll let me,” he began, kissing your lips quickly, “if you like or don’t like anything I need you to let me know, alright?” 

His face is just inches away from yours, his warm breath fanning across your lips. You shift into him more, nodding,

“Okay, I promise.” Leon smiles back at you, closing the gap with his lips. Leon focuses, eyes wired shut and eyebrows knitted together, internally cursing to himself not to mess this up. 

The kiss starts slow, the sounds of their lips smacking against each other filling up the room. You lie still on his bed, goosebumps fanning over your half naked body. That familiar sense of butterflies in your stomach begins to form again, but this time it’s not overwhelming anxiety.

Of course you were nervous. How could you not be? A lot of firsts were happening tonight, which was enough to keep your nervous system on overdrive. But you were also excited. You had been dreaming of this situation for so long, and now that it was finally coming true, it felt surreal.

Your head comes back down to earth when you begin to feel Leon’s lips leave your lips, and trail down your jaw. He peppers kisses along it, making his way down to the underside, sucking just a bit harder on the soft skin.

That elicits a breathy moan from you, Leon’s lips suckling on your neck is a brand new feeling that you realize you’re going to crave for the rest of your life. You tilt your head towards the ceiling to give him better access, and he takes that advantage to kiss all the way down the column of your neck.

Leon’s hands begin to roam, where they once were caressing your face to move down south. With a little more confidence than before, but not much, Leon gently grasps at your breast. His hand stays still for a moment, focusing on kissing your collarbone, but then squeezes.

You pant out of your mouth, the love bites at your shoulders and the friction against your breast was intoxicating. Leon massages and kneads your breast outside of your bra, the flesh spilling out of his palm as he tries to grab a handful. 

Leon’s lips trail back up your neck, sloppier as they move quicker to reach your lips once again. As he kisses you, lips hungry, the hand over your bra moves backwards to the clasp.

You feel as Leon attempts to unclasp your bra, fingers fumbling over the hooks the more impatient he gets. You let him struggle for a minute or two until you’re laughing against his lips, pulling away to reveal a large smile.

“Need some help?” You ask, arms already reaching to your back. Leon just sighs, cheeks flushed and a weak smile on his puffy pink lips.

“S-sorry, it’s a lot harder than I thought it was gonna be.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s cute,” you say sweetly, effortlessly unclasping your bra, the straps falling down your shoulders. 

Slowly, you remove it entirely, dropping the bra over the side of the bed. The newfound cool air breezes over your bare breasts, nipples already hardening at the temperature. You avoid Leon’s gaze, your face feeling hot as someone other than yourself is seeing you this vulnerable for the first time.

“Hey,” Leon whispers, tilting your chin to have you meet his eyes, “you alright?” Slowly, you look back up at him, eyelashes fluttering trying to shake away nervous thoughts.

“Yeah, just…” You pause, “...feeling a little nervous.”

Leon’s eyes are round and bright, scanning your features before giving your lips a soft kiss.

“It’s okay to be nervous, y/n. But I got you, okay?” He nods encouragingly, moving his hand from your chin to brush the side of your face. 

You smile, looking deep into Leon’s eyes, a nervous exhale escaping your lips.

“Okay, I trust you,” you whisper back, flickering back to Leon’s lips and encapsulating them. His hand rests on your cheek, thumb brushing against the soft skin as he kisses you back, long and deeply.

You feel your heartbeat regulate, putting your trust in Leon was something out of the ordinary for you. The attention and admiration he was giving you was different for you, nevermind stripping so bare before somebody. 

But Leon made you feel calm, and you barely even noticed the way his hand slid off of your cheek and down your neck, to gently grasp at one of your breasts.

His hand was warm and firm, the rough skin of his palm rubbing over your nipple sends a shiver down your spine. You leaned into his touch, kissing firmer when you felt Leon’s hand squeeze at the flesh, cupping and massaging. 

A small moan melts into your mouth once his thumb and index finger form around your nipple, rolling it between the digits and pinching. Your back arches off the bed at the sensation, your brows furrowing under his touch.

Still playing with your breast, Leon pulls back to watch your reaction. 

“That feel good?” 

“Y-yes,” you moan, eyes still shut and mind hyperfocused on the fingers tugging at your peaks. Leon kisses the hollow of your neck, trailing sloppy kisses downwards to your collarbone, chest, to the valley between your breasts before landing on the hard nipple of your neglected breast.

A high whine escapes your mouth at the sudden sensation, back arching higher into Leon’s face as he kisses hungrily, his tongue swirling and flicking around the nipple. 

Your legs cross below you, feeling the growing warmth in your core as Leon continues to worship over your breasts. He looks up at your face, lips and hand still glued to your skin, watching as your body writhes under his touch.

He can feel himself already rock hard, pulsating under his jeans from just watching you so stimulated by his actions. If he doesn’t get this moving along soon, he’s going to finish before you even get the chance to.

He places a final kiss to your breast before pulling off with a wet pop, the skin glistening with his saliva. His hand on your other breast slides down to your waist, then further to the button of your jean skirt. His fingers toy with the waistband, feeling you out before doing more than you’re comfortable with.

“Can I pull this down?”

You look down at Leon’s hand, brushing just under your bellybutton at your skirt. 

“Yeah, please,” you say as you’re already lifting up your hips, watching as Leon unbuttons the skirt and you help pull it down to your knees. You kick it off completely, all that’s left on you is a white thong, already a small wet patch forming over your core.

Leon smiles at you, hand resting on your hip. 

“I-I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I wanna make you feel good,” he begins, “so you tell me what feels good and what doesn’t, okay?” His face is so serious, you can tell he is so afraid of messing this up.

And whether it’s because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself, or that he genuinely wants to be able to make you feel good, you can’t tell. But you just nod, matching his smile and swiping a stray hair that had fallen over his eye.

“Okay, I can do that.”

He kisses you softly, forehead resting on yours as his hand slides off your hip, and down and below your underwear. His hand rests on your core, unsure of what to do before slowly, his fingers swipe between your folds. 

Your breath hitches, the feeling foreign as he drags his hand up and down your folds, the slick coating his fingers and reducing the friction. He doesn’t necessarily rub in a specific spot (or the specific spot), just ghosting over your entrance or spending a little too much time on your labia.

You can’t blame him for trying, he told you he didn’t know what he was doing, but a chuckle couldn’t help but escape your lips as he practically touched every part of you except your clit. It was endearing, feeling him try so hard to please you, but you knew if you wanted this night to be somewhat enjoyable you had to step in.

Leon slowed his hand as he heard you chuckle, looking at you confused, “What? A-am I doing something wrong?”

“No no, it's just…” You place your hand on top of his, guiding his first and middle finger to hover over top of your clit, “...try right here. Slow circles.” 

“O-okay,” he stutters, your hand leaving his to rest on his bare chest. Leon puts pressure over the spot with his fingertips, and just like you told him, rubbed slow clockwise circles.

That did the trick, the nerves shocking your body, hips bucking in reaction. Leon notices the action, and quickens his pace.

“Is that better?”

“Yes, a lot better,” you exhale, lashes fluttering as you watch his hand work under your panties. Leon watches your face intently, almost more focused on your reactions than the movement of his fingers.

His brows knit together in concentration, tongue darting out to lick his lips as he keeps those slow circles over your clit. Your thighs twitch around his hand almost instantly.

“Oh,” you breathe, fingers digging into the skin of his chest. Leon’s eyes widen slightly at your reaction, shoulders relaxing just a little. 

“Th-that’s good?” He asks softly, almost hopeful.

“Mhm,” you nod quickly, lips parting when he presses a little firmer, “don’t stop.” 

The words seem to shoot straight through him as he keeps going, a shaky breath exhaling through his nose. You can feel the confidence in him now that he can see he’s doing something right. His fingers maintain the slow rhythm you guided him into, careful but eager, like he’s memorizing every reaction your body gives gim.

Your hips begin to move against his hand without thinking, chasing the friction. Every soft gasp and breathy sound that leaves your lips only seems to encourage him further. 

“You’re doing so good,” you whisper, almost delirious from the sensation. Leon’s face flushes immediately at the praise.

“I am?” He asks quietly, almost sounding surprised. You let out a small laugh between breaths, reaching from his chest to his wrist and holding on tight. 

“Yes, Leon- fuck- just like that,” you curse under your breath, and it nearly ruins him. 

You can physically see the effect it has on him; his jaw clenches, blue eyes darkening as he watches you writhe beside him. But instead of rushing, he forces himself to stay steady, fingers moving in those same tight circles while his other hand slides to cup around your breast again.

Your breathing grows uneven, thighs trembling faintly around his hand. Your core clenches around nothing, your panties dampening the more aroused you became. Something warm begins tightening low in your stomach, unfamiliar but overwhelming in the best way.

“Leon…” You whimper, brows pinching together. His movements immediately slow with concern.

“Did I do something wrong?” 

“No,” you breathe quickly, shaking your head, “no, keep going. I just-” Your words dissolve into a gasp when he presses into your clit again, returning to the quick pace. Leon swallows hard, eyes flickering nervously between your face, your breast where his hand massages, and his other hand beneath your panties.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispers. The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. As amazing as it feels against your clit, it feels like something is missing. 

“I-I need you to put a finger in,” you murmur, “but don’t stop, please.” 

Leon nods instantly, transitioning to his thumb to rub faster circles on your clit. His fingers swipe between your folds once again, collecting the slick between them, and slowly pushes his middle finger inside you.

You immediately clench around the digit, the stretch foreign and unforgiving, but it seems to fill the missing void as the knot in your stomach tightens. He pumps his finger quickly to match the pace of his thumb, and the wet friction and repeated pressure makes your back arch off of the mattress.

“Oh my god-” Your hand tightens on his wrist, nails digging into the skin.

“There?” Leon asks breathlessly, almost panicked, “Right there?” 

“Yes-yes, right there.” The praise and reassurance seems to completely undo him. His forehead nearly drops to your shoulder as he keeps touching you, increasingly fascinated by every tiny reaction he pulls from you.

Your legs shake harder now, breathing stuttering as the knot inside you winds tighter and tighter. His thumb is rapidly circling your clit, pressure so deep it almost burns, and your walls constrict around his finger as it pumps faster inside. Then suddenly, the knot snaps.

Your body jerks softly beside Leon, a broken moan leaving your lips as your fingers clutch at his wrist harder, the other hand grasping at the bedsheets. Leon practically freezes for half a second in shock before continuing to motion through it, helping you ride out the waves of pleasure as your thighs tremble around his hand.

Only once your breathing starts to calm does Leon start to slow down. The room falls quiet, except for both of your uneven breaths. He stares at you with wide eyes, somewhere between stunned and relieved.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. A weak laugh escapes your chest as you cover your burning face with your hands. Leon immediately pulls your hands away gently, almost worried. 

“Was that okay?” He asked quickly, “Did I-”

“That was more than okay,” you laugh breathlessly. The tension leaves his shoulders all at once. And then, to your surprise, a shy grin spreads across his face; proud, disbelieving, and a little overwhelmed all at once. His hand pulls out from your core, sliding to your waist to give a reassuring squeeze.

“That was really fucking hot,” Leon mutters as he goes back in to kiss you, tongue jetting out and sloppily swiping over your lips and teeth. You giggle into the kiss, letting his tongue enter your mouth and explore. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, your fingers trailing up the nape of his neck. He groans, leaning against you and crushing you deeper into the pillows on his bed.

Leon pulls away, staring adoringly at your face surrounded by the pillows. His hand pulses around your waist, the other brushing the hair that fell over your forehead.

“I was so scared I was gonna be bad at this,” he mutters, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You feel him kissing the skin there, and you thread your fingers through his hair, nails scratching at the scalp.

“You did so good,” you spoke into his ear, “took a second but we got there.” 

He lifts his head to look at you, and pulls himself up from the bed to hover on top of you. Your head is caged between his hands on the bed, your legs spread wide for his body to slot in between them. 

You can feel his hips pressing into yours, more specifically the rock hard print under his jeans. Leon groans when you lift your hips to rub against it, his head dips and shakes above you.

“Fuck y/n,” Leon’s hips grind against yours, chasing the friction, “you’ve got me so hard.” 

You look down at his hips, the outline prominent on his jeans. You swallow hard, those butterflies erupting in your stomach once again.

This was the part you were the most nervous about. According to ‘losing your virginity’, this would be it. And because it being your first time, you knew that it wouldn’t be as pleasant for you. But you trusted Leon, and he had already stimulated you to prepare, so the best thing you could do was to try and relax.

“Do-do you want to…” You trail off, almost embarrassed to say it. Leon seemed to understand what you were alluding to, and his face instantly flushed.

“Only if you want to. I know it’ll mostly be for me,” he leans his head down to gently peck your lips, “but we can stop if it’s too painful or-”

You interrupt him with a kiss, your hands caressing the sides of his face. 

“Leon, I want to. I really do,” you assured him, lifting your hands to brush the hair out of his face. He melts into your touch, head nudging against your hand. It warms your heart how considerate Leon is; you can clearly see he’s aching to go further, but would never do anything more than what you were comfortable with. And that’s what turned you on the most.

 Leon rose from the bed, standing next to you as he began to unbuckle his jeans. You watched as he clumsily fiddled with his belt, unzipped his pants and let them drop to his ankles.

You almost gasped when you noticed the large bulge through his boxers, practically straining itself to be free. How is that supposed to fit inside of you?

Leon must’ve read your mind, or the blatant concerned look on your face, and he scrambled to his nightside drawer.

“Uh, I think I have…” He opened the drawer, rummaging through it before pulling out a brand new bottle of lube, and an unopened box of condoms. “You never know I guess,” Leon mumbled, opening the box to pull out the gold foil packet. Leon toyed with the waistband of his boxers, before reluctantly sliding them off and letting them pool on the floor.

Instinctively, you looked away, focusing on the posters on his bedroom wall again, but you remembered where that thing was about to be, so you might as well get a good look. 

You weren’t sure if it was because this was the first penis you’ve ever seen in person, but Leon’s cock was big. Not only long, but a decent thickness to it as well. It looked painfully erect, the head red and throbbing, already oozing milky precum out the slit.

His cock sprung out of his boxers, slapping his stomach before bobbing out in front of him. His focus was on the condom in his hands, ripping the foil and tossing it on the nightstand before clumsily unrolling it onto his cock. 

When Leon finally looked up at you, catching your slacked jaw and bright red cheeks, he awkwardly chuckled.

“What, don’t like what you see?”

You stuttered, hands tucking your hair behind your ears while trying to come up with the most appropriate thing to say, “N-no it’s just… I think you’re gonna tear me in half with that.” 

Leon laughed, climbing onto the bed again, hovering on top of you. You could feel his latex covered cock press against your panties, your teeth biting your bottom lip in reaction.

“We’ll take it slow, and that’s what this is for,” Leon grabbed the bottle of lube, opening the lid and squirting maybe a little too much along the length of himself. He groaned when he grabbed ahold of his cock, coating it fully with the lube. After putting the bottle down, he directed his gaze to your hips, where your core was still clothed.

“Can I take your underwear off, y/n?” Leon whispered, his head leaning down close to your face. You begin to nod, and as Leon’s about to correct you you blurt,

“Yes! Yes, you can take them off.”

He breathed a laugh as he reached down to your panties, hooking his fingers around the waistband as he slid them down your hips, taking them off completely and dropping them to the floor.

The air was cold on your core, your panties peeling off slowly from being sticky with your slick. You watched as Leon eyed you, eyes darting all over between your legs. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, spreading your thighs apart with his knee, “this is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You snicker, resting your hands on Leon’s shoulders, lifting your head to look down at both of your hips. Leon catches the way your eyes flick nervously between his face and where your bodies press together, and immediately his expression softens.

“Hey,” he murmurs, thumb brushing along your hip, “we don’t have to rush this.” 

You swallow hard, trying to steady your breathing as he hovers over you. The earlier confidence you’d built up starts to crumble under the reality of what’s about to happen.

“I know,” you whisper, “I’m just nervous.” 

Leon nods like he understands completely.

“Me too.” 

That makes you laugh softly, and the tension in the room eases almost instantly. Leon leans down to kiss you again, slower this time, more reassuring than heated. His hand slides up your waist, giving gentle squeezes. 

“You tell me if you want to stop, okay?” He says quietly against your lips.

“I will.”

He presses one last kiss to your mouth before pulling back just enough to look at you, icy blue eyes searching your face carefully, analyzing every reaction. 

Leon goes to grab ahold of his cock at the base, and gently presses the head up against your folds. A small gasp leaves your mouth as you feel him swiping the head up and down your entrance, mixing the lube with your slick to try and make this as painless as possible. 

He stalls for a second, eyes looking back at yours, “You still okay?”

You nod, “Yeah.”

“It might feel better if you… touch yourself when I go to put it in,” Leon suggests, looking down at your hips to align himself in front of you. You take your dominant hand off of Leon’s shoulder and slide it down to your clit, using your first and middle finger to draw slow circles overtop of it. 

You feel yourself relax a little more, face less tense as you feel Leon’s tip just kissing your entrance. 

But that relaxation immediately disappears the moment Leon moves his hips, the tip forcing its way into you.

The stretch is unforgivable, it feels white hot the deeper he tries to push himself inside. You hiss, eyes wiring shut and nails dig into the skin on Leon’s shoulder. He instantly stalls, pushing no further the second he sees the uncomfortable look on your face.

“Too- ahh- too much?” He almost whines in between words, the constriction from your walls around his cock is almost enough to get him to cum instantly.

“Just- don’t move for a second,” you spit out, concentrating on breathing as you feel your walls adjusting. Leon does as he’s told, not moving an inch as he watches you contort your face. He rubs soothing circles on your waist with his thumb, his lips pressing soft kisses along your jaw. 

You can feel your walls stretching around him, the burn subsiding as you continue to stimulate your clit. Your face relaxes, head that you didn’t realize you had raised, lowered back down on the pillow. 

Leon felt your fingers declaw from his shoulder and it triggered him to pull off of your jaw.

“Better?” He asks, eyes scanning yours for any sort of discomfort. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth as you nod, inhaling deep through your nose.

“Yeah, you can keep going.” 

Leon whispers a small “Okay”, and grabs ahold of his cock again before letting himself push deeper.

You remind yourself not to hold your breath as Leon inches further in your core, letting out a large exhale mixed with a whine.

You knew this was going to hurt, but not like this. You feel impossibly full, the girth of Leon’s cock felt like a foreign object trying to squeeze itself somewhere it shouldn’t. Just when you thought it was going on forever, you felt his hips flush against yours as he fully bottomed out. 

“O-oh my- fuck,” he groaned loudly, stilling to not only let you adjust to his full length but to control himself.

Leon knew he wouldn’t last long, but the way his cock was being vacuum sealed around your cunt, only a couple of thrusts would be enough to make him cum. 

His grip on your waist grew tighter, stabilizing himself as he dragged his cock back out, pulling out to almost the tip before slowly sliding back in.

Leon was a moaning mess on top of you. Little moans as he thrusted so slowly, feeling every ridge along your walls the deeper he went. When he would bottom out, a breathy whine sheepishly escaped his lips, absolutely reveling in the pleasure. 

You thanked him for encouraging you to play with your clit, the little nerve bundle relieving the pain the more he picked up the pace.

You locked eyes with Leon, his brows knit tightly on his face, jaw slacked and panting.

“Are you- my god- doing alright?” He asked between thrusts, his hips becoming uncoordinated and faster in movement. You weakly moan in response, lifting your head to gently kiss him.

“I’m good, feels better,” you smile into the kiss, feeling Leon’s hips rut faster into yours.

It did get better, not by much, but your walls adjusted around him and you didn’t feel as stuffed. You continued to rub your clit, circles moving faster to intensify the pleasure. You watched Leon’s face as it became more contorted, nose scrunching and eyes wiring shut the deeper he plunged his cock.

“y/n I’m not- not gonna,” he moaned, thrusts becoming shallow and quicker, “oh fuck!”

He stalls his hips pressed against yours, his shoulders tense up as if the wind was knocked out of him. You feel his cock twitch inside of you, a string of moans leaving Leon’s lips give you enough clues to figure out that he came. 

His face is a blushing mess as he realizes how quickly he came, eyes prying open to look down at where your hips connected. They flash back up to you, flickering with embarrassment.

“Oh my god y/n,” he dipped his head to hide his face in your shoulder, “I’m so sorry.” 

You laugh, both hands reaching up to scratch the back of his head. You place a grounding kiss to his temple, keeping your lips pressed against him as you mutter,

“What are you sorry about?”

You feel Leon sigh against the crook of your neck, slowly pulling his head up to look at you. His face is still bright red, eyes wide and pleading.

“You… didn’t get to finish,” he mumbled, his hands pressing firmer into your waist. He feels so tense, beating himself up for something you knew he couldn’t control. You just smiled reassuringly, sliding your hands around to cup the sides of his face.

“Leon, it’s okay. You already made me finish,” you peck his lips, thumbs swiping along his cheeks, “you did so good.” 

The praise cracks a small smile out of Leon, his shoulders finally relaxing, head dipping lower.

“Are you sure? It-it didn’t hurt too bad?”

You shake your head, “Just at the beginning, but then it felt good.” 

Leon sighed with relief, his hands loosening the grip and sliding further up your body. His thumb brushes across your nipple, causing a shiver up your spine. 

“Well,” Leon kisses your lips, soft but passionate, “I still wanna make it up to you.” 

Your brow arches, pulling back just enough to look at him.

“Make up for what?”

Leon’s lips drag along your jaw, sucking that newly found sweet spot just below your ear. His lips are already to your collarbone before he mumbles out, “Gonna make you cum again.” 

You go to speak but are replaced by a low whine as Leon pushes himself off of you, his slowly softening cock pulling out of your core. You suddenly feel so empty, walls clenching around nothing. Leon sits up and removes the condom, tossing it into a small trashcan by his bed. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows as he lies back down next to you, hand massaging down your hip.

“I would like to taste you, y/n,” Leon whispers, eyes searching yours for a reaction. You give him that familiar confused expression, not clueing in to what he’s asking. 

“What do you mean?” Your head tilts, and Leon only travels his hand across your hip, fingers ghosting over your mound. Your eyes widen as it finally clicks for you.

“Only if you’re comfortable with that, but I’ve always wondered what it’s like.” He blushes, keeping his hand resting overtop of your cunt and leaning his face in to nudge your nose.

You swallow nervously, feeling your own face get warm. Of course, you’ve also wondered what having someone eat you out would feel like. And now would be no better time to have you find out, with a willing participant. 

You had already been so intimate with Leon, but something about him getting so close and personal between your legs felt even more intimate. But you’ve come to trust Leon, his eyes are genuine and all he wants to do is please you. 

He’s watching your face as you contemplate, and you slowly nod.

“Yeah, okay. You can do that.”

Leon’s eyes light up, a toothy grin spreading across his face. 

“I’ll do the best I can, I promise,” he finishes his sentence with a kiss, shifting his body to hover over top of you. His lips trail down to your jaw again, and make their way down south. Wet, sloppy kisses down your neck, chest, on each breast, stomach, and just on the top of your pelvic bone. 

Leon wedges himself between your legs, hooking your thighs up and over his shoulders as he becomes face to face with your core. You look up at the ceiling, face still flushed and nervous.

You felt kisses along your inner thigh, moving to kiss the other one before his lips got too close. Your breath hitched when you felt the warm air fan across your folds, eyes shutting in anticipation.

“Hey, look at me,” Leon whispers just inches away from your core. Reluctantly, you tilt your head down and open your eyes to meet Leon’s. “You’re okay. I got you.”

The words are so simple, but the way he looked into your eyes and spoke so earnestly, your heart wants to shatter into a million pieces. You nod and smile, reaching your hand down to thread your fingers through his hair. You must think this boy has a magic power of calming your nerves, because you didn’t look away as Leon dipped his head, jetting out his tongue to lick a fat stripe up the middle of your core.

Your hips jerk in reaction, mouth wide open and shallow breaths leaving your chest. Leon’s arms wrap under your thighs to push your hips down into the bed, stabilizing them. 

He licks another long stripe, tongue parting your folds before stopping right on your clit, and placing a gentle kiss on top of it. 

That elicits a moan from you, the fingers in Leon’s hair gripping tighter as he continues to kiss your clit, taking the bundle of nerves between his lips and sucking softly.

“Leon, fuck- yes,”

Your hips try to buck into Leon’s face, chasing that friction, but his hands won’t let you budge. He just groans against your clit, the vibrations making you whine loudly. 

Leon watches your face as he continues to suck on your clit, seeing that this was eliciting the best reaction from you, and only goes to suck harder. He stiffens his tongue to flick against the bud, causing your head to throw back in pleasure.

You feel that familiar knot forming in your stomach, your thighs closing around Leon’s head the tighter the knot becomes. Your hand gripped his hair tighter, pulling it closer to your core as you tried to grind your hips on his face.

You felt delirious. Nothing had felt this overwhelming until right now, but in the best possible way. The way the suction around your clit made it throb, Leon’s hard tongue replicating his fingers from before and swirling in circles, it was almost too much.

“Oh my god,” you moan, your stomach very suddenly approaching your second orgasm of the night, “I-I’m gonna!”

Leon hums against your clit, lips clamping down on it and shoving his nose deeper into your mound as the knot in your stomach snaps.

Your legs involuntarily crush Leon’s head, face contorting as the orgasm floods through you harder than before. Your chest burns as you hold your breath, muscles tensing all over your body as the waves keep crashing down. Leon rides out your high by kissing your clit, gentler than before, not even phased by you practically suffocating him against your core.

Leon only stops once you finally come down, entire body relaxing into the bed. Your thighs fall to their sides, hanging loosely on his shoulders, hand untangling in his hair and flopping beside you. You watch as Leon finally releases your clit from his mouth, prying his head from your hips to look up at you.

The biggest smile you’ve ever seen was plastered on his face, mouth soaked with your juices and lips pink and swollen.

“Holy fuck y/n,” Leon pants, sliding your legs off his shoulders, “I think that’s the best thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.” 

You laugh, hands reaching up to brush back your hair, “Imagine how I feel right now,” you lift your head to watch as Leon crawls his way back up to you.

“I did good then?”

“You’re a fucking natural in my books, Leon,” you grab ahold of Leon’s face to pull it up to yours, kissing him fervently. You taste yourself on his lips and tongue, but you couldn’t care less. All that mattered to you now was how this night couldn’t have gone better than you ever dreamed of. 

Leon pulled himself to the head of the bed, settling in next to you with his back leaned against the headboard. You shifted closer to him, head resting on his shoulder and a hand absentmindedly tracing patterns on his chest.

All that could be heard in the room was the deep breaths leaving both your mouths. 

The silence felt only the slightest bit awkward, finally coming to realize what you had just done. You’re lying bare naked in a stranger’s bed, next to that naked stranger, and have just completed number eight on your bucket list. 

You bashfully avoid Leon’s gaze, your eyes looking down at your hip where he’s got a hand massaging the skin. You can feel his eyes burning the side of your face, like he’s mustering up the courage to speak.

“I uh, didn’t hurt you, did I?” He whispers into your ear, lips tickling just the shell of it. You turn your head to face him, his face a lot closer than you thought it was, and shake your head.

“No, not the entire time,” Leon’s eyes widened, afraid that he had done something wrong for you to have been in pain, “it’s not uncommon for a girl’s first time to be uncomfortable, having such a big thing be put up there.”

You chuckle, and so does Leon, easing the worry away, “Alright, it’s not that big.”

“Just take the compliment, Leon.” 

You both laugh, Leon’s head leaning down to rest on top of yours while you nudge closer into his shoulder. He snakes an arm behind you, pulling you even closer, your warm bodies melting into each other.

You can still hear the bass of the music from downstairs, the party still going like nothing had even happened. To you, it felt like time had stopped. 

Leon must’ve been thinking the same thing, muttering into your hair after placing a kiss on the top of your head, “So, does this still count as ‘getting it over with’?” 

It takes you a second to reply, because technically, had it been anyone else, you would’ve considered it ‘getting it over with’.

But now you’re here, in the arms of this caring, gentle, selfless boy, who had made sure you were taken care of and reassured. And he was looking at you like you were sent down to him from heaven, a glow encapsulating your body. 

Maybe waiting this long to lose your virginity wasn’t so bad after all. 

“No, I don’t think it does.” 

Leon pulses his hand on your hip, nose inhaling the scent of your shampoo in your hair.

“You know, y/n,” Leon whispers, lifting his head to get a better look at your face, “I’m glad it was you.” 

You lift your head off his shoulder to find his gaze, the brightest smile on your face Leon has seen so far. 

“I’m really glad it was you, too.” 

You reach up to kiss him, not too rough but just enough to show him how much this meant to you.

“Would you wanna,” Leon speaks against your lips, reluctantly pulling away, “maybe, go out for dinner sometime?” 

“Well that’s a little backwards, sex first and then the date?” You tease, patting his chest with your hand. Leon rolls his eyes, but couldn’t help the big grin growing on his face.

“I think this whole night has been a little unusual, don’t you think?” 

Your face goes a little more serious, eyes holding Leon’s gaze, sheepish smile forming.

“Actually, I think tonight was perfect.” 

Leon’s eyes brighten, and the hand that was on your hip comes to cup the side on your face.

“Me too.” 

He kisses you once again, just a gentle peck, confirming that he was feeling the same way as you.

“I was thinking that I could take you-”

*RING RING RING* 

Your head whips as you hear the familiar ring of your phone, coming from the floor of Leon’s room. You sit up from the bed, bending over to the floor to search your jean skirt pockets to find your buzzing flip phone.

The little preview screen showed Claire’s contact, and you cursed to yourself.

“Oh shit,” You muttered before answering the phone, holding it up to your ear.

“Hey Claire-”

“-y/n! Where the hell are you? I’ve been looking all over this house for over an hour!”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. Leon sits up beside you, watching your face as he can quietly hear the yelling through the phone.

“I uh, I’m upstairs.”

“What? I’ve checked up there like three times,” there’s a pause for a second, and you can almost hear the gears in Claire’s brain working as she figures it out, “wait, are you-”

“-Not another word, Claire. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “No way! Who is it?”You sheepishly turn your body away from Leon’s, as if that would do anything for him to not hear as you whisper, “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

You utter a small goodbye, and hang up the phone. Your hands rest on the edge of the bed, and let out another big sigh. “I guess that’s my cue to go, Claire’s looking for me.”

You stand up to look for your clothes, skewed all over Leon’s floor, and he helps you pick up each item. As he goes to hand you your skirt and top, he stops.

“Wait- I’m serious about dinner, y/n. I really want to see you again.”

You grab the clothes in his hands, your fingers lingering on his. “I really want to see you again too.” 

You throw your clothes on, adjusting them to make you look somewhat presentable, and notice a notebook and pen lying on Leon’s desk. You open the notebook to write your phone number.

“Call me, and we can figure out a date.”

Leon smiles wide, finger tracing over the numbers on the paper. He goes to give you a hug, his strong arms wrapping around your waist tight. You reciprocate and wrap your arms around his neck, inhaling the smell of his cologne.

“I wish you could stay,” he whispered against your hair. You smile, and turn your head to kiss Leon’s cheek.

“Me too, but I’ll see you soon, yeah?” 

Leon nods, pulling away just enough to place a final kiss on your lips as his answer. As his lips slot perfectly into yours, you can’t help but wonder how you ended up getting so lucky tonight.

After taking a quick peek out the door, you slip out quietly, and head to the stairs. The party is still as busy as before, unaware of one of the most important things in your life happening in the other room.

The second you reach the bottom of the stairs, Claire is waiting for you, arms crossed over his chest, foot tapping inpaitently.

"You've got a lot of explaining to do, y/n."

She looks you up and down, seeing your clothes wrinkled, hair a mess, and face flushed red. You just laugh, and walk with her towards the front door.

"Oh trust me, I have SO MUCH to tell you."

[layliloo]

CODE VERONICA REMAKE ANNOUNCED FINALLY CAPCOM I COULD JUST KISS U OH MY LORD

CLAIRE REDFIELD WATCH OUT IM COMING

[suprsnupi]

back and forth from gotham ₊˚⊹

he isn't in love, so don't get mixed up in the rumors. unless you're roy harper, in which you may observe the red hood get a little dazed by the sight of his not-girlfriend. you are beauty, you are grace, and jason todd is pink in the face.

⟢ jason todd x fem nurse reader, roy being nosy, clubbing at the iceberg lounge, hopeless silly crushing from jay, 3k wc

IT STARTS WITH A FULL CABINET. And not just any cabinet—a medicine cabinet, stocked to the brim with unused gauze, rolls of loose weave neatly packed into a shelf. The chipped interior provides a stark background for a number of other suspicious things, too. 

Still-sealed suture packets. Two bottles of ibuprofen, both full. And get this: a long accordion-string of antibiotic ointment that hits the floor when Roy unfurls it. None of the serrated edges are ripped. 

Hell, it looks brand new. 

Call him paranoid for assuming, but a full medicine cabinet in Jason Todd's apartment is infinitely suspicious. It might be arguable that he's just recently stocked up...if it weren't for the thin layer of dust that's settled over everything. 

It also could mean that the rumors are true.

Of course, when Roy brings it up, rolls of gauze clutched into the crook of his elbow, Jason just works his jaw with one hand in his hair, the other scribbling in red Sharpie. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jason drawls, face steeled to perfection. He doesn't even look up, too busy brooding down at the spread of documents and maps pinned down by several empty cans of Coke; a few drops of sweet, dark soda stain the papers. 

“You know, I heard from a little Robin,” Roy sings, sauntering over and dumping the gauze onto the small table—one roll bounces onto the floor and off Jason’s slippers, “that you have a girl.” 

Gotcha. Wind had reached Roy from Donna, who had heard from Wally, who had heard from Dick, who had so on and so forthed until the rumor could be traced back to a certain grumpy, spiky-haired sidekick who claims to have seen the second Robin dreamily admiring a nurse as she patched him up on the floor of her apartment.

That makes Jason look up. A shadow crosses his face, one that makes an odd kind of shiver tickle at Roy’s nape. It’s the same kind of look that comes when things go sideways or shit blows up when it isn’t supposed or when Batman does something that really sets him off. 

(But like father, like son. The way Jason is practically glaring at that loose-leaf pile of shit looks just like those old photos of B sent to a long-destroyed phone. Courtesy of Dick, who always has a field day spamming the Titans’ defunct, triple-encrypted groupchat when he happens to be back in Gotham.) 

And then Jason looks to the pile of little, unused rolls spilled across the table. Like—really looks at them, as if it’s the first he’s ever heard of gauze. Then he tilts his head and stares at Roy, mouth pressed into a razor-thin line. 

“Really?” Jason says, brows lifting like he’s totally disinterested. Then he points a finger at himself, really humored. “You think I have a girlfriend? ‘Cause what, I'm well stocked, or Damian said so?” 

Roy narrows his eyes, hands immediately coming up in defense. “I never said it was Damian.” 

“Just giving an example.” 

Jason shrugs—too casual to be innocent—but Roy’s already caught on long before that. The little flicker of ‘oh, shit’ across his face, the slightest thread of apprehension shooting through his deeply furrowed brow. 

Perks of being a deadeye: you catch all the shit everyone else misses. 

So. That little gremlin was telling the truth about seeing his adopted brother—or however the hell their relationship works—sneaking into a girl’s apartment and being all lovey-dovey with her even though he’s literally a menace to the city. 

And a menace to Roy, because Jason’s ticking jaw is starting to look like he’s on the edge of flipping the damn table. 

"Alright." Roy concedes despite the nagging itch in his head. Jason Todd is lying. "If you say so." 

"That's what I thought." 

— 

Contrary to Jason's (likely) belief, things don't end at the medicine cabinet. In fact, that had just been the start. 

The next revelation comes when they’re supposed to be infiltrating the Iceberg Lounge for a business exchange between a mysterious broker and the Penguin—back from a brief stint in jail, again, much to Jason and everyone else’s chagrin. 

This is a no-mask occasion, just to play the harmless civilian and not get a beatdown from the bouncers. 

It’s loud inside the lounge, a heavy bass beat thrumming at such a strength that Roy is wary to even brush up against the walls. The soles of his boots stick to the floor, gummy in the way only nightclubs can be; the air is soaked with the scent of sweat and booze. He’s already flicked his shades on and pushed them all the way up to his eyelashes, but the strobe lights flashing through the nightclub still need squinting to get through. 

Thus, he almost misses Jason’s hand tapping on his shoulder, too busy shrugging off the hot press of clubbers swarming the floor. 

Roy turns, raising his eyebrows at his partner. He gets the feeling that this is a little strange, being on a mission bare faced with a stupid Gotham U shirt and a half-broken comm chip in the ear. Jesus, he looks and feels like a frat guy despite being a decade too old.  

Jason doesn’t seem to mind though, dressed in a thin, maroon hoodie that does nothing to hide his shoulders, and grey jeans. Casual, in a nonchalant way. The I’m a frat who just threw on whatever and I’m ready to get sloshed way. 

His hand is still incessantly tapping on Roy’s shoulder, not really aware that they’re already facing each other, Roy expectant and ready to listen. 

“Hell-o?” 

“Oh.” Jason blinks, seemingly snapped out of it. There’s a sort of far-off look in his eyes, mouth barely parted, like he’s just seen a ghost and he’s trying to hide it. His gaze darts around, but it’s inevitably drawn to the blue-neon shelves on a back wall. 

Slow to say, tongue wetting his bottom lip, “I’ll take the bar.” 

Roy huffs, crossing his arms. “Alright. I’ll take the floor.” 

They both nod to themselves, though Jason looks very satisfied that he’s gotten what he wanted. Usually, they flip a coin or play rock-paper-scissors or use whatever is on hand at the time to decide scouting positions. 

Like that one time, with the water bottle. They had spent so long trying to get it to land upright that they almost missed their cue. 

But that’s a story for another night, because Jason is peeling away and making quick strides to the bar. He slides into an empty stool to the left of a woman, leaning his elbow on the counter with a small smile. 

Roy posts up against a wall on the opposite side of the bar, eyes roving. There’s a suspicious-looking guy in the far corner—a black suit type, slicked back hair and shiny laced loafers swimming with a leather-warped reflection of the strobe lights. The man is nursing a glass of whiskey, dark amber liquid turned to pitch when the music switches up. 

He scoots closer for a better look at their potential broker, and then he catches a glance of Jason at the bar, still talking to... 

Oh, shit. 

The screenshot passed around hero communications like a virus resurfaces in Roy’s mind. Sure, she’s wearing a cute outfit and some makeup instead of soft sleep clothes, but it’s unmistakable. 

Jason Todd is talking up his not-girlfriend in the Iceberg Lounge during a mission. 

People’s eyes bugging out of their sockets used to be an impossible concept, and yet. Here he is, helpless on the other side of the club as all the little pieces click together and catch up to him. 

The hardly used medical supplies. The ‘oh, shit’ look. The fact that Jason lied to Roy’s face.  

You smile in that teasing, kind of girly way you did in Damian’s leaked screenshot, much to Jason’s apparent enjoyment. He leans the side of his head on his left fist, that elbow in turn balanced on the bar top. 

Transfixed, Jason watches your hands move as you explain the mentality behind the designated driver role, how your day went, and say something that sounds like: it was super chaotic, but I can’t really say more ‘cause of HIPPA, so… 

Wait. 

Roy can hear you. 

He has to laugh softly to himself when he realizes. Fuck, Jason is so whipped that he isn’t aware of the fact that propping his head up has activated their comm chip. 

Not so much of a tough guy now, it seems. 

Keeping an eye on the could-be broker, Roy presses his earpiece in a little deeper and plugs his other ear to block out most of the club’s thrumming noise. 

“Anyway,” you say, and even though Roy can’t see it, he knows you’re grinning wide. “What do you do, stranger?” 

Roy’s eyes flick to the ceiling, but only for a fractured second ‘cause the lights are starting to give him a headache. Of course you don’t know his civilian identity. 

“Uh—” and there’s that telltale sound of Jason wetting his lips “—you could call me Jay. I’m…a fixer.” 

Funny. Fixer is quite a versatile word, it seems. 

You laugh in a tone Roy has only heard when a girl looks down and brushes her hair away. “Is it weird that I kind of guessed? I dunno, you just look like a guy who’s good with his hands.” And then a little faster, earnest, “I’m so sorry, Jay, that came out—” 

“No, no,” Jason is quick to interject, “I appreciate it.” 

“Is it weird that I think you’re a great guy after talking for five minutes?” you ask after a moment. For the briefest second, Roy manages a peek over to the bar—you’re mirroring Jason’s pose, except the hand you aren’t resting your chin on is tracing the rim of a crystal water glass. You smile, close-mouthed, and he gets it. Gets why Jason is so drawn to you (even if Roy doesn’t feel the beckon himself). 

It’s a kind look about you. An open flame, ready to warm. You look at people without expectation, and knowing Jason, that’s big. He doesn’t have to be the Big Bad or the sweet, martyred Robin for you. 

You know the cabinetry of Jason’s body so well already, and most of all, you know him at his most vulnerable. Blue-green doe eyes, sweat-matted hair, hydrangea-bloom bruises—the whole works. 

You stand for everything Jason protects in the world: the raw, unfiltered good. 

Roy snaps back to what he’s supposed to be watching right as Jason ekes out a rough chuckle. 

“Sounds like you have some assholes in your life. Need a hand?” Jason says it in the stilted, fish-out-of-water way he always does when he’s trying to flirt without fulfilling the half-dead requirement first. 

At arm’s length, quivering for the chance to come closer. Like two poles on a magnet, rejection and attraction. 

(Mhmm, an asshole, Roy thinks, I wonder who. He feels like putting his head in his hands and screaming.) 

Giggling like you’re kind of drunk and aren’t the designated driver, “It’s just one. Well, kind of—he’s…a guy who shows up sometimes.” A pause, as if you’re thoughtfully tonguing the next words into your cheek. “He’s a fixer too, in a different way, but I think he’s really sweet under all that meanness.” 

Jason hums, considerate and falsely sympathetic. “I’m sure he’ll come around someday.” 

(This fucking dickwad just loves to play in everyone’s faces.) 

“Sorry,” you breathe for the second time tonight, “you just have this really reassuring feeling, but I don’t wanna put my troubles on you.” 

“Well, I did technically start this,” Jason says, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he has the gall to sound sheepish. Roy almost can’t believe his ears. 

“Right, right,” you agree, that smiley sound in your voice again. Then you pitch it down, mimicking, “Rough day? Looks like you’ve seen some shit.” 

“That’s—I don’t sound like that.” 

(Agree to disagree. You’re pretty good with Jason’s tone.) 

Scoffing in amusement, you tease, “You do.” 

“Even if I did, you definitely practiced that,” he says. It’s in a fake-nonchalant voice that Roy can instantly pinpoint even through the shitty Bluetooth connection and the club’s deafening EDM slop. Jason really is defying all expectations tonight. 

You hum, “I might’ve picked it up from a certain guy. Can’t help it—you have the same accent.” 

That gives Jason pause, if only for a moment. The cylinders in his brain are probably firing at maximum power. “That’s...impressive.” 

Roy wipes a rough hand over his eyes. God, can this guy’s game get any worse? 

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Roy considers picking up a better job than people-watching. For example: right now, he could be building a crazy spaceship to take him to a planet far, far from Earth and Jason’s hopeless situation. 

A flicker of movement catches his eye. Approaching the broker is one of the Penguin’s bodyguards—Roy remembers him from the last encounter they had with the crime lord. He’d whipped his bow into the guard’s nose. 

Still looks like that nasty break hasn't healed well. 

Slipping a deft hand into the back pocket of his jeans, he pulls out a vape. At least, that’s what the bouncers thought it was when they patted him down. 

Roy disassembles it, and a little silver pipe slides into his palm. It’s warm against his skin. A mini blowgun is definitely not his ideal weapon, but a guy’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. 

And now, that’s to shoot a tiny bug onto the broker’s jacket. 

The man is already mid-escort to the stairwell that leads to the more private lounge, flanked on the right by the bodyguard. It's a tough shot, and it’s dark and noisy and stuffy as hell in the club, but it’s also Roy Harper who’s doing this. 

(Duh, it’s in the name. Arsenal, former protégé of Green Arrow, anyone?) 

Slotting the pipe between his lips, he waits for the perfect moment. In a dense, obstructed club like this one, the stars would have to align for him to make the shot. 

He does anyway, the tiny listening dart flying across the room and latching onto the broker’s shoulder. 

Pat on the back, Roy Harper, he thinks, mission well done. 

— 

“She looked kind of familiar,” Roy teases as they stroll out of the club, almost singing.  

The thudding bass is still audible, even from the other side of the doors, and his ears will probably be ringing for another week. Not that he needs them to maintain his stellar aim, but how will he listen to Dick’s incessant voice messages about his recent round of stalking Jason’s not-girlfriend's LinkedIn? 

Their feet are light on the concrete, only making a greater degree of sound when they briskly traverse the many puddles plaguing Gotham. 

Case in point: Lake Glenn, named after Glenn Avenue, where a twelve-foot-long, shallow concrete basin of stale rainwater is slowly colonizing the remaining sidewalk. It reeks of piss and sour dick, too.  

Meanwhile, Jason seems eerily at peace. They cross the street to avoid the pond of pee, and he’s got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded jeans.  

He dodges a whirlwind of litter—it curls into a ball and bounces down the sidewalk like fucking tumbleweed—with a pep in his step. One block over, a patrol car wails out a single chirp, and Jason doesn’t pay any mind.  

Roy has never seen a smile linger this long on his partner’s lips, and it almost looks uncanny. 

He seriously considers grabbing the other man and howling: who are you and what have you done to my best friend’s little brother?  

Jason Todd does not walk with a bouncy gait. He doesn’t stick his hands in his pockets, where the confinement can double the time needed to grab the nearest weapon. And it’s certainly more-than-irregular to ignore a police siren and keep a faint smirk of anything but smugness on his face for more than five minutes. 

Diana H. Themyscira, he’s in love and he’s stupid with it. 

Instead, Roy just slips back into his practiced nonchalance and truthfully remarks, “Seems like a good person.” 

“She is.” 

The answer is curt. Stony. No room for questions, but boy, does Roy have questions. 

And since when has he paid any mind to social conventions? 

Naturally, he must keep pushing. “Alright, I can excuse blatant flirting on the job, but dancing?” 

Jason grimaces, finally wiping off that disgustingly fond expression on his face. “We didn’t—” 

“Dude, you don’t even try to defend yourself—I saw you grinding on her like a lovey-dovey teenage boy with both of my deadeyes.” 

The chilly, damp air of the city does nothing to disguise the way his ears bloom with a dusty pink. The Red Hood may be able to school his face, but he still can’t control the involuntary rush of blood to his ears. 

Roy almost coos at the adorable observation, but he rather likes the shape of his nose right now.  

Anyways, the thought is quickly overwritten by the sheer regret of witnessing how Jason’s fingers twitched when you guided them to grasp your waist on the dance floor. How his blue-green eyes sat at half-mast and dinner-plate dilated when he pulled your hips to his. How his lips had grazed the shell of your ear, whispering things that made your movements more desperate as you strayed from the pounding beat. 

Or how Jason, with a furrow of utter shame between his brows, definitely adjusted the fit of his clothing—specifically his jeans—after you kissed his cheek and bid a wistful, starry-eyed farewell because your friends needed you to step up as the designated driver. 

Said horny fool only scoffs, but a quiet smirk of amusement (holy shit, Roy just unlocked a new emotion) dawns on his face, and the sweet rays gradually brighten his gloomy countenance until the soft pink blush in his ears begins to warm his cheeks, too. 

And with it comes the slow, sweet creep of realization over Jason’s soldier-like posture. 

There’s that lovey-dovey look.

“Yeah,” Jason admits after that moment of reluctance, flicking his still-dilated gaze to a rare patch of starlight glimmering in Gotham’s cloudy sky. He lingers on the pretty sight, the rigidity in his shoulders melting slightly as newfound fondness swims in his eyes. “Maybe we did that.” 

notes: this is a continuation of part 1 where damian spies on jason & reader (and is sickened by the yearning) !! also rec checking out my much ado about luv event for some upcoming dc fics <3

[suprsnupi]

ಇ . . . superboy-prime yaps while fucking you silly !

"no, oh my god, babe," he chuckles, hot mouth kissing the column of your neck so sweetly, letting his mumbled info-dump seep into your skin. "see, togruta and twi'lek appendages have completely different functions—"

you moan, soft and unsteady and all too susceptible to the way his cock sits so snugly in you. he rocks into your heat, seemingly unaffected by the way you gasp and flutter when he brushes the spot that makes your head spin and your pussy squelch like one of the eldritch monsters he loves.

and he just keeps talking.

he presses his flushed cheek to yours. sinks the thick fingers of his left hand into the plush of your thigh, plays with your slick, throbbing clit with his right thumb. casually lets a smirk play on his stupid, cute mouth—you can feel the impression of his dimple—as his voice dips into gravel against the shell of your ear:

"twi'lek lekku are prehensile and have some limbic cortex function, so physiological expression of emotion and language—"

sharp need coils tighter in your belly, making you whimper into the warmth of his neck. "mm, c—"

"shh, i know, baby," clark rasps, letting the hand on your thigh travel up and press firmly below your navel. you feel all of him, every ridge and vein, slipping out a pitched sound caught between a choked groan and a squeal.

he continues, though this time thrusting a little more urgently, thank god. "and togruta lekku are connected to their montrals, which—fuck, you just got so tight—ah, are used for echo-locative purposes because their species is carnivorous..."

"'m gonna cum, clark," you pant, eyes squeezing shut as the pads of your fingers press against his scarred, sculpted chest desperately. he hums, nosing your cheek and flicking your swollen bundle of nerves like a joystick.

"okay, okay, 'm sorry," is the hushed, completely unapologetic reply. clark's cock lets the filthy, wet sound of him plunging in and out of your cunt speak for his mouth, which is sucking a new hickey into your shoulder.

still, you can tell that he wants to talk—the tense line in his broad, muscular shoulders says so.

"that's it, that's it, c'mon sweetheart, give it to me..."

you cum on his cock with a choked cry, senses dimming as your system sharpens on the overwhelming pleasure spilling from your core, the rhythmic clench of your walls around him.

"shit, shit," he whimpers, syllables spilling out of his mouth as he starts to rut into you with renewed vigor, chasing his own orgasm and pushing you deeper into his batman-patterned sheets. "okay, lemme explain reverse cursed technique before i bust."