[moonsgemini]

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[moonsgemini]

wait just discovered my drafts….stay tuned

[starkeyboxd]

Rafe in Morocco

[luvlypresley]

first kiss with jason todd

jason doesn’t tell you where you’re going.

“that’s not concerning at all,” you say as he leads you up a narrow stairwell.

“if i was gonna kidnap you, i wouldn’t warn you,” he mutters.

“great. that’s reassuring.”

he snorts, but there’s a tiny smile pulling at his mouth.

when he pushes open the rooftop door, cool evening air greets you. the city stretches out around you, lights blinking on as the sky deepens into indigo.

and there, set up near the ledge, is a small projector screen. a couple of mismatched folding chairs. blankets. a paper bag that definitely smells like takeout.

you blink.

“…you did all this?”

jason shrugs like it’s nothing, but his ears are red. “it’s not a big deal.”

it is, though.

there are string lights taped along the low wall. a portable speaker humming softly. he even picked a movie you once mentioned loving in passing.

“you remembered,” you say quietly.

he avoids your eyes. “you talk a lot.”

you step closer. “you listen a lot.”

he looks at you like he’s trying to decide if you’re teasing him.

you’re not.

you sit side by side on the blankets instead of the chairs. closer that way. knees touching. shoulders brushing every time one of you shifts.

the movie starts, but neither of you are really watching.

you’re aware of him in every small way.

the warmth of his arm near yours. the way his thigh presses against yours when he stretches his legs out. the quiet rhythm of his breathing when he laughs softly at a scene.

halfway through, a breeze kicks up. you shiver.

jason notices immediately.

without a word, he reaches for the extra blanket and drapes it over your shoulders. his hand lingers for a second at the back of your neck.

“cold?” he asks.

“little bit.”

he hesitates.

then, slowly, like he’s giving you time to stop him, he slides his arm around your shoulders.

you don’t.

in fact, you lean into him.

that tiny shift makes him go still for a second before relaxing.

“better?” he murmurs.

“yeah.”

your head rests lightly against his shoulder.

the movie fades into background noise. the city hums around you.

his hand, the one around your shoulder, slowly traces absentminded circles against your upper arm.

you tilt your face up slightly to look at him.

he’s already looking at you.

not at the screen. at you.

the string lights reflect softly in his eyes.

“you’re not watching the movie,” you whisper.

“neither are you.”

“true.”

you both pause, to just stare at eachother.

“you good?” he asks softly.

you nod. “yeah.”

his gaze drops to your mouth.

he doesn’t hide it this time.

“you’re thinking really loud,” you murmur.

he exhales slowly. “i don’t wanna assume.”

“you don’t have to.”

that’s it.

that’s the permission.

jason lifts his free hand, brushing his knuckles lightly along your jaw before cupping your cheek. he moves slower than he probably moves in anything else in his life.

deliberate. careful.

“tell me if you want me to stop,” he says quietly.

his thumb grazes your cheek once.

then he leans in.

the first touch of his lips is gentle. almost tentative. like he’s memorizing the feeling.

you melt into it immediately, hand coming up to grip lightly at the front of his shirt.

that soft sound he makes? you feel it more than you hear it.

the kiss deepens gradually. not rushed. just building. his arm around you pulls you closer, your body fitting against his under the blanket.

it’s warm. slow. a little breathless.

when he tilts his head slightly and kisses you again, more sure this time, it feels like he’s finally letting himself have something he’s been holding back.

your fingers slide into his hair.

he exhales sharply against your mouth at that, grip tightening just slightly at your waist.

when you finally pull back, it’s only because you need air.

your foreheads rest together.

the movie is still playing behind you, completely forgotten.

“…okay,” he breathes.

you smile softly. “okay?”

he huffs a quiet laugh. “yeah. that was—” he shakes his head faintly. “yeah.”

you press one quick, soft kiss to his lips again, just because you can now.

this time, he smiles into it.

the city lights flicker below. the string lights glow warm around you.

and jason doesn’t let go of you for the rest of the night.

series m.list

so i finally wrote something for this series 😭 pls send in ideas tho im lowk ass at brainstorming

©luvlypresley2026 - do not translate or copy in any way. ˗ˏˋ ✉ - @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @malewifefckr, @batmilani, @justanormalpersin, @pinkprincess-bunny, @batslilwhore, @j-blackout8, @foivetimesacharm, @vanillakirstein, @ablondehoe, @soggywhore, @maxcalore3

[luvlypresley]

first date with jason

jason todd hadn’t planned on going to the library that day.

that was the lie he told himself, anyway.

in reality, it had become routine. tuesdays and thursdays, around four in the afternoon, he’d end up there. same floor. same row of tables by the tall windows.

same excuse in his head about needing a place to read without alfred hovering or the manor being too damn loud.

but the truth sat two tables away, legs crossed, head bent over a book.

you.

the first time he’d seen you, it had been purely accidental. he’d been scanning shelves, fingers trailing along spines, when you’d reached for the same book. you’d apologized at the same time he did, both of you pausing, then laughing awkwardly.

you’d talked for a few minutes. nothing crazy. just book recommendations, shared annoyance at people who dog-eared pages, the usual.

he’d thought that would be it.

then you showed up again the next week. same time. same seat.

and then again.

and again.

at some point, jason stopped pretending it was coincidence.

now, he walked into the library with an expectation. a quiet, unspoken one. his eyes flicked to your usual spot before he even realized he was doing it.

when you were there, something in his chest loosened. when you weren’t, he felt weirdly off for the rest of the afternoon.

today, you were there.

jason didn’t smile outright. he wasn’t that obvious. but his shoulders relaxed as he took his seat across from you, setting his book down with practiced nonchalance.

you looked up, catching his movement, and smiled. not polite. not distant. the kind that said oh, you’re here.

“hey,” you whispered.

“hey,” he replied, just as quietly.

you both went back to reading. or, at least, pretending to.

jason read the same paragraph three times without processing a word. he was too busy noticing things. the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating.

how you chewed on the end of your pen absentmindedly. how sometimes you’d glance up like you could feel him looking, and when your eyes met, neither of you rushed to look away.

eventually, you slid a sticky note across the table.

you’ve been on the same page for ten minutes.

jason stared at it, then up at you. you were biting back a smile.

“mind your own business,” he muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

you leaned forward, lowering your voice. “you come here a lot.”

“so do you.”

“yeah,” you said lightly. “funny how that keeps happening.”

jason shrugged, heart starting to beat a little faster. “guess we’ve got the same taste in study spots.”

“mmm,” you hummed.

that lingered.

after that, it became… something. not defined. just shared space that felt intentional. sometimes you talked. sometimes you didn’t.

sometimes you’d save him a seat without saying a word. sometimes he’d bring an extra coffee and slide it across the table like it was no big deal.

but the way you looked at him changed.

jason wasn’t stupid. he noticed the softer smiles. the way you leaned closer when you talked. the way your knee brushed his under the table and didn’t immediately pull away.

he just didn’t trust it.

people didn’t usually look at him like that. and the ones who did tended to leave.

so he ignored the signs. until one afternoon, you closed your book with a quiet thump and looked at him, clearly working up the nerve to say something.

“hey, jason?” you said.

he glanced up. “yeah?”

“you ever going to ask me out?”

the words hit him like a punch.

he froze. actually froze.

“i—” he stopped, cleared his throat. “what?”

you laughed, not unkindly, but definitely amused. “i mean… i keep coming here. you keep coming here. we flirt. a little. a lot. and you still haven’t asked.”

jason stared at you, realization crashing down hard and fast. “you— wait. you like me?”

you raised an eyebrow. “jason.”

“right,” he muttered. “yeah. dumb question.”

he scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “i just— yeah. yeah, okay. i like you too.”

the smile you gave him then made his chest feel tight. “so?”

“so,” he repeated, standing a little straighter like he’d made a decision. “yeah. i’ll ask you out. properly. just— give me a day?”

you nodded. “take your time.”

he didn’t waste it.

---

that night, jason cornered dick in the kitchen.

“i need advice,” he said flatly.

dick turned, eyes lighting up instantly. “oh? on what?”

“a date.”

dick’s grin was immediate and unbearable. “called it.”

jason scowled. “don’t make this weird.”

“it’s already weird,” dick said cheerfully. “you’ve been smiling at your phone for weeks.”

jason groaned. “just— help me, okay? i don’t screw this up.”

dick chuckled a bit then, clapping a hand on jason’s shoulder. “you won’t. just be honest. pick somewhere nice. and compliment her. you’re good at that when you’re not overthinking.”

jason nodded, taking it in. “yeah. okay.”

---

the next day, back at the library, jason found you in your usual spot. he didn’t sit down this time.

“hey,” he said. “you free friday night?”

you looked up, eyes bright. “yeah.”

“good,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “because i’d like to take you out.”

and the way you smiled back told him he was right to finally take the hint.

jason had asked you out on a wednesday.

he spent the rest of the week replaying it in his head like a crime scene.

you free friday night? too casual. i’d like to take you out. okay. that was good. solid. you’d smiled. really smiled. no hesitation. no awkward pause. just a soft, genuine yes that made something in his chest settle.

still, by thursday night, he was pacing the manor like he was waiting for bad news.

which was how dick found him, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, staring into nothing.

“you’re thinking loud again,” dick said, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

jason glanced up. “i am not.”

“you absolutely are,” dick replied. “and it’s about the library girl.”

jason grimaced. “don’t call her that.”

“so,” dick continued, ignoring him completely, “first date in… what, a couple years?”

jason’s jaw tightened. “longer.”

dick nodded, more gentle this time. “okay. talk to me.”

jason exhaled. “i don’t wanna screw it up.”

“you won’t,” dick said immediately. “you’re not some feral gremlin on dates, jay.”

jason snorted. “debatable.”

“where are you taking her?”

“i booked a restaurant,” jason said. “nice one. not flashy. just… good.”

dick smiled. “see? you’re already doing fine.”

jason hesitated. “what if she thinks it’s too much?”

“then she’ll tell you,” dick said. “and you’ll listen. that’s kinda your thing.”

jason considered that. then, quieter, “what do i wear?”

dick’s grin came back full force. “ohhh, we’re here now.”

friday came too fast.

jason arrived early. of course he did. he stood outside the restaurant, adjusting his jacket, checking his phone like it might suddenly give him new instructions on how to not ruin everything.

it was one of those places with warm lighting spilling out onto the sidewalk, soft jazz humming faintly through the door, and a valet who looked a little too put-together for jason’s liking. he adjusted the cuff of his jacket for the third time.

he was just about to step inside when he saw you.

and suddenly, everything else faded.

you were walking toward the entrance, a little hesitant, scanning the front of the building like you were making sure this was the right place. when you looked up and your eyes met his, your face softened into that smile jason had memorized back at the library. the one that always showed up when you caught him pretending to read while actually watching you.

that’s when he noticed it.

the color.

your outfit matched his. not identical, but close enough that it felt intentional. complementary tones, like two halves of the same palette. jason blinked, then let out a short, breathy laugh before he could stop himself.

“you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said, half to himself.

you stopped in front of him, eyes flicking down to his jacket and then back up. “oh my god,” you said, laughing softly. “no way. we didn’t plan that, did we?”

jason shook his head. “no. i mean— no. i just… wow.”

he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly flustered. “you look—” he stopped himself, jaw tightening like he was choosing his words carefully. “you look really nice.”

the way he said it was earnest, not smooth. like he meant it with his whole chest and didn’t know how to make it sound casual.

you smiled, warmth spreading across your face. “you do too.”

and just like that, the nerves eased. just a little.

inside, the restaurant was even nicer than jason remembered when he booked it. candlelight. crisp white tablecloths. the kind of place where people spoke in low voices and the silverware felt expensive just from looking at it.

jason pulled out your chair without thinking. the moment you noticed, your eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“wow,” you teased gently as you sat. “a gentleman.”

he shrugged, trying not to look pleased. “don’t get used to it.”

but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

the waiter came by, and jason let you order first, watching you with quiet focus. he noticed how you spoke confidently, how you smiled politely, how comfortable you seemed despite the fancy atmosphere. it made him relax too, like maybe this didn’t have to be perfect. it just had to be real.

“so,” you said once you were alone again, resting your elbows lightly on the table. “i have to ask.”

jason braced himself. “yeah?”

“you booked this place without knowing if i even liked fancy restaurants.”

he let out a low chuckle. “yeah. that sounds like me, huh?”

he leaned back in his chair, expression softening. “truth is, i didn’t want to mess this up. and dick, my brother, said first dates should feel like they matter.”

you tilted your head. “and do they?”

jason didn’t hesitate. “this one does.”

the honesty in his voice made your chest tighten in the best way.

as the night went on, conversation flowed easily. you talked about books, about how you’d first noticed him lingering in the library like he had nowhere else to be. he admitted, sheepish, that he started coming at the same time every day hoping you’d be there.

“you always were,” he said quietly. “…i dunno. my safe place?”

you told him you’d noticed too. how he’d started picking seats closer to where you sat. how you liked the way he’d glance over at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

jason listened like every word mattered.

when the food arrived, he insisted you try a bite of his, and you teased him for being dramatic about how good it was. at one point, he laughed so hard he had to look away, shoulders shaking, and you realized you’d never seen him this relaxed before.

by the time dessert came around, the nerves from earlier were gone entirely. when the check arrived, jason paid without a word, then stood and held out his hand.

“wanna walk for a bit?” he asked. “i’m not ready for this to be over yet.”

outside, the night was cool and quiet. the city lights reflected softly off the pavement as you walked side by side, close enough that your arms brushed every so often.

finally, jason stopped.

he looked at you, really looked at you, like he was committing this moment to memory. “hey,” he said, voice lower now. “i’m not great at this. dates. feelings. all of it.”

you waited, heart thudding.

“but i like you,” he continued. “and tonight? this was… good. really good.”

you smiled, stepping just a little closer. “i had a really good time too.”

jason exhaled, relief washing over his features. then, carefully, like he was afraid of moving too fast, he reached out and took your hand.

“can we do this again sometime?” he asked.

the way he asked it, hopeful, sincere, just a little vulnerable, told you everything you needed to know.

you squeezed his hand. “yeah. i’d like that.”

jason smiled then.

and for someone who hadn’t been on a real first date in a long time, he thought he did pretty damn good.

series m.list

holyyy this was a longer fic than i usually write 😭 i was thinking i could make ts a little series like with all the "firsts" you have with jason. like first kiss or first valentines day or whatever the hell i think up. lmk tho 🤭🤭

©luvlypresley2026 - do not translate or copy in any way. ˗ˏˋ ✉ - @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @malewifefckr, @batmilani, @justanormalpersin, @pinkprincess-bunny, @batslilwhore, @j-blackout8, @foivetimesacharm, @vanillakirstein, @ablondehoe

[srenique]

COLLAR

summary : nobody could disturb jason peter todd when he was knee deep in a dostoevsky. except you, of course, his hot neighbour who liked making his lips bruise up and brain fall out as a friday night hobby.

contains : heavy making out, well read!jason, post Lazarus pit!jay, whipped!jay, thighs man!jay, grinding, basically dry humping, forearm tattoo!jason, but he’s actually a softie, reader wears warm sweaters, bookish!reader but that means she’s a lil freaky, neighbour!jason, booksmart!jason, streetsmart!jason, he’s a moaner I’m calling it, baddie!reader

inspiration : she’s my collar (g + k.u)

It started with a smile.

He'd been carrying boxes from the moving van Bruce had hired, in the middle of the rare heatwave in Gotham. His luck really was something.

He’d been hauling boxes in, wiping his forehead with the hem of his tee, dropping the wet fabric to hang by his waist. Your figure framed in the light of the hallway, like some sort of halo.

He blinked. “Uh, hey?”

You just smiled. Like you knew something he didn’t. “Hey, neighbour.” You disappeared into your apartment, slamming the door shut. With a mutter of “people”, he kicked open his door, resting the box of all his childhood photos on his new dining table. The thing was made of fucking MDF.

He’d failed to notice the copy of Twisted Love tucked in your elbow.

You’d done it, somehow. Ripped through his defences, your will a fist in his wet sheet of paper.

The copy of Twisted Love should’ve been a sign. It should’ve told him that you’d show up at his door after a few weeks of knowing him with a rain cloud over your head and an irrational desire to turn him on like a fucking switch every Friday since.

He’d pull a Glock 19 on whoever disturbed him when he was reading Crime and Punishment, but the annotated copy lay open beside him, his brain was engrossed in something else. Kissing you.

His hands gripped your thighs, sleeve of his plush hoodie sliding up and over the ink on his forearm, tugging you closer. Your lips burned his, nape of his neck stimulated by the drag of your nails.

“Bad day, ma?” His words were muffled by your mouth, tilting his head back into the gentle pressure of your fingers. You took and you took, sucking oxygen from his lungs, rolling your hips down so you dragged across his dick.

He couldn’t suppress a moan at that.

You hummed in agreement, dragging his bottom lip down with your thumb. He should’ve read the signs. Now he scheduled make out sessions with you in avoidance of admitting he liked the way you used him. He ached to be your boy toy whenever you saw fit. He wanted you to push him down, tint his lips with kisses and gloss.

Your teeth snagged at his lip, tugging, moulding him to you. His hands sliding up your back made your sweater drag up, bunching, cold of his apartment pricking at your skin. “Dostoevsky?” You mumbled, between wet, obscene smacks, pornographic moans and following the string of saliva that connected your mouths.

“Mhm,” He nodded dumbly, hips jerking up to catch his dick on your clit, the slow grind in response melted his brain. “Crime and Punishment.”

You chuckled, kisses burning down his jaw till your teeth pressed against his pulse. Nipping, latching, sucking a bruise. Maybe you got how to do that from Twisted Love, cause his toes fucking curled. He’d come, no joke. Right here, fully clothed, he’d do it. “Great book. Read Atonement, I still wanna watch it.”

He would, but he was a little tied up right now. “Later, ma.” He breathed, hand slipping in your jeans’ back pocket to squeeze your ass. Jesus, maybe that thing owed him rent. “Later.” He kissed back up to your mouth, allowing you to siphon his thoughts again.

He was 6’ 2”, 225 pounds and you had him like this. If anyone thought he’d been taken hostage, fuck no, he was right where he was supposed to be. Yes, he had patrol in ten minutes. Yes, he’d texted Dick to take his place while he dealt with a personal matter. Yes, he gave no fucks.

“Ah, Jesus, fuck—”

© 2026 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED : NXBODYSANGEL. DO NOT MODIFY, REPOST, PLAGIARISE, TAKE DIRECT INSPIRATION FROM OR CLAIM MY WORK AS YOUR OWN WITHOUT PERMISSION OR GIVING CREDIT.

tagged : @calzone-d , @bloomfaery , @kundere20000000 , @angzls , @olaflookalike , @starr-jazz , @jaydennicole , @sharkcatthatlikesapples , @yukiismokes , @silverjayz , @lil-riddle-kiddle , @glitterywreckage , @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @t1mbits

note: IT’S SHORT I KNOW I’M SORRY

[honeysucklewatr]

safety net

nerdystoner!jason | university au | smut | masterlist

synopsis: it’s your last year of university and jason todd has been in your classes, plotting on you. you’d promised yourself you’d make the most of this year, go to more parties, finally lose your virginity, and step out of your comfort zone, while jason steps into yours.

tags + extras: college!au, angst, smoking, drinking, smut, reader is (was) a virgin. jealousy, frat houses mentioned, bsfs!brother, yes the reader has more than one bsf. plottwist. dick is in a frat because of course out of all the batboys it would be him. jason is not in a frat cause he wouldn’t join it, he’d think its stupid but would stick around for some parties for funsies.

a/n: this was fun to write. i love my boy jason, he deserves real college problems that don’t have to do with parents or being a vigilante. in this story, he’s still got those problems too though just wait heh.

the party is loud and obscene.

sweat and warm air cling to your skin as soon as you walk in, and suddenly you’re regretting moisturizing before coming here.

cassandra is to blame for you being here. she practically dragged you out of your dorm, whisper-yelling at you so not to wake anyone on your floor.

“you’re young and hot! stop being a nerd, reading about how our shitty judicial system and come get cracked with me!”

she always manages to insult you and make it sound nice at the same time. plus you were tired of studying and feeling like crap for not retaining the information, so leaving your tiny dorm seemed like a good idea. you told yourself you were going to be more fun this year and stop rotting in your bedroom. you were prepared to actually socialize, maybe drink, and talk to a cute boy.

hope flickered behind your eyes until you actually got there and saw the state of the place.

the frat president, dick grayson, and his best friend and co-president, wally west, are doing body shots off of some girl you were sure was part of another sorority. you roll your eyes before walking towards the kitchen, where your bestfriend cassandra was.

you’ve known grayson since middle school, before he even got into this whole frat boy persona. but honestly, it suits him. he makes it work for him and doesn’t get consumed by it, though as his bestfriend, you know the man is a whore.

you pour whatever was in the giant jug into your red solo cup while talking to her with her back turned.

“hey, don’t you think this body shot thing is kinda nasty—”

the sound of lips smacking on lips makes you turn your head upwards to find cassandra making out with stephanie. of course she is. you raise your cup to fake cheers them and walk out of the kitchen. it seems like you gotta find your own entertainment tonight, even if cassandra was the one to drag you to the party with it, it was to see her favourite ex-girlfriend.

“i personally think it’s disgusting.” a raspy voice called, leaning against the wall. smoke clouds around him like a quiet, intoxicating hello.

“are you allowed to smoke in here?” you ask with a slightest tilt of your head.

he shrugs, “there’s people practically fucking on the dinner table. i think my brother won’t mind.”

you raise your eyes, “brother?”

he takes another long drag before beckoning you closer. all six-feet and a half feet of him enchant you to move closer as his muscles flex under that long sleeve black tee he wore.

“see that idiot in the blue?” using his hand with the joint to point.

“grayson is your brother?”

he nods, "we're both adopted."

stumped, you hum. talking about parents and family life wasn't something you did often with grayson, and you never really pushed for more information."

“so you’re part of this frat too then?”

“fuck no. just go to this university too,” shamelessly trailing his eyes down your frame while you scan the room, you don’t catch him doing it. he clears his throat, “you’re in my ethics class.”

you turn to him, “um, yeah. gordans lecture.”

he flashes his gorgeous eyes and white teeth to you, “you’re smart. pretty. always have the answers.”

you nod back, “technically so do you,” responding too quickly, feeling warmth run through your face as you curse yourself for sounding to eager.

you’re trying not to show the way his words were making you feel. he smiles and shakes his head, you try not to look at the way his muscles flexed when he raised it. you take a sip of your drink hoping for it to give you more courage but it was a terrible punch that tasted like more vodka than seltzer. you make an ugh sound and he laughs.

“that’s why i don’t drink ma. that shit is terrible for you.”

you wince slightly, “and i suppose the joint in your hand isn’t bad for you?”

he laughs, stepping away from the wall and closer to you, “i never said it was, but it beats cigarettes don’t it?”

he takes the solo cup from your hand and places it on the table. you don’t really protest.

jason takes another drag as he steps closer to you, inching as his cheeks hollow and his eyes are unwavering. when you thought of someone cute to talk to during the night, you didn’t expect to actually find someone, let alone someone who looked like he could split you in two. maybe it was how low the lights were, maybe it was the fact that you pregamed with cassandra before getting here, or maybe it was the second hand high (if that’s even possible).

but when jason hooked his arm around your waist, you immediately moved into it. his hands move up to your jaw and he gives you a smile again as he looks from eye to eye. when you nod to spur him on, he squeezes your cheeks so your lips fall open and he pulls the joint from his lips, lowering himself so your lips just barely touched.

just ghosting over his lips, you instinctively shut your eyes.

slowly, he pushes the intoxicating air into your mouth, filling your lungs with delicious sin. you breathe it in immediately, tilting your head upwards to get every push of smoke from him. when you open your shut eyes, he’s grinning down at you, satisfaction evident in his tone.

“the smart ones are always freaks hmm,”

you let out a surprised laugh just as grayson spots you from the billiard table and gasps dramatically. you instinctively back up from jason and create space, but his arm lingers by your waist, not touching, but hovering close enough to know the purpose. grayson strides right over, singing your name drunkenly as he makes it to you and wraps you in his arms. he twirls you in his arms in the air.

“you actually came! cassandra listened to me for once!” he laughs before turning to the cutie you were talking to, “jason, are you bothering her?” he turns to you again, “is he bothering you?”

jason laughs as your eyes lift to his tall stature, taking in just how hot he really was.

“no, not at all. he’s sweet.”

jason’s lips fall in surprise and grayson barks out a laugh, “sweet? my brother is sweet? that’s a sentence i never thought i’d hear from a girl.”

jason rubs the back of his head while his joint boats and burns out. he tucks what was left of it behind his ear, letting it hang there.

graysons name keeps getting chanted from somewhere behind you guys, back where he was doing those body shots prior. you recognize the voice of roy harper, calling his name the loudest. grayson moves his head to kiss your cheek like he always does and you duck.

“don’t kiss me with those nasty lips dick, i don’t want herpes.”

he pouts and drunkenly whines, “it’s just the sororities over there that we did it off of,”

“that’s literally not any better.”

jason sighs, “all that bodily fluid,” and shivers, “that is gross dickhead.”

“fine, fine fine. i’ll leave you nerds to talk to eachother.” he starts backing up before turning around to call your name, “this is why you never get laid.”

your face visibly loses colour at how he’d just announced that out loud and grayson is too far to see it. jason gives you a little smile, inching closer to you again. the music engulfs you whole just as grayson is gone and jason is close enough to feel his breath on your skin. he reaches out and fingertips trace up your bare arm to get your attention. you gulp as if in anticipation.

“sooo, you’re a virgin?”

you pfft, “no, what? you think i’m in college and a virgin?”

“well are you?” “does it matter?” you answer too quickly. too defensively.

he gleams, “i don’t care honestly.”

you sigh, “yeah, i am. i’m sick of it honestly i just wanna have sex to get it over with at this point. feels like a big deal for no reason.”

“you don’t care about who you sleep with?” he laughs.

“come on that’s not what i said at all,” you rub your forehead, laughing at your own words now, “i’m just sick of the expectation of it.”

his expression shifts, “yeah i know exactly what you mean. feels like a burden and a weird moral superiority thing.”

at that you find yourself nodding, not expecting this big burly guy to have such a take on sex like you did. then again, he’s minoring in women and gender studies and you vaguely remember him being in one of those lectures too.

“i kinda came to this party to step out of my comfort zone. not be crammed in my room all day buried in my textbooks.”

he offers you a softer smile despite his earlier eagerness, “you sound a lot like me.”

“you a virgin too todd?” you laugh into the emptiness, missing how he freezes at your words until you face him again, “uh, you don’t have to answer that.”

he’s shaking his head, “nah, it’s okay. would you think it’s weird if i say i am?”

your eyes widen, “i kinda find that hard to believe.”

he barks out a laugh, “what’s that mean princess?”

“pardon my bluntness but you’re pretty hot, so i wouldn’t think that you are.”

“so are you,” he tilts his head, “and pardon my bluntness but i’d like you to take that from me.”

you blink hard, suddenly recalling just how close he was to you, “you mean you’d take my virginity for me?”

you’d wanted an opportunity to make a rash decision, and this seemed like the one you’d been searching for. jason todd looked like a snack that was dying to be unwrapped and you wanted to do it. he moves even closer, eyes looking to each of your eyes and then your lips.

“if you’ll take mine,” he grins, pearly teeth and all.

your breath hitches at the proximity. the music drowns out all other people as he lowers himself ever closer to your face, eyes flickering over your lips. his tongue darts out to wet the supple skin before giving it a soft bite that only makes him look all the more kissable.

this was your last year of university. this was your last chance to actually do something that was out of your comfort and have your age and your nativity to fall back on. jason todd was probably the first guy you’d seen on campus that peaked your interest and wasn’t in a frat.

in class, you’d seen him raise his hand from the back of the lecture hall, answering a question about ethics that toed the lines of morality and vengeance. you never really turned back to see him, never really thought that someone like him would even look twice at you. but jason was always staring when you didn’t notice, eyes glued to the back of your pretty head while you took down your thorough notes, sometimes getting shivers down your spine from the sensation of being watched. you never turned back though. you knew of him vaguely but never met him before tonight.

this felt like a fucking sign and god he was so hot.

you breathe in the scent of him, intoxicating marijuana and oud mixing on his skin.

you pick up the solo cup from next to him and down it quickly while he just watches in amusement. you don’t wince this time, particularly cause you wanted to show you were serious and partially cause you were also swallowing down your own pride. you tilt your head towards his then toward the staircase.

“do you have a bedroom here?”

the door just clicked shut and you turn around to him already on you. jason’s lips were on yours before you got anything else out and the scent of him engulfed the space as he trailed his lips up your jaw, coaxing a pretty moan out of you.

he smiles against your skin, pulling up your shirt, “you’re so beautiful. you know that?”

you suck in a sharp breath of air, “stop flattering me.”

he doesn’t respond. how could he?

he places you so gently on his bed like he couldn’t fathom that you’d agreed with him. he pulls away just to stare at you, taking in the sight of you laying there.

“you sure about this?” you nod in response, “no like, actually have to hear you say it.”

“yes jason, i’m more than okay with this,” he smiles as you gently tug on the front of his jeans, “now take your clothes off and let me prove you wrong.”

“oh yes ma’am,” he tugs his clothes off so fast you have to stifle a laugh.

you’re giggling as he pulls you closer to him by your belt loops and seating himself on his bed. he drags you ontop of him and continues his previous ministrations, kissing up your neck to watch you hum in amusement. his fingers toy with the band of your panties, the other drags up your spine. with one hand, he unclasped your bra and you nearly fold in on yourself.

“jason,” you exclaim.

“what? you gotta let me see all of you if you want this sweetheart.”

with a gulp, you lean back on his lap, just enough to let him see you. he gives you a stupid grin while he tugs the straps off your arms, turning into a daze that you could only describe as fucked out even though he hasn’t touched you. his tongue darts out to wet his lips as he mindlessly moves closer to you, murmuring under his breath about how you’d got the prettiest tits.

before you could respond, he latched onto one and sucks, making you jolt in his lap.

“don’t move,” he groans into you, “lemme taste you.”

he laps like a man starved, groaning into your peaked edges and circling with his tongue. you hum low and broken while he raises a hand to toy with the other nipple. it’s messy and it feels insane. he switches to the other, sucking harder like he needed this more than you did and then he’s mouthing up the swell of your breast. hands moving to hold your waist and ease you onto your back in his place, legs effortlessly falling inbetween yours and pulling them further apart.

jason has wanted this from the moment he stepped into that law and ethics class a month ago, silently watching you from afar like he’s been plotting on you.

there’s gentleness in his hands as he traces them down the curve of your sides, trailing lower and lower and lower. his mouth moves quicker, pulling up to your neck before reaching your lips again. he kisses you harder this time, like time was wasting and he needed you now. when his hands reach the button of your pants, you gasp into his mouth and he swallows it down.

between pants, he speaks, “can i?”

you nod, dazed already.

they work faster, pulling them off with your panties as a testament to his desperation. you move with him, unbuttoning his jeans and just pushing them down before he helps you and kicks them away.

“you haven’t noticed me before,” he pants against your skin, hands pulling your leg up by the knee, bracing it around his waist, “have you?”

startled by the question and the situation all at once, you stammer, “uh, what do you mean?”

“i mean,” he leans over you again, leaving sloppy kisses on your jaw as he speaks, “you haven’t seen me in class before, have you?”

you know he knows the answer. that you’d seen him, locked eyes with him even but never said anything to him. it’s university and you don’t talk to every person you lock eyes with, even if they’re the hottest and tallest guy you’d ever seen. not even if you’d daydreamed about him folding you in half while your professor is lecturing on about penalties and ethical conduct.

“i—i have.” you admit

he pulls back for you to see his dazed smile, while he grinds himself through your slick, “good, now we’re being honest.”

mouth agape in a silent gasp. he was so big, you could feel how he was going to split you apart already without even pushing in yet. he smirks like knows it.

he runs his length through your soaked folds, hissing at the warmth that coats him, “shit, you’re soaked for me ma, so pretty.”

you whisper his name as runs it up and down again, collecting slick. he hums in response, “tell me, what do you want me to do to you?”

“please jason,” you whimper when he slaps his hard length against your clit.

“please what? we established you gotta tell me with words baby,” he hums in amusement when you whine again.

bucking your hips up into his, you sigh his name again, “just fuck me already.”

he stops his movements, leaving his angry tip flush against your entrance, teasing but not pushing in yet. heavy enough to feel how it was going to ruin you.

“just fuck you? baby i was gonna do that anyways. i’m gonna ruin you.”

then he pushes in with slowness that made you feel every inch, every ridge, every vein. your lips part and he leans down to kiss you while he inches the rest of himself inside. it was already getting to be too much, so you shut your eyes, trying to adjust to his size, breathing shortened breathes from your nose while he continued to mouth at you. jason stays still to let you adjust, waiting til you start fluttering around him, clenching with need that meant he could move. but he still waits for you to speak and it takes you a moment to realize why he wasn’t moving.

your eyes open to meet his, with sweat beginning to form on his forehead from restraint.

“are you… okay?” he asks in a strained voice from the feeling of you around him.

“s’good, you can move jay,” and he nods moving to tuck his face in your neck.

this was supposed to be a hookup, something fun from your unplanned abstinence since your horrible ex. jason was supposed to be that letting loose that you craved so badly earlier—but why did the his presence already make you wanna melt into him?

jason began to move just at the thoughts got louder in your head. his movements were slow and controlled as though afraid of hurting you. he knew his size, he knew how it might feel for you if he didn’t prep you properly. but you were already so wet for him— how could he resist?

“god sweetheart you feel s’good,”

you moan in response as you hook your legs around his waist, drawing him closer, drawing him deeper. he hisses as he leans down and does something that makes your heart flutter, he kisses the top of your nose, “tell me if it’s too much okay?”

a sigh escapes past your lips, “don’t stop please.”

he whimpers by your ear while you buck into him, choking on his words, “i wasn’t planning on it.”

he drags himself deeper, keeping a slow pace but working himself further with every thrust. his hips moving with a purpose as he memorized the way your body reacts to each one. grasping your thighs as they remained wrapped around him, he grips and squeezes enough to make you moan for him again.

jason drives his hips forward harder when you keep bucking back into him, “no, let me, let me show you what it means.”

you almost don’t ask him from the haze of pleasure clouding your mind but somehow you question, “what it means?”

“you said you wanted me to fuck you,” he pants, “let me show you what it means to be fucked pretty girl.”

the words he chooses felt meticulously practiced, like he knew what would make you lose it. he snaps his hips into yours, watching your head stretch out of the pillow, exposing more of your neck to him. he immediately latches on, leaving marks that a random hookup shouldn’t be leaving. pushing his fat length so far that it hit spots no one had ever reached. your fingers grasped at his back, grounding yourself and forgetting the sharpness of your nails.

he groans so prettily, “fuck yes, keep doing that.”

grinding ever harder into you, enough to make you move up the mattress and make him think you’re moving away from him, “no, no, where are you going pretty?” he drags you right back to his hips, keeping locked in to the hilt.

you cry out, clawing up his back without a care, saying his name over and over.

“keep saying it,” he’s moaning lowly as he drops his hand to circle your clit.

messy circles that had just enough pressure to push you there. panting his name again, you stare at him through glazed eyes that he recognizes, nodding down at you like he knows what it means without you saying it. he makes faster circles, snapping his hips impossibly deep as he goes. the peak grabbing you by the throat and absolutely ruining you. you’re clamping around him while he groans again, his hips stuttering into yours as his pace falters.

“fuck baby, you’re so hot. that was so hot,” he pants too quickly, dropping his head into the crook your neck as he chases his high. “so pretty, so so pretty,” he groans into your skin.

you cry out, the stimulation too much, his hips deep enough to rub against your clit at every moment. you felt him pulsing and throbbing right before he pulls out and cums all over your stomach. painting you white, rope after rope pulsing like he’d been pent up, enough that it reaches your tits and even on his abdomen. his pretty whimpers are like another reward as he collapses down ontop of you.

you both hum together in contentment while the high dissipates and his weight grounds you entirely. his cock softens between you while the warmth begins to cool on your stomach. but jason didn’t care about the mess, he only lifted himself off of you to see if you did. before he gets up, he kisses you again, deeper like he wanted to suck the soul out of you. he laps at your lips, plumping them from the drag of his teeth while he bites the bottom one for a moment too long.

he gets up and looks down at you while you were completely worn out, barely staring at him like you were about to fall asleep. he smiles fondly before going to his bathroom and coming back to wipe you off. his hands are careful as he cleans you of the evidence of him, looking up to watch you watch him through tired, fucked out eyes.

“thanks jay,” you hum, needing this to relieve you of the steer stress of the last couple weeks.

he looks up to watch your eyes flutter shut, “i should be thanking you princess.” sitting back down.

you mumble something incoherent while he gets under the covers, crawling right next to you. he opens his arms and inches closer to you when you curl right into him. aching for that warmth of him. jason kisses the top of your head with stupid sweetness while you drift asleep, not thinking of anything but how soft this existence was. then not thinking at all and letting him hold you with trust that jason could never truly understand but swallowed down regardless. he didn’t understand it yet, that for some reason that he can’t place yet, his heart aches for you. he wants like he’s never wanted anything.

but he also feels sorry for what he’s just done. he didn’t mean for this to happen. he didn’t know how you’d make him feel up close.

his phone buzzes on the bedside table and he picks it up, careful not to move you passed out on his chest. roy had texted him a dozen times but the last one made regret creep up his spine and his stomach churn as you let out a content sigh.

you disappeared with her?? don’t tell me i lost the bet…

a/n: guys i have a midterm tomorrow and if i didn’t post this i felt like i was going to die cause i kept going back and adding more to the story but i also didn’t proofread it cause of course im a lazy fuck and if i do proofread it, im never gonna study for my midterm so enjoy lmao! and if you have midterms, good luck! im lowkey into college au’s lately its sickening. we don’t even have frats where im from lmfaooao. i will be back to proof read this some faithful day 🫡

[glossiercheek]

the pinnacle | knight!clark kent x princess f!reader

synopsis: unable to satisfy yourself, you’re willing to go desperate lengths to feel a spark of unfathomable euphoria. or in which clark ever the gentlemanly sweet knight, helps you out. 

warnings: 18+ (mdni) many typos but ill fix it later, reader is lowkey embarrassing, this fic is a weird victorian era x medieval era hybrid, clark has FANTASIES, reader is not able to satisfy herself and is slightly sexually frustrated, reader pleasuring herself (fingering), oral (f receiving), kissing, inexperienced!reader, i love big noses and you can tell.

word count: 5.7k

a/n: heeeeeavily inspired by bridgerton season 4. fransesca my girl, i hope you will feel the joy of reaching the pinnacle soon

The candle burned out long before you went to sleep and the sweet yet sour tang of cherry wine fizzled out on your tongue.

You knew that the weight of the crown on your head would be heavy. Your father, the King, has spent the last few years distancing himself from the throne and teaching you the legacy of your entire bloodline.

From teachings about the history of the kingdom that will be yours one day, sooner rather than later, to the awful archery lessons in the early mornings, your father reminded you of your bright future with an iron fist. With great power comes great responsibility, they say after all.

The exhaustion that came along with your new life stresses, blossomed not only in your mind, but also in your body, like a plum of dark smoke. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt utterly at ease. Your aching joints yearned for rest. Your loaded mind demanded emptiness.

It was on a wintery Tuesday morning when you first learned about the pinnacle.

You were in your chambers, still in your white, frilly undergarments. The wiring of your corset harshly bit against your smooth skin, as you sat in front of the mirror whilst your best maid, Catherine, brushed the delicate strands of your hair.

For the first time in forever, you took a good look of yourself, but you didn’t recognise the ghost that was supposed to be your reflection. The bags under your eyes had turned into a freakish shade of purple, and your left eye kept twitching in consistent intervals.

You folded your lips into a thin line, which was your universal sign of dissatisfaction, something Catherine remembered all too well from being your personal maid for years on end.

“Is there something the matter, Your Highness?” Catherine spoke into thick air, the question lingering in the air like smoke diffusing.

You kept quiet for a moment. Yes, there were many matters. Your father, for one. The neverending pressure of being the perfect representative of your kingdom. The unrelenting pain blooming in your right arm due to archery lessons and the sore spot inbetween on ribcage that was turning a concerning shade of blueish-purple.

A princess, however, never complained. That is what your father had taught you, and you felt the unspoken promise to obey his every request flutter away when you opened your mouth.

“I am quite used up, I suppose,” you decided to say, deliberately avoiding your maid’s regard in the mirror, holding up your nose demurely. “I am afraid my newfound responsbilities have taken up too much of my physical and mental capacity.”

Catherine abruptly stopped brushing your locks. “Shall I bathe you at once, ma’am?”

“It is not needed. Thank you,” you told her, although the warm steam caressing your bare skin did sound alluring on a cold morning. “I am afraid a bath should not help it. I feel the ache bloom from inside. Mental. It is deep, and I can assure you the best doctor shall not be able to cure me.”

The girl behind you swallowed. The air was packed with tension. “Princess, tell me— have you ever relieved your… urges?”

You cocked up one eyebrow in indignation. “What are you talking about, Catherine?” Your tone was not harsh or mean, but genuinely curious and coated in wonder.

“The— have you ever reached your… pinnacle, ma’am?”

You were completely, extremely lost in comprehending what your maid was trying to tell you. Your eyes were emotionless as you search for Catherine’s trusting look.

“My apologies; I do not know what you mean, ma’am.”

Catherine’s cheeks flushed a shy shade of pink, and she tried to faintly suppress a grimace at your innocence, your naivety.

“Reaching your pinnacle is when a woman reaches a point of maddening bliss. It is a floaty feeling that starts bet–between your legs, ma’am. And— and it spreads out to your whole body. Like your heart has been set on fire, Your Highness.” Catherine actively avoided your eyes.

Heavens, you thought. You lived in a castle with a library as big as a village, but no book could have educated you on a matter as important as this.

“You feel it everywhere, ma’am. You really do.” She added, voice soft and shy. And you could not help but feel a faint buzz in your head. You had to have that pinnacle right that moment; it seemed like the only cure for your desperate state.

“How do I reach it— my pinnacle, that is.” You politely asked, your back straight as a pin. At that, your lifelong maid let out a sharp chuckle.

“You will know, Your Highness. Simply follow your female intuition.”

That night, the silky fabric of your bedding felt cold against your skin. The muscles of your thighs were flexed open, and your nimble fingers danced on the hem of your soft nightgown.

You had to remain tranquil, calm. Perhaps hopeful as well, but you could not help but hold your breath in anxiety as your fingers found your tight hole.

Simply follow your female intuition, Catherine had said, but you felt like anything but a woman now. It was supposed to feel like maddening bliss, like your heart shattered open and light poured out through the cracks.

A devastatingly fluttery ache pooled low in your belly, and you wanted it. God, you wanted it, to chase that feeling. You tried to listen to your female intuition as she whispered out to you in your noisy mind.

Your blunt fingers started to prod at your unopened hole. Nothing. Your fingers and pussy didn’t feel wet enough, not comfortable enough, as you gently tried to shove your middle finger and ring finger inside of you.

Your eyes were squeezed shut tightly in the hopes of firing up that dull spark inside. With stiff, rugged motions you tried to move your fingers back and forth in you. Still, nothing.

You tried to think about exciting things. Things that satisfied you. Promenading through your rose garden. The smell of petit fours with too much strawberry confiture in the middle. The pride you would feel if you would finally be queen of the kingdom.

You tried to force a moan out of your mouth. To your dismay, it sounded impish. Annoyingly skittish and pathetic, watery and more like a cry for help. Tears of frustration welled up in the very corners of your eyes, harshly pulling out your two digits.

Your fingers were a little damp, nothing more. The overpowering feeling of disappointment and anger dawned upon your shoulders, but there was nothing you could do about it.

“What is wrong with me?” You said to no one in particular. Your voice sounded shaky, as if you were in disbelief.

“What if I will never reach my precious pinnacle?”

What you were not aware of, was Knight Clark who kept watch, right outside your chambers, and had heard everything: the wild rustle of your sheets, the frustrated groans and the careful, uncertain moan.

His breath hitched in his throat, unable to think of anything else. The vivid image of you in your nightgown, legs bare and shiny. Your hair down. Oh, what Clark would do to smell your hair. Or taste you. But he couldn’t. You were the Princess, for heaven’s sake.

He was the King’s best, most trusted Knight. Having thoughts of the King’s daughter like this...

Archery lessons were your least favourite. The King was known to be proactive and give you these lessons of self-defense himself. So when it seemed your father suddenly had fallen ill that morning and was not able to teach you, it felt like you were walking on sunshine.

You lived your day like normal. Breakfast was scrumptious, and you spent the rest of the day practicing the piano forté. The pingy melody ricocheted off the saloon walls for hours on end.

It was almost as if you had forgotten about the pinnacle. This day of rest is exactly what you needed. Except, you didn’t sense a delicious ache between your legs. More than ever, you felt like you were missing out on the summit of the female experience, despite being the woman in the highest regard within society.

It felt like a foolish joke. Something you, as a princess, were not a part of.

You had already retreated to your chambers for the night when footman Alan knocked on your door before walking in. “Your Highness— The King has found a way to resume today’s archery lesson. He expects you on the training grounds directly.”

Distressed, you gathered your arrow and bow. Your fear was immediately replaced by an emotion of dutiful obligation.

At last, when you stepped foot on the damp patch of grass, your heart fluttered in your chest. You had expected your father to be there, but no. Instead of the King, Knight Clark stood there. You almost did not recognise him without his shiny armour.

Instead, he was wearing a simple shirt and dark blue trousers. The look in his azure eyes was not stern. His hands were clutched behind his back, patiently waiting for you to get closer.

The look in your eyes however, could be characterised as shocked. You did not know Knight Clark looked like this. Almost black hair, the bluest eyes on the planet and thick, bulging arms under the cheap fabric of his shirt.

He looked like a God.

When you were close enough, Clark carefully took your delicate hand. You felt sparks fly when his warm lips came in contact with your knuckles. “Good evening, Your Highness.” Clark mused, a mischievous smirk plastered on his plush lips.

You were so overcome with shock at seeing Knight Clark. “I— I request my father at once.” You almost shrieked out in disarray. Your pupils were blown wide in fright.

“I am afraid that shall not be possible tonight, my Princess,” Clark started. His eyes bored into your soul when he spoke to you. “I shall be assisting you with your archery lessons tonight, at last, Princess.”

When you did not respond, he let out a gracious sigh. He knew better than to engage in baseless discussion with you. “Very well. We shall start then.”

The lesson consisted of aiming at different targets. You were still learning, and Clark was an exquisite archer, of course. The orange light of the torches casted an elegant shade onto Knight Clark’s jaw as the demonstrated how to shoot.

The heavy breaths that came from Clark when he released the arrow shot straight to your core. You were overridden by jealousy when you thought of how his silky cravat was able to cling onto his skin for eternity.

The delicious swell of Clark’s biceps everytime he drew his bow, completely undid you. It had you thinking it was almost improper, to be left here, unattended.

Similarly, Clark could not stop inhaling your sweet scent. He wanted to touch your soft hair, the smoothness of your skin underneath the multiple layers of undergarments. He wondered what your voice would sound like, all broken and pitchy when he finally had his hands on you. Or in you.

You recreated his solid stance, right foot forward. Knight Clark examined you for a quick moment before speaking up. “Allow me to correct you, Your Highness.” To which you let out a low hum in agreement.

His hands were heavy when they landed on your hips. The taller man could feel your shape underneath your precious dress, and wanted more. It was not a daily occurrence to teach the Princess to shoot, so he felt like nervosity and fervour were in order.

He longed to dig his fingers in your hips and in the back of his mind he longed to bounce you up and down, back and forth on his cock. But the thoughts were improper, and he felt like a sinner in disguise, thinking of a princess like that.

Clark tilted your hips, just slightly. His face was so close to the crook of your neck, and he could inhale your familiar smell. He could bury his nose there, stay there forever. Planted behind you, his half-hard dick rubbing against your ass as he breathed in the scent of your hair.

The air was tension-ridden, too dangerous for two people so lost in each other, and definitely too dangerous for Clark. Clark finally woke from his bewildered stupor when he heard your helpless yelp.

You had tried to draw your bow too tight. Eyes zoomed in on a target when you released the arrow from your fingers, but you did not realise you had lost your footing until you toppled over like an unstable pile of jellied fruits, right to the cold hard ground.

Once Clark gained awareness of your predicament, he rushed over to you with an urgence only a mere knight could have for his sweet princess.

He knelt beside you. “Your Highness—” he whispered, stable and sure, with the security only a well-trained knight could have. “Did you get hurt? Please tell me you did not hurt yourself.”

A faint burning sense emerged from your ribcage, but you kept silent. After all, a princess does not complain. Your father had taught you well.

“I am unaffected, Clark—“ you whispered back in between heavy breaths from shock and angst, your eyes locked on Clark’s adam’s apple bobbing with restlessness.

“Tell me where it hurts, princess.” The noiret pleaded, his eyebrows drawn together in utmost compassion for you. His clammy, strong hands were clutched around your waist, hoisting you up carefully, so that you were sitting upright. “I can not harm you under my watch.”

“I am not in pain, my Knight.”

In a rash, unresponsible moment, you decided to grasp Clark’s fleshy hand and bring it to your bosom, right over your beating heart, showing him you remained unaffected. “I find myself in proper state.” You concluded primly, ignoring the aching sensation between your ribs.

“I conclude this archery lesson terminated for tonight,” Clark almost mumbled, voice layered thick with ardour. For you. His eyes kept on searching for a flick of pain, uncertainty, in your beautiful features. He could kiss you. “I shall see you to your chambers, my Princess.”

The walk over to your chambers was long. Ever since you saw Clark’s soft features in the delicate moonlight, you could not stop thinking about that muffled fire in the pit of your stomach. That was probably the reason why you had lost your footing in the first place.

Your skin burned where Clark had touched your hips when correcting your stance. His fresh breath cascading condense into the crook of your neck. The gentle brush of his fingers over yours, demonstrating you how to grip your bow perfectly.

And Knight Clark’s fingers pulsed where you had held his hand to your bosom. The feeling of you in his grip was just like he imagined many times. Your flesh was soft, silky, balmy. As if you smeared a thick filter of lotion on your skin every day before you began your daily duties as a princess.

He wanted to push his nose inbetween your tits and keep your scent all to himself. You were so prim, so proper. Poised, too. Elegant. Oblivious to the fact you had an effect so strong on him. The womanly sway of your hips was evident, even under all your skirts.

It took Clark all of his self control to not act on his impulses. The halls of the castle were dark and lonely. All the footmen were sleeping, and Catherine had retreated too.

When the heavy door of your chambers came into view, Clark felt the bitter taste of your “goodnight”and impending doom on his tongue.

You turned to him. “I shall bid you goodnight then, my Knight.”

One corner of Clark’s seductive mouth jerked up. “I will keep watch while you ready yourself for sleep, my Princess.” You did not answer, too scared of a cracking, whimpering voice to emerge from the sound of his protective tone.

And there Clark stood like a dutiful knight, breathing still heavy and deep, his hand itching and burning from your chest and the delicacy of your heartbeat.

Tonight was the night, you were sure of it. You felt the churning desire in your stomach and between your legs. Your pinnacle was waiting for you. You did not even bother to store away your corset and chemise, too eager to crawl under the sheets and left them on the cold bedroom floor.

With utmost precision and desire, you let your hair down, changed into your most wonderful nightgown made of your finest baby blue China silk, the exact same colour as Clark’s eyes. Clark, who was still stood right outside your chamber doors, suspected nothing, but he was the least of your concerns. Your godforsaken pinnacle was here!

You were quick to settle under your thick sheets, made of imported pashmina. You felt your heart thrumming not only in your chest, but oh, down there too.

Almost instinctively, you closed your eyes. Your head lay messily on your pillow, and you were almost writhing in need and desire. Your breathing turned laboured and heavy, slow and deep.

The pain, the faint pleasure in your stomach became unbearable. Your hand travelled down to your lower stomach, and you pushed down gently, trying to ease the fire, the floaty feeling deep inside of you. That only increased the building pressure. It felt like you were about to have a heart attack. You scooted up and down your mattress like a puppy in heat, hopelessly trying to soothe your hunger.

Knight Clark’s deep voice when he spoke to you. His thick forearms, his precise fingers. His pink mouth. His thighs, he was so much bigger and stronger than you. He could easily overpower you, but he chose to be noble and serve his duty as a meager knight—

Once again, your thighs automatically fell open. And like the female intuition that Catherine told you about, you knew what you had to do when you pushed two digits — again, your middle finger and ring finger — into your hot mouth to wet them.

On instinct and quite not fast enough to your liking, you brought them back to your core. It felt like your pussy was calling out his name with every heavy, thumping pulse. Clark. Clark. Clark.

Your mouth fell open in ecstasy when you found yourself wet and ready. With every second, your breathing became heavier, louder.

And nothing like the first time, your fingers slid home, like a calling, with a wet, squelching noise. Female intuition really did exist, you thought. The sensation felt weird, but soothing. Your heartbeat sped up, and you felt the innate urge to make noise— which was unusual, because a princess never draws unnecessary attention to herself.

You tried, oh, you tried to stifle your pathetic mewls and whimpers from escaping into the dark night. You bit down your lower lip harshly. No one could know what the prim and proper princess was doing at night.

His voice— what would Clark tell you to do in this situation? Would he watch you like a deer caught in headlights, or would he want to help you out, like a respectable knight? He was so kind to you. So, so, so kind. He would tell you to take care of yourself, to not be so stern with yourself.

The rhythm of your fingers inside you sped up and became more frantic, and your thumb found refuge on a tiny button that aroused a million more emotions within you. It felt like waves were crashing inside your stomach.  

That was the moment you could not keep quiet any longer. The pleasure became too much. Too floaty and fluttery, and you did not know what to do with yourself. At this point, your nightgown had ridden up, resting just below the swell of your bosom. You felt exposed to yourself, in the best way possible. You really felt like the epitome of a woman, and not like a princess: alluring, confident, thrill-seeking.

Your thumb kept rolling unending circles to your clit, and the desperation that coursed through your veins caused you to hum and whimper. Loud. It felt like you were almost there, almost at the top of the mountain, the peak of bliss and sensuality.

Deep inside, you kept imagining Clark’s thick fingers digging at your entrance. His warm hands on your bare hips, his mouth to your neck. What he would tell you, to “keep still”. The way the honorific word of “my Princess” fell from his lips made your muscled hole clench tighter around your now sticky fingers.

Just a little bit longer. The wet noise of your fingers sliding into your pussy was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Mixed with your shy yet vulgar moans, it constituted the perfect recipe to reach your pinnacle, at last.

The hallway was cold and dark. Clark swore he could smell your scent lingering in the air, as he waited to hear the rustle of your sheets that indicated you were safely in bed.

He waited and waited. Yearned and craved. More of your touch, more of you. He still was not over the warm feeling of your bosom. What had granted you the confidence to do that? And he had harmed you, under his supervision. You fell over, because of him. Clark was so upset at himself. He was a bad knight for allowing that to happen.

Tomorrow he would bid you a personal apology, he decided. He would do anything to make clear his Princess his first priority. Forever and always, now and in the future. Until death decided to capture him in the throes of inferno for treating his Princess in this fashion.

Clark pulled his cravat loose in despair and agony.

Knight Clark was absolutely overcome, deep in thought about you and the deserved apology we would give you, until he heard a sharp moan from behind the mahogany doors.

Clark waited a second. Then another. The moans kept emerging. They sounded frustrated, painful and a bit wistful in his ears.

You had lied to him about being unaffected, Clark was sure of it. You were in pain. Unable to make another faulty choice, he wasted no time in briskly opening the heavy doors with all his might, and walking into your personal space, eyes and mind set in determination and concern.

“Princess?” He murmured out without thinking, voice small and affected. But what he saw was not what he expected.

You, squirming under the blankets on your bed, eyes shut and eyebrows scrunched up in pleasure. Consistent, steady “ah— ah— ah—“’s fell from your heavenly lips, almost if you were panting in lust. Your hand, the same hand that had grabbed Clark’s, to hold it to your chest, was dipped under the white sheets.

Clark could make out the faint motions of your arm under the blanket, and it dawned upon him that he knew exactly what was happening. What you were doing. The impropriety of the situation gnawed like a broken promise at his back.

He clutched his cravat between his fingers, like an anchor to keep him safe and settled. Blood rushed further down south, and a sense of appetite swallowed him. “Princess?” The noiret tried again, voice strained.

That caught your attention. Your eyes peeled open, though still hooded, your fingers still moving inside you and noises kept falling out of your mouth in broken whines. Your breaths got deeper, and it felt like you were dying in elation when you saw the one and only person that could satisfy your cravings standing in front of you.

“Ah— Clark, it does not w- work,” you whimpered pathetically inbetween heavy breaths, mouth open in a perfect O, “it does not work— I am broken. It feels so good, but I can not reach—”

You dug your head deeper into your pillow at the fiery, blazen expression on Clark‘s face. “Help me, my Kn— Ah—” His eyes were pure sin and silk, cracked open in astonishment, and he could feel his dick harden under his trousers at the sight of you. He swallowed before saying, “what does not work, princess? I can assure you, you are not broken.”

The knight before you had a knowing, devilish, filthy and slow smile on his face. He took one step toward you, toward the bed, and it felt like you were right on the edge of your great undoing. The constant stimulation of your fingers worked in tandem with the object of your desires in front of your eyes.

Sweat pooled in the dip of your collarbones, and your pinnacle felt closer than ever. Within reach. You looked like an angel to Clark, your hair cascading like waves over your pillowcase.

All of a sudden, the look in Clark’s eyes — sensitive, squeamish and nervous — turned into something else. More confident, smug, secure and certain.

“Let me help you, my Princess,” the knight suggested, calmly leaning over you, with your digits still penetrating yourself underneath the sheets where no one could see. Clark shoved away the delicate fabric that covered your open thighs, and without looking, he settled between them with the quiet confidence of a... rake, almost.

It was safe to say you were in shock, but the chase to your high was more important at the moment. “Or better yet, let me show you.” Clark corrected himself. His balmy hand slid all the way down, to where your fingers were stuffed in your puffy hole.

Clark’s much bigger hand clasped around yours, pulling your fingers out with a filthy, smooth glide. They were sticky and slimy with your desperate juices. It felt like your heart would leap out of your chest, the way he studied your digits for a long moment.

What he did next astounded you. He closed his full lips around the two fingers, lapping up all the slick that came out of you, never breaking eye contact in the process. You released a couple of high-pitched mewls at the way the look in his eyes had an obscenely different nuance to them.

Because here you were, in your bed, the Princess, vulnerably open and at the mercy of a knight. You felt the waves of pleasure slowly dissipate, again replaced by heat not only in your pussy, but also your stomach and cheeks.

The sight of Clark the perfect knight's tongue swirling around your fingers maddened you. Without any thought, Clark’s lips freed your fingers from his suction, and he hoisted himself higher up so that he was face to face with you. And without thinking, he slotted his soft lips around yours. His hand was still clasped around yours, and the touch of his hand around yours alone was enough to make you dizzy in the head.

You moaned into his mouth, finally feeling the touch you had been craving, the relaxation from your daily busy programme as a princess. And soon enough, you felt Clark slide down all the way, leaving little kisses and licks on your ribs and bare stomach in the process. His experienced hands caressed you thoroughly, and the rough slide of his nose against your skin felt almost ticklish. Clark looked feral.

Your hips jerked at his warm breath on your bare flesh, but Clark was quick to lay his weighty arm over your stomach to keep you still. Eventually, his face lined up with your warm pussy. He carefully examined you, and you felt more open and vulnerable than ever.

“Need to work you open, Princess.” It sounded like a threat and promise in one. The compassionate nature that resided within Clark immediately spotted the flare of your nostrils, and the slight uptick in your heart rate, and he pressed a tiny kiss to the inside of your thigh.

 “’S why you’re not enjoyin’ yet, sweetheart,” he crooned lovingly at you. “Just say the word, and I’ll quit.” Another kiss to your other thigh. You took notice of how his words had become slurred and shortened, as if he were revealing a different side of him to you. You felt same filthy smile spread against your skin.

The throb between your thighs demanded immediate attention. “Pl— please, Clark, show me.” And he wasted no time in giving you a small lick, just over your palpitating hole. His nose prodded at your clit in maddening precision, and you felt your back arch on instinct, like a perfect bow at the initial contact of his mouth on you.

His warm hand caressed the fat of your belly, the fat of the underside of your thighs, and your hands found purchase in his dark, damp hair. At this point, the languid licks of his tongue made you see stars. The sounds — the moans, whimpers of his name — were sure, loud, obscene.

The veins in his corded forearm bulged at the strength he held you with. You looked at the way Clark’s jaw worked, as if he were taking small sips of his favourite drink, small mouthfuls of ecstasy. Your arousal shyly dripped out of you, coating the inside of your thighs and Clark’s chin as he ate you open.

“’S sweet and warm, sweetheart,” the knight mumbled between short flicks of his tongue on your clit, “best pussy I’ve ever tasted.” At this point, Clark was moaning too, and you felt like he was enjoying this more than you. Like he was talking to himself instead of you.

“I know, Ah— Clark— I—” You shoved your fingers into his hair, shamelessly grinding on his tongue. “It’s for you, just for you.” This was everything you had dreamed of, and you felt the waves of pleasure become tighter, like a knot.

You felt a big finger bluntly prodding at your entrance. It reminded you of the first time you tried to pleasure yourself, when you just shoved them inside. But now, when you were so wet and ready, lost in the throes of passion, Clark’s digit slid right in with ease. “Look at that—” Clark mused, more to himself. “So polite f’r me.”

You did not answer him. The press of his larger body on yours was overwhelming in the best way possible, completely caging you in, and it made you forget you were supposed to be behaving like royalty. “Y’want my tongue too, Princess? Inside your pretty little hole?”

If you had to honest, you wanted it all. You did not see the way in which Clark rutted against the mattress to soothe himself, and you merely nodded. “Y-yes.” You breathed out, voice suddenly tiny and shy.

Clark’s tongue entered you, as if he had done it a million times before. And Clark himself, he was unable to believe it. The situation he found himself in. Your jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut, and Clark with swollen lips and stamina for days sounded like a beautiful duet of passion and ardency. “My Princess wants to be full of me. Fingers and tongue.”

Again, the echo of your sloppy pussy ringed in your ears, like a ceaseless memory. Most fine ladies in society would feel shameful to be pleasured by a knight, but you did not seem to be occupied by that fact.

The low passionate hums, slurpy sounds and hungry gruffs from Clark, the tickle of his hair against your thighs, and the delve of his tongue into your core, in and out, in and out, in and out, shaped the sweetest sense you had ever felt. The knot wound tighter and tighter with every dip of his finger, precisely grazing your walls and the spot that made you mewl a little louder.

This really was your great undoing. “Clark— I feel—” you cried out. Clark shushed you gently, momentarily deattaching his mouth from your core, just for a second. “Don’t. Just feel it, sweetheart. Allow yourself to feel it.”

You allowed yourself to drown out your thoughts, and only focus on the man between your legs. The man who hungrily lapped up your slick like a man starved, your sweet juices. His hums and moans vibrated through your cunt. The careful grasp of his large hands, his big nose gently bumping against your clit as he ate you out.

You felt special, and loved, and there was no place you would rather be than here, with Knight Clark between your legs. “I— O-oh.”

This was it. Your pinnacle. Reaching your pinnacle, to be exact. Your back leaped off the mattress, baby hairs sticking to your forehead and lips red and swollen from biting them too often.

“Give it to me,” Clark encouraged you, his thick fingers still buried deep inside of you to ride out your orgasm. You felt like a supernatural creature, the way your tight hole kept fluttering and contracting around Clark and kept leaking out more clear, white slickness. “You look perfect when you come undone for me, dearest.”

Unnecessary mewls escaped your lips at the newfound petname. You did not know you liked that. And the tension in your shoulders was suddenly gone when the last waves of pleasure streamed out of you. You were so out of breath, but felt like a new woman altogether. Lighter, in your heart and head.

“I will clean you up at once, sweetheart.” Clark reached up to you again. He was so close to you, noses touching. You never let anyone too close, and Clark is a first. His blue eyes flick towards your lips, and before you know it, he tilted his head and pulled you in a searing, toe-curling kiss. You tasted your own essence on his tongue.

You did not mind.

You did not concern yourself with Clark’s urges. You were soon to be the Queen, after all. You did not have the time to occupy yourself with unneeded affairs.

Clark had returned from the washroom, a fluffy damp rag in hand. “Did you enjoy it, my Princess?” He asked, kneeling down to clean you up. You were still sensitive, and you had the urge to scoot away from the pressure between your legs.

“I certainly did.” You told him, suddenly shy and ladylike, nose in the air, unable to look into his blue eyes.

“Very well then,” Clark spoke. He was awkward as well, carefully pulling down your expensive blue nightgown you put on earlier that night. “Now, I shall bid you sweet dreams.”

And before you knew it, he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips, as if he planned on doing it. Hastily, he blew out the lone candle on your bedside table and left you alone.

You lay in the dark staring up at the ceiling, satisfied and happy. You still felt the roll of Clark’s tongue working your cunt, and the stretch of your core ached sweetly under the sheets.

You laughed to yourself.

A pinnacle is worth reaching.

a/n: holy shit that was cringe but anyway, a couple of things i want to say: i didnt know how to end this, so sorry if the end was quite abrupt, i tried to write it super bridgerton-esque but i think i failed. do you guys think this needs another part, where they have like a secret relationship and a bit more yearning (since this was quite rushed)?

i also have something coming up for my steve rogers girlies/fans, so if you want to read that, make sure to follow me!! ♡

[doinggreat]

Bad Bunny - Super Bowl LX Halftime Show (February 8th, 2026)

[vianawaits]

When She Sees Me

Summary: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play cupid.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4.8k

Content Warning: Fluff, Cursing, (kind of) grumpy/sunshine, insecure Jason at the beginning, second person, no use of y/n

A/N: This is for this request, i hope it lived up to the expectations :) As always I hope you enjoy my lovelies <333

•───────•°•✶•°•───────•

“Dick, cut it out. I already told you no.”

“C’mon, just one date- that’s all I’m asking.” He carelessly throws his hands in the air. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Jason swore that if the former circus act opened his mouth one more time that he was going to make him wish that he fell off that trapeze with his parents.

Dick had spent the past two weeks trying to set him up on a date with you. Every single time he saw Jason on patrol, he’d harass him about it. The gymnast had taken you to the charity gala Bruce held a little under a month ago, as friends.

You caught his eye the moment you walked in, you were impossible to ignore. There was radiance in your figure that rivaled the sun’s. The way your eyes lit up the whole room lit a match in Jason that had been extinguished years ago. Your laugh was a melody that Jason would spend years learning the notes to, in a pitiful attempt to replicate. Anytime you were dragged from one conversation to another with a Gotham Elite, the room parted for you like a sea that Jason would drown in if he was given the chance.

Jason has been taken by you from the moment your heels clicked on the pale marble floor. Being the pathetic loser he is, he steered clear of you the whole night. Dick had introduced you to the whole family, except him. He got too worked up in his mind, fearing he’d stumble over his words or worse,

You’d see him.

He didn’t think he’d be able to handle the expression of horror that would inevitably cross your face when you saw the scars painting a history on his face he’d be cursed to remember.

The looks always came, there were days he felt like he was a walking car crash. The wandering eyes always roamed his face, his body, at the question where the pain came from. Some asked about it, and some tried to hide the concern behind empty small talk and glances when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. It stopped bothering him years ago, those people never mattered to him. So, he wasn’t sure why he was so anxious now. Why all of a sudden, all the old feelings he’d buried under packs of cigarettes came up at the sight of a girl at a gala.

He thought he had disguised the way his heart fluttered every time you looked in his direction better than he actually did. He hadn’t noticed the youngest bat in the corner of the ballroom observing the way his shoulders tensed when your eyes floated over the sea of guests. The way the pink flush drowned Jason’s face when your eyes met with a small smile. The way his grip tightened around the stem of the crystal champagne glass.

Damian saw all of it.

He approached Jason and ridiculed him for not being able to approach you. He tried to push his stubborn older brother in your direction. Told him to get over himself and just introduce himself. When Jason planted himself on the floor of the ballroom like a tree, he told him he was pathetic. He brushed him off, but Damian didn’t stop there. Being the annoying eleven-year-old that he was, he went and told Dick all about his minor attraction to you.

That’s how he finds himself in the cave at one in the morning after a particularly long patrol, fending off another attack. Dick’s voice echoed off the stone walls of the cave with a slight tease, solidifying Jason’s fate to be forever doomed as a little brother.

“I just don’t want to.”

His explanations were short and simple every time, never revealing more than was necessary.

Unfortunately for everyone, Bruce had managed to pass down his infuriating behavior of bottling emotions to his second son. While Bruce hid his emotions behind a carefully guarded mask and uneasy looks, Jason hid his behind a pack of cigarettes and a poorly executed bad boy persona.

He too lived by the mantra that it was easier to push people away, easier to be alone.  

He couldn’t explain to him how the idea of going on a date for the first time since… everything, made him want to throw up. He couldn’t explain how the idea of letting someone in again made him want to pack his bags and go to one of the safe houses he kept from Bruce. How the idea of a dinner with a girl who was everything good in the world threatened him with hope.

Hope he couldn’t afford.

Jason had heard about you over the years, existing in the same circle. Dancing around each other but never together. It was the only good thing that came from Dick’s incapability of shutting up. Jason was half convinced that Dick just enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He heard stories about you, seen pictures that Dick had posted on his social media. You were mutuals, but that was as far as he had let himself go.

He could handle decapitating someone, he could wash the blood of his hands and eat dinner afterward. He could invoke a fear that lingered in the nightmares of the worst bastards in the city he was raised in. But going out with a girl who brought out the sun on the cloudiest days, was what petrified the Red Hood.

“Jason come on,” Dick was practically whining now. “Just give me one reason why you don’t want to.” 

He wasn’t going to let this go, was he?

Dick was, tragically, the pushiest motherfucker on the planet. He knew what he wanted and very rarely failed at getting it.

“Dick for the last time, I just don’t want to.” Jason leveled his brother a look that was as deadly as he had once been, silently begging him to drop it.

But Dick, not being able to take any of his little brothers seriously, just smiled at him. It didn’t matter how grown each of them were, it didn’t matter that Jason was now taller than him. Every time Dick looked at him, he only ever saw the freckled face and the smile with missing teeth of the little boy Jason had once been. The little brother who used to have faith in the world. The little brother he would go to hell and back for. The little brother he would do anything to see one more time.

Dick opened his mouth probably to annoy Jason for the millionth time, when a voice cuts in from across the cave.

“Don’t want to what?”

Tim emerged from the shadows behind the batcomputer. He was in a pair of grey sweatpants and a black long-sleeved shirt that was too big for him. The shirt hung off his frame in a way that made him look sickly, his hair damp and plastered on his forehead. There was a redbull in his hand that he took a sip from, with a raised eyebrow while walking toward the pair.  

“Todd is refusing Grayson’s pathetic attempt at finding him a partner.” Damian announced from where he was training with Bruce in the middle of the cave.

Jason hadn’t realized that the whole family had been eavesdropping on Dick playing cupid. He shouldn’t have been surprised really, Dick announced everything he said with a level of importance that his words usually lacked. He couldn’t handle not being the center of attention, Jason supposed he had the circus to thank for that.

“Ohhhh” Tim drew out the vowel with a level of understanding. “This is about the girl Dick brought to the gala right?”

Jason scoffed and crossed his arm, a small reflex he had developed as protection. The arms pressing against his chest creating another layer against the world. He was building a cage for the fragile heart that was beating too quickly. The extra blood his body was pumping right now migrated to his face, tinting it to a color eerily similar to the hood he branded himself with.

He turned his gaze to his youngest brother with an irritation so biblical, it was one only brothers could bring it out.

“Son of a Bitch,” Jason grumbled under his breath closing his eyes for a moment before accusing him. “Did you tell everyone about this?”

“Your affections were obvious. I merely confirmed what everyone knew.” Damian stuck his nose in the air, refusing to admit he did anything wrong.

“Jason,” Bruce started out carefully. “There’s no shame in liking someone. I’ve spoken with her a few times. This could be a good place to start-”

“Bruce oh my God, stop.” Jason shook his head, frazzled. “The last thing I want is relationship advice from you.”

Bruce’s previously softened gaze disappeared. His lips pressed into each other forming a thin line. There was a guilt suddenly weighing on his shoulders from producing a son as emotionally constipated as him.

Dick, sensing the tension creeping in through the cracks of the stone floor, opened his mouth again.

“Jason, really. What’s the worst that could happen? It doesn’t go well and you never see her again?”

Jason just stared at him. He didn’t know if he could admit the source of all his fears. He didn’t want to name it, didn’t want to make it real. If he kept it in his head and heart, he could ignore it. It’d be something that he deals with sometimes and buries with the mountains of bodies he has in his closet.

“I-”

“And don’t say you don’t want to again.” Dick puts a finger up, pointing at him. “Give me an actual reason.”

Jason closed his mouth and saw the eyes of the rest of the family on him. Even Alfred, who had been lingering in the back with a tray of finger food for everyone, had found his gaze on the former boy wonder. He ran a hand through the white tuft on his hair, pulling it slightly to try and find the words he couldn’t form.

“She could see me.” Jason finally said. The words came out awkward and quiet. There was a weird pause in between each of the words, like they didn’t fit in his mouth.

“Dude, I hate to be the one to break this to you. But if that’s what you’re scared of, then you’re kind of fucked.” Tim looked at him barely hiding his expression of disbelief. “She’s already seen you, she knows what you look like.”

“Barbara told me that she told her that she thinks you’re hot.” Dick rushed out in a genuine attempt to comfort him, trying to drown out Tim’s unhelpful words. “So, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Dick knew that wasn’t what he actually meant, but he was going to play dumb. He wasn’t going to give Jason the easy way out of this one. He was going to make him do the unthinkable, he was going to make Jason Todd talk about his feelings.

Jason gave him an exasperated look with sweat spilling from his forehead. He knew Dick knew what he meant, but he sat there with an open expression and a guiding smile. He was trying to coax the words out of him, giving him a safe space with the prying eyes of his family.

“You know that’s not what I meant” Jason’s eyes narrow.

“Then explain it to me, I’m not a mind reader ya know.”

Jason threw his head back and his eyes fell upon the roof. All the bats that the cave was home to were asleep. They were gone to a more peaceful world that couldn’t even begin to comprehend the horrors Jason had seen and experienced in this one. He envied them sometimes, wishing he could live isolated by himself with no one to bother him.

“Dick, I- just look at me.” He finally tears his eyes from the roof, and his eyes meet his older brother’s again. His arms outstretch in front of him as if he was putting himself on display at an auction that no one would bid on. “I-, I’m,” He was stuttering, he couldn’t figure out how to word it.

How did he explain that he was a monster. He had killed. He had been killed. Who was going to want to get entangled with that mess? Who would want to put up with this level of disaster? He couldn’t impose this life on anyone else. He couldn’t drag anyone else down this hole, especially not you.

“I’m not exactly a star candidate.” Jason avoided everyone’s eyes and his fell upon the old Robin suit across the cave. The reminder of who he used to be bleeding into the failure he became. “She’s only going to be disappointed.”

“You don’t know that, Jason.” Dick’s expression softened.

Jason hated when he did that, when he shifted from annoying older brother to someone he could trust. Someone he could love. He couldn’t explain what it was exactly that shifted in his demeanor that opened the flood gates. He didn’t know if it was the way his eyebrows creased with a level of sympathy he didn’t deserve, or the way his shoulders slumped dropping the playful act, or the way he had a small trusting smile making him feel safer than any safe house he could run to. It was infuriating how easily Dick could lower anyone’s walls.

“If you really don’t want to, I’ll let it go. I’ll tell her you’re not looking right now. But I think there’s a small part of you that wants this.” Every word he was saying slowly peeled back the layers of protection Jason had been guarding as if they were life or death. He had never felt so disarmed, so naked. “And it’s okay to want this, Jason.”

“Is it?” He couldn’t help but ask, looking around at the faces of the rest of his family. Vulnerable in a way he had never allowed himself to be in front of them. Exposed in a way he had never dreamed of letting them see. “When she finds out about everything, when she finds out what I am, she’s going to run. She’s going to turn around and leave me with the fact that I’ve given myself away to get it given back.” He huffs almost cynically while passing his fingers through his hair for the millionth time. “And the worst part is, I won’t even be able to blame her for it.”

Jason wasn’t looking at anyone but Dick while talking. He can imagine that most of their faces fell along with his.

Dick who regretted everything that happened with Jason when they were younger. Dick who wasn’t the best brother to him. Dick who wasn’t there for him, like he was for the others. He never paid that much attention to him. He had been so tied up in his own emotions, his own feelings toward Bruce, that he abandoned Jason. He left him alone in this house, and it killed him. He never forgave himself for that, so he vowed to himself to never abandon another Robin. Trying to do for them what he couldn’t do for Jason: showing them the ropes, giving them tips and tricks he never had. Now, watching the self-deprecation clawing at his little brother’s throat made him want to call Wally and force him to take Dick and travel back in time. He wanted to rewrite the story and rescue him. To hug the version of Jason that would let himself be hugged. He wanted so desperately to save him from himself, to save him from the nightmare he called home.

He never intended to dig up old trauma by bothering Jason about the date. He wanted him to be happy. He had lived so much of his life as a shell of who he once was after the resurrection. No one blamed him for it, no one could even begin to imagine what it must be like to go through that. To watch the countdown to your death, to die scared and alone.

Dick only ever wanted him to be happy.

So, when Damian came up to him after the Gala saying that he had a crush on you, he was ecstatic. Jason hadn’t had a crush since high school. Dick was also privy to some information that you were down bad for his brother. He had to do something for Jason, and he thought this was the best opportunity. He had to start somewhere after all; there were years of being a horrible brother to make up for.

“She could also stay, Jason.” Dick offered him, the rest of the cave silent as he threw him a bone. “She could like who you are, help you come out of hiding.” He paused holding the fragile eye contact, scared that if it broke all the progress he made would dissipate. “I’m not going to force you to go on the date, but I want you to think about it. A date doesn’t have to mean marriage. It can just mean trying again, and you owe it to yourself to try”

Jason sighed to himself. He was the one who finally broke eye contact with his older brother. He dragged his calloused hand down the length of his face. Tonight had been tiring enough as it was after patrols, adding all the emotions he allowed himself to confront and talk about only added to the exhaustion. He wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion or the small hope that bloomed in his chest that made him agree, but he looked back at Dick and nodded.

“Alright, I’ll think about it.”

•───────•°•✶•°•───────•

It had been three days since that conversation when you got a call from Dick. It was a quarter past noon, and you were on your lunch break. You had chosen to walk the two blocks to the small pizza shop near your office when you feel the familiar buzz in your pant pocket.

Pulling out the phone, you see the name of your best friend light up the screen and your eyes narrow slightly at it. You love Dick with your whole heart, but a call from him was nothing short of rare. Hearing from Dick before one or two in the afternoon was even rarer. His sleep schedule was so messed up you were half convinced he was nocturnal.

The call and time of day was concerning for you, if Dick Grayson was calling you that meant the world was ending tomorrow. If Dick was calling you before one, the world was ending now. Your thumb hesitates slightly before sliding the green call button across the bottom of your screen and bringing the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello, my beautiful best friend!” Immediately, you’re put off. He’s way too enthusiastic for it to be a Wednesday afternoon. “What are you doing Friday night?”

“Nothing… Why?” There’s a questioning edge in your tone as you side eye the phone.

“I have the most spectacular news!”

“What did you do?” The question is immediate with suspicion prominent in your tone. He was up to something, and when Dick Grayson was up to something, it was rarely good.

“Have you so little faith in me?” He was always one with a flair for dramatics. There’s a small sigh he adds to the act, and you can’t help the eye roll. “You’re going to owe me big time after this.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve made your biggest dream come true.” He says so sure of himself that you scoff.

“I didn’t know you convinced Harry Styles to finally release Medicine. How’d you do it?”

He groans your name as if you’re personally responsible for the pain in his side.

“No, but seriously what did you do?” There’s a slight hesitation in the small laugh you give him as an opening.

“I have scored you a date with the one and only Jason Todd.”

You misstep on the sidewalk hearing the name. A quick stumble before recovering and freezing on the cement.

There was no way.

There was actually no way that Dick had got you a date with the guy you’d been crushing on for the past two years.

“What?” He hears the disbelief in your tone and laughs, like he’d been expecting this reaction.

“Yes ma’am. I have gotten you a date with my brother.”

“Wait-” You’re still standing still on the sidewalk and even though he can’t see you, your free hand flies up motioning for him to stop. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you like him….” He phrases it like a question, similar to when a child sounds overly confident with their take on a situation and then realizes they may be misinformed.

Your face turns bright red and are suddenly eternally grateful that you weren’t having this conversation in person.

“H-How do you know that?” Alarm bells start ringing between your ears. You hadn’t been that obvious had you? There was only a handful of people who know about your quiet crush on Jason.

“Well I called Barbara the other night-” You groan and hit your palm on your forehead. You knew telling her would be risky, they’d all known each other since they were kids, but she promised she wouldn’t say anything.You knew exactly who you were calling after you hung up with Dick “… when I told her that Jason thought you were pretty she got sup-”

“Jason thinks I’m pretty?” You cut him off not caring for the rest of the sentence.

“Well duh,” he responds as if the answer was painfully obvious, as if you’d asked him if the sky was blue. “What kind of question is that? You are pretty.” There’s a sincerity in his voice that sounds so innocent it leads to a genuine smile creeping onto your face.

“But anyway,” he goes to rerail the conversation back on to his initial mission. “I’ve got it all planned out for you. Friday at 8:30, I’ll send you the address. Don’t be late!”

“I-” You didn’t get the chance to say anything before he hung up on you.

You hold your phone to your ear for another second, then bring it to your chest. It was cringy and possibly a little cliché, but you cradle the phone against your heart. Nothing could bring you down from this high.

No annoying boss. No incompetent coworkers. No pestering call from your mother.

Because you lived in a world where you had a date with Jason Todd.

A world where Jason Todd thinks you’re pretty.

•───────•°•✶•°•───────•

08:28 p.m.

The time on your phone screen mocks you while you wait outside the bowling alley.

Of-fucking-course that would be the type of date Dick Grayson planned. You should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. The moment Dick told you that he would send you and Jason a time and place to meet you should’ve prepared for the worst.

You’re standing at the neon lit entrance shuffling your weight from foot to foot, when you start fiddling with the charm on your necklace. Glancing at the families and groups passing by you suddenly hear steps that echo heavier than the normal persons. Recognizing the steps you’d learn to anticipate at Dick’s family reunions, you turn your head to see your date walking toward you.

It was frustrating how good he looked. He was lit up by the flickering streetlights that lined the streets of downtown. He was dressed in a pair of jeans that might have existed since the dawn of time and a plain red hoodie with a giant leather jacket layered over it. His broad shoulders were slouched almost as if he was trying to shrink into himself and become as small as possible. The hands you’d caught yourself staring at too often are shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket. The cool breeze that lingered in Gotham’s darkest nights is blowing through his hair, as if nature itself came to witness the unbelievable story of Red Hood on a date.

He was an anxious bundle of nerves for the past two days. After agreeing to this, he almost instantly regretted it. Jason hadn’t let himself want anything like this since the resurrection; he was too broken, too haunted, too cursed. Yet somehow, Dick had managed to get through to him, managed to break down the labyrinth of walls he’d built to protect himself.

It’s just a date; he kept repeating to himself. It was just one date. He can survive this.

He thought once he saw you that all the anxiety from the past week was going to bubble over and make him explode, but it was actually the opposite. When his eyes met yours and you had that warm smile you were never seen without, the anxiety fizzled out. There was a warmth that blossomed in his chest melting away all his fears.

He watched you raise your hand and shyly wave at him. Taking in your body language, he could sense that you were nervous too. Your uneasiness comforted him a little, the anxiety stringing you both together made this almost normal. Like he wasn’t just some pathetic mess of a man trying to go on a date with a girl who was way out of his league.

“Hey!” The simple word paired with your honeyed voice evaporated all his concern.

Offering his best attempt at a smile, he realized it came out awkward at best. He raised his hand to mirror the shy wave and gave out a small “Hi.”

“You’re early” You mentally face palm. Why was that the first thing you said? God, why were you so awkward?

“So are you.” He sounds relaxed but his motions betray him. His right-hand flies out from his pocket to the back of his neck to scratch it absentmindedly and pull at the hair on the nape of his neck.

“Yeah, well Dick had this whole thing of not being late because of the time slot I guess.” If you laughed awkwardly one more time, you swore you were going to sew your lips shut in the bathroom.

“Yeah…” Jason sighed looked at the dimly lit bowling alley with dread. “I can’t believe I let him talk me into letting him plan this.”

“Why?” A teasing smile finds its way onto your face as you try to relax or be semi-normal about this. “Is someone bad at bowling?”

“Bad is…” he pauses for a moment pondering his word choice. “…generous”

“Well, you know what they say about bad bowlers” You attempt the sly joke to revive his confidence.

“What do they say?”

A snort escapes you while walking past him to go inside. When you realize he isn’t following, you turn your head to look at him over your shoulder. The creases on his forehead caused by a single eyebrow raise expressed his genuine confusion at the joke. His mouth was parted slightly while trying to piece together the universally acknowledged truth about bad bowlers, a truth he seemed to be left out of.

“You really don’t know?” Heat begins to rise to your face, realizing you were going to have to explain this to him.

“Should I?” There’s a playful hint in his voice that’s trying to hide the embarrassment of confusion.

“Um, Well-” you laugh and swallow nervously. Your eyes start darting around to see if any other lingering soul would want to intervene and explain this to him. “It’s just a joke that guys who are bad at bowling are um-” you huff out some air and shake your hands to see if he’d get the hint. He doesn’t.

“Good in bed.” You finish the explanation for him.

Now it was your turn to scratch the back of your neck and pull your hair. Fingers twirling around the hair at the nape of your neck, hoping he wouldn’t think you were too crude to joke about this straight off the bat.

“Oh-” his face had turned beet red, and his mouth had made the shape of the vowel he’d just repeated.

The expression on his face made all your flustered feelings disappear. You started laughing so hard your hand flew to your mouth to try and hide it so he wouldn’t feel too embarrassed.

And in that moment for the first time in years, while Jason stood in front of this horrifically lit bowing alley listening to you laugh so openly; the clouds parted and the sun shone on him in the form of a girl he’d spend the rest of his life trying to deserve.

•───────•°•✶•°•───────•

A/N: I had a 3 hour drive last week and “when he sees me” from waitress came on and inspiration struck lol

[strawberry-nugget]

Heart-Shaped Box

Jason believes distance is mercy. That leaving is kinder than staying. That if he keeps moving, the damage can’t follow. But destiny isn’t kind, especially when the city keeps forcing you two into the same spaces.

Tags/CW: MDNI, angst, hurt/comfort, ex situationship!Jason, civilian reader, exes to ???, unresolved feelings, mutual pining but its miserable, a man who yearns is a man who earns, eventual smut, (part 1 of 3)

Jason could swear on his condemned soul that he isn't weird. Neither a stalker. Your neighbourhood isn't in his patrol routes—it never even was. Your old job isn’t either, avoided like a crime scene. He has no way of seeing you anymore, avoids it at all costs. 

Ever since you parted ways he learned early that distance is the only thing he’s ever been good at maintaining.

He hasn’t seen you in months.

Hasn’t wanted to.

Except..

Except for that red light in November; Late afternoon, sky doing that washed-out orange thing from where it touches the ocean’s horizon, like it’s embarrassed to still be daylight. 

He’d been on his bike, cruising the boulevard that crosses Cherry Hill beach. Visor down, brain static-heavy from a job gone sideways. He stopped at the light, drumming his fingers against the handlebar, already halfway gone—and there you were.

Riding in the passenger seat of a car. Laughing at something the driver —someone he instantly recognised as your friend—said, head tipped back, sunlight catching your profile like it had been waiting just for that moment. You hadn’t seen him at first. Couldn't have. Helmet, tinted visor, just another guy on a bike at a red light.

But the way he kept staring made you look.

You had frozen in your very seat for seconds, and he could read your lips as you had told your friend: ‘that’s Jason’. Then she had looked as well, a gaze of shock to match with yours, but he was gone the moment the light turned green.

One harmless coincidence. One ghost sighting. No meaning attached.

He hadn’t followed the car when the light turned green.

He swears.

However that doesn’t mean he hadn’t gone into a spiral that night; checking to see if you had blocked him again on instagram after that instance he accidentally requested to follow you while checking your page after his break uo with Isabel.

Luckily, he remains unblocked to this day.

But Jason doesn’t check.

Jason doesn’t bother with you anymore, because you’ve been apart for almost as long as you two had been involved with each other. Because he had eventually chosen to get a girlfriend, try to see how life would have been if he was with someone who wasn’t equally broken as he is. However vain that must sound, he only ever searched for a piece of normalcy.

A soft pair of hands to place his bleeding heart into.

So Jason doesn’t miss you. 

He doesn’t miss your temper. He doesn’t miss the nights you’d send each other texts back and forth until 5am in the morning. It should have never been his place to comfort you anyway.

Your heart is similar in bleeding as his. Not a good match, if you ask him.

He doesn’t miss the way you’d tell him your favorite piece of media is pride and prejudice because he never allowed you the knowledge that he thinks the same of it.

He never wanted you to know how much you have in common.

And he definitely doesn’t miss the way you’d listen to Tchaikovsky in the morning while making breakfast. Although, he did kind of love to watch you fake ballet dancing.

But Jason has erased the image from his head, completely. He swears he doesn’t remember what your face even looks like.

Except…

Except for the way coincidence keeps testing him like it’s got a sick sense of humor.

Jason runs into you again on a Tuesday evening that smells like wet concrete and cheap takeout. He knows because the city always smells like something trying to be forgotten, and tonight it’s lo mein and rain. He’s halfway down the block on the way to a new safehouse, helmet clipped to his belt, jacket unzipped, brain already shifting gears from Red Hood to civilian who absolutely does not spiral over ghosts—

—and then he sees you again.

You’re coming out of a squat little studio wedged between a nail salon and a place that sells nothing but religious candles, rosaries and busted phone chargers. The sign above the door flickers, BEGINNERS BALLET – ALL AGES WELCOME, one letter permanently burnt out like it gave up believing in itself halfway through the decade since it has obviously been constructed in the 80s.

Jason slows before he means to.

You’ve got your hair pulled back, messy but intentional, the kind of bun that says you tried but practice got the best of you. He remembers a time where your hair was too short to be put up in a bun—when you’d complained about it sticking to your neck in the summer and he’d offered, very helpfully, to shave it all off, while laughing at your pouting.

Now, your hair is in a braided bun and there’s a canvas tote slung over your shoulder, ballet shoes dangling from your fingers by their elastic ribbons. You're fumbling with your phone while fixing the strap of the bag every two seconds, eyes flickering in the door of the studio as if you’re waiting for someone to come out but you’re also in a rush.

You stretch slightly and his gaze flickers from your head to your toes repeatedly. A Napapijri jacket is zipped up right onto your neck, black tights, grey leg warmers that disappear into your Nike shoes.

Your cheeks are glowy, eyes bright in that post-exertion way that hits him square in the chest, hard and unfair. 

Ballet.

Of course.

Because the universe never does subtle. 

There had been endless nights that you’d cry in his arms about childhood trauma. One of them being how your mother told six-year-old you that you were too tall, too thick, too something to start ballet—never admitting it was money, never giving you something tangible to be angry at. Just letting it rot into your bones as shame for the way you were built.

Jason remembers suggesting classes once, carefully casual. How you’d laughed it off, shied away and said it was too late now, you were too old, that ballet only mattered if you started young enough to suffer correctly and professionally. You’d said it like a joke, but your hands had curled tight in his shirt.

Now, he is witnessing you giving yourself a chance.

You don’t see him, of course. Why would you? He’s just another guy on the sidewalk, hood up, scars half-hidden, doing a decent impression of someone who belongs nowhere in particular.

Jason swears he isn’t following you. Hasn’t been.

But when your friend comes outside and says something about going on a dinner date “she’s picking me up right fucking now what the hell I’m so excited!?” He finds himself walking across the sidewalk and two cars behind you as you are heading to the subway, just in case.

It’s because you’re wearing headphones while walking at night in Gotham, he tells himself. He’s going to stop dead on his tracks when you enter the station, for sure.

But when you turn toward the subway entrance, he turns too.

The station breathes up heat and metal, stale air curling around you both. You swipe your card, hop the turnstile with tired familiarity—oh, you finally got a subway car instead of using tickets—Jason hangs back just long enough to make it feel like a choice, not a compulsion.

He tells himself, if you look back and see him,  it’s fine. Coincidence. Same line, same time. Gotham runs on overlapping lives; this is just math.

The train roars in, wind whipping your hair loose at the edges of your bun. You step inside, grabbing a pole, until you find a seat to tuck yourself in, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. Jason boards two doors down.

He doesn’t look at you all the time.

He looks at the floor, at the ad peeling off the wall, at your worn copy of pride and prejudice that you’ve shoved your face into, at the reflection in the window that fractures everyone into blurry ghosts anyway.

Still, he knows when you sit down and he knows where you get off.

He knows when you slip your pointe shoes into your tote after making a face of surprise as you realise you’re still holding them. It’s the subtle way your shoulders sag now that the adrenaline’s gone. He knows because he always knew the way your body carried exhaustion—like you fought it politely until it won.

The train lurches forward.

Jason tells himself he’ll get off at the next stop. Or the one after that. He tells himself this means nothing, that people are allowed to exist in the same spaces without it becoming a sin.

But then you glance up.

Your eyes meet his reflection in the glass.

Just for a second.

Not recognition—yet. Just that quiet, instinctive awareness you always had, like some part of you clocked him before your brain caught up. Jason’s chest tightens, breath stalling halfway in.

You look away first, like you don’t recognise him. Because neither of you look the same as you did when you first met. Or maybe like he’s a ghost too.

Then, when you look again, actually focusing your gaze at him and realise he’s real— you do a double take.

Jason sees it land all at once—the way your eyes sharpen, the way your spine goes rigid like someone pulled a wire straight through you. The double take is almost imperceptible, but he clocks it anyway. He always clocked you. And then there it is, unmistakable, blooming fast and ugly across your face.

Fear.

Not the startled kind. Not the oh shit, stranger on the train that’s following you kind.

The old kind.

The kind that remembers.

Jason’s stomach drops.

Because somewhere in there, he knows you’re right. Even if he’s never given you a reason to be afraid of him. Not once. He was the one you fell asleep against during bad movies. The one who stood between you and the world when it got loud. The one who learned which nightmares to wake you from and which ones to let you ride out.

So why now?

The answer hits him a second later, sharp and merciless.

You don’t see Jason.

You see what comes after him.

You see what loving him cost. 

It costs him running away, with his mind already set on an escape route away from you. For there hasn't been an instance where Jason has ever felt he deserved the unconditional love you wanted to give him despite not knowing a second thing about him.

It took you two and half years to muster the courage to tell him you love —loved— him and he ran off the same instance.

It makes sense that you’re upset to see him so close to you.

But is your heart beating as fast as his is right now? He wonders if the feeling’s still there in you, no matter the egotistical unfairness of the thought.

Your gaze flicks down nervously—his jacket, the bulk of him, the scars he never managed to sand down enough to look normal. You’re cataloguing exits, distances, threat vectors. He recognizes the math because he taught it to you without ever meaning to. Nights you waited up. Sirens outside the window. Blood you pretended not to notice.

You aren’t afraid he’ll hurt you.

You’re afraid he’ll pull you back in even by greeting him.

Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach.

Doesn’t even breathe right for a second, like if he stays perfectly still you won’t spook. He just raises his brows slightly, praying his expression is softer to your eyes.

The train rattles on, metal screaming against metal, the city doing its best to drown out everything important.

You look away again, this time deliberately. Shoulders drawn in. Chin down. Your book is still open but you aren’t reading—it’s just a shield now, something to put between you and the past walking around in a worn leather jacket.

That hurts worse than the fear did.

Jason gulp.

He tells himself, for the thousandth time, to get off. Right now. Next stop, no hesitation. This was never supposed to be a reunion, never supposed to be anything at all. He was just making sure you got to the subway safe. That’s it. Mission accomplished. End scene.

But then the train slows twice as many times.

Your stop, at last.

He knows it the way he knows the weight of a gun in his hand, the way he knows when a fight’s about to turn. You stand too quickly, bag slipping, ballet shoes nearly tumbling out again. Your hands shake just enough to piss him off—not at you, never at you, but at the world that taught you to be afraid of shadows shaped like him.

You step toward the doors in his direction, obviously set on trying to prove to him you can and will ignore him.

Jason’s body moves before his brain clears it.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Not loud enough for the whole car. Not sharp. Just—Jason. The same voice that used to say your name like it mattered through late nights.

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn.

Up close, the fear falters. Not gone—but confused now, clashing with recognition, with memory, with the inconvenient fact that he’s looking at you like you’re real and not a mistake.

Your eyes glimmer, watery and void of anything. You scrunch your nose along with your upper lip —Jason knows your face feels hot— as your mind screams in past embarrassment. 

Both of you remember your last exchange of texts, like a stuttering breath in freezing air or underwater.

You

it’s my fault I put up with all of this then, just because I love you and I don’t want to lose you

Jason

you’re on your own on this one

“Hi” you mutter. Inaudible and just under your breath.

Jason feels it hit him square in the ribs, like something small and fragile thrown with shaking hands. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t smile. He just… takes it, like he deserves the impact more than any bullet.

Your face does that thing again like it always does when you were trying not to cry—nose scrunched repeatedly, upper lip tight, eyes shutting for a beat but stubbornly empty when you open them. He knows that heat in your cheeks because he’s seen it bloom before, in bathrooms and kitchens and hallways and wrinkly bedsheets where apologies went to die.

God.

That last exchange flashes between the two of you again and again like muscle memory.

He could apologise. But he won’t. He doesn’t deserve it anymore.

He’d typed it cold. Defensive. Already half gone. He’d convinced himself distance would hurt less than staying and bleeding slow. He hadn’t accounted for the way words fossilize.

Because apologies don’t get to be reflexes. Not now. Not when you look like this.

The doors to your stop slam shut and the train hums around you, indifferent. Someone coughs. Someone laughs too loud. Despite you missing your stop the city keeps moving on like it always does when something important is trying to happen.

“I didn’t expect this,” he says instead. “To.. uh.. see you.”

You try to speak his name. It doesn’t come out. What comes out is “yeah… I’m sorry”

But there’s nothing you need to apologise for.

Jason knows it the second the words leave your mouth—thin, automatic, like you’re still trained to take the blame just to keep the peace. It makes something ugly twist in his chest.

“Hey,” he says, firmer this time. Not sharp. Just enough to stop you from shrinking. “No. Don’t.”

You blink at him, confused, like you’re waiting for the rest of the sentence. Like you expect him to explain what ‘don’t’ means in a way that somehow still makes this your fault.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he adds, quieter. More careful. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

The train keeps rattling forward, dragging you both past the point of easy exits. You can feel it now—that subtle wrongness in your gut as the realization settles. You missed your stop. You were supposed to be waking home by now, warming water for a shower, hair down, thinking about dinner, not standing under fluorescent lights with the person who knows how to break you open by accident.

“That was my stop,” you murmur, more to yourself than him.

Jason nods. “Yeah. I know.”

He hesitates, jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact. “Next one’s not bad. I’ll—” he gestures vaguely. “I can walk you back.”

There it is. The offer.

Not a demand. Not a claim. Just Jason, defaulting to protection because it’s the only language he’s ever been fluent in.

You study him again. Carefully. He looks… tired. Not in the physical way—somewhat deeper. Hollow eyes and chapped lips.

“You don’t have to,” you say automatically, shaking your head.

“I know,” he replies. “I—uhm, I’d want to.”

That lands differently.

Silence stretches between you, thick with all the things you never said. The last fight. The last text. The way you’d stared at your phone afterward, waiting for the three dots to come back like a heartbeat restarting, before you blocked him.

You've obsessively wished for a moment like this for the last two years. Over and over again. In shooting starts, dandelions, birthday candles, lashes fallen on your cheeks, the moon, your pillow every night.

Until you stopped believing he’d come back.

The thought settles heavy in your chest, a quiet kind of devastation. Not sharp. Not loud. Just the ache of something you buried carefully so it wouldn’t rot you from the inside out.

The train rocks, slowing as it pulls into the next station. The announcement crackles overhead, distorted and late, like it doesn’t even know where it is. Jason shifts his weight, hands flexing at his sides like he’s holding himself together by habit alone.

You realize, dimly, that this is the closest you’ve been to him in two years.

Two years of learning how to sleep without the weight of his arm across your ribs. Two years of unlearning the sound of his boots in the hallway, the way your name used to feel safe in his mouth. Two years of telling yourself that wanting him back didn’t make you weak—just human.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Jason says suddenly.

You stiffen. Of course.

The train lurches forward again, carrying you both deeper into the neon of a city that doesn’t care about almosts or maybes.

“Which part?” you ask, because humor is safer than hope.

“All of it,” he answers. No hesitation. No qualifiers. “I was scared and I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair.”

Jason exhales, long and shaky. “I don’t expect anything from you,” he says. “I don’t get to. But if walking you back is all I can do—just tonight—I’d like to do that right.”

You look at him for a long moment and sigh like you've already made up your mind with a choice.

It’s not a full apology. Not yet. But it’s the truth, stripped down and bleeding at the edges.

The train slows again.

Next stop.

Jason glances toward the doors, then back to you. “If you want me to get off here and pretend this didn’t happen, I will.”

He means it. That’s the worst part.

“But,” he continues, voice low, “if you want to talk—just walk, not fix anything—I can do that too.”

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

A/N: hi, this was so self ship coded and based on true events that it makes me want to disappear. But alas, I really hoped you like it since it’s the first part of a miniseries hehehe

Remember to reblog and comment if you like this. My responses will be slow until Monday but I’ll be back to reply to everyone then!

Taglist: @starfiremylove @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @fanggq @cassiecasluciluce @tigerf-cker @cowboysaveme @osclerc @whosmev @mochiclouds @vanillacici

[obriy]

[kassy-djomunson]

that’s my husband

[dollpunk444]

my catholic guilt is screaming at me for wanting this but i NEED priest!jason todd

FATHER

thank you for a yummy yummy request nonnie :3 [and for giving me an excuse to write this nastiness]

summary ⤷ father jason crawled out of his grave years ago. now, he's a man of faith. that is, until he sees you.

pairing ⤷ jason todd/fem!reader

cw ⤷ smut, discussion of sex, angst, priest kink, sacrilegious shit, blasphemy, light praise kink, light corruption kink, masturbation, religious/catholic guilt, pathetic jason todd, strangely tender, jason todd is unfortunately in love AND horny (two things he is Not supposed to be!), kinda coquette!reader, light corruption kink, confessional booth sex, virgin!reader & jason, bible scripture, religious imagery

wc ⤷ 5.2k (plot got my ass)

link ⤷ ao3

Jason was reformed, saved, reborn. He had clawed his way out of his own grave. There was no explanation for the sudden breath of life he was given. None, but by an act of god. He remembered his life before the Joker. He remembered bruises and scrapes that healed quickly on his adolescent skin. He remembers a father, a mother, and another father after that. He remembers the bright yellow and green he once donned, recalls the feeling of pride. When he lay motionless over the turned dirt of his grave, he could only remember the name Robin. When the cemetery keeper found him, he helped him into the house on the grounds, a hobbled cabin where the groundskeeper lived. It was a private church, and a catholic one. The man rarely spoke, only to ask him what happened. Jason, as the man had called him, could only remember the darkness. It felt fuzzy and strange, being dead. And then there was a sudden pain, and a moment later, his nails were digging into the wood of his own coffin. 

The man did not tend to Jason for long. He took him to the church, left him with a rosary, and Jason never saw him again. He never returned to his own grave, which was once his eternal resting place. No, he could barely stomach it. Little by little, as his days at the church carried on, things came back to him. Everyone at the parish walked timidly around him, as if a slight breeze might send him pummeling to the ground. But he was getting stronger, and the only thing tethering him to this world was Sunday mass. 

The smell of incense and the ringing of bells became his only reprieve from the onslaught of nightmares he had as the months passed. They had given him a small room with a small bed, but Jason spent most nights curled up like a stray dog on the rough carpet of the altar. He was a humble worshipper by day, and a mess of scars and horrors by night. The only solace was sleeping at the foot of the crucifix of God. 

The parishioners were kind to him. They could’ve kicked him back out on the street, but instead, they made him an altar boy. He helped with communion and attended catholic school every day. With every prayer, every bent knee, he felt a strange sense of gratitude bloom in his body. It stemmed from the darkness of his heart, lighting it up with a newfound hope. Perhaps, he considered one night, knelt beside his bed, the linen sheets lit only by a single candle, perhaps my life was a gift from god, and not a curse. Maybe he had been given a second chance, not as a punishment, but as a miracle. 

He worked at the Sunday school until twenty-five, when he became a priest. With each passing night and day spent with people seeking to better themselves, Jason’s heart softened, healed. Yet, there was a brokenness lingering within himself, every moment tainted with the knowledge of what he used to be—a fighter, a rebel, a criminal. He stole and fought, and for that, a lingering resentment buried itself deep in his bones. But the routine of mass and prayer eased the ache most days. 

It wasn’t until he met you that the past’s ugly head came rearing to. He was no longer a sinner, of that he was sure. He was reformed, ordained, and holy. He preached and taught and fed the hungry—both those starving by mind and body. He had confessed his many sins, and God had mercifully forgiven him. He had dedicated his life to the holy word, and that was the best he could do. Until you. 

You, so shy and sweet. You began attending church in Jason’s third year as priest. You floated down the aisle to receive communion like an angel bestowed on the parish, on him. Your confessions were so precious and innocent. “I accidentally killed a spider yesterday,” you had confessed once, through muffled cries which Jason could hear through the partition. You were a divine being, he was sure. Perhaps a fallen star or a sacred spirit who got lost on the way to heaven, and found herself kneeling in Jason’s pews three times a week. 

His gaze found yours during every sermon, and your wide eyes and frilly dresses made his heart pinch. You were adorable and pure, like a newborn lamb. 

His innocent interest in you was hardly noticed by anyone, not even Jason himself. He admired your dedication to god, your understanding of scripture, and your careful demeanor. You were a holy thing, and he appreciated you as any child of god would. He didn’t think a thing of it until you began waiting after mass for him. It started simple enough; you had lingered after the final prayer and song to introduce yourself to him. You had attended his church for a few weeks, and he hadn’t known your name. It was the polite thing to do. He shook your hand warmly and welcomed you to the parish with a gentle smile, which had made your cheeks tinge pink. 

The second time you waited for him was to ask about any volunteer opportunities the church might have. He told you about the community garden, which was mostly still a work in progress, but one that Jason was passionate about. You had eagerly agreed to help him with it, and after that, he saw you every Friday evening. 

He forwent his robes and collar when working out in the field behind the church, and was pleased to find you dressed down, too. You had shown up the first day with overalls and a simple white, flowing undershirt, and wasted no time in helping him water freshly planted tomatoes and pluck blooming sprigs of rosemary. Your outfits followed a similar pattern as the weeks went on.

“Have you ever had one of those rosaries made of real rose petals?” you asked him curiously one day, kneeling next to where he was pulling weeds. He looked up at you, squinting against the sun, which lit up your hair and surrounded you as if you were a gilded icon. He lost his words for a few moments, and only snapped back to reality when you murmured, “Father?” 

He cleared his throat and turned back to the weeds. “I haven’t, no.”

“I make them,” you admitted shyly. 

“You do?” You nodded bashfully. “That’s wonderful. Is it difficult?”

You shrugged. “My grandmother taught me. Feels like second nature now.” 

He hummed thoughtfully, smiling down at the ground. You were a sweetheart. “Maybe next week you can bring one by, and let me have a look,” he suggested, standing up. “Maybe I'll bless it for you,” he teased. 

You blushed so prettily before reaching into the front pocket of your overalls. Last week, they had ripped a bit in the side, and this week, a patch of floral cloth had been sewn over the tear. You produced a deep reddish-pink string of beads, held together by gold links. “Actually, Father, I made this. For you.” 

He stared for a long moment, unable to help the grin that tugged at his lips. He took it gently from your hands, ignoring the spark of electricity he felt as his fingers brushed yours. He was terrified to be holding the rosary. It felt so fragile and sacred. It was made by you, by your hands. 

When he said nothing, you began to ramble, a nervous habit he had noticed you had. “I used darker petals for it, and gold. Usually, I use pink roses and silver, since it's more traditional. Well, the silver is more traditional, I just like the pink. But you like the color red, don’t you? And the cross you wear is gold, too. Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed; if you don’t like it, I can—” he cut you off by taking your hand. You clamped your mouth shut dutifully without him even having to tell you to. You were so good at following instructions, you usually anticipated what he might ask of you. 

“It’s beautiful,” he said soothingly, brushing his thumb over the ridges of your knuckles. He draped the rosary over your head, pulling your hair out of the way as he did so, until the beads rested around your delicate neck. He took the golden cross in his palm and began his prayer. "Let us pray. O God, by whose word all things are made holy, pour out Your blessing on this object.” He turned the cross over and noticed your name etched into the back. He barely caught his breath enough to go on. “Grant that whoever uses it in accordance with Your will and Your law may experience by Your power health of body and protection of soul, as he invokes Your most holy name.” Your eyes didn’t leave his, and despite how his focus was meant to be on the rosary, he didn’t let his eyes stray from yours either. It was as if he were blessing you. “Through Christ our Lord. Amen"

“Amen,” you echoed softly. 

“You wear this,” he explained, setting the cross down at the center of your chest, letting it slip from his grasp. “You think of me when you pray. The colors are mine, and the blessing is yours.”

You nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide. You hand cupped the cross in your palm, the metal warmed by Jason’s touch. “Thank you, Father,” you breathed. 

A bolt of something sharp rattled Jason’s insides, the feeling foreign but heady, “And you give me one of your pretty pink ones, okay?” he asked. “That way I’ll never forget who made it for me.” He brought the golden cross to his lips, pressing into it like a twisted kiss. “Who brought me such a kind gift.” 

“Of course, Father,” you replied, grinning up at him, lashes long and fluttering. 

His dreams that night were filled with the sweet scent of roses and thyme. The drape of your hair down your back and the curve of your mouth tormented him, leaving him sweaty and frustrated come morning. As he blinked against the early sun streaming in through the curtains, that electric feeling coursed through his body. It spread hot and alive through each limb and settled low in his stomach. His breath came fast and desperate as he turned over to shove his face into his pillow. The heat swirling through his veins was unbearable. His hips pitched forward, and a whine tore itself from his throat. He must be ill. 

But as his body continued to seek out the mind-numbing friction of his crotch against the mattress, it dawned on him what this feeling was. Lust. The sensation was making his head spin, and he pushed away from the mattress like he’d been burned. He wanted you. His sleep pants strained against his growing desire, brought upon him by the force of the lucifer himself. Something wicked within him had twisted your kind smiles and pure nature into something sensual, something that left him gasping with need. 

He kneeled beside his bed like he did every morning, asking God for strength. Not the strength to serve his community or teach the parish. Strength to fight this heat boiling his insides. 

His sermon went on like usual, but with the caveat that his eyes, which once sought yours out, now avoided you altogether. When he’d seen you kneeling in the second row just before communion, his heart had palpitated painfully in his chest. You were wearing a soft white dress, and the dark red of the rosary around your neck stood out like a brand. His brand. He kept his eyes down. 

After mass, you waited patiently by the altar, kneeling on the steps and praying like a saint. Your dress rode up just above your knee, and Jason was about to dismiss you when you caught his eye and smiled brightly. “Good evening, Father,” you greeted softly. Your voice was like a balm. You presented a rosary. A pink one. It would match perfectly with your little dress, and stand out like a sore thumb against his black robes. He swallowed. “This is for you,” you explained, holding it out to him. 

He took it, his hands shaking just slightly. He could smell the rose wafting off of it, off of you. You must wear perfume. He nodded dumbly, twirling the beads around his fist. It matched the puckered scars he knew littered his body. It was as if you could see right through him. 

“Keep it in a case if you want the rose smell to last,” you advised with a small wink, surely meant to make him laugh. It made his face go hot instead. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. You beamed. 

“Of course, Father. Thank you for… making me feel so at home. I was scared when I first came here.” Jason’s brows furrowed at that, the duel between good and evil within his wretched mind being briefly forgotten at the prospect of your discomfort. 

“Why’s that?” 

You shifted nervously. “Well… I– I just, I was just a little intimidated. I hadn’t gone to Mass since I was little. But you’re so lovely, it’s made everything easier. I know I’m not perfect, but–”

“You’re a saint.” 

You blinked and met his gaze, lips parted with surprise. “Father, I–”

“You’re wonderful. You have nothing to worry about. God is lucky to have you kneeling at his altar,” he explained, resisting the overwhelming urge to take your hand in his. 

Your eyes grew a little teary, and you gave him a sad smile. “I have sinned, Father.”

“We have all sinned,” he conceded. “Would you like to confess?” 

Your eyes darted to the confession booth, and you blushed. “It’s late.” 

Jason smiled, took a deep breath, and with a hand on your lower back, guided you over to the room. “I can’t leave you with guilt on your conscience. I don’t mind spending a little extra time here in the chapel.” 

You smiled timidly, your shoulders slouching with a release of tension. “Thank you so much, Father,” you gushed, stepping into your side of the booth. He closed the door and went to his side of the confessional. He sat down, held his breath for a beat, then let all the air out of his lungs. Perhaps it was a fluke. Desire is fickle, and maybe the stress of his days simply got to him. You were a pure little thing, and he would never dream about defiling you (even though he already had). He was a good man; he dedicated himself to God. 

But the smell of you overtook every inch of the confessional, and Jason was having trouble breathing. 

“Father,” you began, your voice shaking lightly. “Bless me, for I have sinned. I wish to confess. It has been two weeks since my last confession.” 

“Tell me,” he urged. 

You were silent for a long moment before he heard you shift in your seat. “Father, I… I have been having thoughts. Impure thoughts. And I don’t know how to make them stop.” Your voice was low and despairing, and Jason felt heat rise in his face. 

“How are these thoughts impure?” 

“They… Father, I can’t—” he heard a small thunk, and when you spoke again, your voice was muffled, like you’d put your head down. “I can’t do this, Father Todd, I’m sorry.” You sounded broken. 

He searched for the right words. He had never heard you like this before, sounding so distraught. “God… God cannot forgive you if you do not confess,” he reminded softly. He heard a small groan come from beyond the partition, and he smiled, shaking his head. “You’re a good woman. I will not judge you, and neither will god.” 

“I just… I have been thinking about—a… about sex,” you whispered. Jason blinked, his vision blurring around the edges. 

“Sex?” 

“Yes, Father.” You continued, your words rushed and quiet. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I think the devil has planted a seed within my mind. At night, it’s all I see.” 

Jason shifted in his seat, suddenly very aware of the hardness growing in his slacks. This was wrong. But you needed to confess, and this was his duty. “Tell me about these visions,” he implored, trying to keep his voice even. 

“I see… I just wanted to feel it. I’ve never done it. I will wait for marriage, but I want it now. I’ve never wanted it before. There must be something wrong with me,” you concluded, your words trailing off into a whine. He could hear you crying, plagued with the sin of desire. His heart clenched. 

In a moment, he was out of his room and tugging the door of your booth open. 

“Father?” you asked, surprised by his sudden appearance. He fell to his knees before you, as if he were praying at the altar. 

“Don’t cry,” he soothed, cupping your cheek, tears smearing against his palm. You were sobbing in a moment, sinking to the floor and into his warm embrace. He wrapped his arms around you and stroked your hair. “That’s it, sweet thing. It’s okay. God forgives you.”

“I need help, Father,” you whimpered, pulling away. Your cheeks and nose were flushed pink, and your eyes were glassy as you looked up at him. “I’ve prayed so much, asking for His guidance, His help. For strength. Yet my thoughts won’t stop. I even—” you cut yourself off with a sniff, your eyes downcast. “You what?” he pressed. 

“I touched myself,” you whispered. God’s own will wasn’t strong enough to keep Jason’s thoughts from spiralling. The idea of you in your pretty church dresses, sliding your hand into your panties, and trying to relieve yourself… It was enough to drive him mad. 

Jason kept you close, pressed your face into his chest, his hand resting on the back of your head. “He will forgive,” he panted, trying to keep himself in line, trying to focus on anything but the warmth of your body against him. It was fruitless. You were curled into him, your breath heavy against his neck. The room felt like it was a million degrees. “It won’t help,” you wept. “I can’t make it stop. Even now, I feel it.” 

He pulled back, meeting your red-rimmed gaze. Even now, you felt it?

“I need someone else, Father. I don’t know how long I can resist this temptation.” 

He was silent for a long while, watching as you wiped your damp cheeks and refused to meet his eye. This was wrong. But maybe this was God's plan. Maybe he was supposed to help you. It can’t be a sin if a vessel of god does it, can it? Jason caught your chin and tilted your face up to his. “I can help you.”

“You can?”

He nodded slowly. “Just this once.” Your brows pinched in confusion. “I’ll let you give in to this temptation just once. It will make it better.”

Your mouth gaped. “But, Father… Then you’ll sin, too.” 

He clenched his jaw. “I already have. I will confess tomorrow, and you will confess to me.” You nodded distractedly as you watched Jason undo the buttons of his vestments. You were practically salivating as he tugged off his chasuble. “You can say no. But I will do everything to try and help you.” 

You barely missed a beat before replying, “Please.” Jason wasted no time. He helped you back onto the bench of the confessional and stood across the small space, watching you. 

“Show me how you sinned.” 

Your cheeks were flushed, and your hair fell in your face as you hiked up your lacy church dress. “Yes, Father.” The rosary around your neck hung low. If your clothes were off, Jason bet it fell just below your navel. You had the cutest set of cotton shorts under your dress. You were so holy, so perfect. You were breathing hard as you slipped a hand into your underthings. 

“Where’d you learn to do this?” Jason asked breathlessly, eyes fixated on where your hand disappeared. 

“I, I woke up. From the dream, I was all wet down here. I didn’t know what else to do. It felt—feels good,” you explained, your wrist moving slowly. You were on display in front of him, your lips plump and your skirt bunched up at your waist. If Jason didn’t know you, he might think you were a demon sent to whittle down his will and faith with every rub of your fingers against yourself. 

“Has anyone ever touched you?”

You shook your head. “No, Father.”

“Keep it that way,” he warned, moving to crouch before you. His face was level with your cunt now, and he could make out a wet spot staining your white shorts. Christ, he was barely holding on. “Recite the Act of Contrition,” he instructed. 

“Oh–O my God,” you began, your breath coming in quick little bursts. “I am sorry for my sins. In choosing t’sin,” you slurred, your head lolling back as your fingers continued to work on yourself. “In choosing to sin, and failing to do good, I have sinned against you and your church.” You choked off with a sweet moan, which only made Jason’s resolve crumble quicker. “I–I firmly intended, with the help of your—God!”

“Your Son,” Jason corrected. “With the help of your Son. Keep going.” 

“With the help of your Son, to make up for my sins—aah, Father, I can’t, I–”

“Shh, yes, you can. Finish the prayer,” he demanded, wrapping both hands around your quivering thighs. His touch seemed to only push you closer to the edge, and Jason reveled in the feel of your hot skin against his. The smell of your sex mingled with the rose and made him dizzy. 

“A–and to love as I should,” you finished through a keen. 

“Now say Amen,” Jason reminded. 

“Father, I’m gonna–”

“Say Amen, and then you can come.”

One of your hands rested on his head, your fingers curling in the dark strands of his hair as you choked out, “A–amen.” The second the word left your lips, your body shuddered, and your breath caught in your throat. You were shaking and whining, and Jason could tell you had come. You had come in the booth of the confessional with your one hand buried in your cunt and the other tangled in your priest’s hair. 

“That’s it,” he soothed, drawing circles on your inner thigh, which trembled under his delicate touch. “So good, sweetheart, y’did so good for me.” You nodded mindlessly, your breath attempting to even itself out, your hand still clenching and unclenching in Jason’s hair. “Come on,” he starts, standing again, and helping you up. “Stand up for me—good, good job,” he praises. He takes your seat and guides you to perch on his lap, your back pressed snugly against your chest. 

“Father,” you breathe out, your head resting against his shoulder, eyes meeting his. 

“I know. I’ll help you, and then we can repent.”

“Okay, okay,” you murmur. 

Jason adjusts your legs to hang over his knees, your thighs spread obscenely wide. You’re a portrait of sin and temptation, and Jason is helpless against it. This is what’s right, he thinks over and over, but he knows it's not. He knows this is a grave sin, that he will be punished. But his hands move on their own, as if possessed, to cup you over your shorts, and then his hand is shoved down the front of your panties, and your back arches weakly against him at the new sensation. At the feeling of someone else touching you for the first time. Jason buries his face in the crook of your neck, eyes rolling back at the smell of your skin, the feel of how drenched you are against his fingers, and above all, how he is the only man to ever touch you like this. You’re such a sweet innocent thing, and you’re spread out on his lap, writhing against him as he plays with the slick bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. The desperate noises you make are heaven-sent, and Jason wants nothing more than to feel you all around him. As two fingers sink into you, he considers it, considers throwing his whole life away. You’re clenched tight, and everything is warm and heady and smells like the rosaries you made. How could this be a sin? It feels so good, having you on top of him like this, feeling you squirm and shake as he fucks his fingers in and out of you.

But it is a sin. Of course, it's a sin. This is the epitome of depravity—having you like this. He is selfish and gluttonous. He is ruining you, and it only makes his cock harder. You’re whimpering and pleading with him, and your broken, wanton moans only make him want to drag out this pleasure even longer. He’s damned. 

“Father, please,” you squeak as his thumb catches on your clit. Every shift of your hips presses the warmth of your body into his growing erection, and when you notice the hardness against your back, your whole body shivers. “I need you,” you pant. 

“I’m helping you, now,” Jason grits out. His self-control is dangling by a thread, splitting further as you grind back onto him purposefully now. Maybe he was wrong about you, maybe you are a child of the devil. Maybe you were sent here to drag him back to hell. You feel so good against him; he can’t even care. “My saint,” he curses as you clench harder around his fingers. 

“Oh god,” you sob, and a moment later, Jason’s hand is grabbing your chin. 

“Don’t say his name,” he grunts. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain while you sin,” he hisses, and it’s meant to remind you why he’s doing this to you, that this is for your confession, but instead of reminding you of that good, catholic faith you live by, it just makes you whine louder. 

“I’m sorry,” you cry, and Jason presses his lips against the soft curve of your jaw. 

“That’s alright. God will forgive you. Listen to me,” he instructs. “God, the Father of Mercies,” Jason recites, curling his fingers inside you, drawing another moan from your lips. “Through the death and resurrection of his Son, he has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins.”

“Father, it feels—”

“Feels good? Just keep feeling it, sweetheart, and let me absolve you,” Jason purrs. “Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace…” His hand is covered in your slick, the sound of your wetness deafening in the otherwise silent church. “...and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father,” he brings one hand to your forehead, brushing his knuckles against it lightly. “And of the Son,” he presses his palm against your heart.  “And of the Holy Spirit,” he says, tapping each shoulder. “Say it with me, okay?” 

“Amen,” you both echo. You shake apart a moment later, your cunt pulsing around his digits as they continue to lazily pump into you. Watching your climax roll over you from his knees was one thing—feeling every twitch of your body as you come apart on top of him is another. He’s so hard it hurts, and he’s trying to remember every prayer he knows to distract himself from the feel of you atop him. 

“Father,” you sigh, shifting your hips from side to side, trying to keep the aftershocks of your orgasm buzzing through you for just a bit longer. Touching yourself never felt this good. As you come back to yourself, you feel Jason’s breath hot on your neck. He’s begging for forgiveness even as he grinds you down harder onto him. 

“F– flee from sexual immorality,” he stutters, his cock leaking through his cassock as he continues to rut against you. “Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, God, b– but the sexual immoral…” Jason cuts himself off with a whine. “Please forgive me,” he pleads, over and over. “I’m sorry, God, forgive me. The sexually immoral person sins against his own body,” he whimpers. 

“Is that Corinthians?” you ask quietly, and your question is met with an anguished little groan from the man beneath you. His desperation is only making the fire inside you burn hotter. You want his hands on you again, want to feel him without the barrier of his robes. 

“Yes, sweet thing,” he pants. “Please, please, oh God, please for– forgive me,” he begs as he comes. The pleasure is blinding, and he holds you against him as he humps and humps, riding this foreign high for as long as possible. 

He’s not sure how much time passes before he hears your sweet voice calling out for him. “Father Todd? Are you okay?” 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

He feels you stiffen. Slowly, you slide off his lap. He’s ready to look and see disgust in your eyes, but when he dares to glance up, you look sad. “Do you regret it?”

He swallows hard. He’s your priest. He’s meant to be strong and understanding for you. He clears his throat. “No. I hope I helped you. That’s all I wanted.” He does his best to smile up at you, even as shame and longing fight for dominance in his mind. You take his hand and pull him up. He towers over you. Before he can say anything, you’ve wrapped yourself around him, face buried in his chest. 

“Thank you, Father,” you say earnestly. “I don’t think any other priest would be willing to sin like this just to help me.” 

He hesitates for a moment before giving in to your embrace, and he curls his arms around your shoulders. You’re so warm and sweet against him. The smell of arousal still lingers, but now he just wants to hold you. When was the last time someone held him this tenderly? The parishioners and fellow clergy men, even the nuns—they kept their distance from the boy who dug himself out of his grave. He remembers warmth from his other life, the embrace of a father. This is better—it’s more real. He has a thought similar to those he once had, when he was Robin—he would kill for you. The introspection startles him so badly that he gasps. You don’t get the chance to ask what’s wrong before he drops to his knees, bringing you with him. 

There are tears in his eyes as he fetches your pink rosary from his pocket and wraps it around his fist. In turn, you take his red one from your neck and mirror him, holding it in your hands. No words are exchanged as the two of you whisper invocations, still holding each other as close as possible. He ignores the way your usually pressed church dress is wrinkled, and you ignore the wet spot soaking through his robes. You just keep praying. 

a/n: this request and subsequent fic is so deeply self-indulgent that i almost feel bad for publishing it. my poor catholic heart couldn't just write smut, i had to make sure we all know how pathetic jason todd is first!!! this will probably be a multi-part series because this concept is soooooo yummy, but you can read this one all on its own!!! i hope you enjoyed ;)

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tags: @maeslynn, @probably-a-femcel, @starfiremylove, @thatxcgal

[vultbae]

out-charmed ✰

steve harrington x female reader

↳ summary: steve's mood has been horrible lately. while working his boring shift at the family video, he crashes into the most angelic, innocent girl he has ever seen. he's sure he has never wanted someone more, even more than any other bimbo he has ever hooked up with.

↳ warnings: explicit smut, dirty talk, corruption. lots of stuff.

↳ notes: not proof-read. I have no words.

word count: 10.8k

The fluorescent lights of Family Video buzzed with a low, persistent hum that sounded suspiciously like a dying wasp; it set Steve Harrington's teeth on edge. This was his personal purgatory.

Outside, Tuesday's humidity pressed against the windows in heavy waves. Inside, the air felt thick enough to chew, damp with the scent of old popcorn, industrial floor wax, and a musty undertone from decades of old VHS cases. In the back office, Keith, the annoying ass manager, sat behind a desk with the door ajar, tearing through a bag of Cheetos. Each crunch echoed like a distant gunshot, annoying Steve even more.

Steve stood alone in the Horror aisle, gripping a wobbling stack of The Evil Dead tapes. The cardboard spines crinkled under his fingers, red and black, blood-splashed, a woman's face frozen in a silent scream. He stared at that cover art as though it spoke directly to him, felt a spiritual kinship with the terror it depicted. He fucking hated this job. He hated the scratchy, unfashionable green vest strangling his chest, the way it clung to his sweat-slicked skin. Most of all, he hated how his life had capsized in the last six months.

He was supposed to be "The King" of Hawkins High, worshiped by status, cruising in his BMW convertible, in command of every hallway. Instead he was restocking dusty VHS tapes for minimum wage, while Nancy Wheeler roamed around town smooching with Jonathan Byers, the camera-click weirdo who stalked his ex–girlfriend from behind bushes. The thought of Jonathan Byers left a bitter tang in Steve's mouth, like he'd just swallowed battery acid. It made no damn sense. Nancy had abandoned his beautiful hair, nice car, and great status for a guy who wore flannel and photo-bombed squirrels.

In response, Steve had turned into a living fortress of cynicism. His once-fluid charm had ossified into jagged spikes of sarcasm. He was mean. He snapped at customers, brushed off Robin's entertaining chit-chat, and dated a rotating roster of bimbos he didn't care about—just to prove there was still something dangerous and untouchable under that perfect hair.

"Steve!" Robin's voice sliced through the quiet, coming from the front counter. "Stop glaring at inventory! If you melt the plastic with your frown, Keith's taking it out of your paycheck."

Steve clenched his jaw until his molars clicked. He didn't bother looking up. "Shut up, Robin! I'm working. Or I would be, if you'd stop barking orders across the store like a sea hag!"

"A fishwife?" Robin chuckled, leaning against the counter with a raised eyebrow. "That's a new one. Watched that in a movie you never rented?"

His chest tightened. "I'm going to kill her," he muttered under his breath.

Steve spun on his heel, the Evil Dead tapes tiled in his arms. He barreled down the aisle without looking ahead, every muscle braced for confrontation. 

Crash.

The impact was a solid thud, knocking the wind from his lungs. Tapes flew from his grip, boxes scattering and skittering across the floor in a thunder of plastic. A spine cracked off, flopping like a fallen bird. 

Steve's temper ignited, wildfire in his chest. "Jesus Christ! Watch where you're fucking—"

His insult died on his tongue. He froze, mid-snarl, his voice strangled off by a sudden absence of hostility. Because he wasn't looking at an overweight negligent kid ready for a shove. He was looking at an angel.

She lay on the floor, having tumbled backward among the wreckage of horror franchises. Her legs were splayed, one knee grazing a cassette labeled Evil Dead II. She wore a sundress of pale pink, its fabric soft and flowing around her calves. Her hair fell in gentle, natural manner. 

Then Steve's gaze dropped to the wreckage beside her: her glasses. One lens lay shattered, its cracks fanning out like spider legs. The slender wire frame was twisted at a grotesque angle. 

He stood there with his mouth half-open. The girl scrambled to her knees, but didn't scream. Didn't demand a manager. Instead, she looked up at him with a soft, devastated gasp.

"Oh my god," she breathed, voice ringing like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze. "I'm so, so sorry! I wasn't looking—I turned too fast and I didn't see you!"

Every defensive and asshole-y instinct dissolved in the warmth of her apology. He tried to form words. "I..." His brain had ground to a halt.

She reached forward, slender fingers trembling as she hovered over the scattered tapes. "Did I break them? Please tell me I didn't break them. I can pay for them. I'm so clumsy.."

The sight of her worry ripped something open inside him. Without thinking, he knelt down beside her, bringing himself to her level with a thud of denim-covered knees.

"No," he blurted, voice cracking and rising an octave. He cleared his throat violently. "It's... the tapes are fine. Plastic. Garbage. Total garbage. Don't worry about it."

His hand shot out at the same moment hers reached for a tape. Their fingers brushed. Her skin was warm and smooth, carrying a faint scent of vanilla and strawberries, a sublime, relieving contrast to the stale popcorn and waxed floor. 

She looked from the tape to his hand, then back up at his face, teeth nibbling her lower lip. "Are you sure? You look... angry. I didn't mean to make you angry. You were yelling so loud."

He swallowed hard, breath ragged. "I... I'm not mad." His chest fluttered with panic and something else, something like hope. "I'm Steve."

Oh god. "I'm Steve," he repeated in his head, mentally slapping himself. Real smooth, Harrington. 

The girl's lips curved in a gentle, apologetic smile that softened the panic in her eyes. "I'm Y/N."

"Y/N," he echoed, tasting the name on his tongue. It fit her, very delicate, beautiful.

Y/N glanced at the broken frames in her hand, guilt washing over her face. "Oh. My glasses."

Steve's gut wrenched. "I... I broke them. I stepped on them. I ran into you."

She shook her head, tucking her hair behind one ear. "No, no. It's my fault. I shouldn't have dropped them. And they were so ugly, I never liked wearing them." She squinted at him without her lenses, brow furrowing in earnest concern. "You look a bit blurry, Steve. But a very tall blur... with great hair, I think."

Her compliment, shrugged off so casually, sent a jolt through Steve's chest. He cleared his throat. "Right. Hair." He shifted awkwardly. "I—uh—can help with the titles. If you want. Since you can't see."

Her eyes lit up, radiant as sunrise. "Would you? That would be amazing. I'm looking for The Princess Bride. I promised my little sister we'd watch it tonight."

"Right, yes.. Princess Bride," he muttered, standing and offering her a hand. She placed her palm in his.. it felt small, trusting. He hauled her upright with a gentle tug. She stumbled forward, her chest brushing against his vest. A wave of strawberry-vanilla warmth surged through him again, and he had to step back, as if burned.

"It's over here," he said, voice tight, leading her to the Romance section. His steps were stiff, nervous as burning hell, heart hammering against his ribs. He pointed to a shelf lined with pastel-colored spines and frilly script. "Here."

She stepped close, attempting to read the label, then pressed the tape to her chest like a treasure. "Perfect," she sighed. "Thank you, Steve. You're a lifesaver."

She turned and drifted toward the front counter, her pink dress brushing the floor in whisper-soft folds. The bell above the door jingled a bright farewell, and then she was gone.

Steve remained rooted in the aisle for a full ten seconds, staring at the empty space where she'd stood. His mind raced. It felt as though a freight train had plowed through his chest, in the best possible way.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair.

He squared his shoulders and marched to the front. Robin stood at the register, ringing up Y/N's purchase. The girl was counting out change with a careful precision. Once the bell tinkled and Y/N stepped into the humid afternoon, Robin slowly turned and fixed Steve with a flat, knowing stare.

Steve collapsed against the counter, arms crossed, picking up a magazine as a feeble cover. "What?"

Robin pointed a pen at him like a rapier. "What was that?"

He flipped a page without reading it. "I was helping a customer. It's called customer service, Robin. Maybe you should try it sometime, might keep Keith from breathing down your neck."

"Customer service?" Robin's laugh was soft but mocking. "You looked like you were about to bust on the spot. You were stuttering—'I'm... Steve?' 'Right... hair?' Seriously, are you having a stroke?"

Heat blossomed in his ears. "I didn't stutter. She broke her glasses. I felt bad. That's all."

"Uh-huh," Robin said, leaning forward so her voice dropped to a conspiratorial hiss. "Last time you looked that sweaty and desperate, Nancy Wheeler was carrying a tray of tater tots across the cafeteria."

Nancy's name was like a slap to his face. His jaw snapped shut, mean-guy Steve crashing back in. "Shut up," he growled, yanking a pricing gun from the counter and slamming it down so the spring clicked. "Don't say her name."

Robin shrugged. "Just saying, for a guy who claims he's done with 'feelings' and 'romance,' you looked like a puppy who found a new owner. It was funny, Harrington."

"I said shut up, Robin!" Steve barked, jabbing a finger at her. "She's not my type. At all. Did you see what she was wearing? I would rather kill myself."

"Right," Robin said, rolling her eyes and swiveling back to the register. "The clothes. That's the problem. Maybe you should quit the bimbos and find someone a bit more.. genuine."

Steve glared at her retreating back, then couldn't resist a glance toward the door where Y/N had vanished into the afternoon haze.

He turned back to his work, ripping pricing labels off the roll with more force than required, each tear echoing the tingle still burning in his palm where she'd touched him. 

It hit him, thirty seconds late, just as he slapped the last sticker on a battered copy of The Exorcist: he'd broken her glasses. Steve Harrington, destroyer of eye wear, unapologetic meathead, had trampled some sweet, helpless girl's only way of seeing the goddamn world. And she hadn't even gotten mad. She apologized to him.

What the actual fuck was wrong with him.

He tossed the pricing gun onto the counter, sending it skittering into the register, and scanned the store for Robin. She was half-buried behind a cardboard standee for The Lost Boys, scribbling a crossword. 

He didn't slow, just pushed past her, mumbling, "Hold the fort," and sprinted for the door. The bell shrieked as he exploded onto the sidewalk, heat smacking him in the face, sweat instantly beading upon his forehead.

He caught sight of Y/N immediately, she was only halfway down the block, walking fast but definitely not in a straight line. The broken glasses swung from her hand, their bent arms splayed obscenely, and for a split second he saw himself from above, a total asshole, standing there, letting her walk away with the proof of his idiocy dangling from her fingers.

Robin's voice followed him out, thin and incredulous. "Dude, where are you—"

"Just, hold on!" Steve hollered, not looking back. He jogged, then full-on sprinted, sneakers slapping the hot sidewalk, lungs filling with the soupy, bug-thick air.

"Y/N!" he shouted, and she turned, hair catching on the static of her shoulders.

She smiled, the kind of smile that made his stomach go rigid, like bracing for a punch. "Hi again," Her voice was so gentle it made him anxious.

He took a step closer, then another, until he was well within her personal space, sweat leaking down the side of his face. He tried to remember the apology he'd rehearsed in his head, but the words jumbled together, heavy and awkward.

"Hey," he said, and winced at how breathless it sounded. "I'm sorry. About earlier, I mean..I ran you over, and then I broke your glasses, and you apologized to me, which is, like, insane. I mean, not that you're insane. It's just... You should be yelling at me, not being nice. I was a total jerk. I'm sorry."

Y/N opened her mouth to protest but Steve barreled on, the words tumbling out faster than he could shape them.

"Let me pay for your glasses. Or replace 'em. Or, like, whatever. You don't even have to let me, but if you want, I can do that—" He stopped, realizing he was babbling, and raked a wet hand through his hair. "Look, I can drive you to the mall or wherever you get new glasses, I can pay. Also, if you want, and it's completely up to you, I could take you out to dinner, like, as an apology, not that you'd want to spend more time with a guy who's already concussed you, but, uh—" He heard himself and wanted to die.

Y/N's head tilted, the way a bird's might: curious, gentle, maybe a little wary. She blinked at him, the world fuzzy behind the cracked lens she held up, and said, "Dinner?"

He nodded, too quickly. "If you want. Or lunch. Or coffee. Or nothing at all," he said, and realized with horror that he was being cringy as hell. "Just, yeah. Sorry."

Y/N held the broken glasses with both hands, her smile turning wry. "My mom is going to kill me. She says I break everything I touch." She shifted her weight, swaying a little in the sticky heat.

He groped for something, anything, to redeem himself. "Hey, you know what?" He reached into his back pocket, fished out a pen, and scrawled his number on the inside cover of her rental box. "If you need to call me about the glasses, or, you know, if you just want to prank call a jerk, that's my direct line. And—" He stopped, uncertain, then plunged ahead. "There's this party Friday? My friend's throwing it. Robin. The girl at the rental. She's actually not the worst, and her parties are kind of legendary, and if you want to go, you're invited. By me. I mean, by Robin too, but, uh, mostly by me."

She took the box from his hands, eyes squinting down at the large, blocky numbers. "Are you always like this?" she asked, a smile threading through her voice.

He grinned, self-deprecating because it was the only move he had left. "I'm trying not to be."

Y/N gave the faintest nod of approval, then tucked his number into the side pocket of her dress. She said, "Friday sounds good. If I don't trip and die before then."

"You won't. I'll make sure of it," he blurted, more earnest than he intended.

She laughed, a short, enthusiastic sound, then turned and walked away. She didn't look back, but Steve stayed locked on her silhouette, smacked by a sensation he refused to name.

Behind him, the bell over the Family Video door shrilled again; Robin leaned halfway out, arms folded, forehead shining with sweat and suspicion. "You good, Harrington?" she called, her tone full of mockery.

He wiped his palm on his vest and sauntered back toward the store, forcing a lopsided grin. "Totally good. Just, uh, customer appreciation. You know how it is."

Robin lifted both brows. "Is that what they're calling stalking now?" She retreated into the cool dimness of the store, letting the door wheeze shut behind her.

-

When he got home, Steve dumped his keys on the counter, grabbed a Budweiser from the fridge, and retreated to the couch, where he could commit himself fully to the task of hating himself. He sprawled, legs splayed, one arm thrown over his eyes. Every ten seconds, his brain replayed the moment in Family Video, like an especially cruel home movie, her voice, the way it had trembled around an apology, her smile when he handed her the tape, the goddamn way his hands wouldn't stop moving. He groaned and wedged the heel of his palm into his forehead. He was a lost cause. 

A little after eleven, just as he was deciding whether to risk another beer or just wallow in his own self-loathing until he passed out, the phone rang. The ancient cordless rang from its wall-mount by the kitchen.

He wiped his hand on his sweats, then grabbed the receiver. "Yeah, hello?"

A pause, soft static. "Um. Hi." 

He instantly straightened up, bracing his forearm against the counter's edge. "Y/N?"

A nervous little laugh, like she was holding her breath. "Sorry, it's late. Is this the right number?"

"Yeah.. yes, hey. It's Steve," he managed, catching his voice before it cracked. He could see himself in the dark panel of the microwave. He leaned into the counter, "You, uh, made it home okay?"

A deep breath on the other end. "Yeah. I just closed my eyes and pretended I was a bat. Bats can't see, but they don't bump into things. Except I did bump into three trash cans." She giggled, a tiny, delighted sound that seemed to ripple along the line. "But I found the front door, so it's a happy ending."

He had to grip the receiver tighter to keep from fidgeting. "Glad you survived."

On the other end, Y/N's breath shivered, like she was afraid to exhale in case it made a sound. "I'm calling because I wanted to... Well, I thought you deserved closure."

Steve blinked. "Closure?" He wasn't sure if she was mad at him or just had a dramatic way of phrasing things. Either way, it tied a knot in his stomach.

"Yes." A pause, then a rush of words: "I wanted to let you know I successfully watched The Princess Bride, and my little sister didn't even notice my glasses were broken, because she's seven and she thinks I'm Wonder Woman. Or Batgirl. Or... Do bats have a girl?" The words tumbled out, crowded together like they were jostling for the same seat.

Steve pressed the phone close, knuckles whitening and a ridiculously big smile peeking. "There's gotta be a Batgirl. Hang on, I'll check the encyclopedia." He heard himself and cringed. Encyclopedia? Like he was some kind of dad. "Or, uh, the next comic book section at the store. I'll let you know."

He could feel her smiling through the wire. "That's considerate," she said. "I'm just glad I didn't break your nose. My mom says if I ever do something like that, they should take away my library card."

He laughed, too loud, then muted it with a cough. He really wanted to ask what her mom would say about fucking an ex-prom king instead, but that sounded like a total HR violation, so he just said, "Glad your sister liked the movie."

"Yeah," Y/N replied. Her voice thinned, like she was backing away even as she talked. "I don't want to keep you, I just... well, never mind. I'm probably being nosy."

He said nothing for a moment, trying to read the silence like it was a clue in a murder case. Sometimes the trick was to just wait people out; sometimes it made everything weirder. "What is it?"

Y/N inhaled, a sound like static. "Do you—would it be okay if we still did the party? On Friday?" She spit it out so fast it took him a second to catch up. "I mean, you don't have to be my handler or anything, but if you wanted to, like, go with me. To the party. Or not. Or—" She laughed.

He almost let it ride out. He almost let her off the hook. But something in her voice, the soft tremor, the way she said "still" as if he'd ever wanted to back out, tripped a switch inside him. "Yeah. Of course. Friday," he said, swallowing back the urge to sound too eager. "I'll pick you up. What time?"

A pause, then: "You don't have to do that. I can walk."

He pictured her, clumsy and careful, weaving through Hawkins' cracked sidewalks with her broken glasses in her pocket and a VHS tape in her hands. He was seized by a sudden, ridiculous urge to follow her around town, and punch anyone who looked at her weird.

"I want to," he said, and felt his heart slamming against his ribs. "It's a date. Or, like, whatever." He winced at the sound of it, but Y/N didn't seem to mind.

"Okay," she said, laughter lilting up through the receiver. "But don't judge me when I wear the ugly glasses. I will glue them tonight. I might look like a bug."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

She lingered, her breath a delicate hush. "Thanks for helping me today. You really didn't have to."

His brain stuttered. The old Steve would've brushed it off. The new one, raw-nerved and jumpy as a stray cat, just nodded into the phone like an idiot. "Yeah, well. You were, um. You were different."

He meant it. He'd spent too many years with girls who only spoke in hyperbole, who clung to be heard, who wore their ambition like lipstick, who never second-guessed. He'd thought that was what he wanted: friction, competition, the thrill of conquest. But Y/N seemed softer, sculpted from contradictions, and it drove him fucking insane.

It wasn't just attraction, it was hunger. Maybe it had been too damn long since he felt real attraction. He didn't even realize how parched he'd been until she filled the air with those shy, trembling giggles. 

He wanted to hear it again.

He found himself grinning like a moron into the receiver. "I'm glad you called, actually," he said, letting his voice go lower, smoother. "I didn't even have a panic attack over it," he said, and immediately regretted voicing it, but Y/N's laugh shimmered across the line.

"You were so calm," she said. "I figured I was the one making you nervous." A pause, as if she couldn't believe she'd said it.

He ran his thumb along the coil of the phone cord, every nerve ending singing. "Yeah, well. Guess I'm not as cool as I look." The words came out before he could fence them in, and he felt the heat crawling up his neck.

A beat. Y/N's breathing, shallow and then steadier, like she was pacing the length of her own bedroom. "I wouldn't know what you look like. You were just this.. shape. And a lot of hair." Her voice was so quiet he barely heard it, and it thrilled him. "I'd say you seemed... nice, if that's not weird to say."

"You can say it," Steve said, and then instantly cringed at the desperation in his own voice.

Y/N hesitated, and for a moment all he heard was the faint squeak of her shifting the phone. "You just... you smelled so good," she finally said, a little breathless.

The line went quiet.

He gripped the receiver hard enough to blanch his knuckles, suddenly aware of everything, the sweat on his neck, and the faint aftershave he'd swiped from his dad's medicine cabinet and probably overdone. It was one thing to be told you had nice hair, or that you were tall; "you smelled so good". He'd never had a girl say that to him. Not with that nervous little edge, like she was embarrassed it slipped out. There was a not-small part of him that wanted to say, "What did I smell like?" just to make her say it again, but the rest of him froze.

He felt himself harden instantly. Fuck. Steve had been through enough late-night calls with girls to know the drill, where way naughtier things were said, but no one had ever short-circuited him like this. He was glad, suddenly, for the darkness in the kitchen, the half-dead bulb over the sink, the heavy blue spill of TV light. He cleared his throat, tried to get his head back under control. He squeezed the phone tighter, his other hand sliding to his lap, fingers pressing hard into the seam of his sweatpants. The muscle at his jaw flexed. This was insane. He was a grown man—well, a legal adult, anyway—yet here he was, tenting his sweats because some girl said he smelled good. Not even a girl he knew, not really. Not even a real compliment; just an innocent slip.

He tried to focus on the conversation, to keep his voice level. "So, uh, do you want me to bring anything? Like, for the party?" His hand moved again, a little firmer. He could feel himself swelling under his palm, heat pooling low and heavy. Jesus. This was like eighth grade, getting off to the smell of his math teacher's perfume, only now it was a real girl, with a name and a phone number and a laugh he could jerk off to for a week. Which, judging from the slow, insistent throb under his fingers, he probably would.

He gripped himself, squeezing through the thin cotton in a way that was half relief, half punishment. The second he did, it hit him: he was getting hard on the fucking telephone. This sweet, innocent girl who was barely an acquaintance, was talking to him about her mother and glasses, and meanwhile he was palming his own dick like a complete pervert.

For a second the thought made him want to slam the receiver down and punch himself in the face. He let out a shallow, shaky breath, and when Y/N spoke again, her voice sounded closer. She said, softly, "Steve, are you still there?"

He swallowed, pulling the phone away an inch to catch his breath, then pressing it close again. "Yeah, I'm here," he said, and the words came out a little raspy, a little too tender. He felt his whole body flush with a guilty excitement, like he'd just gotten away with something. 

He wanted to stop, to will himself back into the cool, detached version of himself he'd be, but he let himself drift on the current, following the impulse deeper. He pressed down, slow and careful, then slipped his hand under the waistband to grip bare skin. The sensation was so intense he almost gasped. He clamped his jaw shut, fighting to keep his breathing normal.

"So, um," Y/N said, and there was a barely-there tremor in her voice, "I was wondering if maybe you knew what the dress code is. I mean, I don't want to show up looking like a dork." She laughed, then seemed to shrink from it, muffling the sound with her hand.

Steve squeezed himself, thumb circling along the slick of pre-cum already leaking at the tip. He stroked, slow and shivery, letting the friction build there. He imagined her biting her lip, hugging a pillow, all excited and flustered talking to him on the phone. He jerked himself slowly, the tip already wet in his grip. 

He should hang up.. He should hang up, take a cold shower, and never speak to a woman again.

Instead he said, "Honestly, just... be yourself. Robin won't even notice. I'll be the one looking like an idiot."

Y/N made a noise, a soft hum that curled under his ribs. "I doubt that," she said. "You don't seem like you'd ever look stupid."

He suppressed a groan by clenching his teeth, rolling his hips against his palm. He was fully hard now, pressing the receiver to his ear with his shoulder and his hand down his pants.

He muttered, "You'd be surprised," and nearly choked on it. His cock was hot and slick in his grip, already throbbing as he worked it slow, careful to keep his breathing steady, lower than the rush in his own ears. He palmed the head, squeezing out another slippery bead and spreading it with his thumb, the wetness making every stroke a little easier, a little more dangerous.

On the other end, Y/N breathed, "Are you okay?" She sounded closer, like she'd moved the phone to her shoulder to free her hands for something else. He tried not to picture her touching herself. But he couldn't help it. 

He stroked, wrists sticky and breath going ragged, but he forced it down, shoulder tensed so hard it cramped. "Listen, Y/N, I—uh." He nearly lost it then, teeth clamping together. "I should let you go. Big day tomorrow at the, uh, video store." His hand jerked once, hard. He needed this to end before he did something really, truly pathetic.

"Oh, okay," she said, and he heard the letdown in her voice, but also relief, like she'd been holding her breath. "I'll see you Friday? Or maybe before."

He grunted, "Yeah. Friday." He wanted to say something more, to reestablish the cool, but his voice was barely holding on. "Okay. Good night," he managed, and slammed the phone onto the cradle. The plastic clatter echoed in the empty house.

He just stood there, hand still wedged tight in his sweats, a pulse in his neck going crazy. His fingers worked in rough, desperate strokes, no rhythm, just a hard, mean need to erase the last five minutes of his own miserable performance. He pictured her, heard her voice, the way she'd said "you smelled so good"—and that was it. He came in his hand, thick ropes of cum, mess pooling sticky on his knuckles and the inside of his waistband. He grunted, shuddered, then pressed his forehead to the cold laminate counter.

He spent most of the next day trawling the mall for something, either flowers, a bearable cologne, maybe a cool watch, anything that would make him seem like he wasn't the kind of guy who jerked off to phone calls. He needed to feel like his old, nonchalant self. By Thursday, they'd talked again and again, for hours. If Wednesday's call was bad, Thursday's was a war crime. He'd called her after his shift, voice gruff with fatigue, and had lasted all of four minutes before she'd said his name in that soft, seducing way and his hand was back down his pants. He'd managed to keep his voice steady this time, mostly, but the last five minutes were a blur of raw nerves and half-gasps. When he'd finally let go of the receiver he'd been dizzy with relief and shame. He started to worry that she knew. That she could hear it in his voice, or in the way he went off the rails or got quiet at the wrong moment. That she could sense, through the wire, that he was a freak. Maybe she was just too polite to call him out. Maybe she liked it. Maybe she was doing the same thing, on the other end, tucked under sheets with her legs pressed together and her breath going shaky whenever he said something almost nice. 

He showed up at her house on Friday at 6:59 p.m. sharp. He'd spent an hour circling the neighborhood, he didn't want to be early, didn't want to look overeager, but he also didn't want to risk being late. The BMW gleamed, detailed and waxed within an hour of neurotic spit-polishing; the windows practically blinded him, the interior smelled like a cologne commercial and fresh vinyl. His hair was perfectly arranged. He'd changed shirts three times, landed on a navy blue polo under his favorite blue Members Only jacket. The second he parked in front of her house, his heart rate tripled.

The place looked like every other house in Hawkins. He checked his breath in the mirror, popped a Certs, then killed the ignition and strode up the walk as if he wasn't five seconds from throwing up on her doorstep.

The door swung open before he hit the bell. And then she was there.

Steve's mouth went dry. For a horrible, vertiginous second, he didn't recognize her. She had on a white dress, he'd say it was a dress, but really, it was more like a white t-shirt with ambitions. It hung soft and tight and criminally short, the hem grazing her thighs in a way that made his mouth water. Her legs were bare, her feet in strappy, off-white sandals, and all her toenails were lacquered a pale pink. 

"Sorry I'm late, my mom decided she had to interrogate me about my entire life. Also, I got contacts instead!”

He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't sure what, maybe a joke or a dumb comment about her dress, but nothing came out. All he could think was: I want to fuck her, I want to ruin her, I want to destroy her. He felt it low, a throb in his stomach, the old animal urge he used to channel so easily in the backseats of cars, in tiny bathrooms at parties, but now he was so nervous, and oh, so fucking horny. He tried to play it cool, shoved his hands in his pockets, offered a lopsided, "Hey, yourself."

For a half-second, they just stared at each other. Steve couldn't stop cataloging the details: the line of her collarbone, the shimmer of sunscreen on her shoulders, the way she hid her hands behind her back, unconsciously pushing her tits his way. 

He couldn't help it. His brain, greedy and abject, went right for the worst version of the memory: her sprawled on the Family Video linoleum, legs tangled in the soft pink dress, one knee bare and the skin above it flushed and perfect; the way her hands had trembled, the way her voice had snagged on every word. He imagined her like that now, only with the white dress rucked up around her hips, hair shaken loose, glasses somewhere on the ground. He pictured himself over her, holding her narrow wrists to the carpet while she gasped and arched up and said his name, and it was so real it hurt. He wanted to fuck her until she went breathless, until she cried, until she clawed for something to hold and found only him. He wanted to wreck her, to own her, to pin her down and never let another guy touch her again.

Fuck, he was in for it. Steve Harrington was losing it.

The party was already in full swing when they rolled up to Robin's place. Buckley's had always been the perfect party spot, part because Robin's parents were "emotionally divorced" and spent weekends at their separate condos in Indy, and part because the street was just far enough from downtown Hawkins that no one called the cops unless someone pissed in the neighbor's mailbox. Steve parked three blocks away, pretending it was for the exercise, but really buying himself time to get his pulse under control.

The windows pulsed with sub woofer light, and somewhere on the second story a window had been kicked open so hard the frame hung at a 15-degree tilt. The porch was already packed with bodies—everything from lacrosse guys, a few art-school kids, Robin's friends from the rental store, a handful of dropouts and even some of the bimbos Steve had been on dates with weeks ago.

The house was a haze of moving limbs and spilled liquor. Someone had popped every light bulb in the living room except the Christmas stringers, which pulsed an eerie green over a forest of red solo cups. The air reeked of weed, tobacco smoke, and the tang of spiked punch.

Robin found them immediately. Her hair was in pigtails and she'd drawn a blue star on her cheek with Sharpie, like she was the host of a dystopian game show. Robin flung her arms wide, "Harrington!" she crowed, then, with a conspiratorial wink, "And... the girl from today! Come. Come come come."

She summoned them into the epicenter, ignoring the way Y/N clung to Steve's arm like a life preserver. "You made it!," Robin said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You look—" She paused, eyeing Y/N dress, then Steve's jacket, then Y/N's face again. Steve could see the calculation in Robin's eyes, the way she was already rewriting the evening's narrative to squeeze the most juice from it. "It's perfect for you. Love your dress by the way," 

Y/N blushed, reached for Steve's hand automatically. "It's a little much, sorry—"

"No, don't," Robin said, looping an arm through Y/N, dragging her into the kitchen with a confidence that brooked no rebuttal. "It's perfect. Harrington, take notes—you're in the minor leagues now." She winked, then plucked a bottle of tequila from the counter, held it aloft like she'd just landed the Olympic torch.

Steve lagged a step behind, almost tripped by his own shoelaces. He saw as Y/N let Robin pour her a solo cup of poison.

Steve watched the tequila slosh, the way Robin over poured "to the brim, for luck," and then topped the cup with a wedge of lime. "We're doing shots, obviously," Robin declared, "but not, like.. normal ones. This is a party, not church. We are going to do body shots, like God intended."

Steve choked on his own breath. "Uh, no, we're not. We don't even have salt. Or limes. Or... bodies," he blurted. He could feel his face going red even as everyone else just grinned and cheered like this was Christmas come early.

Robin grinned, her teeth sharp in the light. "Wow, Harrington's suddenly shy," she announced to the kitchen, and then, to Y/N: "But his abs are, statistically, the eighth wonder of modern Hawkins. We're doing this." She slammed the tequila down, seized a salt shaker from the back of the stove, and produced a lime from some pocket of chaos. With a flourish, she arranged everything on the counter top: salt, orange plastic shot glasses, a tangle of cut limes. "Y/N, sweetie, you ever done a body shot?"

Y/N blinked, looked at Steve, then at the counter top, then back at Steve. "I don't know," she said, voice small but not scared. "I mean, no. Not really."

"Great!" Robin crowed. "Harrington, shirt off."

The kitchen went insane.

Steve's stomach dropped, but he couldn't back down. Come on, this used to be his usual. But he felt nervous, especially with Robin grinning like the devil and Y/N standing there, blinking up at him like he was some sort of Greek God. He steeled himself, hooked his thumbs under the hem of his shirt, and peeled it off in one clean motion. Cold air licked his skin. A few people in the back whistled and some girls whispered to each other ungodly things. He tossed the shirt at the counter, flexed without meaning to.

Robin lined up the first shot. "Rules are simple," she slurred, waggling her eyebrows at Y/N: "Lick, sip, suck. Steve, you're the body. Y/N, you're—well. You're about to have a life-changing experience."

He watched Y/N's face as she nodded, eyes huge and glassy in the Christmas lights. She stepped forward, standing close enough that Steve could see the flush working its way up her chest, blotting her collarbone pink under the white dress. Robin handed Y/N a shot glass. "You know the drill," Robin said, voice dropping to a private register. "Salt, lick, drink, suck. Start on the abs. Go low."

Y/N's face went up in flames, but her hands were steady as she took the salt shaker. Robin leaned in, whispering something, then dusted a thin, crystalline line just below Steve's ribs, right above the waistband of his jeans. Steve felt the cold grit hit his skin, felt every eye in the room burn into him. His cock stirred against the denim, as alive as it can be. He tried to think unsexy thoughts, but every time he looked at Y/N, the urge came back, harder now—he wanted to toss her over his shoulder, carry her to some unused corner, and bite her neck until her knees gave out. He gripped the counter top and waited, heart in his throat.

Y/N stepped closer, squinting at the salt line as if she needed to do it right, even as Robin and half the kitchen hooted and egged her on. She bent at the waist—fuck, her hair smelled like warm vanilla—and pressed her lips just below his navel, tongue darting out to lap the salt. Her mouth was soft and wet on his skin, and something primal in Steve's gut snapped. He barely heard the cheers. The sensation ricocheted straight to his cock, which flexed up against his zipper so hard it hurt.

Next was the shot. Y/N tossed it back, half the tequila spilling down her chin. She softly coughed, and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Then, as if on cue, she reached for the lime wedge Robin had wedged in the waistband of Steve's jeans, right above the button, just on the V of his hipbone. Her fingers grazed the skin, feather-light, but the cold rush of citrus and the heat at her touch sent a current through his entire spine. For a split second her knuckles pressed into the base of his stomach. He bit down so hard on the inside of his cheek he tasted blood. She took the lime in her teeth, and for a second lingered there, her face inches from his cock, breath warm on his skin, before she popped upright, giggling out the sour, sticky juice.

The kitchen howled. Steve's head swam, everything bright and stat-icky. He couldn't move; his abs were still flexed, hard, salt stinging where she'd licked him. He'd never felt more like a hunk of meat, and he'd never been more ready to let someone eat him alive.

It was supposed to be a goofy party trick. But obviously, it wasn't. He watched her, dazed, as she licked the last of the salt from her upper lip, then met his gaze and innocently smiled with a wet, trembling mouth.

Robin cackled and slammed her palms on the table. "See? That wasn't so bad! Who's next?" The kitchen erupted, a dozen hands shot in the air.

He barely noticed. He was too busy watching Y/N, with her cheeks flushed, eyes glazed and wild and overwhelmed by the heat working up her throat and into her face. She still had the taste of salt and Steve's skin on her tongue, and it was making her knees weak in a way she'd never admit.

Robin pulled Y/N her into a hug, sweat and tequila and vanilla and strawberry gluing them together in a messy, giggly tangle. "You're a natural!" Robin whispered in her ear. "And for the record, everyone in this room wishes you'd licked them instead."

Robin's grip loosened just enough for Y/N to stagger back into Steve's orbit. The music churned to a new song, the kitchen crowd already drifting to the next spectacle, but Steve couldn't break eye contact with her if he tried. She glowed, skin shiny with sweat, plump lips parted, breathing shallow. 

He didn't remember deciding to do it. He leaned in, bringing his lips close to her ear, his stomach still sparking from where she'd licked him, and said, "You want to try one?" The words barely made it past his throat, he was so hard he felt like he might black out.

Y/N's eyes darted up to his, wide and momentary, and she nodded. No hesitation, just a hungry little nod like a dare.

He watched her hands. She gripped the edges of the counter behind her, squeezing so tight her knuckles shone through the skin. He heard himself say, "Where do you want it?" and when she didn't get it, Robin, ever the provocateur, elbowed her in the ribs and said, "Salt line goes wherever you want, babe. Classic is the cleavage shot. If you're brave."

Y/N's gaze dropped to her chest, then flicked to Robin, then to Steve. The tips of her ears went scarlet. She squared her shoulders and, in a motion at once hesitant and absurdly decisive, yanked the front of her dress down an inch, baring the soft valley between her breasts. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, and said, "Let's do it."

He heard the word in triplicate, echoing in his chest. Robin was already at her side, fingers quick and businesslike, shaking a thin bead of salt between Y/N's tits, her hands surprisingly gentle. Y/N's skin flinched under the touch, but she didn't pull away. She kept her chin tucked, her mouth pressed in a line so tight her lips nearly vanished.

Robin glanced at Steve, raised her eyebrows, and telepathically told him good luck, Harrington,  and then poured the shot, steady, "Go," Robin whispered, and faded back into the kitchen, already shouting for the next round.

Steve blinked. He had done this before, a hundred times, but never like this. Fuck, never, ever like this.

He bent down, drew her in with a hand at the small of her back, and licked the salt like he meant it, slow and hot, just at the base of her cleavage. The taste hit him all at once—skin, salt, and the faint edge of her yummy perfume—and for a second, he thought he might actually lose control right there in front of the whole kitchen. He reached for the shot, eyes locked on hers, and tossed it back. The tequila burned, bright and immediate, and then he went for the lime wedge dangling between her knuckles.

She held it up, pinched between thumb and finger, but her hand was barely steady. He didn't just bite the lime, he let his lips graze her fingers, tongue flicking over her skin for one illicit, hungry moment. 

He barely registered the kitchen cheering, the sting of tequila in his throat, the sticky neon of the Christmas lights. There was nothing but her.. the salt-sweat on her skin, the lime braced between her fingers, the way she breathed when he leaned in. He wanted to press his mouth to the hollow at the base of her neck and taste every inch of her, slow. 

Robin was gone, the kitchen crowd surging elsewhere, the party's center of gravity shifting. Steve and Y/N stood together at the edge of the counter top, two empty shot glasses and a wedge of lime between them. For a moment neither of them moved.

Steve watched her. Her body quivered with leftover adrenaline, and her eyes, ringed with tears from the lime, locked on Steve's with a naked, hungry intensity that caught him very off guard.

He tried to say something. Anything. His brain coughed up only static. She just stared at him, jaw set, wet mouth parted, like she was daring him to move first. She swayed a little in place, the white dress clinging to her, and Steve saw—he knew, with the certainty of a thousand locker room stories—what she was feeling. She wanted. It was so obvious he felt it like a punch in the kidney. His own body responded, vicious and instant.

He tracked how her legs shifted, how she squeezed her thighs together, how her breaths got short and fast, and how she held his gaze so steady he couldn't look away. Every instinct screamed at him to grab her. Every instinct screamed at him to move.

Instead he stood there, paralyzed, heart slamming so hard he felt it in the tops of his feet.

Y/N blinked, once, slow, then reached for him. Her palm landed flat against his chest. No testing, no hesitation. She pressed, and he yielded, letting her push him back against the fridge. The handle jabbed into his hip. The cold tightened something in his gut. He waited. He was trembling and trying to hide it, and she leaned in, so close her breath hit his mouth. She didn't kiss him. Not yet.

"Steve," she said, so quietly he barely caught it over the kitchen's noise. He blinked at her, trying to focus, to re-calibrate. Her hand slid up, fingers splayed against his bare chest.

She leaned in. Her lips didn't quite touch his ear, but her breath was hot on his jaw. "I need to get out of here."

He nodded, a violent jerk, already reaching for her wrist. He was ready to drag her straight out the front door, but she only pressed closer, voice a tremor: "I'm sorry, I just—" She laughed, a nervous, biting little sound. "I think I'm a bit.. wet."

Steve's brain short-circuited. For a half-second he was back in his kitchen, clutching the phone with one hand and his cock with the other, hearing her say his name, the way she'd whispered "Steve" like it was a secret. But now her voice was pressed to the side of his face, and her body was mashed up against every inch of him, and he was so fucking hard it felt like his cock was going to slice through his jeans. 

He didn't ask where. He didn't have to. Steve took her hand and wove through the crush of bodies in the living room, the kitchen, the stairs, as if they were conjoined at the wrist. He made for the only place in Robin's house that wasn't already stuffed full of people, or garbage, or the smell of weed and spilled soda. The bathroom: second floor, back left, the one with the broken lock.

He shouldered the door open, nearly knocking the loose towel rack off its screws, and barely got it shut before Y/N was crowding in after him, her face alive with raw and startled need.

The bathroom was as ugly as Steve remembered: green shag rug, crusted toothpaste in the sink, a single 40-watt bulb casting headache shadows across the yellowed linoleum. They barely fit inside it together. But as soon as the latch clicked, Y/N was on him, hands fisted in the waistband of his jeans, mouth searching. She kissed with the frantic, open-mouthed hunger. Steve bent down, kissing back, nipping her lower lip, tasting tequila and salt and the faint trace of her lip gloss.  He pressed her against the lip of the vanity, hands greedy as a mugger, and she let him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him until he saw stars.

He tugged her dress up—she made a sound, half gasp, half laugh, and let him, until the fabric bunched around her waist and her bare legs pressed hard against his hips. The pink cotton panties under the dress were already soaked through, and when he slipped his hand between her thighs she shuddered, digging her short, painted nails into his back. He was barely thinking at all.

She pushed his hand away, palms flat and insistent, then dropped to her knees so fast it knocked the air out of his chest. For a second he just stared at her, holy fucking stunned—does she even know how to suck a guy off? Steve thought. She bit her lip, looked up at him, breath ragged. "Can I?" she said, so quietly he almost missed it.

He didn't answer. He couldn't. He hooked a hand behind her skull, not rough, just needing to feel the shape of her, the weight of her, the way her neck tapered to her shoulder, and tried not to shake as she yanked his jeans and underwear down below his ass.

Y/N's fingers wrapped around his cock, and the heat of it almost undid him. She stared, close enough he could feel the air from her nostrils, and for a second he thought she might just hold it and look, but then her lips parted, tongue flicking out, tasting from the base up to the tip with a steady lap. Her mouth was warm and greedy, lips slicked with spit, tongue raking the underside, and then she just fucking swallowed him—no hesitation, just took the head right between her lips and held him there, eyes shut, cheeks hollowing. Steve's vision blacked out for a second. She wasn't careful, wasn't slow at all, and he could feel every inch of her: the edge of her teeth, the roof of her mouth, the wet smack of her lips, the crazy little noises she made in her throat. 

Steve always considered himself picky with blowjobs. But saying he was surprised it's an understatement. Y/N seemed a full-blown maniac for the way she used her tongue, the way she pressed her nails into the backs of his thighs, the way she kept eye contact even as her mascara started to run. Steve couldn't breathe; his hands clamped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went bloodless.

He'd never seen anything like it. Her cheeks hollowed, jaw flexing, and she went deeper, then deeper again, until the flare of his cock head pressed against the back of her throat. She gagged, but instead of stopping she growled, an inhuman sound, and he nearly came right then. He looked down at her, her lips stretched, her hair falling in her eyes, her hands working in a twisting rhythm at the base—and she looked right back at him, her lashes wet, daring him to lose it. 

He tried to last. He really did. He thought of dead dogs, of geometry, of the ugly ass green shag rug under his sneakers, but her mouth was relentless. She sucked him with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, using her hand to twist and squeeze while her tongue lashed and teased and licked. Her other hand cupped his balls, rolling them, squeezing, then sliding back to stroke the strip of skin behind. He almost yelped when she did that, the jolt so raw and bright he had to bite the inside of his wrist to keep from howling. She paused, eyes glittering, and then went down again, deeper than she had any right to. She pulled off just as he felt himself tipping over,and she let him nearly fall into it: the head of his cock pulsing, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth would crack. He shoved her off, just in time,.

Steve grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her to her feet. She stumbled, knees wobbly, mouth open. He pressed her to the sink, back to the mirror. It was feverish, uncoordinated. His hands found her ass, fingers digging into the soft, warm flesh beneath the hem of her dress, and then he was hoisting her up, perching her right on the edge of the counter.

He didn't ask. He couldn't have, even if he'd tried. The cotton went slick between his fingers when he pulled them aside. Y/N let out a whimper, her thighs spreading obediently. She was shaking, but not from cold; she arched her back, and looked up at him with a hunger that made his knees buckle.

He wanted to make her say his name again.

He gripped his cock, the tip still glossy with spit, and ran it against the damp, slippery entrance of her pussy. She was so wet it was almost stupid. He lined up, pressed the head into her, and she hissed, nails raking his forearm as he pushed inside. She was tight, impossibly so, and he had to pause, just for a second, to keep from sliding in all at once and blowing straight past the edge of control. Y/N clamped around him so tight he almost lost it—her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs, her hands grabbing at the mirror behind her so hard he heard it creak. He went forward, every thrust rougher, rougher, until her head banged the glass and she gasped his name with every ragged exhale.

Steve braced his palms on either side of her hips, pushing her higher on the counter so the cold porcelain pressed flat to her ass, and he fucked up into her, mean and perfect, desperate to fill her, ruin her, make her remember this every time she looked in the goddamn mirror. He was panting, sweat already slicking across his chest, her knees bruising his ribs.

Steve couldn't stop. The slap of his hips against her bare skin echoed in the little bathroom. He wanted her to hear it, wanted anyone passing in the hall to hear it. He wanted them to know she was fucking the shit out of this beautiful girl.

He found himself talking, words tumbling out, low and rough, nothing like his usual jokes or sarcastic, mean lines. "You like being fucked where anyone could hear you?" He pistoned harder, watching her face go slack, mouth open and wet. "I bet you've never been fucked like this, huh? No, didn't think so."

His own voice got him off, got her off too—she clenched around him, a tremor starting in her thighs and then up her spine, lips shiny and parted and begging for more. He felt her body clamp down, so tight he couldn't move for a heartbeat; she was shaking, trying to ride the edge. Steve pressed his face to her neck and growled. "You want to come? I'll let you if you say you want it."

She tried to answer, but it came out as a sob, a hiccup, a choked, "Steve—" and he shoved in harder, grinding her against the mirror. He could feel her nipples through the thin cotton, hard as diamonds, and he wanted to bite them, wanted to mark her everywhere. He thought about pulling out and flipping her over, fucking her from behind so she could see herself in the glass, but he didn't trust his legs to hold him. He had to finish like this, deep inside, buried so far every time she walked she'd feel it for a week.

He heard himself again: "Do you feel that? Every time I fuck you, I can feel your pussy clutching me like it's hungry—like you want me to fill you up," He was almost shouting, didn't care if the whole party heard. He drove into her harder, the tip of his cock punching her cervix, and Y/N gasped, head thudding back against the mirror.

"You want me to fill you up, come inside this tight pussy, pretty girl ?"

Y/N's nails dug into his arms. Her head shook back and forth, helpless, but she was moaning, clenching, gasping with every ragged thrust. She was falling apart, coming undone, and he wanted to watch it happen. He was, indeed, ruining the sweetest girl he had met a few days ago.

Steve wrenched the top of her dress down with one hand, the neckline giving way with a violent little rip. Her tits tumbled out, flushed and perfect, nipples hard and shining with sweat. He stared, unable to help himself, and then grabbed both, squeezing, watching the way they bounced every time he railed into her. He wanted her to see what she did to him, wanted to brand the image into her skull the way he knew he'd never erase it from his own. He fucked her harder, faster, felt his own orgasm boiling up from somewhere below his spine, but he fought it back, desperate to see her finish first.

He pinched the tight pink bud, twisted and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, and she almost shrieked. Her hips jerked, heels slipping, breath bursting wet and hot against his neck. He bit and sucked and tongued her until her voice went high and stretched, until she was frantic and wild with it, so desperate for more she almost sobbed. Her hands fumbled at his hair, pulling him closer. He let go, ran his tongue slow and flat down the valley between her breasts, lapping at the sweat, and she arched up, rubbing against him, so desperate for friction she nearly threw him off balance.

"God," she panted, voice gone sharp and raw. "Please..Steve," She clawed at his shoulder. "Harder." Her breath hitched, lips plush and wet, eyes glazed with everything she was afraid to say. "Fuck me harder.. please, please, please, I need—" 

He grabbed her by the hips, fingers digging deep enough she'd see the marks tomorrow, and rammed forward, burying himself as far as he could go. She screamed, the sound muffled against his neck where she clamped her mouth to keep from shattering. He knew she was close, so close, and he wanted to keep her right there, teetering. He lifted his head just enough to see her face: Y/N was gone, all sense evaporated, eyes huge and glassy and wet, mouth open and working for air. 

She moaned, low and helpless up from her chest, then higher, until she made a sound so high-pitched and mortified he thought for a second she'd started crying. But she wasn't crying. She was coming, hard, every muscle in her thighs clenching so tight he could barely move. He watched her try to hold it in, watched her eyes dart to the mirror and see herself split open, hair wild, her own breasts marked up and jiggling, his cock jack-hammering in and out of her. She saw it and came again, her whole body seizing, mouth in a perfect O of disbelief. Steve had never seen anything so hot in his life.

That was it for him. He went feral, lost to the world, slamming into her with a speed that bordered on mean. Sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes but he didn't stop. He wanted to carve her into memory. Her pussy milked him, clutching tight as a fist, and the friction lit him up from the inside. He was past dignity, past restraint, past the point of pretending he was in control. His hips went wild; he felt it start in the soles of his feet, the heat climbing up his legs, then pooling in the base of his spine, then roaring forward, unstoppable. He lost his words; all he could do was grunt her name, low and guttural, as his cock twitched inside her, the first thick spurt hitting so deep her whole body flinched. 

He kept going, aftershocks making his muscles seize and spasm, until she was shaking, spent, her head collapsed on his shoulder, arms limp at her sides. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck and just breathed, sweat slick on both of them, her hair matted and sticky against his mouth. 

They stayed tangled like that, sweat and spit and salt drying between them, until the bright noise of the party outside filtered back into Steve's ears. The air in the bathroom was thick—humid, almost soupy, every surface fogged and slippery. Steve's hands were numb from gripping Y/N's hips so hard. She still shivered in aftershocks, arms looped around his neck, ragged breath cooling the bite marks on his shoulder. She was a mess. He was a mess. He loved it.

He let her down slow, careful, both of them testing their legs like foals on new ice. Steve tucked his cock away, awkward, the zipper fighting every inch, but Y/N didn't seem to notice. She only giggled, this high, brittle sound that made something low in his chest turn over. She tried to pull the top of her dress up, but it was hopeless. Steve watched her fumble with the neckline, then reached out and helped, trying to smooth the fabric back into shape. It was stretched, the seam a little torn, her bra hopelessly lost somewhere in the tangled mess of the skirt, but she let him fuss over her anyway, standing barefoot on the green shag with the ruined dress half off her shoulders. Her face glowed, feverish under the bathroom lights.

He studied her, searching for something clever to say, but the only words in his head sounded like they'd been ripped from a fortune cookie. He wanted to tell her she was incredible, or that he'd never wanted someone the way he wanted her, or that he might actually die if she ever left this bathroom without promising to see him again. But he was Steve Harrington, and the best he could do was stand there, tongue in cheek, grinning like a fucking idiot while she wiped her face on the back of her hand, trying to mop up the sticky gloss of his orgasm from the corners of her mouth.

He said, "Sorry if that was—" and then stopped, because it was the worst possible thing to say when you'd just fucked someone this hard.

But Y/N only laughed, wiping her chin, her whole body humming with aftershocks. Her dress was wrinkled all to hell, and there was a dark, thumbprint-sized stain spreading across where he'd palmed her hip, and her hair was coming down in wet, tangled ropes. She looked up at him with glassy, half-lidded eyes and said, "Don't apologize. That was, uh.. amazing." 

Steve grinned. He couldn't help it. The sight of her, so messy, so alive, so fucking pleased, made him want to laugh out loud, or maybe punch the air, or maybe just wrap her up and never let her go.

He watched her fix her hair in the mirror, mesmerized. She caught his gaze in the reflection and went shy, covering her face with both hands and then peeking out through her fingers. "That was so embarrassing," she whispered.

He shook his head, still a little winded. "No," he said, and meant it. "No, it was the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life. I think you out-charmed me."

She peeked at him, fingers still spread. "Are you lying?"

"Fuck no," he said, a little breathless. 

He realized he was telling the truth and it stunned him. Because, holy hell, he'd never felt like this over someone before.

Never.

[dustibunily]

NEED THE FICS RIGH NOW

[kassy-djomunson]

he’s three apples tall