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[cherryysunshine]

Blood on the Runway

Pairing: Jason Todd/F!Reader

Word Count: 14.5k

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: soft smut, explicit sexual content, oral sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, violence, gun violence, blood/injury, attempted drugging, human trafficking, children in danger, identity reveal, secret identities, emotional vulnerability, model!Reader, vigilante!Reader

Summary: Red Hood has known Mirage for years.

He knows the way she fights. He knows she favors smoke over bullets, rooftops over alleys, and disappearing over answering a single personal question. He knows she has expensive gear, dangerous instincts, and a habit of targeting men who think money makes them untouchable.

Jason Todd does not know her name.

Unfortunately, Gotham does.

Author’s Note: written for this anonymous ask

this was a fun one to write! experimented a bit with changing POVs and stuff. hope you like it!

Gotham loved a beautiful lie.

It loved you twelve stories tall, painted in soft light above Kane Avenue with diamonds at your throat and one bare shoulder turned toward a camera. It loved you in perfume campaigns and charity spreads, in couture editorials and black-and-white billboards that made the city’s rot look almost elegant by comparison. It loved your name when it appeared beside museum wings, foundation galas, and old money that had learned to smile for cameras. It loved your face behind department-store glass, your body in gowns worth more than most people’s apartments, your mouth painted red enough to stop traffic.

Gotham loved you because it thought beauty was harmless.

It had no idea what your knuckles looked like under the concealer.

It did not know about the split skin beneath your gloves, the bruises arranged like ugly fingerprints along your ribs, or the little collection of scars hidden beneath silk and expert lighting. It did not know that the woman selling softness from a billboard had once followed a trafficking broker from a charity dinner to a private club in the East End and broken three of his fingers before midnight.

Gotham knew your face.

Red Hood knew your hands.

He knew them gloved, usually. He knew the way your fingers closed around a baton before violence, the way your wrist flicked before a smoke pellet hit the ground, the way your left hand always went to the blade at your spine only after someone gave you a reason to stop being polite. He knew the shape of you in darkness better than most men knew lovers in daylight. Black armor, fitted mask, hood drawn low, voice flattened through a modulator until nothing personal could escape unless you let it.

He knew you as Mirage.

He had known you for years.

The first time you happened to him, Jason had been twenty, angry enough to turn every alley into a confession booth and young enough to pretend that anger was the same thing as control. He had been hunting a gunrunner through the Bowery, following a trail of modified rifles and dead teenagers until it led him to the back of a pawn shop with barred windows and a loading door painted the color of old blood.

He had expected six men.

There were nine.

He had expected a shipment.

There were children in the van.

That was the kind of math Gotham liked to do.

Jason had taken down four before the fifth managed to get a gun up. Then the alley filled with smoke.

Not normal smoke. Not the cheap gray cough of a canister tossed by an amateur. This was black and silver, thick enough to swallow the light and laced with fragments of reflection that turned every movement into three. The armed men panicked. Jason did not, but only because panic looked different on him. He raised his gun toward the nearest shadow.

Someone dropped from above.

The gunman hit the pavement before Jason fired, his wrist bent at an angle that made him scream. You rose from the smoke like the city had imagined you out of its own bad dreams, all black armor and sharp angles, your baton already moving toward the next man’s throat.

Jason shot the alarm trigger out of a smuggler’s hand and turned his helmet toward you.

“Cute trick,” he said.

You looked over the unconscious men, then at the blood drying across his jacket. “Messy work.”

“I had it handled.”

“One of them had a van full of children.”

His finger tightened against the trigger.

You stepped past him, cutting the lock on the van before he could answer. The children inside stared at you with the frozen terror of people waiting to learn whether the next masked figure would be worse than the last. Your voice changed when you spoke to them. Still distorted, still careful, but lower. Gentler.

“You’re safe,” you told them. “Stay behind me.”

Jason remembered that more clearly than he wanted to.

He had named you Mirage after the third time you interfered with one of his missions, when you used hacked security lights, mirrored decoys, and smoke to make eight men in a warehouse believe there were four of you surrounding them. By the end of that fight, half of them had surrendered to shadows. Jason had stood amid the wreckage with a cracked helmet and blood in his mouth, watching you zip-tie a man to a forklift with more elegance than the situation deserved.

“So,” he said, “Mirage.”

You looked up. “Absolutely not.”

“Too late. It suits you.”

“It sounds like something a man with a branding problem would say.”

“I have excellent branding.”

“You wear a red helmet in Gotham.”

“Iconic.”

“Obvious.”

“Effective.”

“Loud,” you said, and vanished into the smoke before he could decide whether to be offended.

He kept calling you Mirage. You kept pretending you hated it.

Over the years, your paths crossed often enough that coincidence became an insult to both of you. You were not a Bat, though you knew them well enough to keep out of their way when it mattered and irritate them when it did not. You were not one of Jason’s people either, though you appeared in his territory with alarming frequency and a habit of leaving criminals gift-wrapped for the police before he could finish terrifying them. You chased different pieces of the same ugly machine: weapons moving through fashion warehouses, girls disappearing after private parties, donors with clean names and dirty hands, men who hid their violence behind money because Gotham had taught them that enough silk could cover any amount of blood.

Jason learned the shape of your silence.

You would fight beside him without hesitation. You would take his offered hand if you were dangling from a fire escape with bullets carving brick apart around you. You would let him press gauze to your side if you were bleeding badly enough to make pride impractical. But the second a fight ended, you became distant again, all smoke and deflection, humor sharpened into a blade before he could ask a single question that mattered.

He knew you favored rooftops over alleys when waiting for a target. He knew you hated guns but understood them too well to be naive about them. He knew you had expensive gear, better intel than half the people in masks, and a dangerous familiarity with Gotham’s elite. He knew you could walk into a room full of predators and make them think you were prey until the door locked behind them.

He did not know your name.

Gotham did.

That was the joke, though neither of you knew it yet.

By daylight, your name moved through the city like perfume. It rose from magazine covers and flashed across entertainment reports, appeared on invitations, press releases, donor lists, charity boards, luxury campaigns, and the sides of buildings so enormous that Jason had ridden past your face a hundred times without ever thinking to connect it to the woman who once broke a trafficker’s nose in front of him and told him his interrogation technique lacked imagination.

You had been famous long before Red Hood named you Mirage.

You had also been careful long before Jason Todd started looking.

Fame was not a mask you had chosen because you enjoyed being adored. It had begun as work, then leverage, then cover. People spoke in front of beautiful women. They spoke in front of models because they thought looking was a kind of ownership and ownership made them careless. Men who guarded their offices left doors unlocked when they wanted to show off. Men who had trained themselves not to mention crimes in boardrooms forgot themselves over champagne when they believed the woman beside them was too decorative to understand what she was hearing.

You understood everything.

You had learned how to turn being underestimated into a weapon.

You had also learned that no one survived a double life alone.

“Hold still,” Devin said, in the tone of a man who had said it five times already and was two seconds away from making it everyone’s problem.

You stopped flexing your hand.

Devin gave you a sharp look in the mirror. “That was not holding still. That was malicious compliance.”

“I’m holding still emotionally.”

“Wonderful. I’ll put that on your tombstone after I kill you myself.”

He bent over your hand again, his brush moving with the kind of precision surgeons probably envied. Devin had been your makeup artist for six years, which meant he knew your face better than some people knew their own. He was gorgeous in a way that made strangers check their posture, with warm brown skin, close-cropped curls bleached at the tips, and a wardrobe that treated black turtlenecks like a personal religion. He wore gold hoops, silver rings, and an expression of divine irritation whenever your nightlife interfered with his artistry.

He was also the reason half of Gotham did not know its favorite model regularly arrived at shoots looking like she had lost an argument with a brick wall.

“That bruise is deep,” he said, stippling color over the split at your knuckle. “Don’t tell me you fell.”

“I would never insult you like that.”

“You insult me every time you come in here with your face rearranged and expect me to make you look dewy.”

“You are spectacular at your job.”

“Yes, and I’m bisexual, overbooked, underpaid for the emotional labor, and far too beautiful to be color-correcting vigilante trauma at six in the morning.” Devin leaned closer to inspect his work. “Did you at least win?”

You looked at him in the mirror.

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you did. That is why you look smug and concussed.”

“I’m not concussed.”

“You said the same thing last year before you asked me why the couch had opinions.”

“The couch was ugly.”

“The couch was from Milan.”

“It had bad vibes.”

Devin’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Your agent bought that couch.”

“My agent loves me enough to survive the truth.”

“She also loves you enough to cancel Milan if you keep bleeding on my makeup chair.”

From the other side of the dressing room, Marisol looked up from her phone. “I have done it before.”

“You canceled one fitting,” you said.

“I canceled an entire day of fittings, two interviews, and lunch with a man who kept calling me sweetheart in emails even though my signature clearly says Marisol Vega, Agency Representation and Public Strategy.” She smiled without warmth. “I regret nothing.”

Marisol had been your agent for almost as long as Devin had been touching your face. She had started as your booker when both of you were younger, nicer, and less tired. Now she managed your contracts, your press, your charities, your excuses, your disappearances, and the public-facing shape of your life with the competence of a military commander and the loyalty of someone who had once held your hand in a hospital bathroom while Devin painted over a bruise on your cheek before an early morning campaign call.

Your crew was not large, but it was yours.

Devin handled your face and, when necessary, your lies beneath it. Talia, your stylist, had learned to sew hidden pockets into couture without disturbing the line of a gown and could smuggle a collapsible baton into a garment bag with the calm of a woman bringing snacks to a matinee. Nadia, your hairstylist, could hide an earpiece beneath a cascade of waves or a sleek knot so cleanly that security scanners looked like amateurs. Marcus, your driver and unofficial security, knew which alleys had cameras, which paparazzi could be bribed, and which photographers were too predatory to be allowed near the car.

They knew.

Not all of it at first. Not all at once. But bruises told stories, and the people who loved you had learned to read. They had noticed the blood beneath your nails, the torn seams, the exhaustion that followed nights when Gotham’s ugliest men appeared on the morning news with broken hands and no explanation. You had tried lying. Devin had said, with perfect eyeliner and a face like judgment, that he had not survived high school, beauty school, and dating men to be lied to badly by someone he loved.

After that, the lie became a system.

“Your left shoulder is still tight,” Talia said from the garment rack, not looking at you directly. “The gold dress is out.”

“I like the gold dress.”

“The gold dress requires symmetry and a deep breath. You currently have neither.”

“I can fake both.”

“You cannot fake breathing, darling. That is how we ended up with the corset incident.”

Marisol lifted one finger. “We do not speak of the corset incident.”

Devin dabbed concealer along the base of your knuckle. “I speak of it frequently because it was traumatic for me and I deserve community support.”

“You weren’t the one in the corset,” you said.

“No, I was the one explaining to a French photographer why his muse was on the floor breathing into a paper bag while her secret security gremlin threatened to stab him with a hatpin.”

From the doorway, Marcus said, “I did not threaten. I displayed options.”

“You are all impossible,” you said.

Marisol’s expression softened just enough to be dangerous. “We learned from the best.”

You looked away first because affection in a dressing room before a shoot at six in the morning was somehow harder to endure than gunfire.

Devin caught it, of course. He caught everything. He tilted your chin back toward him with two fingers and resumed blending along the edge of your jaw, where a bruise had begun to yellow under your skin.

“Do I need to worry about Red Hood?” he asked.

The room changed so subtly that anyone else might have missed it.

Talia’s hands paused on a hanger. Marisol’s thumb stopped moving over her phone. Marcus became very interested in the hallway.

You kept your face still. “Why would you worry about Red Hood?”

“Because the last time you came back from patrol with that look on your face, it was after you let him stitch your side and then pretended that was a tactical decision.”

“It was a tactical decision.”

“It was a rom-com for people with severe emotional damage.”

Marisol looked up. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Do we need to make a call?”

“To who?”

“Anyone. Everyone. Bruce Wayne, if necessary. The man collects damaged strays like other billionaires collect yachts.”

You almost smiled. “I’m fine.”

Devin snorted. “She says, while I am painting over what appears to be a handprint on her ribs.”

“It was a bad landing.”

“On what? A person?”

You said nothing.

“That silence is legally an admission.” Devin leaned back, inspecting your face with the offended pride of an artist forced to repair a masterpiece after raccoons attacked it. “There. You look rested, luminous, and entirely unlike a woman who spent last night fistfighting organized crime.”

“See? Spectacular.”

“I know. Praise is accepted in cash, compliments, or the name of the man who keeps putting that look on your face.”

“There is no look.”

All four of them stared at you.

You sighed. “I hate you all.”

“No, you don’t,” Marisol said.

You did not.

That was the trouble with being loved by people who knew where the armor ended and the skin began. They made it harder to disappear.

Red Hood did not have that problem, or so you thought.

Hood operated like a warning that had taught itself to walk upright. He had allies, obviously. Gotham’s vigilante scene was too tangled for anyone to be truly alone, whatever they told themselves. He had the Bats, though his relationship with them seemed to shift depending on the night, the case, and how recently Batman had said something emotionally constipated. He had people who would answer if he called. He had hands at his back when the world was ending.

But Hood carried loneliness like an old injury.

You recognized it because you had spent years turning your own into posture.

That was probably why the two of you kept finding each other on rooftops after fights were over, lingering too long in the gray hour before dawn. You would sit on a ledge with blood drying beneath your gloves. He would lean against an access door with the red helmet tucked beneath one arm, domino mask still keeping the last inch of ritual intact. 

Sometimes you talked about the case. 

Sometimes you argued about methods because arguing was easier than admitting how familiar it had become to breathe the same cold air.

Sometimes you said nothing.

One night, after the two of you stopped a shipment beneath the Westward Bridge, Hood found you sitting on the hood of a stolen van with a butterfly bandage half-applied to your cheek and an expression like you were debating whether pride could be used as a medical adhesive.

He held out his hand.

You looked at it. “What?”

“Give me the bandage.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I noticed.”

“Mirage.”

The way he said your name was starting to become a problem. It had been a joke once. A label tossed at a stranger in smoke. Somewhere along the way, it had become familiar enough to make you answer as if it were your real name.

You handed him the bandage.

He stepped close, careful enough to be irritating, and tilted your chin with the back of one knuckle. His hood had fallen back after the fight, rain catching in the dark hair at his temples and the white streak cutting through it. The red mask was gone, leaving only the domino across his eyes and the stubborn line of his mouth when concern tried to disguise itself as annoyance. It should have made him feel less like Red Hood. Somehow, it only made the gentleness stranger.

“You always this difficult with people trying to help?” he asked.

“You always this bossy with people bleeding in your vicinity?”

“Usually I’m worse.”

“That tracks.”

He cleaned the cut with a disinfectant wipe, his thumb resting lightly near your jaw. The sting helped. Pain was easier to manage than his hands being gentle.

“You going to tell me why you were after D’Amico?” he asked.

“You already know why.”

“I know he moves girls through private clubs and auctions guns to men with too much money. I don’t know why you were angry enough to throw him through a windshield.”

“He landed badly.”

“He landed exactly where you aimed.”

You looked past him toward the river.

Hood taped the bandage into place and did not move away. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know.”

That was worse than pushing. Pushing gave you something to resist. Patience asked what you were so afraid of.

A siren wailed in the distance. The air smelled like wet asphalt, gunpowder, and the river.

“He was at a party once,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He went still.

“He thought no one important was listening.”

“And you were?”

You smiled faintly beneath the mask. “People talk in front of beautiful women.”

Hood’s gaze intensified.

You felt the mistake half a second too late.

His thumb, still near your jaw, went motionless. Not enough to trap you. Enough to tell you that something had shifted behind his eyes.

You slid off the van.

“I need to go.”

“Mirage.”

“Don’t.”

You looked at him then, and whatever he saw made him stop.

For all his anger, all his blood and guns and theater, Jason Todd understood the shape of a locked door.

He stepped back.

You fired your grappling line and left him with the body of your almost-confession on the street between you.

After that, he started paying attention differently.

Jason had always noticed things. It was part training, part paranoia, part having died once and come back with a nervous system that trusted danger more than peace. But after that night by the river, he began to notice the edges of Mirage that did not fit into his existing file.

The gear had always been expensive. Not Bat-expensive exactly, but custom, clever, built by people with money and taste. Your armor was too fitted, too cleanly repaired, too elegant in the details no one was supposed to see. Your boots were quiet but not cheap. Your gloves were reinforced at the knuckles and tailored at the wrist. The hidden compartments in your suit were not improvised; they were designed by someone who understood bodies, movement, fabric, and concealment.

You knew high society too well.

You knew which gala entrances had private security instead of city police. You knew the names of donors who never appeared in crime databases but turned up in the wrong rooms with the wrong men. You knew which senators drank too much, which council aides had gambling debts, which fashion houses hired girls too young and too desperate to ask why their contracts included private travel clauses.

People talk in front of beautiful women.

The sentence bothered him for weeks.

Then Bruce disrupted his life by asking him to attend a Wayne Foundation benefit tied to Gotham Fashion Week.

Jason said no.

Bruce did not blink. “You haven’t heard the details.”

“I heard benefit and fashion. That was enough.”

“Several names connected to Black Mask’s distribution network will be there.”

“Send Tim.”

“Out of the country.”

“Dick.”

“Blüdhaven.”

“Cass.”

“Hong Kong.”

“Damian.”

Bruce stared at him.

Jason sighed. “Fine, not Damian.”

“It’s at the Novick Theater,” Bruce said. “The public event is legitimate. The private after-event may not be.”

“May not be.”

“That’s why I need eyes inside.”

“You have eyes inside.”

“I need eyes that do not look like mine.”

Jason leaned back in the chair. “So you want me to play rich dead son at a fashion show.”

Bruce’s mouth tightened slightly at dead, but he did not take the bait. He rarely did when it would be satisfying. “I want you to attend as Jason Todd.”

“That usually goes well.”

“It goes better than Red Hood walking through the front door.”

“Depends who you ask.”

“Jason.”

The name landed with that particular Bruce weight, like a hand on a shoulder that was somehow also a locked gate. Jason hated it. He hated more that some part of him still responded.

He went.

He told himself it was for the case.

The Novick Theater had been restored with the kind of money that made old things look clean enough to forgive themselves. Gold trim shone beneath chandeliers. Velvet curtains framed a runway built over the orchestra seats. Gotham’s elite gathered in black tie and couture, drinking champagne beneath banners that promised art, philanthropy, and empowerment. Jason stood near a pillar with his back to the wall, wearing a black suit Alfred had tailored years ago and an expression that kept most people from trying to make conversation.

Bruce, naturally, found him anyway.

“You look like you’re planning a murder,” Bruce said mildly.

“I’m surrounded by people using the word curated in normal conversation.”

“That would explain it.”

“I found four concealed weapons.”

“This is Gotham.”

“Six if we count the woman near the west bar with the knife in her clutch.”

Bruce glanced once without moving his head. “We count her.”

Jason watched a man near the east corridor adjust his cuff too often. “You owe me.”

“I’ll tell Alfred you said that.”

“That’s low.”

The lights dimmed before Bruce could answer.

Music filled the theater, low and sleek, with a pulse beneath it that made the floor feel alive. Models moved down the runway in structured gowns, black silk, sharp white tailoring, flashes of silver and red. Jason watched because there were exits to monitor and suspects to track, and because if he looked too bored, Bruce would make a comment with three layers of disappointment in it.

Then you stepped onto the runway.

The room changed.

Jason hated that he noticed. He hated the hush that passed through the crowd, the way cameras lifted like worship, the way people leaned forward as if beauty could be breathed in through proximity. You wore a black gown cut clean across your shoulders, the fabric fitted through your body before falling loose around your legs. Diamonds flashed at your ears. Your hair was swept back from your face, leaving every expression visible and somehow revealing nothing at all.

You were beautiful. That was obvious, and Jason did not trust obvious things.

What caught him was the way you moved.

You walked like the room belonged to the idea of you, but your body knew better than to believe it. Every step was smooth, every turn controlled, but there was something beneath it that did not belong only to a runway. Your weight settled like someone who could pivot fast. Your gaze drifted over the room without seeming to search it, pausing for a fraction of a second at the east service corridor, the balcony door, the emergency exit half-hidden behind flowers.

Jason straightened.

Your face was familiar because Gotham had made it impossible for it not to be. He had ridden beneath it, past it, around it for years. Your campaigns filled the city. Perfume, jewelry, couture, charity appeals. You were a public myth in silk, the woman everyone seemed to know without knowing anything at all.

That was not why his mind caught.

Your right hand was covered in makeup.

He noticed because he had spent too much of his life hiding split knuckles to miss it. Foundation had been blended along the base of your fingers, careful and professional, but not enough to disguise the faint swelling near your middle knuckle. Your left shoulder sat a fraction too still beneath the gown. A pale mark near your jaw, mostly hidden by contour and light, looked very much like the edge of the cut he had taped closed two weeks earlier on the hood of a stolen van.

People talk in front of beautiful women.

Your eyes passed over him.

For one impossible second, Jason felt the same assessing attention he knew from rooftops. Not admiration. Not curiosity. Calculation. You looked at him and seemed to measure the distance between him and the exits, the breadth of his shoulders beneath the suit, the way he kept his left hand free. Then your gaze moved on with such perfect disinterest that half the room probably believed it.

Jason stood very still.

Bruce appeared at his side like an expensive haunting. “You saw it.”

Jason did not look at him. “Saw what?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t be cryptic at fashion shows.”

“I’ve suspected for some time,” Bruce said.

That made Jason turn his head slowly. “You what?”

Bruce’s gaze remained on the runway. “There are patterns.”

“There are always patterns with you.”

“She has donated anonymously to clinics in neighborhoods that overlap with Mirage’s activity. Her travel schedule contains gaps that correspond to several interventions in trafficking cases. Men connected to private events she attended have later been found injured, frightened, and far more cooperative with investigators than expected.”

Jason stared at him. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t know.”

“You’re Batman.”

“I suspected,” Bruce corrected quietly. “There’s a difference.”

Jason looked back at you as you reached the end of the runway and turned beneath the lights. The gown moved around you like shadow poured into silk.

Across the theater, a man stumbled into the path of a waiter. The tray tipped. A champagne flute slid loose.

You caught it by the stem without looking away from the cameras.

Jason heard Bruce breathe out softly beside him.

“Careful,” Bruce said.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “With her?”

“With yourself.”

That was worse.

After the show, the theater rearranged itself into a party. The runway disappeared beneath donors, photographers, stylists, politicians, and the kind of men Jason would have preferred to meet in alleys rather than under chandeliers. He kept you in sight without meaning to. You moved through the room like you had been trained for it, smiling at the right moments, touching a reporter’s arm, leaning toward a donor, turning your face toward cameras as if offering them exactly what they wanted while keeping everything else behind your teeth.

A man with silver hair and a senator’s pin kissed your hand near the champagne table.

Jason watched your shoulders go still.

Only for a second. Less than that, maybe. Then you smiled.

Mirage, his mind said.

The senator smiled back.

Jason wanted to break his fingers and did not know why.

Across the room, a man with perfect makeup and a black turtleneck watched Jason watching you.

His expression turned bright and sharp.

Jason had been threatened by assassins, mob bosses, ancient cultists, and Bruce in a bad mood. Somehow, the makeup artist’s smile still managed to feel personal.

You slipped away to a side corridor ten minutes later.

Jason followed.

He found you in a temporary dressing room behind the stage, one hand braced on the makeup counter while the makeup artist stood in front of you with a brush in one hand and murder in his eyes.

“I cannot fix a hand if you keep making a fist,” the makeup artist said.

“I’m not making a fist.”

“You are emotionally making a fist, and your body is following.”

“I need five minutes.”

“You need a therapist, eight hours of sleep, and possibly a priest, but we work with what we have.”

Jason stopped in the doorway.

The makeup artist’s eyes lifted in the mirror. 

There it was again. That smile. Bright, professional, sharp enough to draw blood.

“Mr. Todd,” he said, sweeping concealer over the split skin at your knuckle with flawless precision. “You’re staring.”

You went still.

Slowly, your gaze rose to the mirror and found Jason behind you.

He should have said something casual. He had not survived this long without knowing how to lie with a straight face. But the sight of you seated in front of a mirror, black gown pooled around your legs, bruised hand held in makeup artist’s careful grip while he painted the evidence away, unsettled him more than any mask could have.

There were garment bags along one wall. A tray of makeup arranged like surgical instruments. A first-aid kit open beneath the counter. A pair of black tactical gloves half-hidden under a silk scarf.

Your world, Jason realized, was not divided cleanly between glamour and violence.

It was stitched together by people who knew exactly where the seams were.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.

The makeup artist’s expression suggested he absolutely believed Jason had meant to do several things, most of them suspicious.

“You did,” he said.

“Devin,” you warned softly.

“Oh, don’t “Devin” me. You let a Wayne boy into the dressing room while I’m covering what is very clearly not a backstage injury. I am allowed this complaint.”

Jason’s brows rose. “Wayne boy?”

“You heard me.”

You sighed. “Jason, this is Devin.”

“Makeup artist?” Jason asked.

“Artist, miracle worker, bisexual icon, emotional support menace,” Devin said. “And currently the only thing standing between her and tomorrow’s headline being ‘Gotham Darling Loses Fight with Door.’”

Jason looked at your hand. “Door?”

“You should hear some of her worse lies. Once she told Vogue she fell into a fountain.”

“I did fall into a fountain.”

“You were thrown through decorative water by a man with brass knuckles and no skincare routine.”

“That was one time.”

Devin looked at Jason. “It was not one time.”

Despite himself, Jason almost smiled.

You saw it in the mirror and narrowed your eyes.

Marisol entered then with a tablet in one hand and a phone in the other. She was beautifully dressed, visibly exhausted, and possessed of the kind of authority that made Jason stand straighter before he decided whether he wanted to. Her gaze moved from you to Devin to Jason, then returned to you with terrifying calm.

“Is this a problem?”

You opened your mouth.

Jason answered first. “No.”

Marisol looked at him. “That was not directed at you.”

“I’m figuring that out.”

“Good.” She smiled thinly. “Keep going.”

You pressed your lips together like you were fighting not to laugh. Jason decided, with a strange sense of alarm, that your civilian life might be more dangerous than your vigilante one.

“He knows,” you said.

Marisol’s face went still.

Devin’s brush stopped.

Jason looked at you in the mirror. “I don’t know anything you haven’t let me know.”

That shifted something in the room.

Devin’s gaze flicked toward him, assessing and no longer quite so amused. Marisol studied him as if deciding whether his body would fit in a garment trunk.

You looked away first.

“Who else knows?” Marisol asked.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “No one.”

“Anyone suspect?”

His silence lasted half a second too long.

Marisol’s eyes narrowed. “That was not a comforting pause.”

“People in my family are nosy.”

Devin resumed blending your knuckles. “Do we hate him?”

“Jason?” you asked.

“Obviously Jason. Keep up, babe. The nosy family can wait their turn.”

Jason looked at you.

You looked down at your hand, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “Not yet.”

“Progress,” Jason said.

“No one said that.”

Devin made a thoughtful sound. “I hate him a little less now.”

“How generous.”

“It is. I’m normally very good at first impressions.”

Jason glanced at the open first-aid kit, the hidden gloves, the bruises disappearing under Devin’s brush. “You all know.”

Marisol’s expression softened around the edges, but not enough to become harmless. “Someone has to.”

That landed somewhere Jason did not expect.

He had assumed Mirage was alone because Mirage disappeared alone. He had built that assumption out of his own reflection, out of years of leaving rooftops before anyone could see him bleed. But here you were, surrounded by people who knew what to pack in your garment bags, how to cover bruises, how to kill a story, how to turn a gown into cover and a schedule into an alibi. Not soldiers. Not Bats. A found family armed with concealer, contracts, exit routes, and love sharp enough to bruise.

It made something in him ache.

The dressing room door opened again, and a woman with silver pins clipped to the neckline of her blouse leaned in.

“Talia says the senator wants a photo before the private preview,” she said, then saw Jason and paused. “Oh. Is this Red Hood?”

Jason stared at her.

You put your face in your uninjured hand.

Devin, delighted, said, “Nadia, you can’t just ask people that.”

“Why? He has the shoulders.”

Jason looked at you. “The shoulders?”

“I said nothing.”

“You told them about my shoulders?”

“No,” Devin said. “She has taste, and we have eyes.”

Marisol pinched the bridge of her nose. “Everyone out who does not need to be in here. Nadia, tell Talia we need the black gloves. Devin, finish the hand. Jason Todd, if you are going to stand there looking like unresolved trauma in a suit, at least block the door from photographers.”

Jason blinked.

Then he moved to block the door.

You watched him in the mirror, and the expression on your face was too soft before you caught it.

Devin caught it too.

He lowered his voice, just enough. “Careful.”

“I know.”

“I’m not saying don’t.”

You looked up at him.

Devin’s smile faded into something gentler. “I’m saying make sure he knows what he’s holding.”

Your throat tightened.

Jason, pretending not to listen by the door, looked at the floor.

The private preview began at midnight.

By then, Devin had hidden your bruised knuckles beneath black opera gloves, Talia had altered the fall of your gown to account for your tight shoulder, Nadia had arranged your hair to conceal a comm, and Marisol had created a plausible gap in your schedule large enough to contain either a bathroom break or a small war. Marcus waited at the side entrance with the car running and three different routes out of the theater loaded into his phone.

Jason watched it all with a strange mix of admiration and discomfort.

Your people did not ask whether you were going to stop. They asked where the exits were. They checked your breathing, tightened a hidden strap, pressed a card into your hand with emergency contacts printed in tiny elegant font, and loved you with the exhausted competence of people who had accepted the impossible and built a system around it.

“You good?” Jason asked quietly when the others stepped away.

You looked at him, black gown brushing the floor, diamonds at your ears, baton hidden beneath silk. Mirage had not put on the mask, but she was standing behind your eyes.

“Usually,” you said.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I have.”

Jason’s gaze dropped to your gloved hand. “The senator. Who is he?”

You looked toward the ballroom.

Senator Harlan Crowe stood beneath a chandelier, smiling benevolently while a photographer adjusted the angle. By daylight, Gotham praised him when it needed to feel good about itself. He funded clinics, shook hands with survivors, gave speeches about protecting vulnerable women, and built his career out of language polished smooth enough to hide the bones beneath it. He had kissed your hand six months earlier at a donor dinner and told you your advocacy work was inspiring.

His fingers had been warm, soft, and manicured.

His eyes had lingered too long.

“Someone who thinks public virtue is a locked door,” you said.

Jason followed your gaze. “And private vice is the room behind it.”

“You do have poetry in there somewhere.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“I would never ruin your reputation.”

His mouth curved faintly, but his eyes stayed on Crowe. “He hurt you?”

“Not directly.”

That was honest enough to make Jason’s jaw flex.

You touched his sleeve before he could move. The gesture surprised both of you. His gaze dropped to your hand, black glove against black wool.

“Not here,” you said.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His eyes met yours.

Whatever answer he would have given vanished when Crowe lifted his champagne glass and looked directly at you.

Recognition did not show on his face. Not real recognition. He knew the public version of you, like everyone did. He knew your name, your campaigns, your usefulness at events like this. He knew how cameras loved you and how donors loved standing near whatever cameras loved.

He did not know that Mirage was looking back at him.

You smiled.

Crowe smiled in return.

Jason felt something cold move through the room.

The preview took place in the restored lower gallery beneath the theater, a private exhibition space lined with photographs from the campaign and couture pieces displayed like artifacts. Attendance was invitation-only, which meant wealthy enough to be careless or useful enough to be bought. Marisol kept you near the center of the room, circulating when necessary, letting you become the thing everyone expected you to be. Beautiful. Polished. Untouchable.

Jason stayed at the edges.

He was good at edges.

He watched Crowe. He watched the man with the cufflinks shaped like knives. He watched two private security guards who did not move like event staff. He watched Devin appear beside you every fifteen minutes with powder and a warning glance, fixing what no one else could see. He watched Marisol run interference with reporters and donors so smoothly that he understood why you trusted her with your life.

Then one of Crowe’s aides disappeared through a staff door with a young model from the event.

The girl was smiling too brightly.

You moved before Jason did.

He caught up to you in the corridor, where the music from the gallery faded into the hum of old pipes and emergency lights.

He said your name under his breath.

Not Mirage. Not the name Gotham’s criminals whispered after the smoke cleared. Your real name, the one printed on campaign contracts and shouted by photographers outside the theater. He said it softly, urgently, and with enough recognition beneath it that it felt more dangerous than the mask.

You did not stop. “Not here.”

“I know where we are,” Jason said. “That’s why I’m using the name everyone else knows.”

That almost made you look at him.

Almost.

“You’re moving like Mirage,” he said.

That stopped you.

For half a second, the corridor seemed too narrow for both versions of you. The public woman in the black gown. The vigilante beneath the silk. Jason in his suit, Red Hood in the way he held himself. He was not threatening to expose you. That was the problem. He was being careful, and somehow that made it harder to keep walking like he had not seen through you.

You turned your head. “You wouldn’t.”

“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

The certainty in his voice did more to disarm you than the threat ever could have.

A muffled cry came from behind the staff door.

You moved again.

The door opened into a narrow backstage dressing room cluttered with garment bags, lighting cases, a makeup counter, and a rack of unused costumes from whatever production the Novick had last hosted before money turned it into a venue for rich people with guilty consciences. Crowe’s aide had the girl pinned against the wall with one hand clamped around her upper arm and the other over her mouth. There was a syringe on the counter beside them.

Jason’s entire body went still.

You got there first.

The aide hit the floor hard enough that the mirror rattled. You put one heel on his wrist and pressed until he stopped reaching for the syringe. The girl stumbled toward Jason, who caught her carefully and moved her behind him with a gentleness that did not match the look on his face.

You kicked the door shut behind you.

Jason reached back and turned the lock without taking his eyes off the aide.

“Cameras?” he asked.

“Not in here.” You tapped the comm hidden behind your ear. “Nadia, kill the hallway feed outside prep room three.”

There was a faint crackle, then Nadia’s voice came through, calm and clipped. “Already on it. You have four minutes before someone notices the loop.”

“Make it six.”

“Do not start negotiating with me while committing crimes in couture.”

Jason glanced at you.

You ignored him.

The girl’s breathing came too fast, sharp enough to hurt. You softened your voice when you turned to her, though the anger in your chest had gone cold and steady.

“You’re safe,” you told her. “Dressing room at the end of the hall. Lock the door behind you. Call this number.” You pulled a card from the hidden slit inside your glove and handed it to her. “Tell them Marisol sent you.”

The girl nodded, shaking.

Jason stepped aside just enough to let her pass. He opened the door a few inches, checked the corridor, then let her slip out. The second she was gone, he shut the door and locked it again.

The aide made a small, frightened sound beneath your heel.

Jason looked down at him. “Talk.”

The aide looked at you, then at Jason. Whatever he saw between the two of you made him pale.

He broke quickly.

Men like him usually did once separated from their pack. He gave up the basement level, the shipment, Crowe’s private security, and the fact that the preview event upstairs was not only cover. It was a marketplace. Blackmail files, weapons, girls, names traded with champagne still on men’s breath. Not all of it would happen tonight. Enough would.

You listened without moving.

Jason watched your face.

The public mask did not crack, exactly. It emptied.

That frightened him more.

“Where?” you asked.

The aide swallowed. “Below the stage. Old trap room. Please, I swear, I don’t—”

You pressed your heel down once.

He stopped.

Jason crouched and zip-tied the aide with his own belt. “Anything else?”

The aide shook his head frantically. “No. No, I swear, that’s everything.”

Jason looked at you.

You gave a small nod.

The aide had enough time to look relieved before Jason struck him once, clean and controlled. His eyes rolled back, and he slumped sideways against the wall, unconscious before his shoulder hit the floor.

You looked down at him. “Was that necessary?”

“He saw us, heard enough to be useful, and was two seconds from screaming the second we left him alone.” Jason checked his pulse with two fingers, then stood. “Yes.”

You could not argue with that.

The room was quiet for half a breath. The locked door muffled the distant music from the gallery. Somewhere above you, people were still laughing over champagne while Crowe moved girls, weapons, and blackmail files beneath their feet. 

You reached beneath the slit of your gown, fingers finding the hidden fastening at your thigh.

Jason’s gaze dropped.

“Turn around,” you said.

His eyes lifted back to yours.

For one strange second, neither of you moved. Then Jason turned without a word and took up position by the locked door, one hand close to the weapon beneath his jacket while you worked behind him.

That was the part that should not have affected you.

The fight was waiting below. You did not have time to linger over trust, especially not here, with your gown still brushing the floor and danger moving beneath the theater.

Still, Jason turned around the second you asked.

Behind him, silk whispered to the floor. He heard the soft clicks of hidden fastenings, the slide of armor pulled from seams, the controlled rhythm of your breathing. The absurdity of it should have been funny: standing guard in a theater corridor while one of Gotham’s most famous women stepped out of couture and into vigilante gear behind him.

It was not funny.

It felt like being trusted with the door.

“You can turn around,” you said.

Mirage stood where the model had been.

The gown lay over one arm, black silk gleaming like spilled ink. Beneath it, you wore the flexible base layer Jason knew too well, reinforced pieces clipped along your ribs and shoulders, your mask still absent but tucked in your hand. You had not fully crossed from one life into the other. Not yet.

Jason looked from the unconscious aide to the gown. “That was dramatic.” 

“You knocked him out.”

“You changed clothes in the middle of a crime scene.”

“You like dramatic.”

“I like efficient.”

“It can be both.”

He loosened his cuffs and removed his jacket. Beneath the suit, he had enough armor to make your brows lift.

“You wore body armor to a benefit.”

“You wore a vigilante suit under couture.”

“That was practical.”

“That was insane.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Jason smiled, quick and unwilling.

You lifted the mask from your hand, but one of the damaged straps caught against your glove before you could fasten it. Jason stepped closer without a word, his fingers careful as he freed the clasp and let you secure it yourself.

The second it settled into place, something shifted between you. Not distance this time.

Understanding.

The fight below the stage was ugly.

Crowe had prepared for police, not vigilantes, but Gotham criminals adapted quickly when terrified. The basement level was a maze of storage rooms, trap mechanisms, old dressing areas, and reinforced crates marked as lighting equipment. Some held weapons. Some held files. One held two girls with zip ties around their wrists and tape over their mouths.

You went very quiet when you found them.

Jason noticed.

He always noticed.

“Get them out,” he said.

“Crowe is mine.”

“Mirage.”

You turned on him. “He is mine.”

Jason’s expression tightened behind the red mask and domino he had pulled on somewhere between the corridor and the stairs. “I’m not arguing that. I’m saying get them out first.”

You hated that he was right.

You hated more that he knew why you needed him to say it.

You cut the girls loose while Jason held the doorway. Gunfire cracked through the basement, loud enough to rattle the pipes overhead. You guided the girls through the side passage and sent them toward the emergency stairs, where Marcus would be waiting because Marisol had already received your coded alert and your people knew what to do when the night turned its teeth on you.

One of the girls clung to your hand for half a second before running.

By the time you returned, Jason was in the middle of the room with blood darkening the edge of his mask and three men on the floor.

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

“You’re late.”

“To your fight?”

“To subtlety as a concept.”

Despite everything, you almost smiled.

Then Crowe stepped out from behind a row of crates with a gun in one hand and a detonator in the other.

The room went still.

He looked different without cameras. Smaller, somehow, even with the weapon. Men like him always did when the performance ended. His expensive suit was rumpled, his benevolent smile gone flat and mean.

“Well,” Crowe said. “This is disappointing.”

Jason raised his gun. “Drop it.”

“If I do, you shoot me.”

“Probably.”

“Honesty from a masked criminal. Gotham really is changing.”

Your eyes moved over the detonator, then the wires trailing toward the crates. Enough explosives to bury the basement. Not enough to level the theater. Crowe wanted leverage, not martyrdom.

His gaze shifted to you.

The way he looked at your body in the armor made your skin crawl even more than it had at the gala.

“You,” he said slowly. “I know something about you.”

Jason moved half a step forward, placing himself just enough between you and Crowe to make a point.

Crowe smiled. “Protective.”

“Bored,” Jason said. “You going to monologue or bleed quietly?”

Crowe ignored him. His eyes stayed on you. “You have familiar posture. That sounds absurd, doesn’t it? But I spend a great deal of time watching women pretend not to hate rooms they willingly entered.”

Your fingers tightened around your baton.

Jason’s voice lowered. “Don’t listen to him.”

Crowe’s smile sharpened. “Ah. There it is.”

You moved first.

The gun fired.

Pain burned across your side, hot and bright where the bullet grazed the seam in your armor. Jason slammed into Crowe before he could fire again, driving him into the crates hard enough to splinter wood. The detonator clattered, skidding across the floor. You lunged for it.

Crowe caught your hood.

The fabric yanked tight. You twisted, but his fingers hooked the edge of your mask before you could break his grip. The fastening snapped with a sharp, ugly sound.

You hit him across the jaw with your baton.

He fell.

Your mask loosened.

For half a second, you caught it with one hand.

Then the broken strap gave way.

It hit the floor between you and Jason.

The basement went silent.

Jason stared at your face.

At the same moment, Crowe laughed through the blood in his mouth.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, that is rich.”

Jason’s gun lowered toward him with lethal calm. “Don’t.”

Crowe grinned up at you from the floor. “Gotham’s darling. The girl on every billboard. Does your agency know what you do after parties? Do your sponsors know? Do all those little girls buying your perfume know their idol spends her nights playing hero in basements?”

You reached for the mask.

Jason got there first.

He picked it up, stepped close, and turned his body so the security camera in the corner caught only his back. His hood was still up, the red mask still covering the lower half of his face. With his free hand, he peeled the domino from around his eyes and pressed it into your palm.

Your breath caught.

His voice was low enough that only you could hear it. “Cameras.”

You stared at him.

Jason Todd stood in front of you in the basement light, hood shadowing his face, red mask still in place, his domino in your hand and your broken mask in his. He had not given you everything. He was not reckless enough for that. But he had given you the part of his disguise that could still save yours.

It was practical.

It was dangerous.

It was the first thing anyone had done all night that made you feel safe.

“Put it on,” he said.

Your hands shook only once.

You secured his domino over your eyes while he stood close enough to shield you from the camera, his body turned deliberately between your face and the lens. Your broken mask hung from his other hand, the snapped strap dangling against his knuckles.

It did not hide you the same way, not really, but it was enough. Enough for grainy footage. Enough for plausible denial. Enough for a man like Crowe to lose the certainty he had been so thrilled to hold.

Jason looked down at him.

Crowe stopped laughing.

“Now,” Jason said, very softly, the voice modulator in his mask turning his voice into something colder, “you were saying?”

By the time the GCPD reached the basement, Crowe was unconscious, the detonator was disabled, the girls were safe, and the evidence against half of Gotham’s philanthropic class was arranged neatly on a crate. Red Hood and Mirage were gone before Gordon could decide whether to be furious or grateful.

You made it as far as the side entrance before your crew descended.

Marisol reached you first.

She did not scream. She did not panic. She looked at the blood on your side, the broken mask in Jason’s hand, the domino across your eyes, and made three decisions in less than a second.

“Marcus, car. Devin, kit. Talia, coat. Nadia, kill every camera angle between here and the east door.”

Nadia was already moving. “On it.”

Devin appeared with the emergency bag, took one look at Jason, and said, “Oh, I hate this.”

Jason blinked. “Me?”

“The situation, mostly. You a little.” Devin turned your chin with a gentleness that did not soften his expression. “Baby, why are you wearing his domino?”

“It was a camera thing.”

“A camera thing,” Devin repeated, in the tone of a man being asked to accept a raccoon as a handbag. “Wonderful. Love that. Very normal evening in fashion.”

Marisol pulled a long coat around your shoulders, hiding the armor and blood from view. “Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

Jason said, “Barely.”

You glared at him through his domino. “Not helping.”

“I’m helping accurately.”

Marisol looked between you. “You can flirt after we prevent a scandal and possible organ damage.”

“We’re not flirting,” you and Jason said at the same time.

Devin made an offended sound. “Do not insult me while I’m trying to save your career.”

Marcus brought the car around to the service entrance, blocking the view with his body while Talia gathered the ruined gown and bundled it beneath another coat. Your people moved around you with terrifying efficiency, turning disaster into logistics. Jason had seen combat teams less coordinated under pressure.

He helped you into the car because you let him.

That was the part that made everyone notice.

Marisol slid in beside you. Devin followed with the kit, muttering about antiseptic and fools. Jason started to step back, because this was your world and he had already pushed too far into it.

Your hand caught his sleeve.

“Come with me,” you said.

The car went very quiet.

Jason looked down at your hand.

Then at you.

Devin whispered, “Oh, she is down bad.”

“Devin,” Marisol said.

“What? Am I wrong?”

Jason got in.

For three seconds, the car was silent except for the hiss of Devin opening an antiseptic wipe.

Then you said, “Crowe saw my face.”

No one pretended not to understand.

Jason’s head turned toward you, his hood still up, the red mask covering the lower half of his face. The domino was still over your eyes. It felt strange there, too warm from his skin, too intimate for something meant to be practical.

Marisol looked at you from the opposite seat. “Crowe thinks he saw your face.”

“He knows.”

“He knows something,” she said. “That is not the same as having proof.”

“He said my name.”

“He said a lot of things while bleeding on a basement floor surrounded by evidence of human trafficking, illegal weapons, explosives, and attempted abduction.” Marisol’s voice stayed calm, which meant she had already started building a strategy. “If he starts screaming that Gotham’s favorite model is a vigilante, half the city will think he’s desperate, the other half will think he’s concussed, and the tabloids will call it a breakdown.”

“He had cameras.”

“Nadia?” Marisol said.

From the front passenger seat, Nadia did not look up from her phone. “Bad angle. Worse lighting. Red Hood blocked the only clean shot, which I will be thanking him for never. The rest is motion blur, smoke, his back, and her wearing the domino before the camera gets anything useful.”

Jason glanced toward her. “Never?”

“Do not make this emotional.”

Devin pressed the antiseptic wipe to your side and ignored the way you hissed through your teeth. “Also, people believe nonsense faster when there are options. We give them options.”

You looked at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Marisol said, “we flood the zone.”

“With what?”

“Other theories,” Nadia said, still typing. “Mirage is your body double. Mirage is your secret sister. Mirage is an ex-model with a vendetta. Mirage is actually three people. Mirage is a Wayne-funded performance art protest.”

Jason went very still. “Do not put Wayne in it.”

Marisol’s mouth curved. “Relax. We’ll keep it ridiculous.”

Devin brightened. “Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

Jason stared at him.

“What?” Devin said. “Too ridiculous?”

From the driver’s seat, Marcus said, “Clark Kent is Superman.”

Nadia snorted. “Please. The reporter from Metropolis?”

“He is tall,” Marcus said.

“So are lampposts.”

Despite the pain in your side and the fear still sitting cold beneath your ribs, a laugh escaped you.

Jason looked around the car as if he had accidentally climbed into a vehicle full of lunatics. “This is your damage-control plan?”

“This is step one,” Marisol said. “Step two is legal pressure. Step three is every sponsor and charity board calling Crowe unstable before breakfast. Step four is making sure any real footage becomes one more blurry clip in a sea of conspiracy edits.”

“You make that sound easy,” Jason said.

Marisol smiled at him. “I am very good at my job.”

You looked down at the broken mask in Jason’s hand. The snapped strap hung loose against his knuckles.

“He still knows,” you said quietly.

Jason’s gloved hand closed around the broken mask. “Then he lives with knowing something no one will believe.”

His voice was still altered by the red mask, low and rough and cold enough to belong to the man Gotham feared. Then his gaze dropped to the hand you still had curled in his sleeve. Carefully, he covered it with his own.

“And if he tries to use it,” he said, “he deals with all of us.”

Devin made a small sound. “Oh, I hate that I liked that.”

Marisol looked at Jason for a long moment, then nodded once, as if he had passed some test he had not known he was taking.

“Fine,” she said. “He can come upstairs.”

Your apartment looked different with him in it.

It was too clean, too high above the city, too full of expensive silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Gotham. Across the avenue, one of your billboards glowed above the traffic, the campaign image enormous and flawless. In it, you wore red silk and a mouth painted to match. The woman in the advertisement looked untouchable.

Jason noticed.

Your crew swept in behind you and transformed the space with the ease of people who had done this before. Devin set up at the kitchen island with the medical kit. Marisol took phone calls in a voice so calm it became threatening. Talia disappeared into your bedroom and returned with soft clothes. Nadia checked the security feed. Marcus stood near the door, arms crossed, like any paparazzo foolish enough to approach would be introduced to the architecture.

Jason stood in the middle of it all, too large and too quiet.

You sat on the edge of the couch while Devin cut away the damaged portion of your base layer with small silver scissors.

“You are not allowed to bleed on custom fabric this often,” he said.

“I’ll put it on my calendar.”

“Add sleep while you’re there.”

“Unrealistic.”

“Selfish.”

Jason watched Devin clean the wound with practiced hands. “You’ve done this a lot.”

Devin did not look up. “I’m amazing at many things. Unfortunately, field medicine became one of them.”

“It was never supposed to,” you said softly.

“No, babe.” Devin’s voice gentled without losing its bite. “A lot of things weren’t supposed to happen.”

That silence carried history Jason did not know.

He looked away.

Marisol ended a call near the window. “The story is controlled. Crowe had a medical emergency. The police response is being attributed to a credible threat. You left early due to exhaustion.”

“I did?”

“You will. Publicly.” Marisol looked at Jason. “Bruce Wayne is asking if his son is alive.”

Jason sighed. “How did he get your number?”

Marisol smiled. “I’m very good at my job.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“Yes.”

She handed him the phone.

Jason took it and walked toward the window. “I’m alive.”

Even from the couch, you heard Bruce’s low voice on the other end.

Jason looked tired suddenly. Younger and older at once.

“No, I didn’t compromise the case.” A pause. “No, I’m not at the theater.” Another pause, longer this time. “She’s alive too.”

You looked down at Devin’s hands.

Devin looked at you.

His brows rose.

You mouthed, Don’t.

He mouthed back, Pathetic.

Jason ended the call and returned the phone to Marisol. “He says thank you.”

“No, he didn’t,” Marisol said.

Jason’s mouth twitched. “He implied it in emotionally repressed billionaire.”

“I’ll bill him for the translation.”

Devin finished taping gauze over your side and leaned back. “There. You’ll live, though I am begging you to consider a hobby like ceramics or adultery. Something less hard on the face.”

“You always suggest adultery.”

“It has costumes, secrets, dramatic entrances. It’s practically the same thing, but fewer concussions.”

Jason made a sound that might have been a laugh.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

Marisol saw it. Devin saw it. Talia and Nadia definitely saw it. Marcus looked at the ceiling as if he were asking God for professional strength.

Your found family, traitorous and beloved, began making excuses to leave.

Marisol claimed she needed to handle the press. Devin said he needed to save the gown from bloodstains and bad decisions. Talia gathered the ruined fabric. Nadia said something about security footage. Marcus announced he would be outside the door for twenty minutes and then downstairs, which was both a statement and a threat.

Devin paused before leaving.

He pointed a makeup brush at Jason. “You.”

Jason lifted his brows.

“She loves like she’s making contingency plans, which means she will try to turn this into strategy if you let her. Don’t be an idiot.”

Your face went hot. “Devin.”

“And you,” he said, turning to you, “do not use emotional intelligence exclusively on criminals and then act surprised when your personal life looks like a warehouse fire.”

“Are you finished?”

“For now.” Devin leaned down, kissed your forehead, and softened just enough. “Call me if the bleeding gets worse.”

“I will.”

“You won’t, but I love pretending.”

Then he left.

The apartment became quiet around you and Jason.

Not empty. Your people had been there too vividly to leave emptiness behind. Their coats, their voices, their care still lingered in the air. But the door closed, and for the first time all night, you were alone with him.

Jason stood near the coffee table, still in his torn shirt and half-hidden armor, his domino gone, his face bare. He looked at the closed door, then at you.

“They really love you,” he said.

“They’re nosy.”

“That too.”

You pulled Marisol’s coat tighter around your shoulders. “They saved my life before they knew what I was doing with it.”

Jason sat beside you, leaving space. He was always careful at the worst possible times. “Why tell them?”

“I didn’t. Not at first. Devin figured it out because I kept coming to shoots with injuries makeup couldn’t explain. Marisol figured it out because nobody gets food poisoning before every suspicious gap in their schedule. Talia found a knife in a gown lining. Nadia found blood in my hair. Marcus saw someone follow me from an event and handled it before I could.”

“You let them stay.”

“They refused to leave.”

“Smart people.”

“They’re idiots.”

“They’re family,” Jason said.

You looked at him.

His gaze was on the billboard across the avenue. Your own face looked back from the glass, distant and perfect and impossibly smooth. “I thought Mirage was alone.”

“So did I, once.”

“What changed?”

“They didn’t ask permission to love me.”

Jason went very still.

You had not meant to say it that plainly. The truth sat between you now, too large to pretend it belonged to the room and not to both of you.

Jason looked down at his hands. The knuckles were bruised. There was blood beneath one nail, though you were not sure whether it was his or someone else’s.

“Must be nice,” he said, and then his mouth tightened as if he hated himself for it.

“It is,” you said. “It’s also terrifying.”

He glanced at you.

“When people love you, you become something that can be lost.”

Jason’s expression changed, not dramatically. He was too practiced for that. But the words landed. You saw it in the small shift of his jaw, the slight lowering of his gaze, the way he absorbed the sentence like it had found an old wound and pressed gently.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the part no one advertises.”

You laughed softly.

It hurt your side.

Jason noticed and moved closer without thinking. His hand hovered near your waist, then stopped before touching. The hesitation undid you more than contact would have.

“You can,” you said.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“Touch me,” you clarified, because you were tired and hurt and done speaking in code.

Jason’s hand settled carefully against your uninjured side.

Warmth moved through you, startling in its simplicity.

He looked at you for a long moment. “You sure?”

“No.”

His hand started to withdraw.

You caught it.

“I’m sure I want you to,” you said. “I’m not sure I know how to be normal about it.”

Jason’s mouth curved, sad and fond at once. “Normal’s overrated.”

“You would think that.”

“I died. I get some perspective.”

“You make jokes at terrible times.”

“Yeah.” His thumb moved once, slow against the fabric of the coat. “And you hide behind sarcasm when you’re scared.”

You wanted to deny it. You were good at denial. You had made a career out of making people believe the face you gave them.

Jason looked at you like he would let you lie if you needed to, but he would know.

“I don’t know what you want from me now,” you said.

“That depends.”

“On?”

“What you’re offering.”

Your breath caught.

His hand stayed where it was, steady and warm.

You looked at his mouth. Jason noticed because he always noticed, and the air between you changed. It had been changing for years, maybe. On rooftops, in alleys, in the space between his hand holding gauze to your skin and yours closing around his wrist before you let go too quickly. Suspicion had become familiarity. Familiarity had become trust in motion. Trust had become something neither of you named because naming gave a thing edges, and edges could cut.

“I’m tired of disappearing,” you said.

Jason’s eyes softened. “Then don’t.”

It was not that simple.

It was also exactly that simple.

You leaned in.

Jason met you halfway.

The first kiss was careful, almost unbearably so. His mouth was warm and firm against yours, his hand lifting to your jaw without touching the bruise Devin had painted over that morning. You felt the restraint in him, the strength held back so tightly it trembled. Red Hood was violence in a mask. Jason kissed like someone terrified of becoming a weapon in the wrong hands.

You made a small sound against his mouth.

His breath caught.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you. “Tell me if your side hurts.”

“My side hurts.”

His mouth twitched. “Then tell me if it gets worse.”

“Bossy.”

“Alive,” he said. “I want you to stay that way.”

Something inside you opened painfully.

You kissed him again, less carefully this time. Jason’s hand slid into your hair, dislodging what remained of Nadia’s careful work, and you loved that more than you should have. His other hand settled at your waist, warm through the coat and the thin fabric beneath, careful around the bandage Devin had just placed. Even that felt like a question.

You answered by shifting closer.

Jason made a low sound and broke the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t say yes because tonight was bad.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t say it because I know now.”

Your throat tightened.

You touched his face, fingers brushing the white streak in his hair before settling along his jaw. “I’m saying yes because you knew enough to protect me before you asked for anything. I’m saying yes because you gave me your mask when mine broke. I’m saying yes because I want you.”

Jason closed his eyes for a second, like the words had struck somewhere deep.

When he opened them again, the green was almost too much to bear.

“Okay,” he said softly.

He kissed you as if permission were sacred.

The pace changed after that, though it did not become rushed. He helped you stand and move toward the bedroom, one arm around your waist, patient with your bruises, careful when your breath hitched. Your bed was still unmade from the morning, a black garment bag thrown across the bench at the foot of it, a pair of heels abandoned near the dresser. The room looked too human after the polished silence of the living room. Jason seemed to notice that too.

He paused by the bed. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

“You can change your mind.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You looked at him, at the blood on his hairline, the bruising along his jaw, the worry he was trying to turn into patience. “I trust you.”

Jason went still.

The words were not grand. They were not dramatic. But in your mouth, after years of vanishing, they were almost obscene in their honesty.

He touched your face with the back of his fingers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed you again, softer than before.

He helped you out of the coat first, then the damaged armor piece by piece, pausing whenever your breath caught for the wrong reason. His hands learned you through caution before desire: the curve of your shoulder, the bruises along your ribs, the line of your spine, the places that made you lean closer and the places that made you wince. You had been undressed professionally under bright lights, unzipped and pinned and arranged until your body felt less like yours than a garment someone else had borrowed.

Jason undressed you like he was returning you to yourself.

When the torn top came off, his gaze moved over you with open want and visible restraint. The wanting made heat rise beneath your skin. The restraint made you trust him more. He touched your uninjured side first, then your hip, then the soft skin below your ribs, his fingers callused and reverent.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

You laughed faintly, defensive before you could help it. “That’s the general consensus.”

Jason’s gaze returned to your face. “I don’t care what they think.”

The words stole the smile from your mouth.

He leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips, your cheek, the place beneath your jaw where the mask usually sat. “I’m telling you.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

He kissed down your throat with a tenderness that made your hands curl in the sheets. You felt too exposed and somehow not exposed enough, caught between the woman Gotham touched with its eyes and the woman Jason touched with his mouth, as if both of them deserved gentleness. His hand slid to your thigh, then higher, slow enough that you could stop him.

You did not.

“Still okay?” he asked against your skin.

“Yes.”

“Good.” His mouth brushed your collarbone. “Keep telling me.”

Your laugh turned into a gasp when his fingers dipped beneath the last layer of fabric.

Jason watched your face as he touched you, learning each reaction with the same focus he brought to rooftops and violence. It should have embarrassed you to be seen that closely, but his attention did not feel like a camera. It did not take you apart for consumption. It gathered evidence of what made you feel good and treated the information like something precious.

You caught his wrist, not to stop him, only to hold on.

His thumb moved in a slow circle, patient and sure, until your hips shifted despite the ache in your side. He kissed your mouth, swallowing the sound you made, then kissed down again, over your chest, your stomach, the safe path around your bandage. He looked up from between your thighs, hair falling over his forehead, eyes dark with want.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered.

“I want to.” His hands moved along your thighs. “Unless you don’t.”

You swallowed. “I want you to.”

His mouth curved. “Then lie back, sweetheart.”

The endearment should have sounded too easy. From him, roughened by want and softened by care, it slipped beneath your skin like warmth.

You lay back against the pillows, his hands careful as he settled between your legs. The first touch of his mouth made you breathe his name. He paused as if the sound mattered, then did it again until your fingers found his hair and held on. He was patient in a way you had not expected from him, thorough and attentive, one arm braced carefully across your hips to keep you from twisting against your injured side.

The city watched itself in the windows.

Your billboard glowed across the avenue, bright and false and impossibly far away.

For once, you did not feel trapped beneath your own face.

Jason made you feel present. His mouth, his hands, the low approving sound he made when you stopped trying to swallow your pleasure. Heat built slowly, then all at once, your body tightening beneath him until you were shaking with it. He laced his fingers through yours when you came, holding your hand against the mattress while his mouth eased you through the aftershocks.

When he climbed back up your body, you pulled him into a kiss and tasted yourself on his lips.

He groaned softly, and the sound broke some last fragile thread between restraint and need. You reached for his shirt, clumsy with urgency, and he helped because there was still too much between you. Fabric, armor, weapons, grief. You wanted skin. You wanted weight. You wanted proof that he was real in a way Gotham could not take from you.

Jason stripped down with less ceremony than he had given you, but there was a moment when his shirt came off, and your hands stilled against his chest.

Scars crossed him in pale lines and rough patches, old wounds layered over newer ones, a history written in damage. Your fingers hovered before touching.

He watched you carefully.

You traced one scar near his ribs, then another along his shoulder. “Can I?”

His throat moved. “Yeah.”

You kissed the scar beneath your fingers.

Jason went still in a way that had nothing to do with danger.

You kissed another, then the center of his chest, then the place over his heart because you could not help yourself. His hand slid into your hair. He did not push. He only held you there, breathing unevenly while you gave gentleness back to him in the only language either of you seemed to understand.

By the time he eased you down again, both of you were shaking.

He moved over you carefully, mindful of your side, one forearm braced beside your head so his weight did not press where you were hurt. You guided him closer with your legs around his hips, and he looked down at you with an expression so open it made your chest ache.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

You believed him.

The first slow press of him inside you made your mouth part around a breath you could not quite catch. Jason lowered his forehead to yours, giving you time, his body tense with the effort of holding still. You slid your hands up his back, feeling muscle shift beneath scarred skin.

“Move,” you whispered.

He did, slowly at first, each thrust deep and controlled, his mouth brushing yours without quite becoming a kiss. Softness did not make him less intense. If anything, it made him more devastating. Jason touched you like every sound mattered, like every gasp was a confession he intended to keep safe. He murmured praise against your cheek, your throat, your mouth, low words that made heat pool beneath your skin.

“Beautiful like this,” he said, voice rough. “Not for them. Just here. Just you.”

Your eyes stung.

You pulled him down into a kiss before the feeling could become too large to survive. He let you hide in it for a moment, but only a moment. Then he kissed the corner of your mouth and slowed until you had to look at him again.

“I see you,” he whispered.

You came apart with his name caught in your throat.

Jason followed soon after, his rhythm breaking, his breath shuddering against your neck as he held himself over you and let go. For a long moment afterward, neither of you moved. The rain had softened outside. The city was still there, still hungry, still full of men like Crowe and masks that broke at the worst possible time.

But Jason was warm above you.

He eased away with a care that made you ache for reasons more emotional than physical, then returned with a damp cloth and the medical kit because apparently even sex could not stop him from being irritatingly practical. You complained about this. He told you to hush and checked your bandage anyway.

Afterward, he climbed into bed beside you.

You expected awkwardness. A joke, maybe. Some retreat behind sarcasm now that the wanting had been answered and the room was too quiet.

Instead, Jason pulled the blanket over both of you and gathered you carefully against his chest, one arm warm around your waist and gentle enough not to press against your bandaged side.

You let him.

Your head rested against his chest, your palm spread over one of his scars. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear. That felt impossible and precious enough that you stayed very still, as if sudden movement might wake you from it.

Across the avenue, your billboard continued to shine.

Jason followed your gaze. “She looks lonely.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The billboard girl.” His fingers moved slowly along your arm. “She looks like she’s waiting for someone to tell her she can stay.”

You did not answer for a while.

Then you said, “Maybe she is.”

Jason pressed a kiss to your hair. “Then let her.”

The words settled over you with the warmth of his body and the ache of your own.

Morning came quietly.

You woke to pale light touching the windows and Jason’s arm heavy around your waist. For once, you had not vanished before sunrise. Your broken mask lay on the bedside table beside his domino and red mask, both of them useless in the honest light.

Jason was awake. You could tell by his breathing.

“You staring at me?” you murmured.

“Investigating.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Find anything useful?”

“Yeah.” His hand slid carefully over your hip, warm and possessive in a way that felt less like ownership than wonder. “You drool.”

You turned your head and glared at him. “I do not.”

“Little bit.”

“I regret trusting you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You should have. It would have been smarter. Safer. Easier.

Instead, you rolled carefully toward him, mindful of your side, and found him watching you with a softness that made the whole city outside feel distant. His hair was a mess. There was a bruise along his jaw. He looked nothing like the ghost Gotham had made of him and everything like the man who had held your mask in place before asking who you were.

“No,” you admitted. “I don’t.”

His smile was small and real.

Your phone began buzzing somewhere on the floor. Then Jason’s chirped from the pile of discarded armor. 

Gotham, impatient as ever, came knocking at the edges of the room.

Neither of you moved immediately.

Then a key turned in the front door.

Jason’s entire body went alert.

You caught his wrist. “Don’t shoot my agent.”

The bedroom door was still mostly closed, but Marisol’s voice carried from the living room. “I heard that, and I appreciate the warning.”

Devin followed a second later. “If he shoots me, I will haunt both of you with contour advice.”

Jason stared at the ceiling. “They have keys.”

“They have emergency keys.”

“Of course they do.”

“They also have breakfast.”

That made him pause.

From the living room, Devin called, “And coffee, because some of us contribute positively to society.”

You smiled against Jason’s shoulder. “You can run if you want.”

Jason looked at the broken mask on the bedside table, the billboard beyond the window, the door behind which your found family was pretending not to give you privacy while absolutely listening. Then he looked at you.

“I’m good,” he said.

Your chest warmed.

“You sure?” you asked.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist. “Yeah.”

Devin knocked once and opened the door without waiting for an answer. He took in the bed, Jason, your bandage, your hair, the general state of the room, and placed one hand over his heart.

“Oh, thank God,” he said. “The sexual tension was becoming a hostile work environment.”

You threw a pillow at him.

He caught it. “Please. I’m an artist.”

Marisol appeared behind him with coffee trays and an expression of long-suffering victory. “I assume everyone is alive?”

Jason lifted a hand. “Mostly.”

“Good. Bruce Wayne has called twice, Crowe is in custody, three sponsors want statements, and TMZ is convinced you left the event because you’re secretly pregnant, feuding with another model, or joining a cult.”

You sat up carefully. “Which cult?”

“I told them nothing, obviously, but if we need to choose, I can work with cult. It has mystery.”

Devin pointed at Jason. “He looks like a cult.”

Jason, still shirtless and scarred in your bed, looked at him flatly. “Thanks.”

“It was not a compliment, but you’re welcome.”

Marisol set the trays on the dresser, then looked at you. Her expression softened in that dangerous way that always made you want to hide. “How’s the wound?”

“Fine.”

Jason said, “Not fine, but stable.”

You glared at him. “Traitor.”

Marisol smiled at him. “I like him.”

“You do not get to like him before I decide what I’m doing.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Devin said, handing you coffee you did not remember asking for. “You decided somewhere between letting him into the car and letting him ruin Nadia’s work.”

Jason glanced at your hair. “It looks good.”

Devin pointed at him again. “Correct answer. Hate him less.”

The morning unfolded around you in a way that should have felt impossible.

Marisol took calls in the kitchen while Marcus guarded the hallway and Nadia scrubbed security feeds from a laptop. Talia arrived with a soft robe, a replacement mask, and the ruined black gown sealed in a garment bag like evidence. Devin sat at the foot of your bed and fixed the bruising near Jason’s jaw because, apparently, “if he’s going to be photographed leaving the building, he will not do it looking like a back-alley divorce.”

Jason submitted to the brush with visible suspicion.

“You’re tense,” Devin said.

“I don’t usually get makeup done.”

“Everyone says that until they see themselves with properly corrected under-eyes.”

“I wear a mask.”

“And yet your pores persist.”

You laughed so hard your side hurt.

Jason looked at you, and the annoyance left his face.

Devin saw that too. Of course he did. This time, he said nothing.

Later, when the calls slowed and the coffee went cold, you found Jason standing by the window. He was wearing his shirt again, though it hung open at the collar, and one of Devin’s tiny flesh-colored bandages sat over the cut near his cheekbone. Across the avenue, your billboard watched the city with manufactured longing.

“She’s not going anywhere,” you said.

Jason looked over his shoulder. “The billboard girl?”

You came to stand beside him. “Contracts.”

“Right.”

“She pays for a lot.”

“Armor?”

“Armor, clinics, safehouses, Devin’s emotional damages.”

Jason smiled faintly.

You looked at your own face in the distance. “I don’t hate her. Sometimes I think I should, but I don’t. She gets into rooms Mirage can’t. She makes people underestimate me. She protects the people who protect me.”

“She’s part of you,” Jason said.

“So is Mirage.”

“I know.”

You turned your head. “Do you?”

Jason looked at you then, and there was no mask, no domino, nothing but the man who had seen both of your masks break and still chosen to stand in front of the camera.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

The answer was simple enough to be terrifying.

You touched his hand where it rested near the glass. His fingers curled around yours.

Behind you, Devin yelled from the kitchen, “If you two are having a meaningful window moment, wrap it up. I need to discuss the press statement, and I refuse to let romance ruin my schedule.”

Jason closed his eyes.

You smiled. “Welcome to the family.”

He looked at you. “That a threat?”

“Usually.”

His laugh was low and warm.

Gotham still loved a beautiful lie. It would keep loving her. It would print her face, buy her perfume, whisper her name, and mistake distance for grace. It would look at the woman on every billboard and think it knew her.

Jason Todd knew better now.

So did Devin, and Marisol, and the small, ferocious family waiting in your kitchen with coffee, cover stories, and three different plans for getting Red Hood out of your apartment without being photographed.

The city would keep looking.

Let it.

For once, when morning found you, you did not vanish.

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Red Hood divider ❤️💛

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Goddamn, Manchild

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦

✦wc: 13.5k✦

✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦

He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.

Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.

You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-

“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.

You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”

“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“

You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.

But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.

He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.

You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.

Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.

“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.

“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”

It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.

She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.

But interesting people have interesting friends.

Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there. 

Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.

Most of them treated you like that.

Bucky didn’t.

Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.

Only one of those things was true.

Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.

He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.

His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.

Might’ve been.

If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.

By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.

He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.

And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.

You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.

There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.

The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.

“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.

“I was invited.”

“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“

“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“

“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”

That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.

“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“

“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”

Bucky scowls. “The car-“

“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”

“I am not acting like a dog-“

Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“

“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“

“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.

Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.

“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.

You smile at her. “I always do.”

You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.

One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.

It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.

“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.

“I- What?”

“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”

“That’s- It’s fine-“

“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.

“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”

You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.

It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.

For Nat.

Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.

He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.

Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.

He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-

“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”

You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“

“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”

You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-

“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-

“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.

“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”

Nat snorts. “From who?”

“Sam.”

“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.

“Tony’s mentioned it too-“

“They’re both idiots.”

“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“

“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”

You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.

“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”

At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.

The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.

“Nice dress.”

Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.

“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.

“You scared me-“

“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“

“I am not jumpy-“

“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.

The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-

“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.

“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.

“You also called me a rabbit.”

“Called you a bunny-“

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.

Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.

You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.

When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do. 

You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.

“Damn, you took those like a champ.”

You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.

“You see that, Buck-“

“Yeah. I saw it.”

Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.

You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.

Another drink might.

You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.

Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.

A fourth shot might be needed.

You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.

Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.

Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.

Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.

You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.

Everything except Bucky.

Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.

It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.

You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.

He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.

“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.

“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.

“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.

You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.

Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.

His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.

Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.

That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.

Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.

Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.

“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”

“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.

“Best guess.”

You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.

“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.

“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.

“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.

You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.

But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.

Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.

You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.

He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him. 

Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.

“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.

They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.

“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”

You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“

“Car will be warm.”

“But we don’t have a car-“

“We’re taking Nat’s.”

You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“

“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”

“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.

“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”

Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.

Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-

“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”

You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”

“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.

Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.

Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.

You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.

His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.

When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.

“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.

You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.

Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”

“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.

You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.

“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”

Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.

He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.

Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.

“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.

“Numbers?”

“Phone numbers.”

“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.

“You gonna call any of them?”

“Any of who?”

Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.

“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”

Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.

“Why?”

They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”

“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”

You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.

He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.

Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.

The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.

“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”

You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.

He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys  from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.

“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”

Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”

You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.

“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”

You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.

Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.  

“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“

You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.

But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.

It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.

He does.

He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.

“It’s your fault, you know.”

Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”

“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.

He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.

Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.

It’s still all his fault.

“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.

“All of it.”

Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.

But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-

“I love you.”

Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.

It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.

“What?”

His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.

“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”

He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.

Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.

“I’m here?”

“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.

“But you love me.”

“Mhm.”

“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“

“Because you never do anything.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“

“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“

“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.

“You don’t get to know.”

“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“

“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.

Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“

“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.

Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.

“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”

Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“

He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.

He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.

“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”

You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.

“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.

His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.

“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.

He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.

You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.

Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-

You told him you loved him.

That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.

You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.

He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.

You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.

When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.

You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.

If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.

Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.

That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.  

But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for  him to act like that at all.

It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.

The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.

But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.

“Where’d you- Hi.”

Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.

“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.

You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.

“How’d you know I was up?”

“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”

“Did you-“

“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”

You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.

“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”

You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.

Bucky leans closer.

“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“

“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.

Mistake.

He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.

“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”

“You’re being a dick-“

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“I- You-“

“You love it.”

You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.

“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.

Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”

Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.

“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”

Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.

He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.

“Yes.” You breathe.

Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”

“Bucky…”

“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.

He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.

You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.

“Do you love me?”

His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.

“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.

You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.

“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”

Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.

His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.

“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.

Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.

Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.

You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.

“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”

You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.

“Bucky-“

“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”

“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.

He hums. “You think about me a lot?”

Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.

“Careful, baby-“

“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“

Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.

It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.

He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.

“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.

“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.

He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.

“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”

You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“

“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“

“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“

He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”

“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.

“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”

“But-“

“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”

You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“

“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”

You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.

There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.

But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.

You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”

Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”

Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.

“Prove it.”

Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”

You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.

“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”

“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“

“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“

You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.

His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.

The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.

You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.

The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.

Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.

He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”

“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.

“You’re a big girl. Use words.”

You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.

“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.

“And?”

“And?”

“You what?”

You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”

You stick out your tongue, and he hums.

“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”

“My manners are fine-“

“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.

“I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.

He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you.

“You really still got that vibrator?”

You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling. 

“Grab it.”

You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.

He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.

You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”

You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.

“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”

Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.

“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.

“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.

Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.

“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.

You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”

“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”

“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”

“What’s-“

A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.

“Bucky, wait-“

“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.

“God, fuck-“

“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”

You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”

“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”

Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.

“Bucky- Holy shit-“

He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.

You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.

“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.

You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.

“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”

You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.

“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”

You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.

“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.

But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.

“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”

Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.

“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”

Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.

“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”

You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.

“Shit- You can’t just-“

He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep. 

“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’  show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“

The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.

He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.

When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.

He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.

Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.

But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.

“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”

You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.

Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.

You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.

“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”

You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.

“Say it.”

When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.

“No.”

“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.

You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.

“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”

You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.

He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.

“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“

You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.

He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.

“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.

He recovers fast.

“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”

You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.

“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”

He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.

You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.

“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”

You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.

“Words.”

“Bucky…”

“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”

“Can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”

You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.

“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“

He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“

“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“

“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.

It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again. 

“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“

You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.

“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“

You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.

It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-

You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.

“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.

His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.

His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.

Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.

“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.

“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.

You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.

“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“

“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.

Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.

“What?”

“I- I love you- Oh.”

He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.

“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“

It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.

“I- I love you- Oh my god-“

Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.

“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“

He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.

Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.

“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“

From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.

Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.

It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.

He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.

You get there all on your own.  

Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.

Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.

“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.

“Shut up.”

He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.

“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.

There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.

“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.

“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.

“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”

You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”

Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “

“And were you any better?”

He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”

“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”

You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.

Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.

“Good.”

“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”

You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.

“You’re a gremlin.”

“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.

“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”

You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.

“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”

Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.

“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.

You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.

And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.

✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[spacedoutsher]

i'll be here until further notice

[mehchuis-deactivated20260406]

You Became My Favorite Habit:

Jack Abbot x FwB!Reader, SMUT MDNI!!! I WILL block, friends with benefits to something more…

Summary: Jack Abbott built his life on routine… until you became the one habit he can't control. When you start pulling away, jealousy cracks through his walls, and Jack's forced to confront just how badly he doesn’t want to lose you.

Jack Abbot loves routine.

Loves his habits. Loves therapy on Friday before a long weekend. Loves drinking a hot black coffee before every night shift. Hell, he even loves it when he has a bad shift that takes him up to the roof.

Maybe it’s from his days in the military. Maybe it’s from some sick need for control in his crazed life.

He just didn’t expect you to become a part of it.

You, whom he’d met through mutuals, Robby’s friend of a friend.

You, whom he’d taken to like a duck to water with your dry humor and that lingering gaze the first night.

You, whom he’d dragged into the bar bathroom before last call, grip tight on you like his life depended on it. Hushed voices. Frantic hands. No room to think.

You’d exchanged numbers after.

Stress relief, you’d said.

Something fun. Something easy.

You met up less than a week later at his apartment and went round after round until he had to leave for work.

If he was in a better mood than usual, no one commented on it.

And after that, it became part of his routine.

Every Saturday night, you’d come over. Sometimes early. Most of the time late. Sometimes you smelled like tequila and cigarettes. Other nights, bergamot and musk; clean, sharp, unfamiliar enough to make something in Jack’s chest pull tight.

Sometimes you were all sharp tongue, quick wit, even defter hands.

Sometimes you were quiet. Soft. Careful in a way that made his throat feel tight.

Sometimes you took what you needed.

Other times, you let Jack take the lead.

You were unpredictable, and yet, constant.

You were Saturday nights and Sunday mornings.

You were a part of his routine.

Until you weren’t.

You started replying later and later.

Sometimes not at all.

But you always showed up Saturday. Even if it was late… and it was getting later.

Jack hated the way it made him feel.

Doubtful.

Restless.

Like something was slipping through his fingers, and he didn’t know when it started.

Like an insecure teenager again.

But you weren’t his.

He wasn’t yours.

You had agreed on that.

Stress relief. Something easy. Something fun.

Except stress relief wasn’t supposed to have him checking his phone during work, like if he doesn’t he might miss something important. Something easy wasn’t supposed to have him pacing his apartment at 8:30 on a Saturday, jaw tight, listening for footsteps in the hall. Something fun wasn’t supposed to have him freeze the night you walked in smelling like someone else’s cologne – sharp, claiming, definitely not his.

Stress relief wasn’t supposed to make his hands curl into fists. And yet… But he had you Saturdays.

That had to count for something.

Until it didn’t.

It was 8:47 PM, and he’s heard nothing.

9:00… You’re probably on the way.

9:45… He was staring at his phone so hard his eyes hurt.

You never showed up past ten unless you were out, which wasn’t unusual, but you usually texted. And you hadn’t.

By 11, Jack was beyond antsy.

He was pacing. Panicked. Sick with it. Juvenile in his frustration. Adolescent in his insecurity.

Still no text.

He pulls out his phone and types:

You still coming?

Deletes.

You otw?

Deletes.

Come over?

Deletes.

His jaw flexes.

He wants to check your location… but he doesn’t have it.

Because stress relief doesn’t have a shared location.

11:49. His phone buzzes.

Sorry - can’t make it.

That’s it. No explanation. No nothing. Jack stares at the screen, something hot and ugly flaring under his ribs.

Can’t make it?

He tosses the phone onto the couch as if it burned him.

Because it did.

Because you did.

He scoffs under his breath, but his hands are already curled into fists at his sides because he knows, he knows, he doesn’t have the right to be this pissed.

You weren’t his.

He wasn’t yours.

He taps a ‘like’ on your message and tries to sleep.

He doesn’t.

Sunday morning is worse. Because there’s still nothing.

No texts.

No explanation.

Nothing.

Robby notices immediately on Monday during handoff. Jack’s short with everyone. Quiet in the wrong way. Snapping – before the shift’s even started.

“You look like hell,” Robby says, too amused for Jack’s liking.

“Didn’t sleep.”

Robby’s eyes narrow. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

Jack shrugs, jaw tight.

Robby studies him for a long moment.

Then, casual, too casual, “She not show?”

Jack’s head snaps toward him. “What?”

Robby smirks. “You’re far from subtle.”

“She’s not mine.”

The words come out sharp. Defensive.

And Robby just hums.

Jack grits his teeth. “I didn’t say she was.”

But something ugly lingers in his chest anyway.

You finally text mid-shift Monday night.

Crazy weekend. Sorry again.

Still no explanation.

His reply is immediate, too fast.

You okay?

Your answer comes back quickly.

Yea just needed space.

Jack feels something drop heavily in his stomach. Space? From what? From him? His thumbs hover, uncertain, before he types:

From me?

Your reply is instant.

No. Just life…

It should ease something in him.

It doesn’t.

It doesn’t stop the tight feeling in his chest. Doesn’t stop the way his jaw aches from clenching. Because your answer wasn’t reassuring, it wasn’t specific, it wasn’t enough.

Saturday comes again.

Jack tells himself he won’t wait up this time.

He’s not that guy.

He’s scorned. Irritated. A little too affected by what was supposed to be easy.

So he makes plans with Robby for drinks.

He can make a new routine.

A worse one, but still.

His phone pings at 8:36.

You still good for tonight?

Jack stares at the message for a long moment, something sharp and relieved twisting together in his chest.

He hearts it.

Rainchecks on Robby.

Robby would understand.

Robby knows Jack.

And Jack loves routine.

And Jack really, really loves that you’re part of it.

The knock comes at 9:15.

Relief hits him so fast it almost makes him dizzy.

He opens the door but doesn’t move from the frame.

You blink up at him. “Hey… you gonna stand there or let me in?”

He steps aside.

You brush past him like you always do. Familiarly. Like last week didn’t happen.

Jack’s mouth moves before he can stop it.

“You didn’t come last week.”

You pause.

“I know.”

A beat stretches tight between you.

“I just…” You start, then stop. Your fingers twist together. Nervous, that’s new. “I wanted to see if this was just a habit.”

Jack’s breath catches, sharp.

His voice comes out rougher than he means. “Is it?”

Your eyes lift to his.

“That’s why I came over,” you say quietly. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this anymore.”

Something cold slides down Jack’s spine.

A pit opens in his stomach.

He hates this. The heat in his face, the way his pulse is suddenly too loud in his ears. Hates that for the first time in a long time, he feels completely out of control.

You say it again, softer.

“I can’t do casual with you anymore.”

His jaw tightens.

Then, releases.

“Then what do you want?”

Your voice gets smaller, careful, like you’re bracing for impact.

“I want more than I think you’re willing to give me.”

And that hits somewhere deep and ugly in Jack’s chest, because you sound unsure. Like you’re already halfway out the door… Like you’re already gone. The thought flashes hot and vicious through him before he can stop it.

It’s so abrupt – so unexpected – that Jack laughs.

A short, disbelieving sound.

You flinch.

“More than I’m willing to give you?”

You flinch like it cut.

And the second Jack sees it, the way your shoulders pull in, the way your mouth presses tight, something in his chest twists hard and mean. He should stop. He doesn’t.

Because you have him wrapped around your finger, and now you have the gall to act like you don’t know it.

“Yeah,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face, huffing. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Your brows knit together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He exhales hard through his nose, pacing once across the living room like he’s trying to outrun the words clawing up his throat.

“You want more,” he says, voice tight. “‘Course you do.”

There’s an edge there now. Not mocking, worse, raw. You straighten a little. Defensive.

“If that’s a problem, then–”

“It is.”

The word lands heavy between you.

You freeze.

Jack stops pacing, too, like he surprised himself just as much.

For a second, neither of you breathes.

Your voice is careful when you speak again. Too careful.

“…Why?”

And that, that careful tone, snaps something loose in him, because you sound like you’re already bracing for rejection. Like you’ve already decided how this ends. Like maybe you’ve got somewhere else to land.

Again, jealousy flares hot and ugly in Jack’s chest.

His jaw flexes.

“Because,” he starts, then stops, dragging a hand through his hair. His control, the thing he prides himself on, is fraying fast. “Because you don’t get to walk in here smelling like someone else and then tell me you want more like that’s–”

He cuts himself off. Too much.

Your eyes widen slightly.

“…Someone else?” you repeat quietly, brows furrowed.

Jack’s nostrils flare. He looks away, like he already regrets saying it, but not enough to take it back. “Forget it.”

“No,” you say, stepping closer. “Don’t do that. You don’t get to drop something like that and then shut down.”

Your voice is firmer now. Hurt threaded through it.

“What are you actually mad about, Jack?”

The question hangs there.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

Jack’s chest rises and falls once. Twice.

His hands flex at his sides, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. Like he wants to grab something, hold something, stop something from slipping.

When he finally looks at you again, the heat in his eyes is unmistakable.

“I’m mad,” he says slowly, voice rough, “because last Saturday I sat here like an idiot checking my phone every five minutes.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m mad because you said you needed space, and my first thought was–” he breaks off, jaw clenching hard, “–that maybe you found someone better, or I dunno, different, to spend your Saturday nights with.”

Silence crashes into the room.

Your lips part.

Jack laughs again, but this one is hollow, vulnerable, but emotionless.

“Pretty pathetic, right?”

You shake your head immediately. “Jack–”

“I don’t do this,” he cuts in, sharper now. “I don’t wait on people. I don’t…” He gestures vaguely between you, frustrated. “I don’t get like this.”

His voice drops, quieter. More dangerous.

“But you–”

He stops again, like the next words cost him something real.

For the first time since you’ve known him, Jack looks… uncertain.

Exposed.

“You worked your way into my routine,” he says, softer but no less intense. “And I didn’t notice until you weren’t there.”

Your eyes shine a little now.

Jack swallows hard.

Then, finally, like he’s yanking the words out of his own chest–

“I don’t want casual with you either.”

The room goes very, very still.

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“…You don’t?”

Jack shakes his head once, sharply.

“No. I don’t think I have for quite some time.”

A step closer.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes, heavy, conflicted, honest in a way that clearly makes him uncomfortable.

“I tried to keep it there,” he admits, quieter now. “Tried real hard to keep it easy. Fun.”

His jaw tightens.

“Didn’t work.”

Your breath is shaky when you ask, “So what are you saying?”

Jack exhales slowly, like he’s stepping off something high.

When he speaks again, his voice is low and rough and very, very certain.

“I’m saying,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “that if you walk out that door because you think I don’t want more–”

His hand lifts, hesitates for half a second…

Then settles firmly at your waist.

“–you’re wrong.”

The air between you goes tight.

Charged.

Jealousy still flickers in his expression, but now it’s tangled up with something deeper. Something steadier. Something that looks a hell of a lot like fear of losing you.

Jack’s thumb shifts slightly against your side, more grounding himself than you.

Voice low.

“Question is…” he says quietly, eyes searching yours, “you still want it?”

The tension hangs there, hot, fragile, and one breath away from breaking.

Your breath stutters, but Jack needs to hear it.

You look at him, really, look at him.

“Yes.”

He crashes his lips into yours.

His hands are at your waist, on your neck, possessive, claiming.

The kiss is bone-rattling, electrifying. It’s teeth and hands and biting. It’s possessive, burning. Not nice. Not delicate.

It’s definite.

Certain.

It’s all of the frustration from the last two weeks: sharp, breathless, and a little bit desperate.

His mouth is warm and insistent against yours, like he’s trying to prove something neither of you has said aloud.

You moan into his mouth, and he exhales sharp and heady through his nose. His grip, tightening. 

The tension shifts into something deeper.

His other hand comes up, sliding along your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in a movement that’s almost too gentle compared to the heat between you.

You both pause to catch your breath, forehead to forehead, sweat building on your brows from the heat of each other’s bodies. Breath ragged and rough.

His voice low, unsteady in a way you’ve never heard before.

“…You keep doing that,” Jack mutters, thumb still tracing slow along your jaw, “I’m not letting you leave tonight.”

But he doesn’t sound angry – he sounds wrecked. Possessive in that quiet, dangerous way.

And when his mouth finds yours again, slower this time, deeper, it’s very clear he meant every word.

You breathe into the space between your lips and his, “Then don’t.” 

He drags you to the bedroom in a familiar, yet new, way.

He doesn’t look back at you like you might leave if he looks away. He looks back at you because he knows you’re there. You’re real. You’re his.

You parted for only a moment, yet when his mouth meets yours, knees against the back of his bed, he kisses you like you haven’t seen each other in years.

He kisses you as if – even in that short span of time – he missed you.

And you believe it.

Because you kiss him the same way.

Hungrily, like you’re trying to catch up on all of the nights you missed with him because you were too scared to tell him the truth – because you are.

You kiss him so hard and so long that you’re losing your balance. Falling backwards onto the bed, but Jack catches you and cradles your fall. Holding himself up and over you.

In between his arms, you manage to slide your shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the side.

“God,” he breathes, pulling his shirt over his head “You have no idea how bad I need you, do you?”

“Jack–” you plead.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart, I’m taking my time with you tonight.”

And you know he means it, because he doesn’t bother pulling his pants down – or even removing his leg – before he’s taking yours off. Throwing them behind him.

You almost want to stop him – tell him to take off his leg or else it’ll be killing him in the morning – but then he traces a thick finger over the wetness between your legs:

“I’m taking my time with her.”

“Jack–” you gasp.

He pulls your panties down and off, slowly tracing his hands back up your legs. Kissing his way back up to your thighs.

You’re almost quivering by the time he reaches your mound. You feel on fire. Warmth low and heavy in your stomach.

“Jack–”

“That’s it baby,” he coos, “I wanna hear who’s got you this worked up.”

Licking a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. Your breathing heavier now, he slides a finger into your wetness – and you arch into his touch. Hips bucking softly into his broad hand.

But Jack holds your hips down with his other hand.

And stops.

“Sorry sweetheart,” he says sternly, “but you gotta be real good to make up for making me worry.”

“I’ll be good” You nod, not knowing if he saw, but lowering your hips back down.

“You gotta hold still and take what I give you.”

“I will!” you’re pleading now, begging for him to touch you again.

“That’s it,” and he’s sliding his finger back into you, curling and finding that sweet, spongey spot of your walls.

And before you can respond, he’s sucking and lapping your clit. Flicking his tongue, then sucking intermitently, unpredictably on your poor clit.

All the while fucking another hefty finger into your weeping hole.

You’re gripping the sheets, trying to be good, but your thighs are shaking, and you accidentally buck–

“I’m sorry!” you cry “I’ll be good. I’ll be–”

“T’s okay” he mumbles between your legs, “tell me what you want.”

“I wan’ ride your face, Jack, please.”

And that’s new.

And not a lot is new after this many Saturdays.

He’s removing himself from between your legs before you have a second to think about the fact you asked him for that, that maybe he’s not into that, that maybe you crossed the line and maybe you should–

But you look at him, and he’s already taken his pants and leg off, and is sitting at the edge of the bed, waiting.

For you.

Pupils blown wide with lust, he looks at you, and smirks, “You gonna lay there or come sit on my face, doll?”

You kiss him hard and push him to the middle of the bed.

Tongues colliding, you get caught in the moment before Jack taps your ass once, twice, moving you upward.

And as you crawl over his smiling face – before you can get insecure or overthink – he pulls himself down and in between your thighs and pulls your weight down, hard.

You don’t even have time to react before your body responds.

You’re bucking and riding and grinding against his mouth, his tongue – his nose brushing your clit at just the right angle, just the right pace.

“Jack, Jack, Jack–” you chant in a quiet plea.

You feel him hum between your folds.

And you’re close, you’ve been close, but this feels different.

You feel fuller.

Wound tighter.

You don’t have time to overthink it before you’re spilling over the edge.

As you come down from your high, you realize–

The lower-half of Jack’s face is soaked.

But his eyes are hungry. Like the cat who got the cream.

“Did you know you could–” and he’s pulling you into him.

“No,” you breathe, and you wipe the side of his face.

“Don’t–” and he’s pulling you into another kiss that feels like fire, “I want you to mark me up. I want you all over me.”

You keen into the kiss, and he’s pushing you back onto the mattress.

There you lay, chest heaving, still sensitive from your high.

Laid bare for him.

At last, he removes his briefs, and God his cock is weeping for you. Red and angry, precum beading at the tip.

You reach for him and he comes down over you, arms on either side, and kisses you.

But it isn’t hungry this time, it’s slow.

It’s sweet, as he lines himself up to your sensitive core.

It’s gentle, and he drags his cock through your wetness, once, twice.

It’s pleading, you realize, as he pushes past your entrance.

“Jack–” you gasp.

Your nails scrape down his back and he groans into your neck, quickly nipping and biting down in response.

You know you’re still sensitive, but you’re still gripping him like a vice.

When he begins to move, it’s almost too much, you’re gripping him tight, but he’s not pumping fully in and out, he’s fucking you deep.

“You’re gonna kill me–” he grits out, eyes closed, hiding in your neck as he slowly ruts.

You huff out as much of a laugh as you can muster through the overstimulation. Through the gentle kissing. Through the fact that this feels a lot more like making love than fucking and, for once, that doesn’t scare you.

He’s kissing you again, slowly, intentionally.

Holding himself up with one hand, and snaking the other in between your legs.

He’s rutting into now, faster, messier. He’s close, you both know it, but your own warmth has been building again, and like a man starved, Jack’s playing with your clit again, slowly, gently – with care to the fact that you’re still sensitive.

“Jack,” you breathe, and again, “Jack.”

He says your name, softly, into the crook of your neck, fucking desperately now.

The only sounds are that of skin on skin and ragged breathing – you thank God that he lives in a nice apartment with thick walls.

Wants you to stay, and he can’t say that with his words so he’ll give you all of him.

He’d beg and claw and crawl his way to you if it meant you’d stay – and he was fucking you like it. 

Fucking you sloppier. He’s pressing on your clit, circling it rougher now, harder, with purpose.

You’re building again, slow and steady, and Jack’s right behind you. Before he finishes, he asks roughly:

“Where do you want me baby.”

“Inside, Jack” you plea.

With a groan, he does, and you feel warmth spread inside you

When you both finish, it’s not overexaggerated. It’s not you screaming out for him. It’s quiet and real.

And Jack wants you here for as long as you’ll have him.

Jack doesn’t move right away.

For a man who lives by routine – by control – he’s… still.

Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to yours. Like if he shifts too fast, something fragile between you might snap.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside and the uneven rhythm of both your breaths trying to come back down.

You feel it first, the change. Not the heat. Not the tension. The drop. Jack exhales slowly, like the fight finally drained out of him all at once.

His shoulders loosen.

His weight settles more carefully over you instead of crowding in.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, but softer than you’ve ever heard it.

It’s not a command. Not a tease. A check-in.

You blink up at him, still a little dazed. “Hey.”

His thumb drifts along your side in slow, absent strokes.

Not possessive now, just grounding. Like he’s making sure you’re still here. Like he needs the proof.

For a long moment, he just looks at you. Really looks. And something in his expression cracks open.

“…You scared the hell outta me,” he admits quietly.

The words land heavier than anything he said earlier.

Your chest tightens.

Jack’s gaze drops briefly, jaw working once like he’s already half-regretting letting that slip out.

“I know I’m not–” He exhales through his nose, searching. “I’m not great at the whole… needing people thing.”

There’s a rough edge of self-awareness there. Old habits. Old armor.

Your hand lifts without thinking, fingers brushing lightly along the back of his neck.

He goes very still.

Then, slowly, he leans into it.

That’s new, too.

“You didn’t mess up my routine,” he adds after a beat, voice quieter now. “You became part of it. And I liked it.”

Your breath catches softly.

Jack finally pulls back just enough to see your face clearly, eyes searching like he’s bracing for you to bolt anyway.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice when you weren’t here,” he says.

No accusation. Just truth – raw and a little uncomfortable in his mouth.

You shift closer on instinct, your leg brushing his.

His arm comes around you immediately.

Not tight. Not trapping. Just there. 

Like he’s learning the difference.

Silence stretches, but it’s soft now. The sharp edge from earlier worn down into something warm and fragile.

After a minute, Jack’s forehead dips gently to yours again.

His voice, when he speaks, is quieter than you’ve ever heard it:

“You staying tonight?”

There’s no bravado in it. No assumption. Just a man who built his whole life on things he could predict, asking, carefully, about the one thing he can’t.

And this time, he waits.

[skymouth]

out in the cold — jack abbot x reader

You experience a sub drop after hooking up with a date. Dr Abbot takes care of you.

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader Word count: 9.5k+ Tags: Requited unrequited love; Dom/sub dynamics; Sub drop; Subspace; Dom Jack Abbot; Assumed sexual assault (it never happened); Reader has tattoos; Reader is multilingual; Negative self talk; implied Bad BDSM etiquette (from previous partner); AFAB reader; NSFW content (Oral sex, Fingering, P in V sex). Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou. Notes: Title is from Hadestown’s All I’ve Ever Known. Consider it the 1 song playlist to this fic/series. Probably inaccurate sub drop/subspace experience but fuck it, we ball. Abbot also thinks that you were SA’d but it didn’t happen so tread carefully if that’s a trigger for you.

Cross posted to AO3.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Series tag.

You hand him the wrong sized needle.

“14 gauge,” Jack snaps.

You blink, hard. Frowning. How the Hell did you mess that up? You swap out the needles, uttering a quick sorry.

Head in the fucking game, you tell yourself. Eyes on the target—you cannot fuck up in the middle of a procedure. Just because some guy can’t be bothered calling you back? People are literally dying in the walls of the hospital. You cannot afford to be so vapid that you’re more worried about unread text messages and zero call backs.

You refuse to fail anywhere else, hovering, anticipating the doctors’ needs before they verbalise it. This is what makes you valuable to the team. They’ve said it again and again—they need more nurses like you.

And especially in front of Jack. You admire him—respect him a lot. You never wanted to be a doctor, but you love working as a nurse. With him. Being useful to him and the night shift.

“Swap out with Tim in Trauma 1,” Jack says, eyes darting to you.

“You got it, boss.” You don’t even try to argue with what you think is his judgement call of getting you out of his way. Making you someone else’s problem.

The thing was, he noticed. Of course he fucking noticed. Nothing happened in the ED, to his staff, without his knowledge. It was his job as an attending to ensure he was on top of it.

He noticed it in your docile greeting, normally a little more upbeat. He noticed it in the questioning look that Parker shot him when you were quieter than usual, citing the fact that you were tired. When Shen picked up on your dour mood, offering some coffee that you flatly dismissed, telling him you weren’t in the mood. For coffee, or for him; you left it up to interpretation.

It was downright rude. Rude and you didn’t go together. It was why they liked having you on night shift.

It worries him. The not knowing. The questioning. The way everyone looks to him for answers and he can’t provide them. You’re usually the kind one, the one that’s happy to help. But today, there’s a cloud hanging over you. Something bogging you down.

“What’s going on?” Shen whispers, nodding his chin towards you. You’re at the desk in central, blankly staring at the screen more so than typing the notes you should be inputting.

“Don’t know,” Jack confesses, and he hates that he doesn’t know. So much for being the one that protects the hive. As much as he makes himself the reliable one that everyone, especially his night shift team, can depend on, someone always falls through the cracks. “Been weird all day.”

“There you are,” Lena says, walking up to lean against the desk. Hovering over you. “We need you in central 8. Patient barely speaks English. Wanna see if you know what language she knows?”

You shoot her a clearly unimpressed look. “Right, because I must speak every language under the sun,” you bite out.

Lena pauses, eyes narrowed at you. “Are you—?”

“Hey.” Jack steps in, frowning. Not that he thinks it’ll escalate into a fight, but he’d rather not entertain that possibility. Night shift was meant to be chill; have less personality clashes compared to day shifts. Less staff, as well, which was why it was essential everyone worked well within the team. “Lena asked for a favour.”

You look away from him, cowed. Chastised—again. “Central 8, yes sir.”

You scurry off to the patient in central 8—Indonesian, which happened to be a language that you taught yourself for the fun of it, years ago. This isn’t even the first time they’ve asked you to try and communicate with a patient in another language. Ridiculously, it’s the first time you’ve taken offence to it.

You and Princess have a bet on who could learn the most additional languages. It’s been a long 18 months since she and Perlah initiated the bet. You refuse to lose, and Princess is competitive. Between the two of you, you’ve got a conversational handle on a minimum of 15 languages right now. It’s circulated around the hospital like common knowledge at this point.

“Hey.” Lena follows you when you’re exiting the room. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything—”

“It’s okay,” you say, quick. You feel embarrassed by your earlier reaction. “Really. I’m sorry. I’m feeling really crabby today, and I took it out on you. I’m really sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You’re absently massaging the back of your neck in a self-soothing fashion, and it’s the only reason she sees.

“Whoa,” Lena gasps. “Hey, did someone hurt you?” Ever the medical professional, she steps close, reaching.

Really, it’s on you. The bodily flinch before she makes contact with your shoulder. You both know she’s done it before—calming, gentle touches. Reassuring. Maternal. Her and Dana, mother henning the hospital when they step into the role of the respective shift’s charge nurse. You’ve always accepted those.

Except this time, your skin feels like it’s burning and itching at the same time.

She stares at you.

You feel frozen, heart thudding too fast in your chest. A dramatic reaction to a familiar touch. A mountain out of a mole hill.

“Hey—” Lena starts, softer. Like you’re a wounded animal in need of comfort.

“South 16’s opened.” Jack’s voice, clear and sharp.

You wince, pivoting to the side, where his eyes are on you. “I don’t need—”

“Get in there.” And his tone brooks no room for argument. “Now.”

With a sigh, you march yourself into south 16. Jack follows after a few minutes, no doubt gathering whatever supplies he thinks he needs. Door closed, curtain drawn.

You’re both silent, waiting for the other to cave. You’re perched on the edge of the bed. He’s standing by the door.

He breaks first. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

His jaw clenches. Takes a seat on the stool. Wheels it to the foot of the bed. “I need to see how bad it is,” he says, carefully. Like he’s actively choosing every word.

“Nothing’s bad. Nothing hurts.”

Which, apparently, is the wrong thing to say, based on the breath released between his teeth. Maybe the right thing would have been to deny any source of pain.

He says your name, eyes analytical as he studies you. Something in his face softens. Pushing the stool back. “Would you be more comfortable if I got Dr Ellis or Lena to do the examination?”

You frown. “What examination?” You look—really look, this time—at the supplies he brought in. One of them is a white cardboard box, Sexual Assault Evidence Kit printed in bold letters among other black ink. You’ve catalogued enough of them to know you’re not mistaking it for any other kit. Have done a few on patients as well.

“I’m not—this, this wasn’t—” You take in a breath. Eyes boring into Jack’s, trying to impart the determination of your next words. “It was consensual.”

It’s silent in the room, with the door closed. With neither of you speaking. Jack doesn’t move; you barely breathe.

“Are you sure?” he asks, finally.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” And just like that, the weighted worry drops. He’s still concerned, of course. As soon as Lena had asked if someone had hurt you, everything in his mind jumped to a horrifying conclusion. He’s glad their shared assumptions aren’t correct. In his relief, he’s forgotten about your other symptoms—the moody countenance. “Can I still check you over? For my peace of mind?”

“Sure,” you sigh out. Shuffling further on the bed, back turned towards him, shucking your scrub top, then turtleneck beneath it. You know where the worst of it is.

“Jesus, kid,” he hisses. With you turned away, you don’t see the way his jaw ticks, compelling his fingers to unfurl from taut fists. He forces his attention to remain on the bruises and red wounds, and not the black lines of intricate artwork sprawling further down your back. Accentuating the lines of your body.

You hear the snap of the disposable blue gloves.

“It looks worse than it is,” you say.

“Bruising looks like it’s at least a day old.” His voice is clipped. Tight. Overcorrecting professionalism into cold and distant.

They must be purpling by now, you assume. “It’s been—uh, since Saturday night.”

You feel the cool swab of antiseptic on the bruises; the bite marks, the scratches.

“You know,” Jack says, and you feel his warm breath fan across your bare skin. That, alone, makes you shiver. “Even if you changed your mind part way through, it’s still sexual assault.”

You shoot a look over your shoulder at him.

He attempts a poker face. Do not react.

“I didn’t change my mind,” you say, firm. You turn back to face the wall. Stare down at the bed beneath you. “It’s—” And maybe it’s easier to admit when you don’t have to look at him. “I wanted it to hurt. For him to be rough.”

Jack breathes in. Do not react. He’s a doctor. He’s also tended to previous partners like this before. His own wife, even. Clinical hands; he’s seen this before. He cannot treat this like a new thing, just because it’s you.

“Where’d you even find the guy?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking. To twist the knife lodged between the fourth and fifth ribs, maybe.

“On an app.”

“What? Just a random dating one?”

“No. It’s—you know, specifically for hook ups of the non-vanilla kind.”

“The what kind?”

Oh my God, he’s going to make you say it outloud. Gaze resolutely stuck on the creases of the white, sterile bedsheets. “The kinky kind.”

A pause. “They have those, now?”

You can almost hear the beginnings of a ‘back in my day’ spiel. And isn’t that a thought? Dr Jack Abbot searching for his own BDSM partners—in his youth, maybe. You don’t want to think about his exploits in his current era. You’re already topless in front of him. You cannot bare yourself to him any more than this.

“Yeah,” you chuckle, a little breathlessly. Get it together. You can’t get all giggly in front of your boss. “They do, grandpa.”

“Hey. Careful now,” he remarks, amused. Something loosens in his chest, allowing him to breathe easier. It’s probably the first time he’s heard you express something akin to a laugh during this shift. He doesn’t realise how much he missed that today; how much he needs it to carry him through.

The ED can be a harrowing place, but it’s a lot less dark with you by his side.

You hum, letting the silence relax you. It must be past 3 AM, you think. There’s always that patchy, tranquil moment after the sporadic rush between midnight and 3 AM.

“So what?” he asks. Cotton swab dabbing ointment onto the wounds. “Your date just fell asleep and forgot to take care of you?”

You let out a huff, humourless. Head dipped. Embarrassed, again. It flushes down your neck. “He left as soon as he was done.”

Jack goes deathly still. The swab hovers, pinched tightly between his fingers. “What?”

“He, uh—left,” you sniff. Do not fucking cry over this. “And I’m pretty sure I got ghosted too, because I’ve been trying to—um, call him. Or text him. Which sucks, because, I…” You suck in a breath. “We took our time. Went on three separate dates before Saturday. Dinner. Movie. Museum. Four fucking months of talking and he dipped as soon as he got his dick wet.”

Jack is uncharacteristically silent over your shoulder.

You shuffle around, facing him.

He’s frowning. Lips downturned. Eyes stormy. Lines of his body wound tight. An older man outraged by the woes of modern dating, you assume.

“It’s fine,” you say, because you feel the sudden need to mollify that anger. To appease him. You try to covertly rub your eyes to wipe the tears that have collected. “Honestly, I’ve always been a bit bad about handling rejection, but I’m working on it.” It explains your shitty mood since Saturday. The dull awareness after he left.

Jack blinks, jaw unlatching at your words. Stares at you. “Is that what you think this is?” he asks, hollowly. “You feel hurt because of a little rejection?”

You make an obviously face. “I’ll feel better by next shift.”

“How much research did you do?”

“I read a few articles; people’s blog posts. There aren’t any peer reviewed journals on this.”

“I know,” he huffs out. He remembers his own reading journey, all those years back. “Did you read anything about dropping? Sub drops?”

Your forehead creases in thought. It sounds vaguely familiar. “Maybe?”

Jack doesn’t say anything, waiting.

You stare. The confusion eventually smooths out. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” he echoes. “You’re in a sub drop.”

You have been, since Saturday. That’s—mortifying, you think. Your kinky extracurricular affairs brought forefront and centre to your attending because you weren’t a good judge of character.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Something humiliating thickens your throat; wells tears into your eyes. They avert from him, dropping somewhere low. “Fuck, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s—hey. Look at me,” Jack says.

You’re not listening.

“Fuck. Hey. Hey, quit spiralling. Listen to me.” Jack yanks the gloves off his hands.

This is disgusting. You’re disgusting. This was something that was supposed to remain within your bedroom walls, far, far away from the hospital. Instead, you brought it right to the night shift’s front porch.

A rough palm slotted against your cheek.

The effects are near instantaneous—a shuddering inhale, a trembling whine. Glassy eyes shedding tears as they slide close. Cheek nuzzled against callused flesh.

His hand tipping your face upwards. “Open your eyes.”

And you do.

Shiny, blinking. Unfocused, then landing on him. Something registers, clicks in your mind. “Please,” you whisper. You don’t know what you’re asking for.

But he does. Something bittersweet in this throat. “I know,” he rasps. He wants this. Fulfilment delivered on a silver platter. But not like this. Not from someone else’s abymal attempts.

He’d seen the way you brightened when he passed by with a compliment. A well timed ‘great work in there’, and your shy smile followed him. Like a sunflower chasing the sun. Maybe it’s his ego stinging, now. Maybe it’s something else; something tender, something primal.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle.

Jack hushes you. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” If he could get his hands on the man that called himself your date, he wishes for once, he could take back the sworn oath to do no harm.

“I’m sorry,” you say again.

He manoeuvres himself onto the bed. Pulls you into his lap, chests aligned. His arms encircle your waist, avoiding the bruises decorating your upper back. Settling on top of the tattoos. “Breathe with me,” he instructs.

So you do.

In and out. In and out. Inhale, exhale. Again and again.

Just until the dizziness fades a little. Until you feel like you have a few fingers back on the ledge.

“I’m sending you home,” Jack says.

“I don’t want—”

“Do not,” he demands, tense, “argue with me.”

Your mouth clicks shut. Face buried into the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“You go home,” he says, “you get yourself cleaned up. Eat. Rest. I’ll come by and take care of you when I’m done here.”

You suck in a breath. “No—”

“What did I just say about—”

A noise of complaint in the back of your throat, hand wrapped around his bicep, squeezing. “Red,” you utter.

It jolts him. Admittedly, it’s been a while, but the colours are ingrained in him as much as the safewords that he used. This isn’t a scene, but you’re so far down that you can’t tell.

“What?” he asks, around the thudding in his chest. He overstepped, somewhere. He doesn’t know you like this, can’t anticipate your needs like he would in the ED.

“I can’t,” you tell him, quiet. Small. “You can’t.”

“I can’t what?”

“Take care of me.”

Jack inhales gravel. Pissed off. “Did he tell you that? Is that why he left you alone?”

“No,” you say.

“Then what is it?” One of his hands lift from your waist, guiding your face away from where you’re hiding. Thumb brushes across tear stained cheek. “Talk to me,” he murmurs.

You peer down at him, positioned higher only because you’re straddling his thighs. You swallow against this heavy thing in your chest.

How do you even admit that the sole reason you started researching BDSM in the first place, is due to the man in front of you? Due to the way he doled out praises in the ED, unlocking something within you? You imagined it was him, pinning you down, hands around your neck, teeth sinking into skin, telling you to be good for him.

“I can’t have you mean nothing,” you whisper, eventually.

Jack swallows past the lump suddenly in his throat. “What does that mean?” A burgeoning of hope. “Sweetheart, what does that mean?” And maybe that’s the cruelty in him, a manipulative side that fools him into thinking that if he calls you as such, you can remain tucked inside his heart. Can convince you to stay there.

“You’re everything,” is all you say. Maybe it’s enough.

“Everything,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

Jack’s hand is a gentle thing against your cheek. No pressure, no guidance. Just slight pressure tracking your movements as you nose against his jaw. Scrape your skin against stubble.

His hand slides to the back of your scalp. “And that means I can’t take care of you?”

“Yes,” you say.

“Why?”

“I…” You’re not selecting words. Just trying to find them through the fog. “Because it’s only for today. Until I feel better.”

“And you don’t want that.”

“No.”

“What do you want?”

“Everything,” you say again. And your lips land on his pulse point, You feel it thrum. “With you.”

He doesn’t know how much of this is the drop. How much of this is you. All he knows is that you wouldn’t admit any of this if you were in the right mind.

Fingers flex at the roots of your hair. He tugs you up to look at him.

Your hips buck on their own accord. You keen, thighs tightening around him. Teary eyed.

His other hand against your waist digs in. Stopping your movements. “Fuck,” he swears, hoarse. “Sorry.”

“Feels good,” you murmur, reassuring.

He can’t do this. Here. While you’re like this. He needs you up and out of sub drop before he can have this conversation with you. But you don’t want his help unless he can promise you everything. He can only hope he knows what that means.

“Please,” you utter.

“I know,” Jack soothes. His hand braced against your cheek again.

You lean forward, weight against him. Lips almost on his.

His fingers lead you away. “No,” he murmurs, sandpaper in his throat.

You let out a cracked whine. He doesn’t want to kiss you.

“No,” he says, sharp, like he can see what conclusion you’re reaching. “Not yet.” His lips against your forehead. “Not here.”

Jack doesn’t know how long it takes. He can’t spend the whole shift in there with you, as much as he wants to.

The contact helps. His touches, the soft susurration aimed into the soft flesh of your neck. At some point, you’re coherent enough to be functional. Turtleneck and scrub top on.

Jack tells you to go home. You do.

Lena meets Jack’s gaze. Worried. Questioning.

He shakes his head. It wasn’t what she initially thought, but he’s still concerned. Not completely out of the woods yet.

The final two hours of his shift stretch. All he can think of is you. By the time he sees Robby, he feels dead on his feet.

“You good, brother?” Robby claps him on the shoulder, frowning.

“Long story,” Jack says, scrubbing at his face.

“Yeah? You don’t got time?”

“I gotta head out. John can hand off.”

“Seriously?” Robby blinks, surprised.

Jack’s never passed on a hand off before. But he feels like Shen was probably more present, anyway. Less distracted.

“Robby, my guy,” Shen says.

Robby fixes the other attending with a deeply unimpressed look. “John.”

“See you,” Jack says.

“I better get the short version some time,” Robby says.

“Me too!” John adds.

“You don’t even know what we were talking about…”

Their voices trail away as Jack walks. No rooftop. No drinks in the park. Just over to your apartment, the address memorised from your staff profile. Probably a privacy concern, but Lena turned the other way when he said he wanted to check on you.

You’re asleep on the couch when he comes. You were cogent enough to text him your apartment number and a picture of your welcome mat, letting him know your key was under there.

Not the most secure hiding place, but by the time he arrived, it was still there.

The back of his hand pressed against your forehead, taking your temperature. Fingers brush through your hair.

You stir. “Dr Abbot?” Spoken softly, eyelids heavy.

“Hey, kiddo.” He shifts, handing you your water bottle you’ve left on the coffee table.

You sip from it, blinking yourself awake. Scrubbing at bleary eyes. “Are you wearing shoes?” you ask around a yawn.

Jack blinks, not having expected your question. He looks down at the shoes he’s wearing—one on his foot, the other on his prosthesis. “Yeah.”

“Shoes off,” you say. “There are guest slippers in the bottom cubby hole.”

“Bottom cubby hole,” he repeats. More so to remember, than mock you.

“Please,” you add.

He rumbles a laugh before he follows your instructions. He takes out the ointment from his backpack before depositing it near the coat rack at the door. He shuffles back towards you, now clad in the slippers. “Did you eat yet?”

You hum your confirmation. “I have leftovers in the fridge. And I showered. You can use the shower too. Towels are in the cupboard in my room.”

“Alright. When I’m done, I’m going to check your back again.”

“Okay.”

He lingers. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Feeling like yourself?”

You think. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s okay.”

When he’s done, you’ve relocated to your bedroom. It’s a strange situation for him to be in, invited into your apartment and encouraged to explore the place himself. Complete trust in someone else’s life.

He finds you curled under the soft blanket you have spread over your king single bed. Sprawled out, sleeping in a prone position. He pops his prothesis off.

Ointment in hand, he gently tugs the blanket down. Sees you in sleep shorts, no shirt on. The consideration of making your back easily accessible isn’t lost on him. He touches up the ointment while you remain asleep. Fingers applying pressure, massaging tense muscles even though you’re not awake for it. He feels you relax under his touch.

“What am I going to do with you?” he wonders aloud.

And he stays there, next to you, until he too, falls asleep.

When you wake up, you kind of forget what happened. It feels like a blur—something you could write off as a dream if you didn’t have any reminders. And in this moment, you don’t. Tiredly stumbling to the bathroom, then to your bedroom, wrapped in a towel.

You’re, somehow, too out of it to hear the noises in the kitchen. Once you’re in comfortable loungewear, you take your reusable water bottle with you. The intention is to fill it, grab some snacks, then head back into your room. Maybe pop on a show. Let your brain turn off.

“Hey.”

You startle, almost dropping the bottle. Pivoting to see Dr Jack Abbot in front of your stove. Cooking—something. Eggs, you think. It’s one of the things you always stock up in the fridge.

Yesterday in the hospital was not a dream. It was real. Very real. And he came to check in on you in your apartment. And stayed over.

“Hey. I…” you start. Trail off.

“Forgot?” Amusement lifting the corner of his lips. Trying to hide it for your sake.

“No,” you say, quick. You both know it’s a lie. Lips pressed into a line, heading to the water dispenser attached to the fridge to fill up your bottle.

Jack grins when you’re no longer looking at him. “Eat first.” The toaster pops with two slices. He’s made himself at home, studying your kitchen. Pantry, fridge, cupboard, drawers. He’s memorising the layout. Two plates, eggs, toast, slices of ham. You, apparently, didn’t have bacon. He searched.

Sitting at the tiny thing you call a dining table, Jack waits for you to tuck into your food. Despite the fact that you’re more lucid, he can tell you’re still off. As he eats, you’re not. Pushing food around. Tearing off pieces of your toast to nibble at.

Since Saturday, he remembers. Wonders if you treated all your meals like this before coming into the Pitt. You must have been running on fumes. Wonders how many times you’ve done this; if this is your first time, or just the first time it’s gone wrong.

Jack clears both the plates away. His empty; yours mostly full. Half your toast gone. He decides to glad-wrap yours, putting it in the fridge. Cleans his own plate in the sink, washing his hands after.

“You didn’t have to… be here,” you say. To stay. To make you food.

“I said I’d take care of you,” he responds, evenly. Leaning against the sink. Eyes on you.

And you both remember what happened after. What you said. Not unless you could have everything.

You feel—embarrassed. You meant it, of course you meant it. A stupid torch you’ve carried for two years. The humiliating realisation that it wasn’t going away. You tried to put those feelings onto someone else, tried to go out, go on dates. You were young. And yet.

The sinking knowledge that this wasn’t just some kind of silly crush born of proximity and praises.

“It’s not your responsibility,” you state. “You’re not my—” Mouth snapping shut, self-editing.

Even if you don’t finish it, the tilt of his head, the challenging tick of his eyebrow says he heard it. Arms crossing over his chest.

You can’t help the way your eyes fixate on the stretch of the short sleeves of his t-shirt around tensed biceps.

“I’m not your what?” Jack asks.

You clear your throat, moving to stand up. To get away, even if for a second. Even if he’s trying to do you a favour by being here.

“Stay down.”

You almost do. The chair scrapes backwards, instead. “Fuck off, Abbot,” you snarl, standing fully.

Hostility rearing its head again. Like with Lena, except this time, you’re not restraining yourself at an attempt at professional conduct. You’re biting. Pushing.

Jack knows there’s probably a few ways he can take this. Can respond. “Don’t do this.”

Gone is the sweet thing he held in his lap yesterday. Instead, you’re aching, scared of rejection and lashing out because of it.

“Quit patronising me. You’re not my—anything. And I’m not yours.”

His teeth scrape together, jaw squeezing. Jack knows this game. Can read you like a book. He can’t fall for the bait; if his temper wins, he proves you right.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice soft despite the urge to snap. He knows this is born of insecurity. One that was fed by some prick that abandoned you on Saturday. “I’m not like him—”

“Don’t,” you hiss out.

“—I’m not going to leave.”

It makes something ripple inside you. An age-old wound that tells you you’re unlovable. Something complicated passes over your face. You can’t decide if you want to believe him or squash it down. False hope.

Jack moves towards you. Three steps to close the distance between the sink and table.

Your eyes are wet, bright with tears. “Dr Abbot—”

“Jack,” he corrects. Chest twisting.

“Jack,” you say.

He nods, eyes darting between yours. Eye contact connoisseur. “Can you sit down?” He changes his approach. “Please?”

You do. Slipping into the dining chair. The backrest to your side. Legs facing him and not tucked under the table.

And Jack.

He sinks.

One of his knees makes contact with the floor. His other leg bent, foot on the ground. His hand resting on the flesh above your knee, balancing.

A tremulous breath releases from you. Shock. “What are you—?”

“You wanted everything,” Jack says. “Let me give you everything. Please.”

And hasn’t he been carrying a torch for you, too? Your first day with the night shift wasn’t anything special. It’s not that he was struck by you immediately—the consequences of being an attending physician, having a million things on his mind, and a hundred other things clamouring for his attention.

You were always quick. Responsive. Observant. At his elbow, two seconds before he asked, handing him everything he needed like you were a mind reader. It was fascinating, in a way.

He hadn’t even registered when the change happened. There was no adjustment period. One day you were that damn good nurse on his team, and the next day, he realised he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

Watching, always watching, when you pushed the gurney from the ambulance bay into the trauma room; when you playfully saluted Parker after she asked for an IV on her patient; when you adopted that childish voice to say Nurse Lena, Nurse Bridget is being mean to me again, just to make them laugh after a tough patient; when Shen tried to get you to learn Mandarin but that was already in Princess’ arsenal, and the only rule established was no repeats.

As time went on, he noticed the way your tightly wound shoulders would relax at his words. The way your gaze lingered, like you wanted to ask for more. You never did, and he never pushed.

How could he? He was an attending. Much, much older than you. Had skeletons in his closet that he would rather shove down than let anyone sign up for.

Somewhere, he fell. Softly, then all at once.

You reach out, fingers drifting across his cheek. “Jack,” you whisper, an incredulous sound.

“Right here, sweetheart.” He cups your hand, angling his head to kiss your palm. Eyes never straying from yours.

Tears knocked loose. “I’m sorry,” you say, wet. Once again, ashamed of your behaviour.

“You did nothing wrong.” If he could spend the rest of his life reassuring you, he would. Maybe he can. Everything, after all.

“But I… yelled.”

Jack grins, wry. “I get yelled at all the time.” By patients. By admin. It’s no skin off his back.

“I said…” You inhale, wobbly. “I said I wasn’t yours.”

And there, that darkening of his eyes. Studious. Trained on nothing but you. “Are you?”

“I want to be.”

“So you are. Mine.”

You wet your lips. His eyes track the movement, unabashed. “And…” you say.

He waits, patient. Lets you find your words.

“You’re mine?”

“Yes. Yours,” he rasps. Kneeling before you, whatever else could he be?

“Get up. Please.” A murmured plea.

He does. It’s not a swift movement, but you’re past paying attention. You stand, slot your body against his. He’s meeting you halfway. Your palm splayed against his chest; his hand cupping your cheek.

A soft capture of your lips. Jack’s thumb sweeping, tugging lightly at the corner of your mouth. Fingers digging into the sharp of your jawbone tucked beneath your ear.

You let out a stuttering breath at the pressure, something fuzzy clouding your eyes. He slips his tongue inside your mouth. A welcomed weight against your tongue, a spit slicked slide.

A drawn out noise, broken into pants.

His hands gathered at your waist. Walking you backwards into the table. It grates against the linoleum floor, thudding into the wall. Neither of you pay it any heed. You’re perched on the table. He steps between your legs, hitching one thigh against his side.

“Please,” you gasp into the infinitesimal space between you, “I’ll be good.”

“I know,” Jack whispers. Something gentle and soft and so, so sweet tucked against him. Honeyed and viscous, coating his throat. Choking, unbidden tears in his eyes. “I’ll give you everything,” he promises.

Your arms hooked around his shoulders, lifting your core, angling up. Pressing the heat between your legs against his growing bulge.

“Fuck,” Jack groans. A palm laid against the surface of table, the other keeps a bruising grip on the flesh of your side. Stabilising himself. His face tucked to your neck, kissing a line against your throat. Buying himself time. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says.

“Jack.” A breathy moan, as his lips trail down. Hips rolling up against him. You reach, fingers scrabbling against the waistband of his pants.

“Uh uh.” Digits wrapping around your wrist, pressing your hands against the cold wood beneath you. “Hands on the table.”

“I want—” Despite your protesting words, your palms remain flat on the smooth surface. “I want to make you feel good.” To get on your knees for him, to feel the heavy weight of his cock in your mouth, the stinging strain in the corners of your lips as you struggle to fit him, an aching in your jaw. You know he’d be big enough for that.

“I know, sweetheart.” His lips on yours again, a reassuring kiss. The problem isn’t you—it never is. It’s the fact that he’d finish within minutes if you got your mouth around him. He’s strung tight, and he knows his refractory period isn’t as short as it used to be. The reality is he’s old.

“Please,” you whine.

“Hands on the table,” he reminds, despite the fact that you hadn’t moved. He lowers himself to the ground, eyes on you. Watching you watch him. Roughened fingers tugging your pants down. Lips pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Kissing up further and further.

Air catches in your throat.

Jack leans forward, closes his mouth around your clothed core. Tongue finding the split between flesh.

You moan, breath hitching at his touch. Fingers twitch against the table. You want to bury them in his grey curls, but he told you to keep them where they are.

“Good,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across your skin. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

Jack pulls down your underwear. Rests his cheek against the side of your thigh. Stubble scratching against overheated skin. “Look at you,” he says, reverent. “You’re so wet, baby.”

You whimper. Your hands inch further behind you. Angling your body. “Jack.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Fingers around your calf, hiking it over his shoulder. Every touch, searing.

“Please.”

“So sweet,” he purrs. And then his tongue, finally, finally glides into the drenched heat. He hums through the wrecked sound you make, licking up. A brief kiss to your clit before his lips seal around it. Tongue lands, tip of the muscle working up and down repeatedly, then around.

You—shatter. No other way to describe it. Your hands are still somewhere behind you, maybe numb at this point. Your leg still hooked over Jack’s shoulder, heel digging into the stretch of his back. Hips rolling upwards, into his face. “Jack,” you cry, heavy with relief and something fractured, all at once.

His eyes are dark, captivated by you, preoccupied with taking in every reaction, every movement. His tongue never ceases. Fingers collect the slick from your opening, using his thumb to rub it along his middle and fourth finger.

Whining aloud. Fingertips digging into unrelenting wood. You want to touch him. You try to enclose your legs around him.

Jack pushes his free hand against your thigh, the one that’s not on his shoulder. Keeping you open. Then he sucks, tongue flicking against your clit at the same time.

Your hips grind upwards. “Jack—”

He presses his middle finger into you. He doesn’t take his time. Pumps it once, twice.

“Jack, please, please—”

He draws his finger out. Pushes his ring finger inside at the same time. You feel the stretch with two fingers, wider than yours. Longer than yours.

Jack doesn’t mean to rush, but he feels so lightheaded with want. Knows his knees will probably complain tomorrow morning. He needs you to come, wants to hear you fall apart. Crooking his fingers towards your belly, feeling around the spongy inside. Pads of his fingers massaging.

You feel it building in your core. Breaths escaping. “I’m—oh, fuck, I’m—please—”

You can feel him responding, fingers moving faster. Working you from inside. And he keeps the suction on your clit.

“Jack, please, I need—” Almost there but not quite. You feel right at the precipice, but you can’t tip over. Chasing it, though, the way you grind into his face. Onto his fingers. Hands splayed on the table, head tipped towards the ceiling. Every sound punched out of you.

He hums, a deep thing that sends vibrations through you.

“Talk to me, please, Jack, please I want to hear you.”

Jack shifts, mouth opening, tongue pressed flat against your clit. The hand pushing your thigh moves, fingers rubbing against the sensitive nerve. Still fucking you with the fingers inside.

“Yeah?” he asks, and his voice is frayed. “Need me to talk you through it?” There’s spit and you on his chin, glossing his lips. Tongue swipes across petals, swallowing like it’s nectar. Cheek resting against your upper thigh. Stubble scraping against skin.

You shudder. “Yes, yes please, Jack, please.”

“Yeah. Need me to tell you’ve been good, honey?” A kiss pressed to your leg. Your sensitive skin burning, itching every time he moves. The scratch of his shadow. His eyes are lava on you, even if you can’t see him.

“Just like at work, is that it? I tell you you’ve done a good job and you walk around the hospital all wet and pent up? Tell me, baby, do you come home and think of me when you get yourself off? Hear me in your head?”

The nail knocked on the head. The hole-in-one.

You can’t be surprised, and yet, somehow, you are, that he figured it out. You’re clenching around his fingers, tight. Gasping. You don’t even need to verbalise that you’re coming. He can feel it. Your hips bucking up, his elbows digging into the meat of your thighs to keep your legs apart.

Wordless litanies of moans. High pitched and wrecked. Jack pushes his fingers in further, letting you ride yourself through it. And he doesn’t stop his ministrations over your clit. “Jack,” you sob.

“There you go, baby. This is what you wanted, right?” Jaw clenching, hips stuttering against air. He’s so painfully hard. It could almost be concerning, how ready he is. “Fuck me, you’re beautiful.”

He stands, knees cracking, back sore. Yet, he keeps his fingers moving. Inside and outside. Your thigh slides off his shoulder. He positions himself between them, your legs drawing up at his sides. He leans down towards you, hissing something ragged when his cock makes contact with your thigh. “Come here,” he says.

You weep with relief, arms moving from behind you, wrapping around his shoulders. You meet his lips. The fingers inside stop moving, but press insistently on that spot. He keeps rubbing your clit, just to hear you moan, to feel the tremors of your body, to feel the way you contract around his fingers. Imagining that it’s his cock.

“Jack,” you heave. “Too—ah, too much—”

“No, baby,” he says, “I say when it’s too much.”

“Jack,” you whine. “Please. Please, I need you.”

Oh, the unfair games you’re playing, begging like that. He huffs impatience through his nose, jawline ticking. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.”

And you feel it—the way you’re falling into the second orgasm. One of your hands gripping his bicep. Harder than necessary, maybe. Complaining. Retaliating. “Fuck, mmm, Jack, I’m—oh, I’m coming—”

Your back arches upwards into him. Hips grinding down between his fingers again. Fingers crooked inside you, rubbing against the soft spot. Fingers rubbing your clit. Sensitive.

He grunts, head falling onto your shoulder. Hears the pathetic little sounds that you don’t even realise you’re making.

Your head’s fuzzy, your ears dulled like you’re underwater. And yet, so aware of where he’s touching you. Every point of contact ignited, like he’s leaving a brand on this mortal vessel that was created to contain nothing but love for him.

“I know, baby, I know,” he hushes. And finally, his fingers still. Small mercies as he removes the hand from your clit. Not yet sliding his fingers out.

Jack kisses you. Your chest heaving, craving air. Trembling, clenching around the fingers still inside you. “Fuck,” he breathes out. “There you are.” Observing those glassy eyes. The lazy limbs that cling to him. Lips pressed to your temple.

You cup his erection through the fabric of his pants.

He hisses, jerking into your touch. “Fuck,” he swears.

You stroke him, feeling the length.

“You—shit—you gotta stop, sweetheart,” he says.

You make a questioning noise. You want to make him feel good.

“You really want our first time to be in the kitchen?”

You’re slow to gather your words. “Anywhere,” you slur out. Too much effort to talk. “Whatever… you want.”

Jack huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah,” he whispers, tender at your deference. He kisses you again, sliding his fingers out of you. He parts momentarily, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers into his mouth. Licking, fingers splitting, tongue moving down the space between slick digits.

Your hips twitch, a lazy movement that brings you flush against his body. Smearing your come and his spit against the fabric of his pants. He’s still fully clothed, you realise.

“Bed,” you croak, even though you told him it was his choice, just moments before.

Jack laughs, a gentle thing. Nose bumping against yours. Hands lifting you. Legs wrapped around his waist. “Get your bottle,” he says.

You blindly grab for it before he walks you towards your bedroom. Door closing behind him, even though there’s no one else here. He deposits you on the bed. Tells you to take a sip of water before placing it onto the nightstand.

You don’t move. You’re exactly where he left you on the bed when he turns back to you.

He sits on the edge of the mattress. “C’mere,” Jack says.

You shuffle towards him. He’s expecting you to crawl into his lap, maybe. What he doesn’t expect, is the way you slide off the bed to kneel by his feet.

His breath hitches in his throat. Fingers twitching, as your cheek rests against his thigh. Digits threading into your hair. You angle your face to look up at him, blinking. Slow.

“Hey,” he says, fraught with something delicate. Raw and soft.

You nuzzle against him. Head feeling stuffy. Floating. Sinking. Contradictory, yet somehow. True.

“What do you need?”

Nothing. Everything. Wordlessly, you feel at his leg, calf down. Almost like you’re palpating it. Onto the next leg. You unbuckle the prosthesis, hearing him hiss at the twist, at the unlatching. Pained or relief, you can’t tell. Pressing a kiss to the bend of his knee when you remove it, prosthesis intentionally placed aside. You want him comfortable.

You’re slotted back against his thigh, like you didn’t just change his world, like you didn’t just show him the kind of tenderness he never thought he’d deserve after losing the leg.

Jack breathes, unsteady and ragged, but you blink up at him like you’ve never been surer of anything in your life. Complete trust.

You inch forward, nosing closer towards his crotch. Mouthing a long, lingering kiss to his dick. Slow and muted through layers of clothes. Sucking, wetting fabric. An unspoken request.

Jack groans, hips jerking. Fingers reach out, cradling. Callused pads against your jaw, thumb sliding across your lips.

You part them.

His thumb slips in, access easily granted, applying pressure against your tongue. Gliding down. Molten eyes on yours. Your brain is hazy with static. Blissful. Half-lidded eyes. Moaning as you swallow around his digit.

Jack laughs. You feel the reverberations of it, rather than hear the sound. His thumb lets up, still inside your mouth, but no longer pressing down. You blink your eyes opened, questioning, protesting.

“I asked what you prefer, baby,” he rumbles, corners of his lips lifting. Revelling in the way you’re so lost, so dazed. “Do you want me in here?” Thumb circles your tongue. “Or in here?” His good foot shifts, tucked under where you’re kneeling. Front of his ankle catching just right on your bare clit.

A hitched whine, hips grinding down. Sticky heat on his skin.

“I can only do one, sweetheart. You’re killing me, here.” He’s so gone on you, it’s almost devastating. Man made soldier, thickened skin to take on the sins of the world. And his Achilles heel is a precious thing by his knee.

You lap at his thumb, tongue flexing along the grooves of his fingerprint. For a second, he thinks this is how you want him, but you move. An obscene, wet pop as you back away from his hand. You treat it as if it were his dick, licking, tongue against nail and skin, like it’s the leaking seam of his cock.

“Jesus,” Jack groans. You’re going to be the death of him. Completely and absolutely. No differential diagnoses required.

You rise into his lap, nothing shy or uncertain in the way you straddle him and grind yourself against his clothed erection. Lips against his, kissing like you need it to breathe. Need him to breathe. Maybe you do. A low and quiet buzz in your head.

Fingers bracing against your jaw, then lips travel down your neck. You’re still rolling your hips against him. It feels heavenly, the graze of fabric against your already sensitive clit.

Jack lets out a pained noise, shifting. One moment to the next, you went from being in his lap, to facing the ceiling, back against the soft blanket. You rise to your elbows, blinking, eyes moving to the foot of the bed.

He doesn’t make a show of taking off his clothes. It’s quick, the way he removes his shirt, pants, and briefs. He’s pretty sure that if you continued moving on top of him like that, he was just going to come in his pants like he’s in college again.

“You’re killing me,” he says again. He crawls towards you. Body on yours. Divests you quickly of your top.

The slide of his palm to one of your breasts. Cupping. Squeezing. “Been thinking about this since your first scrub change.” Fingernails pinching the tip of your nipple.

You cry out.

Lips over your other tip, a mimicry of the attention he paid to your clit. Licking. Tongue slathering. Then, teeth, biting.

You rut up against him, one leg hooking over his back. Feel the length of him against you. “Please,” you whine.

His hips stutter. “Fuck me,” he groans. Inhales, then lets it out heavily.

“Trying to.”

He laughs, then, a sound that’s disbelieving, even though he should have expected nothing less from you. You’ve been hanging around the night shift too much. A hand in your hair, tugging, born of your insolence. Stealing the sound you make with a kiss. Fucks his tongue into your mouth again.

You feel like you’re losing your mind with the need to feel him. The slide of him, the delicious drag of him against your walls. To clench around and feel his dick inside you. Instead, you’re still empty.

Gasping when you part for air. “Jack,” you plead. “Please, I want to feel you.”

Jack smacks a kiss to your cheek. “Where are your condoms?” He has some in his bag—was part of his prepared care kit alongside the ointment he brought. But he’s left that by the doorway, and he doesn’t want to leave this bed with you in it, wrapped around him.

A hand smoothing over his chest, up his shoulder, clasping around his nape. “No, we don’t need—”

“Uh uh, no,” he says. “Not today.”

“But I’m—”

“No.” Stern. Lifting up, leaning back. “If you don’t listen to me about this, we’re not doing this today.”

“Sorry,” you hiccup, the easiest acquiescence. “Sorry. Nightstand. Bottom drawer. Sorry.” Tears in your eyes. Gripping at his arm, then letting go, undeserving. “Don’t go. I’m sorry.”

Jack lets out an agonised noise. You both know that if you were more cognisant, you would agree with him, would want this too. But it doesn’t make it any less hard to say no when you’re like this. “I’m not mad,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again. Soft. Apologetic. The last thing he wants to do is to let you believe that he could up and leave you so easily. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Bottom drawer,” you say again.

Jack gets up, moving towards the nightstand to grab what he needs. The distance is close enough that one leg remains on the bed for balance. Tucked under rumpled towels, a box of condoms. And if he happens to see some toys, cuffs, other accessories you’ve clearly purchased for yourself, haphazardly hidden—oh, that’s something that he can use next time.

Packet torn, condom slipped on. Muffled groan at the relief of being touched, even if it’s just himself. Returning to the bed, to you. You’ve been watching him the whole time, eyes dragging over his skin, his body.

He doesn’t feel shy under your gaze. Exposed, though, is a different feeling.

“Can I go on top?” you ask.

He falters. He usually doesn’t. Usually surefooted. But this—you. You have a tendency to cleave apart his every defense. Every sure thing he knows about life. “You want to?”

“Yes,” you say. “Feels better.”

Tucked and saved somewhere safe. To keep and know about you. “Okay,” he says, and settles at the head of your bed, back against the wall. You draw close, slipping your pillow under his calf. Then you climb into his lap, a soft sigh releasing, like homecoming. Kissing him again, a silent addiction. His arms are warm and weighted around your middle. And he lets you take your time.

Once again, the slow rolling of your hips down to his. Your entrance flushed against the length of his dick. The torturous drag, up and down.

Jack grips your waist, lips against your collarbone. Harsh breaths of air. “Fucking Hell.”

And when you seem content to let it draw on like this, he bites at the flesh under your collarbone. Warning.

You downright mewl at the threat his teeth breaking through your skin. “Ah—mhm.”

“You gonna let me fuck you anytime soon?”

It takes a little to register that not only has he asked you a question, but you should probably respond as well. “If you want to,” is what you end up saying.

“If I want to.” Mocking, a dangerous scoff. He feels like he’s on fire. Lifting you, one hand around his cock, lining it up against your entrance. Tip catching between your folds.

And finally, you’re sinking down on him.

The hitched sounds coming from you, trapped in your throat. Arms hooked around his shoulders, keening into the side of his throat. The stretch of your walls making way for him. The soft, spongy insides, swallowing, welcoming. And it keeps going.

Your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his arm, his hands petting the sides of your stomach. Soothing. “You’re—you feel—oh—” Sinking further around his girth. Until you’re sure he’s completely inside you.

Jack lets out a low groan. “Fuck.” Breathes in deeply. Holds it. Then out.

You try to rise.

His arms immediately snap a tight brace around you, holding you in place. “Fuck. Give—give me a minute.”

“Jack—”

“You,” he grinds out, “have no idea how tight you feel. Just give me a minute, sweetheart.”

And of course, that involuntary spasm of your walls around his cock.

Jack swears. Forehead thuds against the space above your sternum. “Quit that.”

“Wasn’t on purpose.”

He notices the lack of apology. “Brat,” he says fondly, and kisses you again.

You don’t know how long you stay like that for. Lips and air. Arms refusing to budge around you. His cock inside you. You swear you feel him in your diaphragm. Your skin feels like fire. “Can I move?” you beg. “Jack, please, can I move? Please, I need—can we—I want to feel you—”

“Shhh, baby, it’s okay. I got you, honey. You’re okay.” A hand reaches up to wipe a thumb across your cheeks.

It comes away wet. You hadn’t realised you started crying.

“Please,” you sob.

His hips snap upwards.

Your next breath comes trapped between a moan and a cry.

Both arms wrapped around you again. An iron band. Then he fucks up into you.

“Oh,” you whimper. “Oh, fuck, ah, ah—thank you, thank you thank you—”

The noise Jack releases is inhuman. He keeps an unrelenting pace, punching out moans from you. He’s flooded by the need to feel you come around him. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re doing so well, honey. Taking what I give you.”

You’re meeting him halfway. Grinding down against him, desperately keening. You feel his hand slip between you, thumb against your clit. You white out. Pressure, more so than stimulating you. Fucking yourself onto his cock, then up against his thumb, making you chase what you need. “Please, more, more, please.”

“Yeah? You want more? You want to come again? You want to come with my dick inside you?”

“Yes, please, I need it. I need you, please.”

“Yeah, you do.” Unmoored, slightly. His thumb rubs circles on your clit. “Come on, baby, I wanna hear you.”

Your chin hooked over his shoulder, angling your lips towards his ear. Discarding every notion of shyness. Every sound, every cry, every thought about him; needing him, wanting him, released. The burgeoning that starts in your belly. The fiery licks of something wonderful.

Jack hears it in your gasping breath, feels it in the velvet walls convulsing around him. “There you go, sweetheart. Give me another one. Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect.” Tenderness in the way his lips press against your shoulder.

You whine. Close.

“Poor baby needs to hear my voice to come, is that it? So fucking obsessed with me. Be good and come for me, baby, let me hear you—fuck—there you go.”

Holding you in place, your hips riding through the orgasm that crashes into you. His thumb rubbing incessantly on your clit. He stops fucking his cock into you, but his hips still move. Rolling, grinding.

You’re outright crying, heaving in gasps of air. Overstimulated. His thumb never stops. Your walls spasming around him, again and again.

“I know, baby, I know. I’m almost there. Can we keep going until I’m done? Is that okay, baby?”

“Yes,” you sob. You’re so so gone. Floating. “Please. Use me.”

You’re flattened on the bed.

From one blink to the next, Jack had shifted up, pressing you onto the mattress. Legs around him. The pillow at his calf tucked under your hips. The angle slides him in deeper. “Fuck,” he grinds out, hoarse. “Fuck. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect, baby. So fucking good for me.”

“Yes, yes yes yes yes yesyes.” Litanies of yesses, completely overloaded with pleasure. With the feeling of him inside. Everywhere. The fingers digging into your thigh. Forehead shoved against your chest, somewhere above your heart.

Then, the broken groan. Low, ragged. “Fuck. Coming, baby, I’m coming.” His thumb back on your clit, circling once more. Fucking into you while your walls flutter around him.

You’re completely spent. Keening, whining, hiccupping.

He stops, eventually. Dragging his hand over your belly, stroking. Up your chest. Petting overheated skin. Then cups your face to kiss him.

You feel so faraway. Numb. On fire. Both.

He flips you both, somehow. Arms straining. You’re folded into his chest, his dick still inside you.

And he stays.

You’re too out of it to realise he’s reached over to the nightstand until the straw to your bottle is pressed against your lips.

“Drink,” he says.

You do. Eyes fluttering shut. Cheek against his chest.

“You did so good for me, baby,” Jack murmurs. “You were so perfect. You are perfect.”

His fingers trace the tattoo that sprawls along your back. You shiver, accidentally grinding against him again. You both hiss.

Tilting your head up, lips finding yours again. Kissing. Gentle. Soft.

“Love you,” you whisper.

Jack lets out a tremulous breath. Kisses you again. He’ll talk about this—say it back tomorrow after you’re coherent enough to remember. But for now, it’s just this sweet thing in his lap.

Part 2.

[spacedoutsher]

[mcu-binge]

HR Violation #73 || Adrian Chase x reader ||

Pairing : Adrian Chase x reader W/C : 7276

Summary : After weeks of chaotic flirting at Checkmate and that one email typo that HR definitely saw, you and Adrian finally go there.

Tags/warnings : SMUT MDNI, unprotected p in v, shower sex, oral f receiving, Sensory Sensitivity, flirty!Adrian (tried to keep him as canon as possible)

A/N : helllloooooo I’m so sorry for the delay the state of the world has me under so much stress lately and I get so nervous to post sometimes I’ve been seeing a lot of people hating smut writers🥹 but I finally finished this fic with the iconic shirt. share your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to hear from you all 🩵 tags, and reblogs with reaction memes always make my day. Masterlist here

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The first time you meet Adrian Chase, he’s already in your chair.

Feet up, twirling in slow circles, clearly proud of himself for existing. There’s a banana duct-taped under your monitor and he’s snacking on chips like this is his desk and you’re the guest.

“Hey,” he says, mouth half-full, like this is the most natural thing in the world. “You’re the new IT chick, right? Do you know the keyboard shortcuts for Excel or whatever?”

You blink. “Do you know this is my desk?”

He nods, completely unbothered. “Duh, I saw the nameplate. It’s cute. Kinda gives ‘girl who’ll ruin my life.’ I like it.”

You stare at him, still holding your assigned laptop and a half-eaten muffin.

You should walk away. You should do a hundred professional things.

Instead, you smirk. “Wow. Do you give everyone this attention, or am I just lucky?”

He grins wider, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “Oh, it’s just you. I like a challenge.”

By week four, you’ve learned a few things, Adrian has zero concept of personal space. He’s freakishly good at his job in a way that suggests he’d built a bomb before just to see if he could. And he somehow makes that burgundy long-sleeve shirt look hot every time he wears it, which is borderline harassment, honestly.

Also you can’t tell if you want to kiss him or slam his head into a whiteboard.

Probably both.

Something happens during a rushed email thread with the team. You mean to type “sec.” You type “sex.”

And of course, Adrian reads it immediately.

Of course he does.

He practically falls out of his chair laughing, knocking over an empty energy drink can in the process.

“Oh my God,” he wheezes, slapping the desk. “You just wrote ‘I’ll circle back in a sex.’ That’s hilarious. That’s iconic.”

You bury your face in your hands. “Kill me.”

“Are you kidding? This is the best day of my life. Should I forward it to Harcourt? Add a winky face?”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he says, sing-songy and delighted, “but I respect the attempt.”

By lunch, there are post-it notes stuck to your monitor

“how long is a sex? Please advise

“Circle back in a what??”

“HR’s gonna love you.”

“Sex update: pending???”

And then, the one that actually makes your stomach flip written in smaller letters, no smiley face, no sarcasm:

I’d wait up for that.

You snap at him around 4 PM.

“Do you ever shut up?” you hiss, shoving his foot off your desk. He’s been sitting on it for the third time that day, spinning a stolen pen like it’s a drumstick.

He looks up, startled for a split second and then he laughs.

“No.” He scoffs “are you new here or something?”

You scowl. “You’re a walking HR violation.”

“Uhhh ok says the one who sends sex emails to her coworkers,” he grins. “But nice try.”

By 9 PM, the office is mostly dark. Everyone else is gone. Your monitor glows softly, the only light besides Adrian’s desk lamp, which flickers like it’s dying a slow death.

You’re finishing a system reboot. He’s “helping,” which mostly means sitting next to you, occasionally pressing buttons and muttering about how sexy clean code is.

Then his knee bumps yours.

You don’t move it. And he doesn’t either.

The silence stretches. Then his voice, quieter now, no hint of the usual chaos. “Hey.”

You glance over. His glasses are off. He looks… different in the dim light. Calmer. More sincere.

“I know I mess around a lot,” he says. “But I’m not here because I love coding or whatever I said earlier when Economos asked if I was leaving.”

Your heart does a weird little lurch. “Really?” You ask trying to sound neutral.

“I’m here because I maybe… like you.” He says it like it costs him something. Like it’s not a joke this time. Like he’s terrified you’ll laugh.

You don’t.

You just look at him. And for once, he doesn’t fill the silence.

“You like me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, suddenly a little fidgety. “Yeah. Like, a lot.”

You raise a brow. “And this is how you show it? Harassing me with post-it notes and stealing my snacks?”

“Flirting,” he corrects. “I’m flirting. Poorly, maybe, but with heart.”

You stare.

He fidgets again, eyes darting around the room.

“You taped a banana to my monitor on my first day.”

He takes a deep breath. “I needed an excuse to talk to you. I had a plan, I was gonna come up to you and say oh my god your monitor is going bananas. But then I thought that was stupid and didn’t take it off in time.”

You laugh, actually laugh, because this man is unbelievable. And somehow, against all logic, you’re into it.

Maybe it’s the glasses. Maybe it’s the way his voice dropped when he said I’m here because I like you. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re tired, a little punch-drunk from working late, and very aware of how his thigh is still pressed against yours under the desk.

Either way, you’re suddenly way too warm.

“I should file an HR complaint,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair.

His eyes track your movement. “Oh yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. For making it weirdly hot when you fuck up my coding with one hand and eat Judomasters Hot Cheetos with the other.”

He blinks. “Wait. That’s hot?”

You shrug. “I’m not a fan of how I have to say late to fix it, but yeah, kinda.”

There’s a beat. Then he leans in, slow and stupidly smug. “So just to be clear… you are into me?”

You roll your eyes. “God, your ego’s unbearable.”

“You like my ego,” he says. “You were totally into it when I made you laugh during the budget meeting. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Oh my god..”

“And when I wore that burgundy shirt last Thursday? You looked at me like I was the last decent USB-C cable in the office.”

You choke on a laugh. “Are you seriously comparing yourself to a charging cable?”

“Don’t dodge the subject,” he says, grinning now, like he’s winning. “Admit it. You’ve imagined what it would be like to make out with me next to the server room.”

You lean in until you’re nose to nose. “And you’ve imagined what it’d be like to fuck me on your desk.”

He exhales hard, like he might actually combust from how close you are. “Okay, yeah, now I’m turned on.”

You blink. “You’re so annoying.”

“Hot annoying, though,” he says. “Like, admit it. You want me to shut up, but you also maybe want me to pin you against your cubicle and make you forget your login password.”

You bite your lip.

His eyes drop to your mouth like he’s starving.

“keep talking like that,” you say, “and I might let you.”

That wipes the smirk off his face, briefly. Just long enough for you to feel like you’ve won.

Then he grins, slow and dangerous. “Is that a threat or like a promise?”

You reach for the hem of his shirt and tug him forward, just enough that he impossibly closer to you, mouth a breath away.

“Wanna find out?”

“No shit,” he laughs before leaning in to kiss you. It’s soft, gentle. Like he’s making sure you’re not going to pull back and laugh at him. So you bring your hand to the back of his head and hold him closer. He relaxes instantly and kisses you deeper.

You pull back just enough to breathe.

His grin is still there, a little crooked now, a little unsure and suddenly it hits you just how close you are to actually falling for this idiot. Not just in the haha funny post-it war way, but in the I like the way he lights up when he makes you laugh way.

It’s actually a little terrifying.

Then he says, casually, “Wanna get a drink?”

You blink.

“A drink? Like…now?”

He nods, tilting his head. “Yeah. A bar. With drinks. Chairs. Vibes. You can even pretend I’m not seducing you the whole time, if that helps.”

You narrow your eyes. “You know you’re technically my boss right?”

“Ha! No I’m not. I just pay for everything with blood money and everyone does their own thing, c’mon let’s go.”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.” But you follow him anyway.

You end up at a dive bar ten minutes from Checkmate HQ, low lights, sticky floors, a jukebox in the corner that plays only sad 2000s alt rock and one inexplicably loud Flo Rida song.

Adrian orders a whiskey neat. You get something with citrus and a name that sounds like a dare.

You’re two drinks in when you finally relax enough to lean back and laugh without checking yourself.

He’s telling some story about the time he accidentally coded the entire Checkmate conference door to play “SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake every time someone scanned their badge.

“It was three minutes before Harcourt realized it. She almost broke my jaw.”

You laugh, head tilted back. The buzz is soft. Not tipsy, not dizzy. Just… warm. And you feel yourself cracking open a little.

“You know,” you say, swirling your straw around the ice, “you’re actually not horrible to be around.”

Adrian raises an eyebrow. “Wow. That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

You shrug. “Don’t get used to it.”

“But you like me.”

“I tolerate you.”

He leans closer. “You like me. You’ve liked me since day three, when I caught you staring at me in the vigilante uniform.”

You scoff. “You wore it to fix the printer.”

“And yet, your eyes were firmly locked on my biceps.”

You sip your drink slowly, hiding a smile behind the glass. “You’re so full of shit.”

“But you like me,” he repeats, lips twitching. “Admit it.”

“I’m not drunk enough for that.”

“Lucky for you, I accept buzzed confessions.”

You glance at him then really look. His curls are a mess, his smile’s all teeth, and his hand is fidgeting with his glass like he’s nervous and trying not to show it.

Fuck, he’s so fucking adorable. And you’re soft enough to kinda say it. “You make work… not awful.”

His expression flickers.

That’s it. That’s the real compliment. No jokes, no teasing.

He taps his glass against yours, voice low.

“Technically, this counts as our first date now.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That so?”

“Yup. You laughed at my jokes. You bought the second round. You admitted you’re in love with me.”

“I did not say tha—”

“Don’t ruin the moment.” He interrupts with a smile.

He drives you back to HQ after the drinks. He said taking two cars to the bar would be dumb and you didn’t have it in you to argue. You step out of the car and he walks around standing in front of you.

The parking lot is quiet. Almost suspiciously so.

You’re both hovering by his car, pretending you don’t notice how close you’re standing. His keys jingle in his hand. Yours are already forgotten in your jacket pocket. You’re facing each other under a flickering streetlamp like this is the final scene of a rom-com. Except you’re not in a dress, you're in a business casual outfit. And Adrian’s still got hot sauce on his shirt from the wings you made him share.

“I had fun,” you say, breaking the silence.

His smile is slow. Confident. A little smug. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You should leave it at that.

But you’re still warm from the drinks, still feeling the undiscussed kiss from the office, still thinking about the way he looked at you over his glass like you were the punchline and the reward and honestly, your restraint has limits.

You nudge him with your elbow. “You’re not gonna make another joke?”

“About how this is the part where you dramatically confess you’ve been in love with me since the sexy banana incident?”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus.”

He grins. “What? I’m just saying this feels like a moment.”

“It’s a moment,” you agree. “But not that moment.”

He tilts his head. “So what kind of moment is it?”

You look at him. The lazy smirk. The stupid curls. The way he’s trying not to shift closer but his body clearly didn’t get the memo.

“The kind where I probably make a bad decision.” You sigh.

He raises both brows. “Bad?”

You shrug. “Office gossip. Compromised work environment. HR violation number seventy-four tonight.”

Adrian leans in, barely a breath away now. “What if I said I want you to?”

“To what?”

“Make the bad decision.”

You should say something. Something smart. Something flirty. Something that isn’t “Oh fuck it. It is that moment.” But you fail because that’s exactly what you say right before you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him like you’ve wanted to all night. He groans into it, not subtly, not softly, like he’s been holding back for way too long and suddenly forgot how.

His hands fly to your waist, fingers curling into your hips as he presses you against the passenger side door. Cold metal against your back. Warm mouth against yours. He kisses like he talks, intense, fast, a little chaotic, but he slows down when you sigh, like he wants to savor it too.

“You’re kissing me in a parking lot,” he mutters against your lips. “This is so unprofessional.”

“I think we passed unprofessional a long time ago.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “Like when you emailed everyone you wanted to have sex with me.”

You laugh against his lips tugging him closer by the collar and kiss him again, deeper this time mouths open, breath hitching, a little messier. His hand slides up your back, under your jacket, thumb brushing over your spine like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it, the feel of your soft warm skin. And god, you let him, because this is stupid and impulsive and exactly what you wanted.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

You’re flushed. He’s flushed. You can feel the tent in his pants. The streetlamp flickers.

You glance around, breathless. “There are definitely security cameras.”

Adrian doesn’t look bothered. “Chris is probably watching and taking notes.”

You snort, smacking his chest. “We’re so getting written up for this.”

He smiles, eyes soft now. “Worth it.”

That catches you off guard. Not the kiss. Not the heat. Not even the handsiness. It’s the honesty.

You look at him for a beat, then say, quietly, “I do like you, you know.”

He looks at you like he wants you to repeat it.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “I’m not saying it again.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got the kiss to prove it, so it doesn’t really matter.” He says before leaning in to kiss you again. You’re both pressed up against his car when the kiss breaks mouths swollen, breath uneven, adrenaline buzzing just beneath your skin like static. You’re not even sure which of you pulled away first. All you know is that it wasn’t because you wanted to.

He stares at you, stunned. Like he can’t quite process the fact that you’re still touching him.

“I—uh,” he says, sounding thoroughly broken. “Hi.”

You snort. “Hi.”

He sways forward a little, like he might kiss you again, but then his brain short-circuits and he just kind of… flaps his hand uselessly between you.

“Are you likeeeee gonna invite me over or… am I getting dropped off like a sad little Tinder date who cried in the Uber?”

You blink. “…have you cried in an Uber?”

“No,” he says, instantly defensive. “Well that’s not true. It was one time. And it was actually because my burrito fell on the floor.”

You stare at him not knowing if it was a joke or not.

“I was drunk! It was rude of the burrito to bail like that.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you open your car door. “Get in.”

Adrian stops. “Wait. Are you serious?”

“I just made out with you next to a dumpster.”

“Did you know all of my most life changing moments have happened next to dumpsters.”

“Get in the car, Chase.”

He scrambles into the passenger seat like a golden retriever who just heard the word “walk.” He’s quiet for maybe three seconds.

“So like. Hypothetically. If I said I wanted to make out with you more, like a lot more and maybe rub my face on your couch like a cat claiming a mate, that wouldn’t be weird, right?”

“Did you just say mate?”

“I’m trying to be romantic,” he whines. “God, you’re so mean to me. This is why I have trust issues.”

“I’m not mean to you,” you scoff. “I made out with you.”

“Yeah you did.” He beams.

You risk a glance sideways. His knees are bouncing, hands fidgeting in his lap.

“You okay over there?” you ask.

“No,” he says instantly. “I’ve been annoying and flirty for weeks and now that you kissed me I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck but, like, a hot truck, with tinted windows and really good taste in music.”

You roll your eyes. “You are so dramatic.”

“Anyway,” he mumbles, sinking a little lower in the seat, voice going embarrassingly soft, “if we get to your place and you like… decide you don’t wanna keep kissing me or something, I’m totally cool with just sleeping on your floor.”

You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

“I’ll do it,” he says. “I’m not above it. I respect boundaries.”

You laugh so hard the car swerves a little.

“Honey,” you mutter, cheeks warm. “You don’t know anything about what boundaries are.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway,” he whispers, smug and a little breathless.

You don’t deny it.

Your apartment is dim and quiet when you let him in. The warm kind of quiet, like a secret waiting to be told. Adrian steps inside cautiously, like he’s afraid to knock something over or get tackled by something.

He looks around like he’s entering a sacred temple.

“This place smells like lavender and emotional maturity,” he mutters. “You live like someone who files their taxes on time or early.”

You toss your keys into the bowl by the door. “I do file early. I like my refund.”

He spins once in the living room, curls flopping, smile just a little too wide. “You’ve got ambiance. I can feel myself becoming a better person just standing here.”

“Thank you?” you say, unsure if it’s a compliment or not. “I’m gonna shower real quick.”

He goes completely still.

“…Like now?”

“Yeah.”

You pause in the hallway. Turn your head just enough to catch him over your shoulder.

“Are you coming or what?”

He jerks like you slapped him.

“With you?” he croaks.

You blink. “No, I meant into the void. Yes, with me.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again. “I—uh. Like. I want to. Like really bad. But also… I don’t wanna come off as a pervert and...”

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Adrian.”

He straightens like a soldier at attention. “Yeah?”

“I only want you to come if you’re going to be a pervert.”

A beat. “Yes!!” He hisses and starts taking his shirt off. “I haven’t—look… just full disclosure, I talk a lot but I haven’t actually done this since…like, fuck, I don’t even know. Pre-pandemic? Back when people still pretended to like Tiger King? So I’m gonna be annoying and also look at your boobs too much, sorry.”

You grab him by the wrist and pull him toward the bathroom.

“I want you to look,” you say.

The steam hits fast. The lights are soft. You turn to look at him shirtless and looking nervous. You step forward towards him reaching up to kiss him. Your hands explore his exposed skin, trailing down the curve of his neck to his toned shoulders, and you feel him shudder like you just rewired something in his nervous system.

His hands hover, uncertain.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft as you tilt your head, eyes flicking over his face.

Adrian swallows hard, blinking like he’s trying to reboot. “Yeah. Yeah, I just— I didn’t expect this to happen tonight.”

You smirk. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe, like… we awkwardly sit on your couch. Watch a movie. I pretend not to get hard during the romantic parts. You fake-yawn and ‘accidentally’ fall asleep on me. I go home and jerk off while listening to that one voicemail you left where you accidentally called me ‘hot stuff’ because you were reading a note from Ads out loud.”

You laugh. “That was not for you.”

“I know,” he nods, way too sincere. “It still lives in my head rent-free.”

You take a step closer. The steam swirls around his frame, softening him, curls damp at the edges, glasses already off, lips parted like he forgot how to breathe.

You lift your hand to his chest. He instinctively presses into it, like he needs the grounding.

“I want this,” you say. “You. Right now.”

He sucks in a breath. “Okay. Cool. Yeah. I’m gonna be really normal about it.”

“You’re never normal.”

“I can at least try.”

You laugh, then reach for the hem of your shirt.

And that’s the moment he breaks.

“Waitwaitwait….Jesus, okay, that’s happening,” he blurts, eyes wide as his hands twitch at his sides. You drop your shirt to the floor and walk past him, finish undressing before stepping into the shower.

He just stands there for a second.

You poke your head out. “You coming?”

He looks at you. Not at your body. At your face.

“You’re unreal.” He whispers.

You raise an eyebrow. “What did you think I was? A sex mirage?”

“No, but like…” He swallows. “You’re so pretty. I feel like I’m in one of those indie A24 films where someone has sex and then immediately dies from the weight of human connection.”

You snort. “Get in.”

He stumbles forward like a drunk puppy and practically trips into the steam.

The shower is narrow. The tension is not.

You’re close enough that there’s no such thing as personal space, water cascading between you, fog curling around the glass, skin flushed from heat and proximity.

Adrian’s gaze drags down your body like he’s never seen a naked person before. Which you’re almost certain isn’t true, but judging by his expression, you may as well be the first.

He lifts a tentative hand, palm flat, resting against your ribs. He looks like he’s waiting for permission.

“Touch me,” you murmur.

He groans quietly, then shifts both hands to your waist, thumbs drawing slow, thoughtful circles.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, dazed.

You quirk an eyebrow.

“You’re like a hot angel who knows JavaScript.”

You huff a laugh against his mouth as you kiss him, and this time it’s needier, wetter, hungrier, no hesitation. He matches your pace now, hands moving up your back, then down again like he’s testing how far you’ll let him go, fingers splaying low across your ass like he doesn’t know where to focus because everything feels too good.

And good gosh, he’s so vocal.

“Jesus fuck, your skin is…”

“Oh my God, the noises you make.”

“Do I taste like Hot Cheetos? Be honest.”

You laugh mid-kiss and press your forehead against his, breathless. “Adrian.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to think about Cheetos right now. I just want to think about all the HR violations we’re about to commit.”

He lets out a choked noise and nods like you just gave him a side quest he’s dreamed of unlocking for years.

You shift closer, parting your legs just enough and that’s all he needs to press in, his thigh nudging you exactly where you want him.

The gasp that leaves you is immediate. His groan is pure instinct.

You roll your hips, slow and deliberate against the press of his thigh heat building, water rushing over your shoulders like it’s trying to keep up. Adrian goes still for half a second, then makes a noise you want to keep hearing on repeat.

Your mouth finds his again open, wet, a little desperate and this time, he moans into it when you grind down again, friction blooming sharp and perfect through both of you. His hands grip your hips, helpless now, fingers digging in like he’s trying not to lose it completely.

“Wait—fuck, are you gonna come just from that?” he breathes, eyes wide, voice stunned and reverent.

You bite his lower lip, tug it playfully. “Maybe. Are you gonna make fun of me?”

“No, I’m gonna build a shrine. Holy shit, this is so hot.”

His mouth is on your neck before you can answer, kissing his way down like he wants to worship every inch. You thread your fingers through his wet curls, tugging gently, and he gasps against your skin like it short-circuited him.

“You keep doing that,” he rasps, “and I’m not gonna last long enough to do all the cool things I’ve been planning in my head for weeks.”

You smirk. “Oh? Like what?”

He lifts his head, soaked and pink-mouthed and beautiful. “All sorts of things but specifically getting on my knees and letting you ride my face until I forget how to breathe.”

You freeze.

He pauses trying to read your face “Too much?”

You grab his hair and push him gently down. “Not even close.”

Adrian groans like he’s just been knighted.

He drops to his knees on the wet tile like it’s sacred, hands sliding up the back of your thighs as he mouths your skin. He looks up at you like this is his religion now and then buries his face between your legs like he means it. He carefully drapes one of your legs over his shoulder making sure to keep you steady.

You swear, loud, one hand slapping the tile wall, the other buried in his hair when you feel his tongue lick a stripe up your folds.

He moans against you, tongue moving slow and deliberate at first, then faster, greedy, filthy. Like he’s making up for every day he didn’t get to touch you.

“Adrian—” you gasp, hips rolling, thighs clenching around his head.

He grunts, and somehow manages to nod, which just makes it worse or better, depending on how close you are to coming undone which was very.

And then, he talks mouth still on you, voice half-muffled and wrecked “You’re shaking. Is that because I’m amazing?”

“Shut up and keep going,” you groan, pressing his face closer.

He laughs and does exactly what he’s told.

When you come, it’s fast and full-bodied, like a power surge. You cry out, thighs trembling, fingers tightening in his hair as you ride it out on his mouth. Adrian groans like he’s getting off on just how wrecked you sound.

You slump against the wall, breath ragged, legs weak.

He looks up at you, flushed and beaming. “So. Was that good or do you have notes?”

You don’t say anything, just pull him up and kiss him.

It’s different this time. No edge. No teasing. Just a slow, grateful kiss. Deep and warm and full of everything you didn’t say earlier. His arms come around you without hesitation, one hand resting on the back of your neck, the other flat over your back like he can’t believe he gets to touch you like this.

Eventually, your hands slide up to his head, and you run your fingers through his curls, smiling at the ridiculous amount of product he apparently uses.

“What do you use? Gel?” you tease softly, brushing a strand off his forehead.

He gasps. “Uhhh excuse me. This is a curl cream actually and lightweight hold styler, thank you very much.”

“I knew these weren’t natural.” You giggle and that’s when he picks up the shampoo bottle and tips it in your direction with a raised brow. Then, with surprising gentleness, he lathers the shampoo between his palms and steps behind you. His fingers start at your scalp, slow and thorough. You close your eyes as he works it through your hair with firm pressure, nails grazing just enough to make you hum.

“I feel like I’m giving a horse a bath,” he says softly. “Like a really pretty, brilliant, stubborn horse who also happens to have amazing tits.”

You laugh, leaning your weight into him. “That was almost sweet.”

“I am sweet. I’m like a cinnamon roll. A sexy, violent cinnamon roll.”

You tilt your head back to rinse as he runs his fingers through your hair, catching knots with slow care. His touch is shockingly good like he’s putting real thought into it, like he wants this moment to matter just as much as anything else.

“Your turn,” you say, turning to face him, fingers curling around the nape of his neck.

He exhales like he’s just been given a gift.

You reach up and lather his hair, nails gently scratching along his scalp. He melts. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth drops open slightly like he’s forgotten how to hold his face together.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “Can you wash my hair for me for the rest of my life?”

“Mmmm we’ll see,” you murmur.

“Ok, that’s kinda rude thought you’d say yes, but ok.”

You work the shampoo through his curls, careful and slow, letting the silence stretch as the water runs between you. He looks down at you as you do with a huge smile on his face.

“Did you know female octopuses sometimes eat the males after mating. Like, immediately after. Just chomp chomp, thanks for the sperm, you completed your task in life, bye.”

You pause, hands still in his hair. “Thanks for giving me some aftercare ideas.”

He stiffens, eyes widening. “Heyyyyy. I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret it.”

You grin, dragging your nails along his scalp again and he immediately relaxes like a cat in a sunbeam.

“I mean,” you murmur, “I wouldn’t eat all of you. You’re a big guy. Maybe just a finger.”

He gasps. “I use those.”

You lean in. “Not right now, you don’t.”

“Okay, wow. Now I’m scared and it’s surprisingly turned me on even more.”

He turns to rinse off, quiet for once. The water glides down his body in clean lines, and you watch him shake out his curls like he’s trying to reset his whole nervous system.

He finally turns the water off and grabs a towel. Dries off in quick, distracted motions like his brain’s still stuck in the last ten minutes.

You hand him yours just to see what he’d do. He takes it, looks at you a beat longer than necessary, then starts patting you dry.

When your eyes meet again, the room gets quiet.

You tilt your head. “You good? Or did I push it too far with starting with a shower?”

His throat bobs as he nods. “Yeah no I’m perfectly good. Just… you’re really fucking pretty when you look at me like that.”

You close the space between you. “Like what?”

“Like you want me.”

You respond with a kiss.

He groans into it full-bodied, involuntary and his hands are on you immediately, gripping your waist for a second before moving to your thighs he way he lifts you effortlessly, setting you down on the bathroom counter like it’s instinct.

You look down between your bodies, then back up at him.

“You’re hard again.”

Adrian shrugs. “I’m extremely responsive to kindness.”

You let out a breathless laugh, but your knees fall open for him anyway. His fingers curl around your thighs.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says, voice dipping low, “I’m gonna think about this every single time you walk past my desk.”

You drag him closer by the hips. “Then you better make it worth the fantasy.”

He kisses you again more urgent, towel slipping to the floor as his body presses between your legs like a promise. You pull him closer, pressing your body into his. He groans low in his throat, mouth dragging along your jaw, hands curling tighter at your hips.

“I swear,” he mumbles, voice already wrecked, “I’m trying really hard not to be annoying right now.”

You smile, breath brushing his ear. “You don’t have to try.”

His hips stutter just slightly into yours, and you feel his smile against your skin.

“I’m serious,” he murmurs. “You could probably look at me too long right now and I’d accidentally come on you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, hand smoothing over his shoulder. “Guess we better do something about that.”

He exhales sharply, like he wasn’t expecting you to be sweet on him.

Your fingers trail down his chest, past his stomach, until they wrap around his cock, already hard and heavy where it rests against his pelvis.

You glance up through your lashes. “You’re so hard.”

He grins, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Weird, right? It’s almost like I’m ridiculously into you or something.”

You laugh, soft and breathless and kiss him before he can say something else equally ridiculous. Your hand strokes him slow, gentle, and he groans against your mouth, the sound low and unfiltered.

You scoot closer to the edge of the sink, legs spreading to make more room for him, and guide his tip through your slick folds, dragging him against your soaked entrance.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice wrecked. His head dips to watch, jaw going slack. “That’s… that’s fucking unreal.”

He replaces your hand with his own, sliding the head of his cock along your clit, teasing your entrance until you clench instinctively chasing more, not even bothering to hide it.

Your head tips back against the mirror, spine arching as he presses a little harder, dragging out the friction just long enough to make your hips buck.

Then you feel the brush of his other hand, fingers trailing lower, slipping between your folds. He circles your entrance once, slow and deliberate.

“Adrian,” you pant. “I need you.”

He looks up at you, really looks, and his smile goes soft, almost awed. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You want me, sweetheart?”

You nod pathetically in response. He slides one finger inside you, slow and careful, watching your reaction like it’s the only thing that matters. You gasp, hips rocking down against him as he starts to move gentle at first, like a test, then deeper.

You lift one leg up onto the counter, and he groans when he sinks another inch in.

“Mmm…baby, that feels so good,” you whisper, hand gripping his shoulder.

He leans closer, mouth brushing your ear.

“Fuck,” he says, voice low and rough, “you sound so pretty like this.” His finger moves in slow, steady strokes curling just enough to make your thighs twitch, his palm pressed flush to you, anchoring every movement.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, eyes flicking down where his hand disappears between your legs. “You’re—fuck, you’re so warm. So wet.”

You grip the edge of the counter, breath catching as his thumb brushes your clit, like he’s teasing.

“Adrian…”

He looks up immediately wild curls dripping, pupils blown. “Yes?.”

“I want more.”

He leans in, lips brushing yours without fully kissing you. “Oh? Thought you liked the teasing.”

You arch into his hand. “You’re the one shaking.”

He huffs out a breathless laugh. “Okay. Rude but accurate.”

His free hand grips your thigh, pushing your leg a little higher on the counter, opening you up just enough to slide a second finger in beside the first. You gasp the stretch sharper now, fuller and he groans when he feels you clench down.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. “You’re perfect.”

You rock your hips, chasing his rhythm, and he doesn’t stop you, he meets you there, matching every slow grind, fingers dragging deep and slick and warm. The wet sound of it is obscene, echoing slightly off the bathroom tile.

“Feel good?” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw now, your cheek, your temple. “You gonna fall apart for me again?”

You nod, too breathless to answer.

He keeps going, tempo just a little cruel now not fast, but deep, and perfectly controlled.

“You want me to fuck you here?” he asks, voice gravel and heat. “Right here on your bathroom counter ?”

You let out a choked noise half-laugh, half-moan and he smiles, eyes dark and soft all at once.

“God,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven. His fingers curl up caressing the spot that immediately make your thighs shake.

“Right there, fuck right there,” you moan as the familiar sensation starts to build. He moves his fingers just the way you need coaxing you to your release. You begin to clench around him when he suddenly replaces his fingers with his cock. He slides in bottoming out in one deep, careful thrust that makes you both gasp.

You claw at his shoulders, eyes squeezing shut. “Jesus, Adrian.”

“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby…I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait. I needed—fuck—I need to be inside you”

“It’s ok, this is exactly what I wanted,” you reassure as he thrusts in and out of you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice breaking like static. “I—fuck…I don’t know what I’m feeling right now.”

His hands are trembling where they hold your thighs, jaw tight, forehead resting against yours again like he needs the contact. Like that’s the only thing keeping him here.

“I’m not…” he pants, voice barely there. “ I don’t—process things right. I don’t know what this is supposed to feel like.”

You cup the side of his face, pulling him back to look at you. “It’s okay.”

He looks wrecked. Like you’ve just handed him something he doesn’t think he deserves.

“You feel so fucking good,” he says, like it’s a confession. “And I think I’d let you break me.”

Then he moves again. Deep and deliberate. Like he’s trying to memorize everything, the way you grip him, the way your mouth falls open, the way you moan his name like it means something.

You rake your nails down his back. “Adrian.”

He groans, hips grinding deeper. “Yeah, that’s it. Keep saying my name.”

You bite your lip, overwhelmed.

And then he says, low and certain “I want you to remember this. Every time you see me. Every time you sit at your desk and pretend I’m just the guy who steals your pens.”

Your head falls against his shoulder. “Oh my—”

He fucks into you a little harder, a little deeper. One of his hands tugs your hair making you face him. “Nah, no hiding. Not now. I want it branded in you.”

You drag him closer by the neck, gasping against his mouth. “You’re fucking insane.”

He smiles, breath hot and wrecked. “And you’re taking every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your body wraps around him, muscles tightening, breath ragged. Adrian’s thrusts go deeper now less measured, more desperate like he’s past pretending he can keep this slow.

“Shit,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m not gonna last.”

You dig your nails into his back, gasping. “Don’t stop…please, don’t stop.”

His eyes snap to yours at the word. Please.

And just like that, his restraint shatters.

He hooks one arm around your waist and fucks into you harder rhythm steady, filthy, perfect the kind of tempo that feels like a promise. Every drag of his cock makes your spine arch, every moan he pulls from you pushes him closer to the edge.

“You feel so good,” he rasps. “So fucking good, baby. You’re clenching around me like you want to keep me.”

“I do,” you breathe. “I want…fuck, I want—”

“I know.” His voice is hoarse now. Wrecked. “I know, I’ve got you.”

His hand moves between you, thumb finding your clit with practiced focus, rubbing tight, perfect circles as he keeps fucking into you like he’s memorizing your body from the inside out.

The coil inside you snaps.

You come hard gasping his name, eyes squeezing shut as your whole body pulses around him. Adrian moans loud, desperate, and buries himself deep one last time as he follows you over the edge.

“Fuck,” he groans, shuddering.

He holds you through it, forehead resting against yours as his body trembles, hips twitching with the aftershocks. He presses his mouth to your cheek, your jaw, anywhere he can reach its not soft, it’s urgent. Like he needs to be touching you or he’ll unravel.

Your hands stay tangled in his hair. Your legs stay wrapped around him. Neither of you moves.

Eventually, he breathes out a laugh against your skin.

“So,” he murmurs, voice rough. “That was an inappropriate use of office supplies.”

You huff out a half-laugh. “We didn’t use any office supplies.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look you in the eye, “you’re the only tool I need now.”

You blink. “So you’re calling me an office supply?”

“Wait! Fuck, no wait, I meant it romantically, I swear!”

You pull him back in by the neck and kiss him lazy and slow, all heat faded into warmth.

By the time you both make it to the bed, the adrenaline is gone replaced by warmth and heaviness and something that feels too soft to say out loud.

You pull back the covers and crawl in first, skin still flushed, legs trembling. Adrian follows, collapsing beside you with a content, spent sigh.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. Just the sound of your breathing, the rustle of sheets.

Then you reach out, slow, tentative before you drape your arm over his chest, curling close on instinct.

He stiffens.

Not all the way. Not in rejection.

Just… like his brain didn’t know what to do with that.

You freeze, pulling back. “Sorry,” you murmur. “I just thoug—”

“No—hey,” he says quickly, catching your wrist before you can move too far. “It’s not that I don’t want you close. I just…” He hesitates.

“You don’t like skin,” you finish softly.

He swallows. “Yeah. Not… always. Not when it’s too warm. Or too still. Or too everything. It’s like my brain short-circuits and starts screaming for distance, even if I want the contact.”

You nod. “Okay.”

He looks at you like he’s bracing for disappointment.

“What about this?” you ask, grabbing the heavier blanket and pulling it up over his chest before you press your palm there, over the fabric. Through two layers. Buffered. The pressure’s still there. The comfort. But the texture’s gone.

He breathes out, shoulders softening. “Yeah. That’s perfect.”

You smile gently. “Cool. So we just don’t do direct skin. Easy.”

He looks at you for a long moment, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually get it.

“I’ve never had someone not get weird about it,” he admits.

“Well,” you murmur, tucking in closer, “you like shag carpeting. Seems fair.”

He laughs and pulls you in by the waist, careful to keep the blanket between both of you.

You nuzzle against his covered shoulder. “Next time we hook up, I’m putting a bath mat on my chest.”

He snorts. “Velcro me to the floor. I’ll be fine.”

You grin, half-asleep already. “We’ll make it work.”

[levanswrites]

only the lightest blues

pairing: steve harrington x reader summary: it’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the burger king crown starts hanging heavy. (sailor hat, in his case.) heir to the hawkins high hierarchy, ruler of keggers and hallways alike, steve harrington used to be untouchable. now? he's shaking under your hands, bleeding from battles no trophy could ever commemorate. you've stitched together plenty of broken people before—but never one that left a scar in you, too. warnings: 18+ mdni, piv sex, oral (m!receiving), touch/praise-starved!steve, hurt/comfort, blood, injury, mutual friends/enemies-ish to lovers, hair washing, massaging, praise kink, body worship, sexual tension, forced proximity of sorts, reader isn’t fond of steve at first, mostly S4 canon but fix-it, angst, domestic fluff, found family, happy ending a/n: another steve harrington character study dressed as a fic, what the hell else is new? | playlist ♬.ᐟ

They don’t take him to the hospital. They bring him to you.

Which is, objectively, stupid.   

But apparently, hospitals ask questions. And you—part-time party medic, occasional dispenser of prescription-only painkillers (for legitimate anxiety and migraines, thank you very much)—you don’t.

You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.

Until the knocking starts.

Correction: pounding.

Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesn’t-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.

You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.

But when you open the door, it’s not a solicitor.

It’s Robin.

Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.  

You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.

“Don’t freak out,” she blurts, before you even ask.

Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.

The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.

This time? She’s brought a car with her.

A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.

Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.

A boy.

Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead. 

You squint.

“Who the fuck is that?” … Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.

You don’t know him. Not really.

Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didn’t pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.

But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.

Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.

Poof. King Steve: dethroned.

Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.

You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.

You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on “gas leaks” again.

And Robin Buckley had Steve.     

Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.

He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker. 

You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.

Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.

He smiled. You didn’t smile back.

You didn’t care.  

It’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)

But now, he’s here.

Dying on your lawn.

Ruining your Friday. … Up close, he looks worse.

Biblically bad.

Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.

His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.

His eyes flutter.

Then, absurdly, he smiles.

“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”

You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.

“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”

He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.

Then promptly goes limp. … “It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”

Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.

“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”

You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”

Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connor’s—”

“Robin.”

“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”

Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.

You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”

“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”

You level her with a look.

She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”

You glance down at Steve.

His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.” … You do fix him.

Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming. 

And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.

Like he’s sorry.

Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.

You hate that.

You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.

You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.

And something inside you goes still. 

These are... bite marks.

Not scrapes. Not scratches.

Bites.

His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.

Except: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.

“Jesus christ,” you whisper.

You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.

Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.

Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die. 

You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”

Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.

“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.  

You blink. “Bats.”

“Like. Big ones? Really big?”

You stare at her. Then at Steve.  

You don’t believe her.

But also… you kind of do.    

Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.

It fed. … “Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”

She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.

“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”

“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”

“Right. On it.”

She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.

You turn back to Steve.

His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but it’s there.

“Harrington. You with me?”

His hand twitches once, thumb up. … He doesn’t scream.

You wish he would.

Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.

But Steve just… takes it.

His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like it’s chained there.

You kind of hate him for it.

Because you know this type.

Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like it’s a penance.

You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.

It’s not bravery. It’s habit.

A mask. 

And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.

Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.

You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.

Steve jolts—full-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale.  

Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.

“Shit. S-sorry.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t. … It takes two hours.

Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.

It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.

Now, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.

Of course he does.

In the kitchen, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.  

As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.

“Talk.”

Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.

“…Demobats.” She mutters.

 “I’m sorry?”

“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”

You wait. There’s no punchline.

“…You’re serious.”

She nods.

And then it all spills out.

Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.

You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”

But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.

And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.

“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”

“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”

“And you were tortured?”

 “I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”

“Jesus christ, Robin.”

“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”

She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”

You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”

“Well, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like… blinking wrong. Then I panicked.”

You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.

Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”

You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”

She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.

You scowl.

“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”

Robin doesn’t answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.

You stiffen. Then sigh.

“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.

“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.” …   Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.

You stay on the couch next to Steve.

Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, you’ll notice.

You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.

You stay up.

Because someone has to. … It’s almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.

Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.

But then his lips part.

Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.

“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”

It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.

You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.

You’ve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesn’t.

And goddammit.

Goddammit, you didn’t want this.

Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly. 

Didn’t want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.

But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.  

Without thinking, you lean forward.

Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.

“Steve,” you whisper.

No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.

Your throat tightens.

You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.

His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.

You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people. She meant hearts. You meant bones. You’re starting to think maybe she was right. … You wake to yelling.

Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.

“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”

“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”

There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”

“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.

“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”

“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”

“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Because it works!”

You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.

“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”

Instant silence.

When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.

“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”

“Unfortunately.”

Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”

You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.

You squint at Steve. “Sit down.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not.”

“I just need to—”

“Now, Harrington.”

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”

Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.

Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.

You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?” … The coffee is yesterday’s.

Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.

You pour three cups anyway.

Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.

Robin’s already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.

Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.

Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.

You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:

“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”

He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”

“Clearly.”     

He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.

“Thank you. For last night.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.” 

He huffs a weak laugh.

“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”

Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.

“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”

She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.

“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.

Gives his face a little shake.

“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”

You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"

“Got it?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”

Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.

“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”

Slam!

“—licensed.”

You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.

Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room.  

He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”

You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.

It hurts worse looking at him.

Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.

You blink.

Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.

“Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”  

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.

You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”  

He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.

You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.

And if you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know. … You try to make pancakes.

Try being the operative word.

There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.

Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.

It’s distracting.

It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.

Pancakes aren’t hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it.   

“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.

You don’t turn around. “Fine.”

A beat.

“You sure?”

You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.

Behind you, there’s the scrape of a chair.

“I said I’m fine,” you warn.

He ignores that.

Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.

“Here,” he murmurs.

Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.

Then: flip.

One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.

You blink at it, betrayed.

“I was handling it.”

“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”

He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?” 

He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”

You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.

You file that away, too.

“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”

“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”

He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”

You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”

He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

And fuck, it lands.

It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.

You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.

And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like it’s being murdered.

You lunge for it like a lifeline.

It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.

“Hello? …You WHAT?”

Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”

“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”

“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”   

You glance back.

Steve’s standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.    

You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.

He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?

You raise your brows like, Try me.

You sigh into the receiver: “Yeah. I got him.”

“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"

Click.

Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.

“She grounded?”

“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”

Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.

You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. You’d punch someone for a bite.

In your head, you run through the math.

Ten days. Minimum.

Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.

God help you. It’s gonna be a long week. … Breakfast is awkward.

No other word for it.

Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re trying not to notice.

Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.

Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.

When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.

“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”  

His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.

You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”

“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.

“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.

You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word.   

He doesn’t meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.

The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.

Your knuckles graze his stomach, and—

Jesus.

He’s warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.

You get the hoodie off.

His chest is bare.

And now you’re standing close. Way, way too close.

His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.

You both freeze.

There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.  

Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest.   

You don’t.

You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”

Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.

Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. “Thanks.”

He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.

You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat. … There’s an old joke your friends like to make.

That you’re a sadist.

That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.

But in truth, they’ve got it backwards.

You’re not a sadist.

No. What you are is a fucking masochist.

Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.

Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.

You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.

But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.

Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular bursts—on, off, on again.

You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.

Something twists low in your stomach.

You roll your eyes at yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.

A light knock.

“You good?”

A pause, then:

“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”

There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.

And Steve—

Well.

He’s wet.

And shirtless. And pink.

Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.

Your gaze follows it.

The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way you’re absolutely not thinking about.

He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.

“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.” 

Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.

You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.

Instead, you say:

“Sit.” 

He blinks. “…What?”

“On the floor. Back against the tub.”

There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.  

You don’t blink.

He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”

“Steve.”

It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.

His first name, in your voice. 

You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t reach.

But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.

He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.

Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.

One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud.  

You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.

“Lean your head back.”

He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."

There’s a long pause.

Then he does.

His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.

The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.

“Too hot?”

He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”

So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead. 

It’s just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.

Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.

And that’s when it happens.

The shift.

Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes completely still.

Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.

No, he goes rigid.

His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.

And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.

A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.

You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”

His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”

Then, after a beat:

“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”

Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.

You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.

“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.

So you keep going.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.    

And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.

His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.

Then, he leans.

Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.

Like a plant bending toward light.

You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.

And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.

Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?

The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.

King Steve.

But this? This isn’t him.

This is the After.                                                                                       

The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.

The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.

This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.

And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it.

And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night.  

You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.

But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like he’s bracing for it to end.

And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.

You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.

And then a quiet thought hits you.   

A hunch, really.

You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.

You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat. 

Strangled. That’s what Robin said.  

You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.

Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.

But you don’t let up.

You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.

There’s a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.

He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.

“Too hard?” you ask quietly.

His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”

The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.  

And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.

He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t let out.

And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.

At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.

That thick, molten part of your brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares hot.

It wants to lean in.

Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.

Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.

To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing he’s swallowed with something soft.

God, you’re losing it.

You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it—his hands shifting in his lap.

Cross. Adjust.

You glance down without thinking.

And oh.

Oh.

The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s seeped through.

And beneath that?

Yeah.

Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.

You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.

His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.

His eyes flutter open.

And the look he gives you…

It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.

Softer than longing. Sharper than want.

It's something that aches.

You don’t know what to do with it.

So you just keep your hands in his hair.

And you rinse.   … You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.

After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.

The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.

When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.

Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.

His eyes are still on you.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.  

You nod, not trusting your voice.

The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.

Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.

His breath brushes your cheek.

You’re too close.

It’s too much.

You could kiss him. 

God help you, you could.

Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.

And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.

That’s want.

And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.

You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.

“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”

Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.

His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”

You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”

He nods, a little too slow.

You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.

Then you turn.

And you walk out.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go. ... It starts the way summer storms do. 

Not with thunder. Not with rain.

With pressure.

The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.

Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.

The moment before it tips. 

It’s here now. In this room.

In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.

The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.

The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.

His voice breaks the quiet.

“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”

“Ten days.”

“Hm. I like this show.”

“Knight Rider?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

“No. It’s dumb.”

“What? C’mon, the car talks.”

“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”

“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”

“You hungry?”

“No, you?”

“No.”

And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.

Storm pressure.   

It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.

You can’t.

The blanket’s too warm.

He’s too close.

And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.  

“…You’re doing it again.”

“Hm?”

You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”

His lips part. “Like what?”

Your eyes drop to his mouth.

His pinky brushes yours.

And just like that, the storm breaks. … Steve leans in first.

The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.

Only this time, you don’t let him do it alone.

You meet him halfway.

His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.

And then your lips meet.

A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.

There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—

It’s the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape.  

Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.

You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.

His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way he’s been chewing on them all night.

Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.

Steve goes still. “God, you’re…” He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.

You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.

“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.  

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”

You nod, catching your breath.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you

And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

But you know.

You just… know.

The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.

So you give him what he doesn’t know how to ask for.

Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.

“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”

He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.

Still, you don’t stop. 

You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.

“Jesus,” he breathes. 

You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.

“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”

He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.

“Shit, baby…” he breathes.   

And that word—

It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.

You don’t think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.

Still, there’s that tremble in his voice.

Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him that’s always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.

You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.

And it guts you. The honesty of it.

How easy it is to see now.     

That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want. 

Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.

You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.

His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips and—

You blink. Your mouth goes dry.

Because he’s—

Wow. Okay.

Noted.

It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.

You swallow hard.

“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”

You look up at him, eyes wide.   

“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”

His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.

And there it is.

That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.

“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”

You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow.  

You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.

He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, still smiling.

You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.

He quiets instantly.

Because your hands are on him now.

You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until he’s twitching under your mouth.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”

He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.

You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.

“You can touch me,” you murmur.      

His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”

Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.

Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut.  

“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”

You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.  

Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.

And Steve unravels beautifully.

You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control he’s trying so hard to hold on to.

Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.

Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”

His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.

So you double down.

You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him.  

You keep going until he’s pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.

“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"

You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.

“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”

He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:

“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?” 

You pause, stunned.  

You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”

You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.

Then, finally, you nod.

“Okay.”

You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t matter where.

What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.

You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.

The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until he’s fully seated.

Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.

Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.

“Shit, are you—?”

“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”  

He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.

And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.

“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”

You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.

“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”  

The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.

And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Low how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.

“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”

His fingers circle faster.  

And your body breaks.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.     

He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.

“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”

You’re still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.

You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.

“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”

His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t stand the space between.

And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.

And in the hush that follows, you murmur things you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.

Things too raw for daylight.

Things meant only for him. … You never ask him to stay.

Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.

Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like they’ve been kissing too.  

He never asks. You never offer. … You learn the little things first.

That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks you’re not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.

And sometimes, you catch him staring again.

Only now, you don’t look away.  

You’ll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”

He doesn’t blink. “I’m good. Like this view better."

You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.

Then he moves.

Three steps. That’s all it takes.

Three steps until your back’s against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.

He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”

You don’t.

You kind of never do. … The days bleed together after that.  

A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.

He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.

A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.

You scowl at checkout. He grins.

“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.

You do.

First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.

Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs. … Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.

It starts to feel owned.  

You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while it’s still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.

He says, “Ow,” even when it doesn’t hurt. You say, “Asshole,” even when it’s not true.

On the fourth night, you both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, scrubbing blood out of the couch cushions with baking soda and half-assed prayers.

He’s watching you. Again.   

You glance up. "What?"

He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing.”

“Steve.”

“I just…” He hesitates. Looks down. “I like this.”

You raise a brow. “Cleaning your blood out of my furniture?”

He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.

“Yeah,” he says.

But it’s not what he means.

You both know that. … The sex changes, too.

In the mornings, it’s quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.

But at night? He’s something else entirely.

He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hips—holding you open, holding you still, driving into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you forever.

And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation. 

He knows you now.

Knows what makes you beg, what makes you break. Where to bite, where to suck, where to press until your voice is raw and your nails leave crescent moons down his spine.

One night, he pins your wrists above your head, breath ragged.

“Say it,” he murmurs, grinding deep. “Tell me who makes you feel like this.”

You break on his name.

He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking.

And afterward, he stays.

Inside you. Around you.

He never pulls away first. … Not all nights are easy.

Some nights, you wake alone.

You find him in the kitchen, framed by the glow of the open fridge. The light catches the tired slope of his shoulders, the untouched glass of water going warm in his hand.    

You don’t ask. Just step in behind him, press your cheek between his shoulder blades, and wrap your arms tight around his waist.

He breathes out. Sets the glass down. Closes the fridge.

When he turns, he doesn’t speak. Just lets you hold him.

Lets you guide him back to bed. … Your mornings are different now.  

You wake in shirts that smell like him. Brush your teeth while he showers, fog curling across the mirror. He laughs at something stupid from behind the curtain, and you laugh back, still half-asleep.

It all happens so slowly you almost miss it.

The toothbrush that isn’t yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because you’ve learned to walk around them.

He’s etched himself into your life in the smallest of ways. Fit through the cracks with warm hands and boyish grins and quiet looks in the daylight.

Like maybe he was meant to be here all along. … Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count. 

Because every morning, you tell yourself he’ll probably leave soon.

And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he won’t. … Like tonight.

You’re wrapped around each other, skin still damp with heat, covers shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed. His hand rests on your back, fingers splayed. Yours curls against his chest, cheek pressed to the slow, steady rhythm behind his ribs.

It would be so easy to stay here.

To let the quiet stretch. To pretend the heaviness in your chest is just exhaustion, not the weight you've been carrying since the night you dragged his bleeding body across your living room. Since you sat awake beside him, watching every shallow breath, waiting for the next one to come.

But the question’s been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.

“Why’d you do it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheek—a careful, deliberate breath.

“…Do what?”  

“The lake,” you murmur. “You jumped in first. Why?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Someone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didn’t really have to think about it.”

And you believe him. It’s the part that hurts the most.

That he didn’t have to think. That throwing himself in came as naturally as breathing.

Because somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington decided that his pain was worth less than everyone else's.

You shift closer, hooking your chin on his shoulder. His thumb draws slow, thoughtful circles against your spine.

“Steve,” you say quietly. “You know it’s not about being a hero, right? You don’t have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.”

His hand stills.

“I’m not.”  

“Not what?”

“A hero. I’m not.” He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. “I was… just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didn’t care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it just—it never felt like enough. Still doesn’t.”

You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.

“So what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?”

He almost smiles. “Kinda. Yeah.”

Then, quieter:

“I don’t know, it’s like, if I’m not the one stepping up, then… what’s the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?”

Your heart aches. Because god, how long has he carried that? How many times has he thrown himself in just to keep from drowning?

You see it then, the fracture that runs through him. Spiderwebbed across everything he is, everything he was. A wound so old it’s fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned.  

The weight he carries isn’t something he puts on; it’s something that grew with him.

Years of being told he wasn’t enough. Not smart enough. Not serious enough. Just the boy with the car, the smile, the house too big for how small it made him feel. 

That kind of doubt doesn’t heal. It burrows deep.

Sinks its teeth in. Festers.   

Until guilt turns into remorse,

Remorse turns into habit,

And habit drags on as penance.

So he made himself useful.

Built his worth out of protection. Of stepping up, stepping in, taking the hit before anyone else could.

Diving first. Bleeding first.

Hurt first. Hurt worst. Hurt instead.

That’s where his value lives. Not in being loved, but in being needed.

You lift yourself up until you're eye to eye, cupping his face, thumbs brushing the tops of his cheeks.  

“You’re for you, Steve.” 

He blinks, brows knitting.

“You don’t have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. That’s not something you have to prove.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sense of the words.

Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. He cups the back of your neck, drawing you in. His exhale against your lips sounds like a weight being untethered.

You stay like that for a while, breathing together, fingers laced at his chest.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You don’t.

You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts.   

You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.

You stay up.  

Because someone has to. … You get used to the quiet.

Used to Steve padding around the house in socks, humming half a tune under his breath.

To the way he opens every cupboard before finding the cereal that’s been in the same spot for days.

To the way he claims half your couch, half your bed, half your toothpaste.

You get used to someone else’s heartbeat in your space.

So when the knocking starts—three sharp raps that rattle the wood—it takes you both by surprise.

Steve’s already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.

You’ve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.

“Guess who’s officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and look—I brought backup!”

Robin barrels in first, followed by two figures: a curly-haired kid drowning in a bright yellow baseball cap, and behind him, a taller shape in black denim and leather. Eddie Munson, wearing that same smug grin you remember vaguely from high school.

You’ve heard about them, of course—Steve’s strange little apocalypse crew—but hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.

“He’s alive!” Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters into her shoulder.

“Uh, excuse me. Your fault,” she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Grounded, remember?” Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So? How much trouble was he?”   

You glance over at Steve. He’s already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s daring you to say something first. There’s a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.

You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. “Not much. He folds my laundry now.”

Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.

“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Steve Harrington, domesticated. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”

But his ears are pink by the time you close the door. …

After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchen’s a mess of crumbs and chatter.

Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddie’s straddling a chair backwards, drumming on the counter. Dustin paces, orchestrating what sounds like a full-scale military operation using a butter knife and a salt shaker. 

“—I’m saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.”

Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like he’s catching every third word.

You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable hum—until Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.

“So… he’s okay to come back now, right?

You glance over your shoulder.

Steve’s got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen light—pale and raised, still tender from where you pulled out the last stitch two days ago. Robin wrinkles her nose, groaning about how she's lost her appetite.

You turn back to Dustin. “I mean, no fever, no infection. Doesn’t seem to be actively dying. So yeah, I’d say he’s good.”

Dustin beams. “Awesome.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:

“Actually… I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.”

The room goes still.

Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.

Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.

“No.”

You turn, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“No way,” he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry you’ve come to recognize. “You’re not going.”

You blink at him like, Seriously?

He raises his brows like, Try me. 

You sigh, turning off the water. “I wouldn’t be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?” You shoot him a pointed look.

He ignores it, jaw working like he’s gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.

“Wait, that’s actually kind of genius,” he mutters thoughtfully. “You could be our medic. Like—Eddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!”

You frown. “Our what now?”

“D&D thing,” Eddie smirks. “Healing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.”

You laugh softly. “Sure. Okay. Cleric.”

But Steve isn’t laughing.

“Wait, just—hang on,” he steps forward, catching your wrist. “Can I talk to you for a second?” … The hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by the slant of light spilling in from the kitchen.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him pace three slow steps before stopping, running both hands through his hair.      

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

You wait.

Finally, quietly: “You can’t come with us.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Firm. But it’s not angry. Not that sharp, flinty tone you remember from high school, when he used to wield confidence like armor. No, this is something else.

Fear.

You tilt your head, voice softening. “Steve…”

He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. “You heard what it’s like down there. You saw what happened last time.”

“I did. That’s why I’ve decided to go.”

His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about it before?”

“Why? So you could freak out and tell me no?”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just can’t ask you to risk that. It’s not fair.”

“You’re not asking,” you say quietly. “I’m offering.” 

For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like he’s searching for something—some argument, some loophole that’ll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he won’t have to admit what this really is.

But when he speaks, his voice isn’t tense anymore. It just trembles.  

“I can’t—I can’t lose you in there. You get that? I can’t. I just…” His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.

“...I just got you.”

The quiet stretches. You gaze at him, heart heavy.

His shoulders are tense when you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch in yours, like he’s ready to pull away—but he doesn’t. He never does.

“Steve,” you start gently. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I can’t just sit here and wait while you...” you take a breath, squeezing his hand. “If there’s a chance I can help, I’m taking it.”   

He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin—once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it. The fight drains out of him with a sigh that sounds too big for his chest.

He steps forward wordlessly, and pulls you into his arms. His chin drops to the top of your head. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart start to slow.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you’re staying up here. Radio only. And you’re not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?”

You smile into his shirt. “Deal.” … It’s almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.

The sunlight’s lazy this time of day, all thick and golden, caught in the slow spin of dust motes above the coffee table. The air smells like coffee and the lavender candle you lit this morning. You’re curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.

“Jesus,” comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. “How long was I out?”

You smile, already watching. “Couple hours.”  

He squints at the light. “You let me nap that long?”

“You needed it.”

Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hair’s flattened on one side and sticking up in the back. You reach out and comb your fingers through the mess. It fluffs up worse for it, but he sighs and leans into your hand anyway.

He trades the throw pillow for your stomach, draping a heavy arm across your waist. You rest your palm on his shoulder, thumb tracing the ridge of his collarbone.

The house hums around you: the low buzz of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, the soft creak of settling wood. It’s a silence that no longer feels hollow.

You let it breathe.  

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks since you stood on the other side of a collapsing gate, heart in your throat, waiting for their silhouettes to break through the mist. 

Three weeks since the air finally stilled, the ground stopped shaking, and the last portal sealed itself shut behind Eddie, behind Robin, behind all of them.

Three weeks since you checked every pulse, cleaned every wound, counted every head, and realized, miraculously, that no one was missing.

That everyone made it out. Alive. Together.

Three weeks since Steve stumbled out of the wreckage and into your arms and didn’t let go.

The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between.   

And Steve hasn’t left. Not once.

You're not sure when it stopped being temporary. When duffel bags became dresser drawers, when his shaving cream started living on your bathroom counter, next to the ceramic dish that holds your rings. When the dent in your couch, the dip in your pillow, stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like home.

He still has his edges, the instinct to fix, to shield, to throw himself in front of the next disaster before it happens. But you’ve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.

And he’s learning to let you.

You’re halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You hum. “Just thinking.”

“Uh oh,” he teases, voice still scratchy with sleep.

You smile, ruffling his hair. He groans and nips playfully at your stomach. When your laughter settles, you say it, quietly:

“I was just… thinking about what you said.”

He stills, blinking up at you. “Yeah? What’d I say now?”

“At the gate.”

That’s all you have to say. You both remember.

The roar, the smoke, the sting of blood and dirt. The ground giving out beneath you when he finally made it out—only to tell you he had to go back. One last time. To help the others out. To step into the jaws of a place that wanted to claim him for good.

I know! I know! Just—I need to tell you something. No, I know, just listen—

You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his hands—steady, impossibly steady—as he caught your face. His voice cracking on the words:

I love you. I need you to know that, okay? I love you.

You stare at the book laying on your chest, swallowing hard. “I never said it back.”

Steve looks at you for a long moment.

Then, softly: “Yeah, you did.”

“When?”

He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.

“Not out loud. But you did.”

You think back.

To the tremor in your hands as you let his fingers slip away. The hitch in your breath when the walkie crackled with his voice. To how tightly you held on when he staggered out with the others, bruised and shaking and breathing, and realized you could finally breathe too.

Every heartbeat since has felt like a promise.

Maybe words would’ve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.

Your fingers find his jaw.

“Still,” you whisper. “I want to say it now.”

He tilts his head, waiting.

And you do.

Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like they’d been waiting inside you all along.

And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it. … The house is still too small. The front door still sticks when it rains. The couch still carries the faint stain from that first night.

But it’s home.

More than it ever was. More than it ever could’ve been without him.

The proof is everywhere: his Ray-Bans next to your keys, a battered boombox on your plant windowsill, the Polaroid Robin took where he’s smiling at you instead of the camera.

Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest won’t stay kind.

But on those nights, he finds you. He always will.

And somewhere between the grocery runs and movie marathons, between loud songs in the kitchen and quiet kisses before bed, it stopped feeling like borrowed time.

It’s just time, now.

Yours.

Together. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.

She meant hearts. You meant bones.

Maybe she was right.  

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

You've named it something else now, anyway. …

epilogue

You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.

You’ve got prep to do for night.

Steve moves in behind you, hair still rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans his hip against the counter, flipping through the Player’s Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like he’s cramming for a test.

“I swear,” he mutters, squinting, “you need a math degree to play this game.”

You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Ms—fuel for the chaos to come. “You’ll live.”

“Not if Eddie's dragon eats me.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.”

He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until he’s flush against you. His hips trap you against the counter, chest warm against your back. He leans into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your ear.

“You know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?”

Before you can roll your eyes, he catches you by the hips and spins you around, grin breaking wide and easy. You love how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

Soon, the party will be here—arms full of sodas, dice clattering in boxes, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The house will fill with laughter, with the easy rhythm of shared lives.

But for now, it’s just him.

Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light. And the sun keeps pouring in.   

[anyalarbslasagna]

i absolutely hate biceps hahaha definitely don’t flex rn i might scream hahaha

[dudeitiskarev]

Kind & Generous

There were supposed to be no secrets between you and Clark. He was your best friend, but you wished he were more than that. Your undying love for him wasn’t the only thing you kept behind your teeth, though. Just like him, you also had a double life. Not nearly as cool as his, but still, some people knew you as an average journalist, and others as an erotica writer, who was experiencing a horrible writer's block. Good thing Clark was always willing to help. [ 19.4k ]

Includes afab female reader; she’s a writer/author; she has a pen name but it’s only mentioned a four times; suicide jokes; self deprecating thoughts; so much pining and yearning; little angst; food as love language; jealousy; dry humping; p in v unprotected sex; insane amount of kisses like srsly; idiots in love; basically wholesome porn with a lot of plot <3; not beta read. happy reading! mwahhh 💋

PLAYLIST AND MOODBOARD

“You’re scaring me.” Clark entered your apartment like it were his home. It wasn’t that far from it, considering how much time he spent here. “Are you sick?” 

He had that look, like he was genuinely fearing for your life. 

“What? No! No, I’m not sick.” You waved your hands in the air as if trying to erase what he’d just said. 

His chest heaved out with a sigh of relief. He plopped down on your couch. 

“Then what is it?”

This was so stupid, but calling him truly was a cry for help, and he was the only person who could help you. The only person you trusted to help you with this. 

You sat next to him, facing him fully. He looked at you wide-eyed.  

“I’m… gonna tell you something about me,” you started. “Something nobody knows.”

“Okay?” He mirrored you, and your knees grazed together for a second. It sent instant heart-shaped tingles all over.

You moved it away.

“And I need you not to judge me because I really need you to help me,” you continued. 

“I won’t.” Clark nodded. “And I will, respectively.”

You breathed in and closed your eyes briefly, and at a slow pace, you asked him first:

“Do you remember that book every woman at the office was talking about last summer?”

He tore his gaze away from you and looked up at the ceiling in deep thought.

“Over Those Hills,” he said after a moment and you nodded. You didn’t expect him to remember the title. “What about it?”

You gulped. ‘Over Those Hills’ was the second book you’d published, but the first one to hit the New York Times best seller. The one that started to pay your bills soon after it was picked up by an agent.

“I wrote it,” you finally confessed.

For five seconds, his face remained motionless, then his cute dimples appeared in all of their glory, and an under-his-breath laugh rolled from his chest. You adored those dimples. Sometimes, you wished you had the power to make yourself tiny just so you could tuck yourself in one of them and make it your home forever. 

“Is that it?” he said through another small laugh.

“Clark…”

“That’s your secret?” 

“Yes!” He laughed heartily then. You nudged his arm, but you couldn't help but laugh, too. That laugh gave you a reason to look at the bright side of things when everything seemed grey. “Don’t mock me!”

“I’m not!” he raised his palms in self-defense. “I’m not, I promise, I just… It was a really good book. Very explicit, but so good.”

He read it?!

“You read it?!”

“Everyone was talking about it! I had to!”

You rose from the couch and paced behind it so he wouldn’t look at you. This was such a bad idea. He knew about the filthy things you wrote about, and if he found it hilarious that you were the one who wrote that book, what you were about to ask him was probably going to make him hysterical.

“So you’re a ghost writer,” he added more calmly now.

“No? I just have a secret identity.”

“You are Sierra Oz?” 

“Yes!”

He shifted to the other side to look at you. His long arm rested on the back of the couch, and that perfectly ironed dress shirt stretched over his biceps and chest. Those small buttons were about to burst open. 

“I still don’t understand what you need help with.” 

Your eyes met his gaze again. That smug look was still etched on his face. 

“I don’t want your help anymore.” 

“Oh, come on!” 

He stood up, attempting to reach your side, but you brushed past him and crossed your living room into your kitchen. His steps were right behind you.

“You’re gonna keep bugging me,” you said over your shoulder. 

“Of course I’m gonna bug you,” he said. “It’s what I do best, bug you to no end.” As you didn’t answer or look at him, he softened his voice. “Tell me.”

You turned around, leaned your butt on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, and folded your arms over your chest. You wanted to protect yourself as much as you could. Not because you feared he’d hurt you with his reaction—he’d never do anything to purposely harm you—but you were about to reveal an insecurity. 

You glanced down at your feet. 

“I’ve been on deadline for my third book for the last three weeks,” you began, “I… I’m writing from my male character’s point of view and… I have no idea what I’m doing.”

He didn’t answer, and you dared to look up at him. His brows raised with curiosity.

“I’m gonna need you to be a little more specific about what you need help with.”

This was so mortifying.

“I need your… opinion, I guess, or your experience, or something, anything, really, so I can write the sex scenes accurately from his point of view.” 

His smile dropped, and an adorable shade of pink rushed to his cheeks.

“Oh, I see now.” His brows knitted together, and his eyes got lost somewhere with a faraway look.

“Yeah… and I understand if you don’t want to since we’ve never talked about sex before and all.” 

Mostly because your lack of experience with men was very well known by people at the office. You weren’t a virgin, but you might as well be one, considering the last time you were touched by a man was over three years ago. By choice, though. 

“The topic hasn’t come up,” he replied with a shrug and tone that spread warmth all over you, and you weren’t that nervous anymore. “What do you wanna know?” 

You sighed and uncrossed your limbs. He had the ability to turn everything that caused you anxiety into balm.

“It’s not that I want to know something in particular. I just need help. I don’t even know how to start or where to start.”

After a moment, he suggested, “I could read what you have so far and we can go from there?”

It was around forty-five thousand words, and he was a fast reader, so while you handed him your laptop with your manuscript, a cup of hot cocoa, and made him settle on the couch to read it, you went back to the kitchen to bake something. Just so your mind would be occupied while in the other room, Clark would be reading a first draft, which was way more intimate than anything you two have ever done together. 

He’d been your best friend for the past two and a half years, but he didn’t know about your hobby. You mentioned your writing all the time, and the obvious thing to assume was your work articles, and you never bothered to clarify that you were writing novel-length stories. It was something so sacred to you that not even Clark could know. You went there—magic pocket universes in your mind—when you needed it the most. 

Like when he started dating Lois. 

Before her, you were convinced your love for Clark was entirely platonic, despite him being the most gorgeous man you’d ever laid your eyes on. And it was because you admired him. He was Superman. You wanted to be him. So yeah, it was easy to convince yourself you didn’t love him like that. 

But when she came around, and he didn’t have much time to spend with you, you realized, that deep admiration was closer to devotion. He was more than just a cool guy who one day decided to become your friend. He was your sun, but you weren’t his.

Lois was. 

You decided to drift away from him out of respect for her, which made you crave him, and found a way to still have him by writing a character that was just like him. You reached a peak of creativity while they were together. Almost a year of endless writing. 

Now, ever since he was single again, you’ve been experiencing writer’s block. You refused to relate it to him being single again, but who were you kidding? He was eating your brain. He occupied every thought, and now that he had more time to be your friend, you spent it all with him rather than writing, which was awful. 

You loved writing, but you loved him more. 

By the time the salted caramel brownies were in the oven, you started tidying up the mess you’d made, and like always, you hated your past self for not tidying up as you went. It was much easier, but no, you always stacked the mess until the very end.

“What’s that smell?” Clark’s warm voice entered the kitchen. 

 You turned around and found him leaning on the door frame with his arms folded over his chest. His broad shoulders strained against his dress shirt, and his smile wasn’t really on his lips but in his kind eyes.

“Your favorite.” You dusted your hands on your apron. “You read it already?”

He walked up to you while nodding. “You stopped just when the best was coming.” 

You rolled your eyes at him and went back to putting everything in the sink. Did he just make a pun?

“I’m scared to even attempt to write that.”

One step closer and he was right next to you. He didn’t understand personal space with you, and you didn’t care. You wanted him this close for as long as he decided. 

“Why did you choose to write from Wesley’s point of view to begin with?” 

You sighed in deep thought. 

“I first came up with the character, then his whole backstory unfolded. Wes is… he has so much to say. It’s his story. It has to be from his point of view.” 

“He chose you,” he said, like he perfectly understood the feeling.

Some silence dropped light between you two. He never forced words out of you, and you never felt the need to fill in the quiet moments with him. You believed that words were easily manipulated; silence was genuine by nature.

So while you hand-washed your utensils, he dried them and put them back in their drawers and cabinets. He knew where everything was by heart. 

“Are you really not impressed that I also have a secret identity?” You had to ask after a moment.

“You’re exactly the kind of girl who’d have this kind of interest,” he replied without hesitation. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He draped the kitchen cloth over his shoulder. 

“You… You show yourself as shy and as someone who doesn’t have much to say in a room full of people, so it makes sense that your mind is full of universes.”

You took off your apron and dried your hands with it while sighing. It wasn’t good or bad, but the way he said it—with a knowing smile—made it sound like a compliment. Anything that came out of his mouth sounded like a compliment, really. 

“Just figure out a way so I can help you, and I’ll do my best,” Clark said. 

Suddenly, this—talking about sex with Clark—felt like the worst scenario you and he could be in. Your whole body gained temperature at once. You cleared your throat and made yourself busy by preparing the teapot with some tea leaves, facing away from him so he couldn’t see how flustered this whole situation made you. 

“I guess you could answer some questions about your experiences.”

“Uh… Sure.” His voice grew slightly high-pitched. Your mind raced with every scenario that had kept you away from writing. All of them involved words that had never come out of your mouth in front of him. After a moment, he pressed, “Like?”

You winced and twisted on the inside, then, after the teapot was filled, said, “I don’t know, tell me what the vagina feels like or something.” 

More heat spread all over. You sensed how he stiffened behind you. 

“That’s… very specific.”

“Well, yeah. I’m a very explicit writer, remember?” You said with a hint of playful hostility. “It can help if you go back to your most recent experience, I guess.”

You caught his reflection on the window in front of you. He rubbed a palm over his chin. 

“I don’t think I can talk about my experience with Lois.”

Because the wound was still too fresh, you thought. You filled a stovetop kettle with water and put it on high heat before facing him again.

“I don’t mind,” you shrugged, as if just the mere thought of it didn’t make you want to throw up. “It’s for research.”

He half-shook his head. “I-”

“Then, about some other experience with another person.” 

“That was… ages ago,” he laughed a little. His first girlfriend, you easily assumed, the one he had after high school and the one who broke his heart a year later. “I don’t even remember.”

A lump formed on your throat and it turned into a cold ice cube as you swallowed it. A part of you wished he had more women in his life, that way the fact that Lois was his second girlfriend ever wouldn’t hurt this much.

“How else are you supposed to help me, then?” You played it cool.

Guilt pinched his brows together. 

“I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d ask me about specific experiences.”

“You’re making me sound like a creep. I don’t want you to tell me about how you had sex. I just need to know what you felt. Physically.” 

“I-” his mouth hung open and let a long heartbeat pass. “You could ask Jimmy?”

The kettle rattled behind you and gradually, it started to whistle.

“Yeah, I might ask him to have sex, too,” you said as a joke, and of course, he didn’t read it that way.

“What?!” 

“Yeah, I could use a live narration,” you kept it going. “I could take notes in the moment. That’d be waaaay easier. I could even voice record it so it—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because… he’s my best buddy. I don’t want to see you two and know you… had sex.”

“Dude, if you’re not willing to help me-”

“I am!” He said loudly over the ever-growing high-pitched whistle. 

Wheee!

“No, you’re not! You’re not willing to tell me about your experiences, which is totally understandable so-”

“Why couldn’t you ask me to have sex?!”

“I- what?”

“I—” Wheeeee! “Can you turn that thing off?!” He gestured with his hand, exasperated.

Heat rushed to your face and ears. You reached behind you and blindly turned the stove off. 

Why would he even suggest that? He was Clark. He wasn’t someone who did things casually or without purpose and passion sprinkled here and there. He just confessed that Lois was one of the two people he’s slept with. 

He tore his eyes away but moved his hands in the air as he passionately explained: “Y-you’re willing to have sex with Jimmy for research but not with me?” 

“Because we’re friends!” You shot right back. 

“Exactly!”

You opened the top cabinet to hide behind the door, and took two mugs, placing them over the counter rather roughly. You breathed out to release the exasperation. You and him always had discussions out of the smallest things. He looked like a mad little bunny when he was angry, so sometimes you pissed him off on purpose. 

This time, though, nothing about how quickly this conversation escalated was on purpose. 

“I’m making myself some tea,” you said, softening your voice.

“I can see that.”

“This is my way of asking you if you want some too.”

Though he didn’t reply, you poured tea into both cups and added a teaspoon of honey in his. He replied with a gentle thanks as you handed him his mug. 

“Us, being friends, is exactly why we shouldn’t have sex,” you said.

He did that face—a suppressed smile, raised brows and a half-nod—like he understood your point but didn’t necessarily agree. 

“I think the complete opposite.”

“Clearly.”

“I’d do anything to help you. It’d be research. Homework.”

You bit back a smile and looked at your feet once again. He was being too casual about his idea, and the fact that he thought sex with you was a good idea unlocked a brand new feeling. Something between rainbows and raging fear with a pinch of endearment. 

“So, you, asking me to have sex with you, is you being a good superhero?”

“Sure.”

You stifled a sigh.

Sex with Clark was part of your dreams and daydreams, and you wondered. Not what it’d be like precisely (because you didn’t doubt for a second he was good at it), but you what it would do to your friendship. Every hypothetical ending of that daydream lead to the end of your most precious friendship. 

And you couldn’t risk that.

“I’d rather jump off the Daily’s rooftop,” you said. 

“I’d catch you halfway.”

“Oh, I know that!” 

You brushed past him and stomped your way to your balcony, with him following you like your shadow.

You were suffocating in your own thoughts.

“Wow, so you’d rather jump off a building than have sex with me, but you’d do it with Jimmy without a hint of hesitation?” 

Your balcony wasn’t as high as the Daily Planet’s rooftop, but still, the fall would save you from answering the truth.

It was very inconvenient having your desk right across from Clark’s. 

He was distracting when he pretended to be a normal human being. He was clumsy, said too many sorrys, he slouched, and he was cocky when it came to his work as a journalist (rightfully so, by the way). And even when he wasn’t doing or saying anything, he had your attention. 

Like right now. 

A crease dipped between his eyebrows as his fingers persistently clacked over the keyboard. He was as immersed in his own work as you were in him.

You sensed a strong glare from somewhere and your eyes found it behind him, past his shoulder. There was Lois, looking at you. She gave you a knowing smile with a nod and settled back on her desk. 

You knew she knew how you felt about Clark. Not because you’ve told her, but because you lived by the saying: a girl always knows. You bet a smart and observant woman like her could easily tell, despite your efforts not making it obvious. 

You shook the thought away, dropping your gaze back to your computer screen, and changed to the incognito tab where a blank document haunted you. The text cursor flickered like it was mocking you. You knew better than to work on your book during working hours and on your work computer, but every second counted now, even if you weren’t doing any writing, looking at the empty page was at least something. 

Right?

“Are you writing?” Clark whispered rather loudly from his seat.

“Yes, I’m writing,” you shout-whispered. 

He pulled himself up with his chair next to you and leaned forward to your screen, scrunching up his nose to adjust his glasses. 

“I don’t see anything.”

“Go away!” You said through laughter, pushing him by his shoulder. 

He was much (much) stronger than you, so he didn’t move an inch, and you only managed to push yourself away on your chair. You bumped into someone. 

“Whoa.” Jimmy stopped you from sliding even more. “Easy there.”

A light bulb lit up above your head then.

“Oh, hey!” You stood up and walked with him to the coffee station, giving Clark one glance over your shoulder.

Last night’s conversation didn’t lead to your confession, of course. Instead, you kept the idea of sleeping with Jimmy going and freed Clark from being your helper to your writer’s block. Seeing him evidently annoyed by the idea, prompted you to make it a personal challenge to give Jimmy more attention than ever before. Just to see what else Clark would do. You wanted to think he’d gotten jealous at your hypothetical proposal to Jimmy, but it was most likely his nature to want to keep you away from anything that could hurt you.

There wasn’t anything in particular about Jimmy that could possibly hurt you, though. You two didn’t click as friends, so even if you tried to make a move on him, you believed he would politely ignore you. He was a nice guy and had Clark in common, and that was it.

Still, as you reached his side, you asked him to pour you some coffee, and behaved like every other girl here who had a crush on him, knowing damn well Clark’s eyes were on you. He could melt your skull if he decided to use his heat vision.

You forgot all about personal space and got too close to Jimmy, giving him a toothy smile, and he gave you a quick once-over, as if he’d sensed how forced your nearness was. There was his polite way of rejecting you.

“O-kay, then.” You took half a step back and brought your mug up to your lips. 

From the corner of your eye, you caught Clark’s familiar tall and broad figure approaching you in long strides. He squeezed himself between you and Jimmy with a timid excuse me and reached for the coffee pot. 

As he lingered there, wordlessly, you asked him, “Can I help you with something?” 

“Just… making myself some coffee.” He shrugged.

Jimmy sipped on his steaming coffee loudly. “Will you guys make it tomorrow night?” 

You brushed past Clark and stood on Jimmy’s other side. “What’s tomorrow night?” 

“It’s his birthday,” Clark said, sipping on his coffee. His glasses fogged up. 

“I know it’s his birthday. I just didn’t know there was a party,” you told Jimmy.

“There wasn’t one until—” he glanced at his watch “—twenty minutes ago. So this is me—” he gestured at himself “—inviting you two.”

“Aw, thanks!” You leaned your hip on the counter and faced him fully, scanning his face like you wanted to count every freckle. “Why celebrate it on a weekday, though?” 

Clark cleared his throat just because. You picked a non-existent lint from Jimmy’s collar. 

“I’m hoping not everyone can make it.” Jimmy glanced down at your hand with apparent disgust. 

“Then why invite people you don’t want there?” 

He subtly backed away from you. 

“I don’t want to offend anybody.” 

“You can’t be everyone’s friend, Jimmy,” you said. 

“Leave him be,” Clark countered. “I get what you mean, man.”

 “I know you do.” Jimmy clapped a hand over Clark’s shoulder and said, already on his way back to his desk, “Let me know if you guys will make it. I need to know how much booze to buy.” 

We will! You and Clark replied at the same time, even when neither of you was much of an alcohol lover. 

You rolled your eyes at him and asked between clenched teeth:

“Dude, what is your problem?” 

“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t about to ask him to have sex with you, is all,” he replied under his breath. 

“I wasn’t,” you shot back, and crossed the bullpen to your desk. “If I did, I wouldn’t do it in front of everybody. I may ask him tomorrow night, at his birthday party. Maybe I could get there empty-handed, with just a red shiny bow on my butt and offer myself as a gift. It’d be a win-win.”

A rare frown pinched his brows ever so slightly and his lips set into a straight line. 

“Stop it.” 

Poking the bear was working. 

“Why does it bother you so much?” 

Clark paused and tore his gaze away for a moment. “It doesn’t bother me. You both are two of my favorite people, but you’re-”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m too pure for someone like him.” 

”Well, now I’m not so sure about that, considering what you write about-”

“At— shhh!” You looked around to make sure no one heard that first part. Everyone was doing their own thing. “Keep it down, superm—”

He clasped a hand over your mouth and his eyes widened. He was gentle while doing so, and something between determination and surprise balanced between those eyes. As if he’d been taken aback by his reaction, yet he didn’t withdraw his hand. Somehow, he’d cornered you against the wall, attempting to hide you from the world, and suddenly the everyday office noise faded. Like he’d put you in a bubble where only you and him existed. 

It melted you—his unexpected touch, his eyes from this up close, his sudden force—and he slowly uncovered your mouth, but his eyes behind his glasses were still telling you to stop talking. You’d called him Superman with distracted people around many times before, and he never acted this way.  

As soon as your mouth was fully freed, you breathed in through your nose to cool yourself. You needed an ice bath to get rid of that heat, but you still managed to reply, so sure:

“What if I told you he’s exactly my type?”

His jaw clenched. “I’d say you are lying.”

“You don’t even know what my type is.” 

“Yeah, I do,” he scoffed. “Dev from the mail room. Great guy.”

You scoffed even harder. ”What makes you think he’s my type?”

Dev wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he was definitely intriguing, and if Jimmy didn’t exist, girls here would surely stop by the mail room more often.

“He’s tall and generous and… has kind eyes.”

“If you believe that’s all it takes from someone to be my type, you’d also be my type, don’t you think?” 

His face lit up. “You think I have kind eyes?”

You stifled an incoming sigh and burst the bubble by making your way to the vending machine. He was predictable at this point, so you replied over your shoulder:

 “Clark, you are the epitome of kindness. Everything about you is kind.”

There was something romantic about the Daily’s rooftop at night.

The skyline lit up by the city lights was tempting to admire, just like a sunset, and you often found yourself here to take them in. To think. To escape the chaos of the office. To get inspired. 

You walked closer to the edge and breathed in the evening breeze. 

Until last year, this was yours and Clark’s spot. Before Lois. After her, it became the place you visited to escape them. 

“You’re not jumping, are you?” Clark’s voice echoed around.

Your eyes fluttered closed and your heart almost leaped from you. He’d followed you there, like the old times.  

“It’s no use now that you’re here, is it?” you shot right back teasingly. 

His footsteps stopped somewhere behind you. His presence was so strong, even when you couldn’t see him, he felt as impotent as a skyscraper.

“I thought you’d left.” Clark reached your side and you looked up at him briefly. He’d taken off his glasses and tucked them in his shirt front pocket. 

“I was about to.” 

“You don’t wanna go home?”

Your tongue clicked. “If I do… I would beat myself up for not working on my book and I don’t want to do that to myself. Not tonight, at least.”

He hummed in agreement. After a moment, he said: 

“I did some research on Sierra Oz. You could easily make a career out of your writing.”

You chuckled. Heat rushed to your face. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. You can free yourself from Perry for good.”

You’ve thought about it, many times but—

“I fear if I do, I’ll stop enjoying it.”

“Why?”

You sighed.

“Because it’ll become my full-time job, and I don’t want to ruin the magic of writing to escape. I need it to stay as a hobby. As something I come home to. To distract myself from my responsibilities as an adult. My responsible and mature job is being a journalist. With my other writing I allow myself to… dream beyond every wall of insecurity I’ve built while being a journalist.”

A loud and persistent honk filled the brief silence. Clark peeked down the street, surely to make sure everyone was alright. 

It was just some impatient guy wanting to turn left.

Clark came back next to you and said, “I wish there was something I could do.”

You pressed your lips together. He truly had offered everything.

“I appreciate you suffering with me through this,” you laughed a little. “And for offering help, as ridiculous as it was.”

“The offer’s still up,” he said, and your stomach fluttered. 

“And I still think it’s best if I do it with Jimmy.”

“Don’t do that to me.”

Your head snapped at him. 

“I- It’ll make things messy between all of us,” he added.

“Should I download a dating app, then?”

“That’s worse. Meeting strangers can be dangerous, especially men, and… it’s best if you do it with someone you know.”

He was so distressed about it, it was borderline cute. You had to tell him, “Clark, I wasn’t being serious. I wouldn’t… have sex with anyone for research. I just have to be a big girl and push through this rough patch because it happens. I’ll just give myself some time. Step away from the story for a while.”

“Do you have the time to do so?”

“I have time, just not a lot. And if I fail at it,” you sighed, “then it was fun while it lasted.”

Locked out of heaven by Bruno Mars was playing at Jimmy’s house when you arrived. 

It looked like a full-on party, which meant his plan of celebrating his birthday on a weekday didn’t work at all. Cat reached for your hand and led the way inside while you squeezed yourselves through the sea of people—grabbed a drink each—and made it to the backyard. 

There were even more people here, but at least it was out in the open. Jimmy was sprawled on a lounge chair with four women surrounding him by the pool, touching him and laughing at everything he said. He looked like a king, and it wouldn’t surprise you if at some point in the night a crown popped over his head while one of his girls started feeding him grapes.

You still didn’t understand how he managed to get this many women when Clark was right there… with Lois. Sitting on a bench under fairy lights like they came out right out of a rom-com, where the couple who broke up not long ago were about to give each other a second chance. 

Just the mere thought gnawed at your mind and twisted your insides. 

You weren’t supposed to be here, watching them rekindle their romance. You were meant to be buried in your couch with your laptop trying to do some writing, even if that also would ruin your peace, it was better than this. You hated how whenever she was near, you had immediate access to all of your insecurities. 

Before Lois could catch you staring, you brought your attention back to Cat and forced a smile. 

With her, you had the chance to stay a listener. She carried the conversations most times, if not always, which was why she was your better half at parties. You hated talking. Hated small talk. And she didn’t, and always made you feel included even if you didn’t say a word. 

So you just laughed and said yeah! and oh my gosh! and nodded while smiling with your eyes at whatever anyone who joined said. The conversations drifted in and out of your brain; your whole focus was on them.

Sometimes you wished you had Clark’s superpowers, just so you could eavesdrop on what they were talking about. Sometimes, you thought he could read your thoughts, too, even when he confessed to you all about being Superman, he told you all about his powers. 

It felt like he could. At least with you, because every time, he caught you staring. It wasn’t weird that he did. It was Clark, and he only made some cute faces or smiled at you to acknowledge your presence and went back to his oh-so-interesting conversation with Lois. 

At some point in the night, you moved close to the pool and ended up facing Clark and Lois again, and you and he kept locking eyes every once in a while. It became your own language when you decided to drift away from the friendship when he started dating her. You did it to protect yourself from getting more heartbroken, but you could never stop looking at him, and apparently, he couldn’t either. 

Cat said your name, and the buzz of the party came back to you.

“Huh?” You looked at her.  

“I said, do you think they’re getting back together?” she subtly asked you while looking in Clark and Lois’ direction. She was your better half, but she didn’t know how you felt for him. 

You answered a dry I hope so, as if the mere thought made you want to throw up. 

You sipped on your drink to force the words you didn’t truly mean down your throat.

“Like, look at him! He’s so smitten.” She sighed like she was the one in love. 

Right as she said that, Clark’s gaze found yours again and held it for what felt like minutes. It singed your skin, and you would’ve caught on fire if a stranger’s arm hadn’t draped over your shoulder.  

“Hey, sweetheart.” Some random guy had approached you. His alcohol breath was radioactive. 

“Ew, ew.” You sneaked away from him. “Get him off of me!”

“Don’t even try it.” Cat placed a strong palm over this guy’s chest, but he didn’t back off. “She’s with me.” 

“I don’t mind sharin’.” His face split with a creepy smile and almost ate her with his eyes.

“We said Back off.” You pushed him by his shoulder. 

Clark’s head snapped in your direction then, and you made eye contact for the hundredth time during the night. His nostrils flared and his lips tensed when he noticed you were uncomfortable. 

You were, yet you murmured, “I’m fine.” 

There was no need to say it any louder. You knew that as soon as he heard your voice, he selected his focus and could even hear your rapid heartbeat.

Clark nodded once, and brought his attention back to Lois as soon as the guy left. 

Your stomach tightened again.

What you felt about them together was beyond jealousy. It was a physical illness. A disease that attacked your chest and stomach and breathing all at once and even if you turned your back to them to avoid seeing them, you could still sense him, like he was part of your DNA. 

And when you didn’t feel him close, you became a turmoil of feelings. They were both gone. Did they leave already? Together? Gosh, you needed to sit down. You excused yourself and went inside to grab another drink. 

“You okay?”

Lois.

You turned around and forced a smile.

“Hi! Yeah, yeah, I came to get another drink but… they’re all gone.”

“Yeah, Clark noticed the ones you liked were gone, so he’s out there with Jimmy buying some more.”

You weren’t strangers with Lois, but just like with Jimmy, you weren’t friends either. Though you wished you were. She was one of those girls who you found incredibly cool and pretty and you died to be friends with.

Her feet faltered closer. She looked like she was about to say something, and even opened her mouth but nothing came out. 

“You want a drink, too?” You asked just to fill in the silence.

“No, I- I just wanted to tell you I’m glad you and Clark are talking again.”

You stared at her with a puzzled face. 

“Again? We’ve never stopped talking.”

“I know I meant… like before.” She swallowed thickly. “Before me.”

Oh.

You walked to the fridge to grab something and hide behind the door.

“When we were together,” she continued, “Clark said you’d been drifting away and that made him so sad.”

So she wanted to talk about Clark.

“Yeah,” you replied, lurking mindlessly through the beers. Not your favorite. “I just… people at the office talk, make up things, have made up things about me and Clark, and I didn’t want them to get between you two.”

You picked a random drink and closed the door. You dared to look at her. 

“Yeah, I’ve heard some things, and I appreciate you… thinking of us. But it’s not necessary anymore.” What was her point? She traded her weight from one foot to the other and laughed a little when saying, “You guys are soulmates. You’re like his missing rib or something, and I… could never get between that.”

You swallowed thickly. Your drink could burst because of how strongly you were holding it. Lois Lane, the most gorgeous woman at the Daily Planet, the girl you thought (and still think) was the love of Clark’s life, calling you his missing rib was so not expected. 

“I don’t understand.”

Lois laughed softly again and tore her eyes away. 

“I didn’t think I’ll have to spell it out for you, so I will.” She sighed. “Clark, he… has feelings for you.”

A laugh lurched out of you. Right there on her face like she’d said the funniest joke, but she didn’t, though she kept smiling. A smile that didn’t reach her eyes. A smile that wiped yours away a second later. 

“When his dad had the heart attack,” she continued, “he didn’t call me.” 

 He’d called you, at two am and with a shaky voice, asked you to come with him to his hometown because Pa was in the hospital, and he didn’t think he could be strong enough in front of Ma if something horrible happened. 

“You were already broken up then,” you merely replied. 

“I know, but if the same thing had happened to me, I would’ve called him, even when we were broken up. I would’ve called him, and… he didn’t call me.”

You pressed your lips together as guilt washed over you. 

“I’m his best friend, and he’s mine. And… that was it. He just needed someone, and he couldn’t reach out to you because he was still hurt.”

“No.” She shook her head. “He didn’t just need someone. He needed you.”

You breathed in deep through your nose. 

“I don’t see the point of this, Lois.” 

“It’s… girl code. I’m doing this for the same reason you stepped away when we were together. We didn’t have to agree to it, but you knew it was the right thing.” She sighed. “This is me doing the right thing.”

You opened the beer can and slurped on it. It tasted like crap. 

“Does he know about this?”

“Not exactly. But I had this same conversation with him. Just… from his perspective.” 

“So you told him, if he ever wanted to have something with me, you were okay with it.”

“He asked me, if I would be okay if, at some point, you and he started to be more than friends.”

This was too much nonsense out of nowhere, but you couldn’t help but instantly daydream of that. Of a world where you and he were something more than just friends. 

Had he started the conversation? When did he start to feel this way? Was this even true? And if it was, why would she tell you first and not him? 

“Are you still in love with him?” You had to ask.

Another smile that didn’t reach her eyes, but she squared her shoulders like nothing could break her. 

“I loved him,” she admitted. “But I don’t think I was in love with him. And I’m sure he felt the same way. He loved me, but he wasn’t in love with me.”

  Laughter burst from the entrance and gradually got closer to the kitchen—Jimmy and Clark and some other guys yelling about who knew what. Lois went to the fridge and got her own drink and just like that, the conversation was over, and she fled before Clark showed up with a six pack of your favorite crispy drink.

You were still there, frozen by every word Lois said.

When you locked eyes with Clark, his dimples creased softly, and without a word, he approached you. He took the beer out of your hand to hand you your new drink with the other. 

Your fingertips brushed together. Your eyes still lingered. 

“Are you okay?” Clark asked.

No. What Lois said messed with your head and, worse, gave you hope. You were probably imagining that glimmer in his eyes. 

“I’m…” you frowned confused. “I’m going to the bathroom.” 

You sneaked out of there before he could ask more questions and squeezed yourself between the people up the stairs, crossing the hall into the bathroom. Clark called your name behind you, which normally made you turn on your heels without a doubt. Now, you only walked faster.

Never as fast as him.

He got inside with you and shut the door behind him

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked.

His scent enveloped you whole.

“This is a very tiny bathroom.” You backed up, frowning at him like a child. Your back hit the cold tiles. “I need to pee.”

He frowned back at you. Not mad, but asking you something. 

“This one’s new.” He tugged at the sleeve of your blouse and grazed your palm with his knuckles.

“No?” You yanked your hand away. “I just don’t wear it that often.” 

His face softened, and he flashed you an incredulous smile. “You’re acting so strange right now.” 

You sighed. “I just… I want to leave, is all.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“You don’t have to leave just because I leave. We didn’t even arrive together.”

“And I wanna leave with you. We haven’t talked all night.”

“You’ve been… busy.” You looked away. 

Busy talking with Lois and looking at her and laughing with her. Were they talking about you? About his feelings for you?

“I’m never busy when it comes to you,” he replied without hesitation.

“I don’t believe you,” you shot back.

You didn’t believe her.

“Whoa, hey, why are you being like this? What do you mean?”

“Nothing! I just… need to pee.” 

“You’re drifting away from me again.” His tone turned as firm as a stone then. 

“What are you talking about?”

“This is how you behave when you want to pull away from me.”

You folded your arms over your chest. “I never want to pull away from you.” 

“But you have!”

“Because you were dating someone! I didn’t want to… intrude, and now you’re talking to her again so I-”

Clark almost pounced on you, both of his hands cradling each side of your face, so determined you thought he was about to kiss you, but all he did was press his forehead to yours. Your noses bumped together, and your heart started to bang against your chest, begging to leap out and kiss his own.

“I’m not talking to her again,” he murmured. “Not like that.”

Your breathing shook. Why couldn’t you believe him? He wouldn’t lie to you. 

“Don’t pull away from me again. Please,” he whispered. 

You would never pull away from him the way you once did. Even if it brought your writing spark back. 

All you managed to reply to his heartfelt plea was a breathless ‘Okay’. 

What else were you supposed to say?

He nuzzled his nose to your temple for a moment, then placed a barely-there kiss before leaving you there with your heart going wild. 

You’d never been this confused because of something Clark did.

You were no stranger to his touch. Casual touch. A hand on your upper back when walking you out of a place; his arm brushing yours when standing close. His nearness was normal, but your noses have never touched. His hands have only cradled your face once before. When you had a panic attack, and he figured the only way to ground you was by holding your face so you’d look at nothing but him as he guided your breathing and steadied your heart. 

It worked that time. 

Tonight, that same touch was the reason your hands were shaking. 

Don’t pull away from me again, please.

You splashed your face with cold water and let all your feelings go down the drain, clearing yourself of any emotion, and practiced your smile in the mirror a few times before returning to the party. 

Cat was nowhere in sight, and the only person you knew—besides Jimmy, who was still surrounded by women—was Clark, who unfortunately was all alone now, in that same bench under fairy lights. So available, like he was waiting for you. 

He lifted his head and his gaze found yours.

A strong pull dragged your feet towards him.

“I’m ready,” you shrugged. 

Only because he wasn’t hanging out with Lois anymore. If that were the case, you would’ve left without a trace. 

Clark seemed at your will, and didn’t bother to say goodbye to anybody. Just walked out the backyard with you—placed one hand between your shoulder blades—and opened his car door for you. You both were acting as though nothing had happened. It was something you had in common, which most times saved you from unnecessary conversations. 

Right now, you were choking on what you wanted to say, but with a single glance, you agreed not to mention a thing. It was for the best, because if any of you decided to clear up the situation… no, there was nothing to clear up.  

Everything was fine.

Except that you were both oddly quiet on the drive home. You weren’t always chatty, but at least your off-key singing of whatever song was playing on the radio and your hands as microphones filled those moments.

I get so breathless when you call my name

I’ve often wondered, do you feel the same?

There’s a chemistry, energy, a synchronicity when we’re all alone

So don’t tell me you can’t see what I’m thinking of

Well, you couldn’t sing that.

You looked out the window. 

Clark’s phone rang.

Thank god.

A girl’s voice came through the speakers before he could even say hello.

“Where are you?” 

Your eyes snapped to his phone.

Kara.

“Why?” He asked.

“I need you to look after Krypto for a few hours.”

You and Clark exchanged looks. He was panicking already. 

“At one in the morning?”

“It’s okay if you’re not here. I’m already here.”

“You broke into my apartment?”

“I brought him his toys and his food and his treats and his bed…”

Krypto barked in the distance. It sounded like he was already tearing something. 

“Do not leave him alone, you hear me, he’s gonna destroy everything!”

“He’s more mature now, you whiny bitch, we’re in therapy. He won’t do anything.”

“Kara, do not leave him alone.”

“I’ll pick him up first thing in the morning.”

Then she hung up. 

Clark gripped the steering wheel and gave himself three seconds as he breathed in through his nose. Then, he quickly glanced at you before focusing his eyes back on the road. 

“Do you mind if I pick up Krypto first? He’s… he’s gonna destroy everything if he’s unsupervised.”

This was the complete opposite of what you needed. He was supposed to drop you off and leave, see each other the next morning at work, and act like nothing was wrong. As if he hadn’t pleaded you not to pull away ever again while being a kiss away.

But you’ve met Krypto, so you replied, “Sure,” because yeah, he would destroy everything, and he oddly liked you. Clark called you the Krypto-whisperer.

With a quiet thanks, he did a U-turn, and in no time, you were at his place. 

It wasn’t that destroyed. Only a couch pillow was ripped open, and a few feathers were flying around. You caught Krypto just when he was about to chew on Clark’s bedroom door.

“Hey, little guy,” you greeted the dog with your silly voice, and as soon as he recognized you, he started whining and wagging his tail while sprinting toward you. “Hi, honey, long time no see,” you said through a laugh, crouching to give him those chin scratches he loved so much. “You missed me, huh?” 

Krypto whined some more and barely acknowledged Clark. 

You looked up at him. 

He was smiling proudly. “What is it about you that turns him into an angel?”

You made an indifferent cocky face and continued petting Krypto’s chin. You had no idea. Some people had that effect with babies; you had it with dogs. 

“Do you think she took him out for a walk?”

“Yeah, she might be a basket case, but she’s responsible when it comes to her dog.”

You stood upright and let out a sigh. “I guess… I’ll bring him home with me.”

“Please don’t.” Clark gave you those puppy-dog eyes. “Kara will freak out if she comes back and doesn’t find him.” 

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

“Stay? You can take my bed. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

This was so tragic, you could never say no to him. You shut your eyes briefly just to escape him for a little while. You needed it to be a brand new day already and leave what had happened in that bathroom behind for your own sanity.

“You can use any shirt you want as pajamas and… No, you know what? What else do you need? I’ll make a quick run to your place.” Clark touched his pocket to make sure his car keys were there. “Make a list, and I’ll pick up everything just… please don’t leave with him or without him,” he begged. 

You exhaled in defeat.

“It’s late, Clark, don’t worry.” 

You paced to his couch and plopped down. The couch you’d chosen for him. It felt like a cloud.

“Are you sure?” He asked. Krypto followed you first, curling up against the side of your thigh, and Clark came after, sitting next to him. “It won’t take me long.”

“I’ll sleep here just fine.” You waved a dismissive hand. “I’m exhausted.”

“From work?”

“From everything.” You sighed and went to scratch Krypto’s back. Clark’s hand was already there, and your knuckles brushed together fleetingly. It was nothing. “This life I’m currently in isn’t helping with my creativity.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m working too much,” you merely said. “I think I’m gonna ask Perry for a few days of my annual leave. You know changing environments helps with writer’s block.”

“That sounds like a plan. Where’d you be going?”

“I don’t know? Somewhere far away from here.”

“You can go to Smallville, to my parents’. They’d love to see you again. You won’t have to worry about anything there. Ma will start cooking for you the moment you step inside. I’m sure Pa will put up a hammock for you outside for whenever you want to enjoy the fresh air.”

You smiled at him and stifled the incoming sigh. He got his kindness from his parents, so there was no doubt they’d do what Clark said and more for you.

 “And I can use your bedroom?” 

“Yeah.” He smiled sideways. “There’s also a small café a few blocks away with a nice view. Great wi-fi. You can sit there and write for hours.”

You licked your lips and looked away. He was always so generous, and now that you were all alone, after that moment you had with him in the bathroom, all you could think about was what Lois had said.  

If it were true, you would kiss him right now just to thank him for existing. 

You cleared your throat. 

“I wish you’d given me the chance to pick up my laptop. Your view of the city inspires me.”

“You can use mine,” he said, already standing up, but you reached for his wrist. His hand fisted.

“It’s okay,” you said softly, and he sat back down. “I’d rather talk about it.”

His Adam’s apple jumped. “Talk about what?”

“Um, my book?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he tore his gaze away.

You admired his face then, pale skin with a brushstroke of the cold city lights that his large windows swallowed. It accentuated his side profile, as if it wasn’t already addicting to stare at. You had him sketched in a notebook somewhere in your room just like this: the soft angle of his upturned nose and defined tip, the subtle curl of his lashes, his gentle cupid’s bow. You swore his dimples were still there despite his lips—ever so tempting—set into a line. 

His eyes darted down to his clasped hands. Dainty veins branched out from what was exposed of his wrists down to his knuckles. He wrung them together. You wanted to reach for them, lace your fingers together just because.

He looked at you. “Have you written anything new?”

You shook your head. “I've written everything I need, except for the sex scenes.”

“Are they really necessary?” There was genuine intrigue in his tone and in the way he wrinkled his brows at you, but he still felt the need to justify his question, “Not that having them is bad. I’m sure the scenes you have planned move the story forward as well as give your readers what they want.”

“Sex is very important for my characters, so yeah. I just… I hate that I chose his point of view.”

“Is it too late to start over?”

“I’m 45 thousand words in, so kind of. Besides, you know it has to be from his point of view. It would become a whole different story if told from Fatima’s perspective. She’s so bright and optimistic. She sees the world through rose-colored glasses. Wes doesn’t, except when he’s with her. Sex with her makes him hopeful.”

His sigh and half-nod hinted that he understood where you came from. 

“Have you really not tried writing them?”

You breathed out a small laugh through your nose and admitted guiltily:

“Like a million times.”  

“Why didn’t you show me?”

Because you’d tried writing the feeling of an erection provoked by a kiss, and it sounded like an injury. Were they painful? The thought of Clark reading it and probably laughing at the inaccuracy was a nightmare. 

“I deleted them.” You scratched your brow.  

“All of them?”

Of course not. They could be useful at some point, so you buried them in a document called ‘TRASH’.

“Yes.”

“You’re not supposed to delete things? You know they can be useful later. That’s like a main rule for a writer.”

“Shut up.”

He laughed a little and made himself comfortable, throwing himself back. He rested his head on the back of the couch, and that curl that perfectly fell over his forehead almost lured you to brush it. If it wasn’t because Krypto was between you two, you would’ve, so you limited yourself to a half-turn to face him.

“Try writing one again.” He looked up at you. 

“Right now? On your laptop?” You asked, and he shrugged. “I’m not… gonna write sex scenes in front of you, or anyone. I need to be in the right headspace. Alone.”

He tore his eyes away briefly, and his faint smile remained on his lips.

“What is it about them that stops you from writing them?”

“I have a very vivid imagination, and I like to think I can describe things well despite not experiencing them before. But this is different. I don’t have a penis, so I have no idea how to describe sex from a guy's point of view. Like…” You closed your eyes and failed at picturing the feeling. “I can’t imagine it. It’s one of those things you have to experience to describe well, so I need someone else’s insight. You already refused to help me, so I-”

“I didn’t refuse to help you,” he cut you off in full honesty, “I just gave you another solution.”

Your mouth hung open, and he gave you no chance to reply as he stood up and walked to his kitchen, like he wanted to give you a moment to think about it. But there were no coherent thoughts. He just dropped the bomb and left to put the kettle on.

You bit back a smile and pinched the bridge of your nose to ground yourself. If he was offering his carnal help again, what Lois said couldn’t be so far from the truth, right? 

Oh, this was bad. So, so bad.

Three minutes later, Clark reached your side again and handed you your orange Eevee mug. You’d told him once that the color of the mugs changed how you tasted some drinks, and how you preferred warm colors when having warm drinks. 

Most people who knew this about you thought it was nonsense. Clark, he kept different colored mugs just for you. 

“I guess… You can bring me your laptop,” you gave in. “But you have to walk me through it.”

Clark smiled, satisfied, set his mug on the coffee table, and came back with his laptop, gesturing at it as if to say it was all yours. You logged your email with a knot in your stomach and opened one of the many documents—the one with your manuscript. It was last edited a week ago, but at least there was a half-written scene that you could cling to and start from there.

You read the paragraph and tapped your fingers over the keyboard, mimicking the typing while you thought. Your head was empty.

“What does even an erection even feel like?” 

Clark cleared his throat and sipped on his mug loudly. You could hear the gears in his mind working. He was carefully crafting his words.

“Um, depends a lot on the context, I guess,” he answered. 

You looked at him. He had that tone when he was about to start talking and oversharing.  

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there’s… the one a man wakes up with sometimes, then there’s the one that happens because… of arousal.”

You brought your attention back to your laptop and typed the word arousal, ready to write any other thing he was willing to give you. 

“Go on.”

He paused for a moment, then clicked his tongue, setting his mug back. “I can’t, I can’t!”

“Oh, don’t be a wuss.” You rolled your eyes at him.

“Wow.”

“See, a part of me thinks this is more about you being a prude than you refusing to talk about your experience with—”

“I am not a prude.”

“Eh…”

“I offered you… Myself, that’s not something a prude would do?”

“A part of me also thinks you offered that kind of help because you wanted to use me to forget about Lois,” you then blurted out.

He was not supposed to hear that, but attempting to write sex scenes in front of him was like getting undressed. You were exposing a piece of yourself that no one has had the chance to see, and under it was a bit of insecurity. 

“That is… shockingly offensive.”

“I know. I’m–”

“You really think I’d—”

“No! It was… the voices.” You wiped the sweat above your lips. Was it hot in here? “The evil voices. You know how they get sometimes.”

 “I do wanna help you, but it feels wrong telling you about my experience with another person.”

Right then, Lois’ voice echoed in your head. Not like it often did; her saying his name in a loving tone or her laughter around him that stabbed you right through your heart.

Now—

Clark, he has feelings for you.

You guys are soulmates.

You’re like his missing rib or something. 

You swallowed thickly. 

Maybe it was true. You agreed that he was your soulmate, but you also believed that a person could have multiple soulmates. And about the rest… the voices now were telling you to just shoot for the moon to find out.

“Fine.” You shut down his laptop loudly. Clark jumped a little. “Let’s do it.”

“Do what?”

“Do… research. With each other’s body.”

God, you couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word.

He licked his lips. His mouth hung open. “Um, are you sure?”

“Oh, for god’s sake—” 

That was it. There was no moon to shoot for, and now you wanted to die from the embarrassment of even thinking about it.

You rose from the couch with the intention to leave and take Krypto with you. The little guy did the same, ready to follow you wherever you decided to go. 

“Okay! Okay!” Clark’s voice grew slightly high-pitched as he mirrored you. He laid a gentle hand on your upper arm to stop you and get you to look at him.

That mere touch turned you into a million tiny hearts. 

“Is just…” His hand lingered. Squeezed lightly. “I’m not prepared.”

Your face wrinkled in question. Was he not prepared emotionally? Did he need to give himself a pep talk to have sex with you or something?

“I don’t have any condoms,” he said, and your cheeks grew hot. 

If hearing him say a simple word flustered you this much, you had no idea how else your body could react by having actual sex with him. 

“Oh, right.” You looked away and held the thought for a moment. Apparently, you had to give yourself a pep talk. To remind yourself that if it happened, it was research, nothing else. “Does it feel too different with and without?” 

“I don’t know. I’ve… never done it without.” His voice turned small. Gosh, he was so responsible. “Do your characters do it with or without?”

“Very irresponsibly without.”

“Yeah, it’s… irresponsible.” He gulped, “But I mean if it can help you to be more accurate, we could—”

He was willing to have unprotected sex with you for your accurate research? How sweet and unfortunate of him to make you want to eat his face like that.

“There could be… catastrophic consequences.” 

He raised a finger. “Babies aren’t catastrophic in any shape or form–”

“Clark—”

“I mean, yeah, of course.” He frowned. ”Maybe, another time?”

“Yeah! Let’s… plan it.”

While Krypto settled on his little bed by the window with a long sigh, you and Clark sat back down on the couch like you were about to agree on a meeting. He pulled out his phone, which was tiny in his hand, and with his thumb gestured at some dates in his calendar. You were staring at it one moment, he said something, but you weren’t registering anything at all. 

You got lost in his lips moving, and the only thing you could think of was—

“Whoa.” Clark’s phone hit the rug with a fwump, all because the voices told you to drag yourself to his lap.

He was so close now. The closest he’s ever been. Not only his face but his body. You adjusted on top of him better and supported yourself with both hands on his hips while doing so. He was wide, and your skirt wasn’t too stretchy. It hiked up to your upper thighs. 

You would’ve thought he was scared of you if it wasn’t for how his dimples slowly bloomed at each side of his cheeks. They always betrayed him.

“What are you doing?” he asked. His eyes darted from your eyes down to your lips and up again. 

Exactly. What the hell were you doing? 

“It’s… gonna be too awkward if we plan it.”

He swallowed thickly, and you felt his muscles relax under you. His thighs spread open, which gave you more confidence to drop more of your weight on him. Who would’ve thought his lap was such a comfortable seat? 

“Okay.” His hands remained on his sides and nowhere near you. “So you want to do it now.”

You withdrew some of your weight. His apparent inhibition was turning you into a ball of nerves.

You braced yourself. “You’re making me sound like I’m begging you to have sex.”

“You’re not!” he reassured you, and settled his hands on your hips, feather-light, yet they started a fire in the pit of your stomach. 

“No, I’m not, this is research,” you agreed in a firm tone, even when on the inside you felt like you were about to burst out of your skin. “It’s… homework. Love for art.”

His hands skated higher up and heavier, and when you tore your face away out of unbearable embarrassment at his lack of words, he made it disappear by cradling the side of your face so you’d look at him again. You did, and his eyes were glued to your mouth. 

Oh, he was so amused by this.

He dragged his thumb over your chin and outlined the edge of your lower lip, and the fire began to spread. He leaned closer, and your breathing hitched, and your mouth went dry. 

“We should kiss, right?” His breathing fanned your lips. “For research?”

You pulled back. What if he kissed you and you vanished into thin air? Or worse, what if you didn’t vanish and were left there with his lips on yours with no idea what to do?

“I know what a kiss feels like.”

“Yeah, but—” he shrugged “—we might as well kiss, too. Sex without kisses is something only soulless people would do. Like… eating without chewing.”  

You didn’t reply, though you smiled. He pulled you in, and your head started spinning. 

It was a gentle peck, which spiked your heart rate. You didn’t think that muscle behind your rib cage could beat any quicker, but it did, and for a moment, you thought you might have a heart attack. But as his lips lingered, and you weren’t losing consciousness, you attempted to respond to his kiss.

Attempted to, and failed. Instead, you laughed. It was more of a harsh exhale at first, but then it vibrated against his lips, and he ended up kissing your teeth as your real laugh bubbled out.

“I’m sorry I-” You laughed some more right there against his mouth. 

His lips curled into a mile-wide smile.

“Don’t laugh.”  

“This is so awkward.” You pulled back. 

He sounded mad, but seemed graciously content. “It’s only awkward because you’re making it awkward by saying it’s awkward.”

“I can’t help it.” 

Then he went for a proper kiss, and your whole body melted. Now you laughed again as a coping mechanism. You felt like you might actually pass out if you didn’t.

“What is your problem?” he asked through a small laugh. “You’re all giggly and jumpy.”

“Can you blame me? This is so awk-”

A determined yet tender kiss shut you up. His lips, full and soft, pressed against yours, and the hand cradling your face dragged to the base of your skull.

You didn’t need anything else to surrender.

These kisses only existed in your daydreams, and they were overwhelming then. Experiencing them in real life was the other side of the coin, though. It brought you an odd sense of comfort, because the feeling you’ve been chasing for what seemed like a lifetime was right here flush against your skin. The feeling of belonging to someone, from your deepest insecurity to the brightest side of you. Your lips and his own made sense together, and it didn’t feel nearly as awkward as you said it was. 

Clark parted his mouth a little, inviting you in, but you stayed where you were, safe with soft, long-lasting pecks. The rest of your body was a level above, and you dared to lay one hand over his broad shoulder while the other found the nape of his neck.

“Will you stop talking now?” He asked between kisses.

All you could do was nod while gulping, and so he continued. Calm kisses that had you grazing the sky already, so high. He angled his face to one side, and the tip of his tongue teased the seam of your lips. You almost made a sound. You wanted his tongue everywhere on you, but you had to admit this was overwhelming. 

“You’re tense,” he murmured, rubbing a palm up and down your lower back soothingly.

“It’ll pass soon.”

A kiss.

“Yeah?”

Another kiss.

“Yeah,” you exhaled, and now you’re the one to kiss him. 

Open-mouthed, that forced said tension right out of you, and your tongue found his own for the first time. It was barely anything, but it was enough to pull a sound from his throat right away. An exquisite dark grunt that activated a throb between your legs. 

That was embarrassingly quick. 

“I think—” you pulled away from him to ground yourself. Were you really about to have sex with him just like that? “—um, when we start, I think I should voice record it since it will be like an interview and-”

He cut you off by kissing you again, just like before—tongue sweeping yours, but four times more confident—and your cunt pulsed some more. It wasn’t just the feel of his tongue now. It was how breathy the kiss gradually turned, and how handsy he was getting. His hands traveled down to your thighs, right below your skirt, and dragged them down to the back of your knees, tugging you closer. 

Clark let go of your lips with a wet sound and moved his mouth to your neck, giving you a quick nip. 

“Okay.” 

It tickled you. You pulled back a bit. 

“Sorry,” he said, and kissed your cheek. “Okay, yeah, you can voice record it.”

Then continued his path of kisses down to your collarbones. He undid the first button of your blouse. 

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, now, buddy.”

“Jesus.” He threw his head back. Now you stole a kiss on his neck. God, he smelled like heaven. It was sweet and masculine, but it wasn’t perfume. Aftershave, perhaps. “I’m gonna be… inside you at some point. You need to get used to me.”

“I am used to you,” you talked back, kissing right below his ear.

“No, mmm—” his hips jerked once “—Not to my kisses.”

He had a point, but you weren’t about to agree with him. You sat upright and wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Why don’t we, uh, ask each other questions first, to break the ice?” You suggested.

He went back to dotting more feather-light kisses on your neck, and said in a low voice that sent tingles all over you:

“The ice has been melting since we talked in that bathroom, don’t you think?” 

He’d never used that tone. Dark in its meaning yet full of sun behind it. You wanted to squeal. 

“What position do you like the most?” You asked him anyway. 

Clark placed more kisses down your neck, throat, and up to your jaw and chin like he was following an already predetermined path. Your hips rocked by instinct once, and he gripped your sides, encouraging you to keep going and hiking your skirt higher in the process, which allowed you to spread your legs more open.

You didn’t move again, because you felt him. Not fully hard, but not soft at all either. So not shockingly big. Your mind hit you with images of how he might look just by feeling him like this—thick, heavy, and your cunt ached as it grew hot and soaked. You rocked your hips again, and you swore your clothed folds wrapped over the head of his cock. 

“Missionary.” He nipped your skin, and you snort-laughed again. 

“It’s so weird hearing you sa—“

He kissed that laugh right off your mouth. “Stop saying it’s weird!” 

You sighed, licking your lips and bumping your noses together before yet another kiss. It was a casual kiss. Was this casual for him? You were dying to know what this meant because on your end, you already knew this was going to ruin you forever. 

“So, missionary.” You dodged him when he leaned for another kiss. He smiled. “What do you like about it?”

“The intimacy.”

He leaned again, and you pulled back again, turning your face to the side. His kiss landed on the corner of your mouth.

“As if sex itself isn’t intimate.” 

“Yeah, but there’s something about looking into each other’s eyes. Breathing each other’s air and kissing the whole time.”

You gulped, and burning jealousy flashed before your eyes. He liked that position because he’d experienced it like that with someone else. Not you. 

Not yet, anyway.

“What is yours?” He then asked, wiping those images away.

You hummed in deep thought, teasingly pressing your hips down. You felt him again, and now you handled the waves of emotions it gave you way better. You liked sex as much as anyone who has experienced good sex, and it’s not that you’ve explored a lot of positions. You were… simple.  

You had no choice but to answer honestly:

“Missionary.” 

The corner of his mouth flickered. “What about it?” 

Slowly, he reached for each zip of your boots, dragged them down in sync, and let them fall off your feet. You wished you hadn’t put on tights.

“I like being smothered.” 

He laughed into another quick kiss and murmured, “You taste like cocoa,” then went back to kiss you again. 

“You gave it to me.”

“I wasn’t complaining.”

The kiss deepened then, like it was already second nature, and your mind turned hazy. You enjoyed the same sex position and you were already getting lost in the idea of having him smothering you, kissing you, breathing each other’s air…

You were so done talking. 

While your lips molded together through a slow-paced kiss, you began to rock your hips instinctively again. This time, you didn’t restrain yourself. You moved, and he liked it. He groaned into your mouth when you pressed down hard and guided your hips with his large hands so you’d rub even more against him. He was growing this hard for you, and his desire for you was coming out of his pores. 

You reached for the first button of his shirt and began to undo it. You felt him smile against your lips in approval, so you continued your way down. You expected to feel the warmth of his skin right away, even though you knew he was loyal to the white tank under it. You broke away from his lips for a moment to glance down at him. His tank was tight and didn’t leave much to your imagination. The swell of his pecks stretched the fabric, and the low neck cut allowed you to peek at a few chest hairs. 

Your whole body stuttered. 

He finished taking his dress shirt off and tossed it aside. His arms were thick, firm. Your hands caressed them with a mind of their own from his broad shoulders down to his biceps, all while he kissed your neck again. You needed to see him fully.

You tugged the hem of his tank and lifted it a bit, then he did you the favor, pulling it up his head and—

Holy—

Your cunt fluttered, and that first warm hint of arousal leaked to your panties. 

“Oh—” you gulped.

Your eyes skimmed over his body. He wasn’t gym ripped, but it absolutely looked like he was capable of lifting buildings. Just like his arms, his pecks were thick with muscle, and even though there were no visible abs, he was toned. Absolutely perfect. You wanted to lick every bit of him, but instead, you traced shy lines over his chest and tummy with your fingertips and down that subtle trail of hair that went from his navel and disappeared right below his belt. 

Clark lifted your face by your chin and leaned for a kiss. His lips felt warmer and more pillowy, and as the kiss grew hotter, his hands reached for your blouse buttons.

“Can I?” He whispered. You replied by continuing the kiss.

One by one, he undid them, and by the end, he let it fall loose at each side of you. He took a moment to admire you. You swore his breathing hitched at the sight. You didn’t think it would be this easy to be this exposed in front of him. You didn’t feel the need to brace yourself or slouch. You wanted to be fully naked for him already. You reached behind you and unclasped your bra.

His mouth parted, like he was about to say something, and his cheeks turned scarlet.

If he looked at you like this with just your bra off, he might make you feel like the prettiest girl in the world while wearing nothing but your skin. You wanted to tell him he could do whatever he wanted with your tits; he looked starved. 

But he, ever the gentleman, only placed a single loving kiss between them and brought you close into a tight, tight hug. The soft flesh of your tits squished against his chest, and you resumed the kiss. With your whole body. Every exposed part of you was touching him, and now your hips moved on their own, rocking over him in slow back and forth motions. 

Each stroke hardened him even more as if it were possible, and the feeling was addicting. You wanted to see how far it could take him. How much of this he could handle until he carried you to his room because this wasn’t enough for him anymore. 

Or not?

“Wait.” Clark put your hips to a harsh stop.

“What?” You pulled back.

Clark breathed out through his nose and perched you more on his upper thigh, then you noticed. His erection was straining against his pants like it was begging to be freed. 

You’d made him like this.

You pressed your lips together to hide a sheepish smile. 

“It’s okay, I just, em—” his voice turned tight. “Krypto— he’s… over there.” He gestured with his brows behind you. “If he’s here, I can’t do… everything I want to do.”

Right, Krypto. You’d forgotten he was here. You glanced at him over your shoulder. He was peacefully sleeping, but yeah, now that you were reminded that he was here, too, it blocked every sinful thought you’ve been having for the past twenty minutes. 

 “We have two options,” you murmured with a soft voice. “We can stay here while I tell Krypto to go to your room, or we can go to your room, very quietly, so he doesn’t wake up, and continue there.”

With a smiley kiss, he made the decision and effortlessly picked you up. You clung to him like a koala while he crossed the room into his bedroom. 

“Wait!” You shout-whispered. “My voice recorder!” 

“I didn’t know you were being serious about it.” Clark stopped halfway.

“Of course I was being serious. I’ll be a little busy to be taking notes. This is much easier. I can go back to your answers whenever I want and—”

He cut you off with a kiss and walked back to the couch to pick up your purse while still carrying you. 

“O-kay,” he whispered, nibbling your bottom lip. 

You had no idea he could be like this. Taking charge while still being so damn gentle. 

So Clark.

He gave Krypto one last glance to make sure he was still asleep, then continued the kiss and the path to his room, kicking the door shut behind him. 

From there, the plot was lost, as if knowing you were completely alone between the walls of his bedroom turned this situation into something secret and sacred. A hungry groan traveled from his throat into your mouth the moment he plopped you both onto his bed and his hands didn’t hesitate to grope you everywhere within his reach. You wanted to think that the way he was acting was no longer about his inborn duty to help but his true desire to make you his own. Because the way he was kissing you, like he might die if he didn’t, didn’t feel like a kiss out of compromise. 

It was… raw, and real, and so damn hot your panties were more than ruined and heavy with your arousal. You needed them off, but you were so lost in this hazy universe you and he were creating with each kiss that the sensory discomfort your panties gave you soon disappeared. 

Yanking you closer by your hips, Clark rubbed his clothed erection against your cunt with persistent rocking motions—over and over. You hoped he could feel how wet you were, and you wanted to tell him how good a job he was doing at relieving the ache he himself had provoked. 

At this point, though, there was no connection between your brain and mouth, and all you managed to give him was a moan, and he groaned back in response and continued rubbing himself against you. You were in heaven here, with him between your legs, and even then, a part of you also wished you could see this as it happened. You wanted to see how his back muscles flexed with every new movement he made over you. Watch him from every perspective, and get to see how his hips moved back and forth while still being somewhat dressed. You wished you could see your legs wrapped around his wide hips and how you met his thrusts just as desperately. 

Clark brought you back to this moment by murmuring something you couldn’t quite register against your lips, but you nodded anyway and let him do whatever he had asked you permission to do. He stopped the kiss for a moment, and you finally had the time to breathe. 

Now you heard it all, and saw it all. 

In the heat of desperation, Clark must’ve taken off his pants. He might as well have taken off his underwear, too, because they clung to him like they were vacuum-sealed. Your cunt fluttered at the sight of his cock, straining slightly curved to one side, and the thick outline of it was so clear you started salivating. 

“Tell me when you’re ready,” he murmured into the everlasting kiss. 

Your tongues swirled together, and you nodded again.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable doing it without a condom?” He asked agitatedly, dragging your tights down your thighs. 

You sucked his bottom lip into your mouth. “It’s a little late to be asking that, Clark, I’m already so wet.”

Jesus, he murmured, reaching between your bodies. He rubbed you over your panties, and a moist sound came from them. His brows pinched together, then he replaced his hand with his still clothed cock, rubbing himself there again. He was burning, and if your cunt ached on the inside, you could imagine the pain he was in when carrying something like that.

You bucked your hips, searching for some friction, all while you urged down the hem of his boxers. He didn’t hesitate to grant your wish and finished dragging it down all the way. 

A musk scent reached your senses when he freed himself. A scent that made your mouth water and your cunt throb; a scent that, despite being new to you, was so distinctively him. Then you finally looked down, and your breathing got caught in your throat. It was just how you’d pictured. Thick and proportional to his body. It hung heavy over your stomach, and the dark hairs of his groin halted the flow of his smooth and pale skin. 

Your breathing shook with anticipation, and you reached for it and stroked him by instinct, pulling the skin back and forth with each movement. He was firm, and your fingers barely met when you wrapped your hand around it. Clark almost crumbled on top of you when you touched him like that and gave you no chance to keep going. Did he not like it?

“Can I see you too?” he murmured. “All of you?”

The only barrier between you and he were your panties. You nodded, and instead of dragging them down, he tore them by the waistband on each side. You gasped at the first unexpected snap and bit your lip at the second one.

“I’ll get you some new ones,” he said into a kiss, and towered over you, allowing his cock to slip between your slippery folds. 

Smooth, and so achingly slow, at the rhythm of his tongue swirling yours. Pleasure started to bloom instantly; you almost came just like that. 

“Please.” You bucked your hips once, searching for more friction. 

“I—” His breathing shook. “I’m not sure how well I’ll be able to help you while I’m… inside you.”

“It’s okay.” You stroked his cheek and he leaned on it while blinking like it really soothed him. “Just try your best. If it doesn’t work–” You kissed him reassuringly. “–I’m sure you can help me once we’re done. You’ll remember what it felt like, right?”

Yeah, he exhaled, and didn’t hesitate to part your wet folds with the cockhead. He dragged it up and down between them, and the blissful feeling built and spread through your nerves. He kissed you back and stroked himself hurriedly at your entrance, smearing your arousal with the tip. 

It sounded wet, and his breathing shook. 

“Of course I’ll remember.” Another kiss, then he lined himself and grunted when you sucked the head right in. “I can be your ghost writer if you need me to.”

Meeting that subtle thrust, you reached for your voice recorder, and the beep blared around as you pressed play. 

You got filled with butterflies as you gasped in sync and locked eyes. He was in, and everything around you turned blurry. You wanted to kiss him much as you wanted to look into his eyes and he gave you both. Kissed you once, worked you open with a subtle thrust then looked into your eyes again. 

You would’ve moaned if you weren’t so aware that this was being recorded. It initially was a good idea, but now that you were overworking your breathing by containing your sounds, you were reconsidering it. He felt too exquisite, stretching you and calming the ever-growing ache with his girth. You knew you could take him fully so you urged another bit of his cock inside you by wiggling your hips toward him, despite feeling so stuffed already.  

As you took more of him, his whole body froze. Only his breathing shook, and his hips froze when your own shifted to allow another inch inside. His head landed on your shoulder, and he hissed between clenched teeth against your neck, rubbing his face there. 

He turned awfully quiet.

“Clark?” You rubbed his back. He replied with a quick nip to your collarbone but didn’t lift his head. He didn’t move his hips either.

You lifted his head from the crook of your neck and looked at him. His lips were parted, his eyes only had a thin ring of blue around his big pupils and drops of sweat gathered above his brows. You brushed your thumbs over them.

He seemed weak, like you were made out of kryptonite all of a sudden.

“Are you okay?” 

He exhaled a shaky breath, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile before he rewarded you with a tender kiss. 

“Yeah,” he murmured. 

You needed to know what was going through his mind. 

“Tell me,” you said. “Tell me exactly how it feels.”

His eyes darted to the voice recording by your head. 

“I— give me a second.” He winced with his lips closed tight and shifted on top of you. You brushed his hair back. “It feels.” He rocked his hips once and stretched you some more. You bit your lip. “Um, I- it feels— you feel warm, almost… burning.” A crease formed between his brows. “So firm a-nd wet. You’re wrapped around my cock perfectly. There’s nothing… untouched.” 

Hearing him talk like that… You needed him to keep going. His voice stimulated your brain and each word traveled directly to every nerve in your cunt. 

He kissed you like he was already done talking, and you whined into his mouth in protest. 

“Clark-” you sucked his bottom lip into your mouth. “Focus.”

“I can’t.” He pressed his forehead against yours. 

“Yes, you can. You wanna help me, right?”

Clark nodded. “Yeah.”

“You can do it.”

He thrusted steadily again—deliberate rocking motions—and you tightened around him. 

“Oh, please, honey, don’t do that.”

Honey.

“Tell me.” You smiled.

“That’s… that’s all I got. It’s… um, comforting.”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Comforting?”

“So good,” he said through a shaky exhale. “I don’t have many words in my brain right now.”

“S’okay.”

 You nibbled his lip, and he was sweet about it. Didn’t fight back. Just let you take his lip between your teeth and drag it into your mouth. You rocked your hips under him, withdrawing half of his cock from you and thrusting forward to squeeze it all right back and then some more until his balls squeezed against your ass. 

He slammed into you hard once in response, and you gasped. 

“Do you think you’ll remember the way it feels?” you asked

“This isn’t something I’ll ever forget.”

He shoved your hips together again, harsher, and a delightful clash of skin against skin echoed around for the first time. 

“So you can tell me later, yeah?”

“I promise you.”

You reached for the recorder to turn it off and finally let yourself go, but he pinned your hand down.

“No, keep it going. I wanna go back to this.” He kissed you, and threaded your fingers together. “To these pretty moans.”

Your whole body relaxed and melted then. Completely gave in to him and this, and as soon as he picked up a rhythm, you couldn’t care less about this being recorded. You turned into a shameless, shuddering, moaning mess under him, meeting his thrusts desperately, and raking your nails across his shoulders and back. You wished you could tell him how much you loved this, but your mouth stayed busy responding to every kiss he initiated. 

It made so much sense that Clark was a kisser, and during sex, his passion for them multiplied ten times like there was a second meaning behind them. Each kiss was paired with a grunt or a moan and you clenched around him as a way of responding to them even when you were full of sounds, too. 

He let go of your mouth with a wet sound for a moment, brushing his lips across your cheek and gritting his teeth together, in pain, almost. 

“Sorry,” you had to say.

“Don’t–” he kissed the corner of your mouth. “Don’t be. You’ll know soon exactly what I’m feeling. But just know, it’s good. So good, it just… I won’t last if you do it often. I’m fighting myself here.”

Oh. 

“You can come.” You fluttered around him, and his brows knitted together. 

“No, it’s not fair.” His arms flexed when he pushed himself up, keeping his perfect rocking motions, like waves that were about to push you to the brim already. 

“This is homework,” you shot back.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.”

You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth and the way he smirked at your reaction embarrassed you. He knew you were enjoying this. You tilted your head to the side to avoid looking at him.

“Hey.” He kissed your chin. “Why won’t you look at me?” 

“It’s awkward.”

Clark laughed softly.

“This stopped being awkward a while ago.” He kissed your shoulder. “Not awkward.”

Propping himself on one elbow by your head, he reached between your legs and massaged soft circles over your clit. At the perfect pace and pressure. It took him eight seconds to build your orgasm, just how you did whenever you were all alone in your room, but he didn’t fully take you there. Just when you were close, he withdrew his hand. 

Why would he–

“Oh,” you moaned. 

He slammed into you hard.

You just needed a little boost; his cock did the rest.

Slipping in and out, over and over, Clark dragged out your orgasm and somehow kept it there, a ticklish sensation that pulsed and expanded and shrank but never disappeared. Harsh slams of his hips that tapped and tapped and tapped your sensitive nub with his wiry hairs and continued building the orgasm until it trespassed the teasing.

Until there was no going back from it. 

“Oh, Clark.” Your vision turned blurry.

Throwing your head back, you let yourself go and lifted your ass off the mattress to meet his slams. 

“There we go.” He leaned to your ear and nibbled your earlobe. “Is that good?”

“I—”

This felt beyond surreal. You wiped a warm stream running down the corner of your eye—sweat or blissful tears, you didn’t know—and looked down to admire your bodies clashing together. And only after a few seconds of chasing your orgasm, it struck you completely.

“Oh, g-gosh—”

You came, so hard, you couldn’t hold back any sound. You turned into a whiny mess as your cunt spasmed repeatedly until it turned overly sensitive. 

There it is, Clark caressed your cheek with the tip of his nose and a curl flopped down, tickling your forehead. He was everywhere on you, as much as you loved having him inside you, you urged his hips back so he’d pull out for at least a moment. 

His cock slipped out with a squelch, and it hung over your lower stomach, wet, flushed, and glistening with your creamy arousal. He tapped your clit with the head of his cock a few times then entered you again. And kissed you again.

“Is it okay if it takes me a while?”

Thrust.

“Weren’t you just complaining about you coming too soon?”

Thrust.

“It’s under control now,” he smirked, and slammed so much harder. Your tits bounced under him. 

“You can control it?”

“I’ll tell you every detail about it.”

Then he shut you up. Not with a kiss like he had already made you used to, but with persistent, ruthless pounding. He turned rough, but never merciless. His thrusts were deliberate, crafted for you at the pace you needed and the force you craved. He never stopped making sure you were okay with this—by scanning your face at all times, kissing your lips and chin and forehead and whispering in your ear how good you felt. 

Even during sex, he was dangerously caring. 

You almost tell him how much you loved this. How much you loved him.  

“Can we change positions?” You panted. 

“I thought this was your favorite,” he teased. 

“It is, mmm, but no guy ever lasted this long. My legs are tired from being open.”

“Can I still see your face?” You nodded. “Where do you want me?”

You licked your lips.

“There’s a scene in my book, where she rides him and he thinks she’s the most perfect creature. I need to know what that position feels like.”

“You wanna ride me?”

You gulped. “For research.”

“Sure, okay.”

Without pulling out, Clark flipped yourselves so you’d be on top of him. You were supposed to ride him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to peel yourself from his solid torso.

“You okay?” Clark touched your face with both hands and brushed the pads of his thumbs across your cheeks.

“Maybe if… You rest your back on the headboard, it’ll be more accurate.”

He didn’t protest and dragged himself higher with you still on top. He even built a wall of pillows for more comfort.

“There?” He shifted back, smiling.

Now he was more sitting than lying, which made it more comfortable for you to move.  

“Perfect.” You ran your hands over his chest. You rocked your hips once, and his smile dropped.

“Oh-” his lips parted. 

His hands rested on the globes of your ass, tender, and his eyes skimmed down to your breasts. Clark gulped like he was thirsty. 

“You can touch them.” You brought one of his hands up to your tit. His cock twitched inside you. You had to admit, this position swelled your chest with confidence. More so when Clark was like this, so starved for you. “Or lick them.”

“Yeah?” 

“As long as you tell me how it feels.”

You moved your hips again, this time in a wide circular motion that dragged your clit across his lower stomach and bent his cock a little. Your walls clammed around his cock.

“I will, I will, but… later.”

“No live reaction here either?” You rocked your hips again. 

He grunted. “I can’t, but I swear, I’ll tell you every little thing I’m feeling.”

You held onto the headboard, propped yourself on your knees and bounced your ass up and down. “Okay.” 

You picked up a tempo, one that made him groan each time, and now he didn’t hesitate to take one of your tits into his mouth. He hummed around it, swirling his tongue over your stiffened nipple. 

“You’re right.” Clark let go of your tit and looked up at you. “He absolutely thinks she’s the most perfect creature.”

Your heart and cunt fluttered equally in love. 

You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth to stop yourself from saying something you shouldn’t and grabbed his jaw, capturing his mouth into a wet kiss. 

And it was like this for a while. His hands explored your body the whole time, and he could’ve tattooed your name on your lips by how many times he’d said it. 

You rocked your hips back and forth while kissing him. And if you weren’t kissing him on the mouth, you were kissing his forehead, brows, cheeks, all while he kept himself busy sucking on your breasts. He liked them. So much, you felt him smile around him more than once. He even bit them, the two times you came just like this.

When you were closer to a third one, Clark held your hips still.

“I can’t finish inside you,” he panted and planted a kiss on your shoulder.

“Yeah, just… pull out.”

He maneuvered you so you’d be tucked against the pillows and propped himself on one hand. He slipped out with a grunt, almost in pain—you missed him already—and you looked down just at the right time. He stroked his cock hurriedly—thicker and heavier than how you’d first seen it—until warm ropes of cum shot and covered your skin. You could almost cry out of pure joy.

Clark Kent, coming all over you. 

What a sight.

“Oh my god,” he grunted through clenched teeth, staring down at the mess he’d made. “I’m sorry, this is—”

You brought him down into a kiss by the nape of his neck, and the soft press of his stomach smudged his cum all over. His hips shifted slightly, and his cock nestled between your folds. 

“This is perfect,” you finished his sentence.

This lasted too damn long, but you needed him inside you all over again.

You didn’t think of this. Of the aftermath. 

Clark was quiet next to you, awake, with his nose nuzzled in your hairline. Your heart was much steadier now, but it was still aware of how near Clark still was. You were scared to move, to breathe, to say the wrong thing.  

“Was I helpful?” He asked right there on your skin after a moment.

You lay a hand on his hip and tapped once. “You might’ve cured my writer's block.”

He laughed softly. Pecked your temple. “Why do you keep it a secret?” 

“Reputation, guess. I like my job. I like being a journalist and if people knew I write about people having sex, they wouldn’t take me seriously. People at the Daily talk.”

“It's not just sex.” He pulled back to look at you. Your heart leaped from you. “Y-your writing, your stories are more than just sex. They’re complex characters and the sex is something that makes them more human.”

Right.

“I know but… I don't know. I guess I also like having a secret identity, don’t you?” You glanced up at him. 

“I guess so.”

He cinched your waist and pulled you into a tight hug. You bit back a sigh. You were dying to know what this meant to him.

Would he have done it if he knew how much it would ruin you?

By the time you woke up, the first rays of sunshine were already eating away some stars.

You weren’t supposed to stay the night, but he said he could answer all the questions you had and even ended up writing scenes together. 

Which wasn’t a good idea. 

Seeing him write sex scenes and help you craft them to make them sound accurate from a male’s point of view sparked that heat inside you. And inside him. 

He was the one to start the kiss, tentative at first, and as you responded to it with a moan, there was no need to say anything else. It was a silent agreement, because you both knew that kissing again was out of script. 

You ended up having sex two more times. Both times without a single word shared because, god, there was no need for words. His eyes and body said it all. The second time was much less giggly. It was breathy, full of sighs and wet kisses and gentle love bites across your skin. 

The third time was lazy and sleepy, and the only thing Clark said was ‘stay like this’ in a murmur, instructing you to stay lying on your side so he’d fuck you from behind. Spooning you, and kissing you all over your neck, jaw, shoulders, and side of your breasts. His rocking motions were slow, and his large hands mapped across your body just as slow as if he wanted to make love to you twice at the same time. 

He finished just like that, over your hip, with a low and exquisite grunt deep in your ear, and reaching between your legs to massage your clit so you’d come, too. You did, and soon, you fell asleep in that exact same position, with your orgasm still rushing through you, his lips somewhere on your neck, and his hands cinching you close to him by your waist.

Now, as your eyes fluttered open, his arm was still draped over your waist. If you moved, there was the chance he might wake up. If you didn’t, he’d wake up anyway at the sound of his alarm and you’d still be here in his arms. 

Either option led you to the same outcome: address what happened, and you weren’t ready to talk about it yet. 

What would you even say? 

Thank you for your help, Clark. 

I am so in love with you, by the way.

I’m glad we did it! 

We’re the bestest of friends now. 

Super good friends. 

You went for the first option. You held your breath and shifted forward, away from him, and froze to make sure he didn’t wake up. Then did the same thing a few times until you managed to slip away from his arms. Your limbs felt heavy, as though you’d just gotten out of a pool. Even your skin was still sticky from the dried sweat, and as much as you loved being covered in his body fluids, you needed a shower. 

Not here, though. 

On your tippy-toes, you stood by the end of the bed, and once you made sure his chest kept heaving in and out at the same peaceful rhythm, you picked up one of his shirts and threw it on because most of your clothes were supposed to be on his living room, but before you walked out of his room to get them, you found your skirt, blouse and tights lying on top of his dresser, folded. He must’ve brought them here when he went to get his laptop to do some writing with you. 

How thoughtful. 

As you finished getting dressed, some puppy-whining came from the other side of the door. Krypto must’ve heard you. You opened the door and sneaked out of the bedroom to meet him.

“Hi, honey,” you whispered. “You hungry?”

Krypto did a spin as a yes, so you poured him some of his food, and as he ate, you wrote a note on a napkin for Clark, because even though you didn’t want to talk yet, you couldn’t just leave like that.

I DIDN’T WANT TO WAKE YOU. YOU LOOKED SO PEACEFUL. THANK YOU AGAIN. I SENT WHAT WE WROTE LAST NIGHT TO MY EMAIL AND DELETED IT FROM YOUR LAPTOP SO THERE’S NO TRACE OF IT. SEE YOU AT WORK. 

You ran through the busy streets, greeted Nino at the entrance, and reached the elevator just as the doors were closing.

“Hold it, please!” You yelled. 

A hand stopped the doors from closing. The same hand had been between your legs last night.

Oh, crap. Clark was also late. 

The doors opened up and as soon as you made eye contact, your arms acted like they were made out of rubber. Your stack of files fell to the floor, and Clark rushed to pick them up at the same time as you. Your fingers brushed together. His soft scent reached you and flashbacks from last night struck you. 

His lips, his body covering you, his mouth on your tits—

“Hey,” he said, giving you your files back.

“Hi,” you replied.

Your legs wobbled. Just like last night.

You cleared your throat and held onto your files tight, the same way he was holding the strap of his briefcase, so tightly his knuckles turned white. 

  You stood at the back of the elevator, glued to the wall, as far from him as you could. You had an insane urge to kiss him. 

“I’m sorry I left without telling you,” you said. “I left a note on your fridge. I hope you—”

He craned his head to one side but didn’t quite look at you. 

“Yep. I read it. Thanks.”

God, he was mad. Was he mad?

“Good, good, that’s… good.” You gulped. “Did um, Krypto do anything after I left?”

“Yeah.” Clark exhaled. “He found my running shoes and chewed one of them. But he’s with Kara now so—”

You were praying for someone to stop the elevator midway just so this never-ending ride wouldn’t be so mortifying. He’d seen you naked last night. He’d kissed every inch of you. He’d made you come three times, and now both of you were acting like nothing had happened. 

Were you supposed to acknowledge what you did? To congratulate him for the amazing job he did? You opened your mouth to say something, anything, then the elevator doors dinged open.

A horde of suited-up chatty men entered, and Clark backed up next to you. Your arms brushed together, and you reached so your knuckles would accidentally touch, too. 

You looked up at him, and he was already looking at you. 

“Can we talk?” He asked quietly. His brows were knitted together.

“Yeah,” you replied. “At lunch?”

“Sure.”

He half-nodded and tore his eyes away.

The elevator reached the twenty-eighth floor, and you both walked out in the same direction. It was oddly empty here. 

Just as Clark asked, “Where’s everybody?” Perry stormed out of his office.

Morning, he said with his cigar between his lips.

“These—” he tossed two stacks of files on your desk and Clark’s “—need to be rewritten. Everyone stupidly decided to call in sick today, so you two are the chosen ones.”

Stupid, he said again under his breath and locked himself in his office.

You and Clark exchanged looks.

If you wanted to leave on time today, you’d have to skip lunch break.

You sighed and got to work.

A few injured soldiers from Jimmy’s party showed up with shades in one hand and electrolyte water in the other during the first two hours, so the office wasn’t just the two of you.  

With him right across from you, all you did was have flashbacks of last night. You didn’t regret it one bit, but not being able to talk about it was eating you alive. 

You would’ve thought he was mad at you because he didn’t even spare you a single glance. But he was Clark, and even if he wasn’t looking at you, he still checked on you. Sending you messages through the computer chat each time Perry came to check your and Clark’s progress, but nothing else. He filled your cup of coffee in silence every time you ran out.

 Then he disappeared for two hours to do who knows what (Superman duty, of course).

By lunch time, he hadn’t made it back, and you weren’t feeling hungry, but went to get a pretzel at the cafeteria anyway and went up to the rooftop to feed the pigeons and wait for him. He had one hour until you had to get back to work.

You paced from one side to the other under the shadow the big golden globe cast, rehearsing how this conversation with Clark would go. Every single outcome made you wish the globe would just roll off and crush you. 

Your lunchtime hour went by, the globe didn’t roll over you, and Clark didn’t show up. 

His stack of editing he should’ve worked on was still untouched, and when you were done with yours, you couldn’t help but grab some of his, too. 

At 5 p.m. o’clock, Perry came out of his office, ready to leave. 

“Where’s Kent?” He stopped by your desk.

“Bathroom,” you replied without looking up. “I think.”

“Tell him he has until tomorrow. You, are done for today. Go home.”

You were dreaming of him when a hand brushing the crown of your head woke you up. 

“Hi,” Clark said in a whisper.

You blinked your eyes open. He was crouched next to you with a soft look on his face. He paused, smiled with his eyes, and caressed your cheek with the back of his curled fingers.

“You didn’t have to finish my work.”

“I know.” You sat upright and glanced at the digital clock on your nightstand. It was about to be midnight. “I thought since—”

“I’m in love with you,” he blurted out, and your breathing caught in your chest. He sat by your side and reached for your hand. Brushed his thumb over your knuckles. This must still be a dream. “I’ve been in love with you for a while and I- should’ve told you the moment I started to feel this way, but I couldn’t then. And I don’t want you to think I offered you my help, just an excuse to make love to you. That’s not who I am, I hope you know that, but I- I was scared if I said something, you might’ve pulled away from me forever. But then last night… gosh, it changed me. I realized how much love I have for you stored in my chest, it almost feels like a brand new feeling I wasn’t ready to expose yet but I am so sure now. It’s still unknown, but it’s beautiful and so bright. I can give it all to you if you let me. If not, I will live with it.”

Every single word he said wrapped around you like a warm blanket.

You threw yourself onto his chest and swung your arms around his neck as tears welled up in your eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He picked you up off the bed and you climbed onto him until your legs were wrapped around him, too. “If it’s not too late I—”

“Not too late,” you whispered.

Then, you laughed softly, just enough for him to notice. 

“Ah, yep, there she is.” He rubbed your upper back and enveloped you even tighter. 

You wanted to look at him, drown in his dimples, and kiss him, but you didn’t want him to see your tears. It’d break him, even if they were happy tears, so you held onto him and he swayed with you from side to side for a long while. Like a slow dance, though there was no song. The only sound between you and him was your heart thumping hard in your chest begging you to let it all out.

“I… finished my first draft,” you said. “Would you read it?”

Clark squeezed you playfully. 

“Of course I’ll read it.”

You pulled back and finally dared to look at him and kiss him. Every feeling you’d been bottling up were finally being set free. 

You pressed your foreheads together.  “Would you stay the night?”

 “Yeah.” He kissed you back and sighed. “I’ll stay the night.”

“… it’s so hot…”

“… I never thought something could be to sad and filthy at the same time…”

“… I just hope they can get their happy ending in the next book…”

You bit back a smile and tried to focus on the article you’d been working on since this morning. 

The girls behind you were talking about your book, that was released two weeks ago and had recently hit the New York Times best sellers.  

You were proud of it, and right after you handed the finished draft to your agent, you started working on a sequel, because your characters weren’t done loving each other, and deserved a happily ever after.

A copy of your book was placed next to your keyboard, and over it, Clark’s so familiar hand. A hand you’ve been holding at walks in the park for a few months now. 

A Post-it note was glued to the cover:

SIGN ME?

You slapped your palm over it before anyone could see it and looked up at him.

“You already have a signed copy,” you whispered.

“It’s not for me. It’s for Ma.”

 Your eyes widened. “Your mother?!”

You stood up and with your eyes, signaled him to follow you. You reached the small storage room by the emergency exit. The room you and he have claimed for yourselves whenever you wanted to kiss.

Some people at the Daily suspected you two, but you didn’t want to make it official just yet. No one had to know. 

“You are not giving your mother this book,” you said as soon as he shut the door behind him. “She can’t read this, Clark, it’s porn!”

“Imagine how I felt when she told me she’d read a book about some Sierra Oz and how she heard she had released another not long ago.”

“Oh my god.” You covered your face with your palms and you peeked at him between your fingers. “She did not.”

“She’s a huge fan,” he laughed.

“I’m so sorry.” You looked up at him. 

“I’d be mortified knowing my mother and her friends read these kinds of books, but knowing it’s yours… I think it makes me proud. She had good taste.”

“Stop it.”

Clark leaned and kissed you, and it soon turned heated. He cornered you against the wall and parted your legs with his knee. 

“Come with me,” he said against your lips.

“Where?” You pulled back and scanned his face. He was planning something. 

“To Smallville.” He kissed your cheek. “I want my parents to meet my girlfriend.”

“They already know me.”

“As my friend.”

You smiled. “They don’t know I’m your girlfriend now?”

“They know I have a girlfriend, but who she is is not something I want to tell them through a phone call.” He kissed you again. “I want to surprise them. They’re gonna be thrilled seeing you walk through their door.”

To think he wanted to bring you as a present to his parents made your heart soar. You adored the Kents, and you couldn’t wait to be part of the family someday.  

“You think so?”

“Know so.” He kissed you once more. “They adore you. So? What do you say?”

“Okay, yeah. But Ma can’t know I’m… Sierra.”

“Of course not.” He bumped your noses together. “I’ll… have to pretend I have no idea who the book dedication is about.” 

HELLO! If you reached the end, look at the book dedication! TEEHEEEE isn’t it so cute? I truly hope you enjoyed it! I loved writing it, and I loved writing Clark. This is my first story for him and very out of my comfort zone exploring new characters but here I am following the muse. I had so many alternative scenes for how I wanted them to fuck <33 but ultimately the one that made it here was my favorite. I didn’t want to extend the wait or else it would’ve turned tooooo angsty and I didn’t want them to suffer lols so I hope how it all unfolded is good!

Anywayyyy

This is a stand alone sorry BUT let me know if you’d like to see some blurbs about some things mentioned throughout the story like the time Clark called reader when Pa had a heart attack or the time they discovered she was a Krypto-whisperer or anything else you’d like to see from them!

I’d love to read your thoughts on it. Through comments or reblogs or asks. They’re are much appreciated.

thank you so much for reading 🫰💋

HERE’S THE PLAYLIST AND MOODBOARD IN CASE YOU MISSED IT IN THE BEGINNING OKAY BYE

[cursedheartsclub]

kinktober day 22

jason todd x reader

Kinktober masterlist

Day 22: Crawling and Gunplay

A/N: this is LONG. 26k words. arkham knight jason, loosely (like so loose) alludes to the game Arkham Knight but i basically made my own plot w borrowed lines and elements. could have been longer bc i would have loved to explore the post reveal but its too long for kinktober lmao. NOT PROOFREAD SORRY I'D PROBABLY BE UP ALL NIGHT

C/W: DARK ROMANCE, gunplay, heavy breeding kink, praise, light degrading, exploring emotional trauma, possessive behavior, stalking, mild blood and injury

The ER is a living thing tonight. 

It breathes through the hiss of oxygen tanks, the sharp beep of monitors, the hurried shuffle of sneakers against linoleum. Every sound is a pulse in its veins, the rattle of gurney wheels, the squeal of latex gloves snapping on, the frantic chatter of residents just trying to keep someone alive long enough to hand them off to someone else. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, alcohol and bleach trying, and failing, to cover the metallic tang of blood that never truly leaves these walls. Gotham rots from the inside out, and sometimes it feels like the hospital is its fever dream: every hour another symptom, another fracture in the body of a city that refuses to heal.

You move through it all with quiet efficiency. Your badge is half-faded from too many disinfectant wipes, your stethoscope a familiar weight against your collarbone. The overhead lights hum, a harsh, cold fluorescence that washes everyone into the same shade of exhaustion. Sweat prickles under your scrubs, but your hands are steady. They have to be. You’ve patched bullet holes in alleyways by flashlight; a chaotic ER doesn’t scare you anymore.

You’re three hours into a twelve-hour shift, though it feels like thirty. You can feel the caffeine buzzing under your tongue, the thin film of fatigue over your eyes. A gunshot victim on one table, an overdose on another. The nurses around you shout vitals, move tubing, press gauze to wounds that shouldn’t exist, not on people this young. You don’t flinch anymore. You can’t afford to.

You adjust the drip on an IV, fingers sure, voice calm. “Pressure’s holding,” you tell the attending. “We’ll keep him stable until they clear surgery.”

The doctor nods and moves on, already chasing the next crisis. You don’t follow. You take a moment, half a breath, to center yourself before the next wave hits. The rhythm of the ER has its own heartbeat, and you’ve learned to sync yours to it.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you catch sight of a familiar face.

A man with the crude remnants of clown paint smeared along his jawline. Purple and green stains cling to the folds of his neck like bruises that never fade. Stitches cross his cheek in uneven lines, the skin still red and swollen where a scalpel kissed too deep. He’s got that particular smell that’s part sweat, part old cigarettes, part cheap cologne trying to disguise rot. Joker’s latest castaway. A low-level goon who tried to fight his way out of custody three nights ago. He shouldn’t even be discharged yet.

When you approach with his chart, his eyes track you like prey. There’s a kind of hunger there that has nothing to do with food. You’ve seen eyes like his before, wild, calculating, the kind that test boundaries to see who’ll break first. You’ve learned not to blink first.

“Need to check your wound,” you say, voice even. Detached. Professional. “If the stitches reopen, you could bleed out.”

He grins, teeth yellowed, lips splitting at the corners. “Then maybe you oughta come a little closer, sweetheart.” His voice drips with mock sweetness, the kind that curdles before it hits the floor.

You keep your mask of professionalism fixed in place. “I’m close enough.”

He doesn’t like that answer. His pupils flare, a muscle ticking in his jaw. His hand shoots out before you can step back, rough fingers clamping around your wrist. The force makes your pulse spike, pain blooming beneath his grip. His skin is hot, grimy, the nails jagged enough to scratch.

“I said closer,” he hisses, dragging you half an inch nearer. “I could use somethin’ for the pain. Something good. Not that watered-down crap.”

The room narrows to the point of contact. His breath reeks of nicotine and infection. You can feel the flex of his tendons under your skin, the ugly rhythm of his heart pounding through the veins in his wrist.

Your first instinct is to break his. Your second is to breathe. Control is not silence, Diana’s voice murmurs in the back of your mind. It’s choice.

You choose not to kill him.

You shift your weight. Subtle. The movement small enough that no one notices, not the doctor shouting orders nearby, not the orderly mopping up blood two beds away. Then you twist. Your fingers slide against his palm, find the nerve cluster between his thumb and forefinger, and press. The sound he makes is half snarl, half yelp. His grip slackens. You wrench your arm free and take a single step back. 

“Touch me again,” you murmur, voice low but sharp, “and I’ll make sure you never use that hand again.”

He stares at you, chest heaving, confusion and anger warring in his expression. He’s trying to decide if you mean it. You do. Something in your eyes must tell him that, because he leans back, muttering curses under his breath, glaring as you turn away.

You walk out before your temper catches up with you. Before the part of you trained for darker fights remembers just how easy it would be to make good on your threat.

No one notices the way your sleeve slips up as you push through the ER doors, revealing a glint of gold and red beneath the cuff of your scrubs, the faint shimmer of a bracelet shaped like a stylized “W.” A relic of another life. A promise you once made to gods and heroes before Gotham swallowed you whole. The metal hums faintly against your pulse, like it remembers too.

You exhale, leaning against the cool tile wall outside the trauma bay. Your reflection in the small observation window looks foreign under the fluorescent glare, hair pulled back, shadows under your eyes, a thin line of sweat at your temple. You look like everyone else in this city: overworked, overtired, one bad day away from breaking.

And yet, there’s something else too. Something sharper. Older. The Amazon steel still in your bones, forged under Diana’s hand. You’ve buried it under scrubs and ID badges, but it never left you.

A code blue echoes down the hall. You push off the wall and keep moving.

–

When your shift finally ends, it’s past midnight. The city outside has gone quiet in that deceptive Gotham way; calm on the surface, chaos brewing just under the streetlights. You clock out, and wash your hands until the water runs clear. The scent of antiseptic clings to your skin no matter how hard you scrub. It’s like the hospital wants to keep you, mark you.

You tug your coat tight around you as you step out the side entrance. The air outside is damp, cold enough to sting your cheeks. Gotham in late autumn always smells like rain and gunpowder. You can see your breath in the flickering streetlight. Somewhere far off, a siren wails and fades.

You flex your hand as you walk, rubbing at the ache in your wrist where the goon grabbed you. The bruise is already forming, a deep, violet bloom beneath the skin. It throbs in time with your heartbeat. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’ve had worse.

Still, you can feel eyes on you, even here in the empty parking lot. That old, familiar instinct whispers that you’re not alone. You scan the shadows between cars, nothing but darkness and the faint buzz of a security light. You force yourself to breathe, to shake it off. Paranoia doesn’t belong in your day job. Not if you want to stay sane.

You glance up once at the roofline of the hospital. The gargoyles look like watchers tonight, stone eyes gleaming under drizzle. The kind of sight that would make most people shiver. You’ve fought beside things far stranger.

Your phone buzzes. Nightwing, probably checking in. 

You cross the street, the soles of your shoes splashing through shallow puddles that mirror the sodium glow of the lamps. The rain has started again, soft and steady. It slicks your hair to your temples, soaks through your coat. 

Behind you, on the edge of the hospital roof, a figure watches through the scope of a thermal lens. The screen glows with your outline, heat pulsing bright where your wrist still burns from that man’s grip. The camera adjusts focus, tracing every step you take. He exhales through the modulator of a pointed helmet, the sound low, almost reverent.

He knows exactly what that bruise will look like in the morning.

The light on the camera blinks once, twice, then goes still.

And somewhere, beneath Gotham’s endless hum, something darker stirs—a promise made in blood and devotion.

-

The first time you met Jason Todd, he was still Robin. Too small for his own armor, too warm for his own heart. You remember the first impression as vividly as the cut of his laugh: this boy in green and red with a fire in his eyes that no Gotham rain could ever put out.

You’d just joined the Justice League’s auxiliary ranks under Diana’s mentorship. They called you Astra: the star that guided through the dark. You’d earned the name after a mission where you lit a beacon over the Aegean, holding back a swarm of Parademons long enough for Diana to strike. She’d told you afterward that your light was born from something rare, not just power, but belief. “Your hope is a blade,” she’d said. “Use it to cut through despair.”

That blade met its match in Jason Todd.

He had a chip on his shoulder even then despite his warm smiles, sharp enough to draw blood. You had something to prove. It was a dangerous combination.

-

Batman brought his wards to the Themysciran satellite outpost for a League training initiative, something about building “cross-unit synergy.” You’d expected quiet drills, a chance to show Diana what you’d learned. What you got was chaos in a domino mask.

He couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Too young to already move like that, like the ground itself bent to his momentum. He sparred with a fury that was almost beautiful: precise, unrelenting, desperate. You saw the shadow of Bruce in him, the discipline, the obsession, but not the detachment. Jason fought to feel. Every punch was a confession.

You were paired against him for a round of mixed combat drills. He sized you up instantly, eyes flicking from your stance to your shoulder rotation, calculating. Then he grinned, a little too wide, a little too sure of himself.

“Try to keep up, princess.”

You’d laughed, startled. “Try not to cry when you lose, boy wonder.”

He lunged first, fast enough to blur. You caught his wrist mid-spin, felt the snap of muscle under your grip. He tried to twist out of it, but you used his momentum, pivoting, sending him flat onto the mat. The impact echoed through the room.

When he looked up at you, there wasn’t anger. There was delight. “You’ve got good reflexes,” he said, breathless. “Almost kept up with me.”

“Almost?” you teased. “You hit like someone with something to prove.”

He grinned through the sweat and the sting. “Maybe I do.”

You never admitted how much you liked that about him. How much you liked him.

After that, he made sure you were always his partner. It became a game between you, every spar another conversation spoken in strikes and counters. He’d press, you’d parry; he’d taunt, you’d laugh; he’d fall, you’d help him up. Each time, the distance between you closed by fractions of inches until it wasn’t just training anymore. It was tension. Recognition.

-

The next phase of your collaboration came in Gotham. You stayed behind after a mission to help Bruce evaluate a metahuman containment array. Jason was there, half-bored, half-fascinated, perched on a worktable as the Batcomputer flickered through schematics.

Diana and Bruce were upstairs, locked in strategic discussion. You and Jason were alone in the hum of machinery, the low flutter of bats echoing through the cavernous dark.

He leaned over a blueprint of Gotham’s old subway tunnels, tracing a path with a gloved finger. “This line runs under the Narrows,” he said. “It’s how the Clown’s guys move weapons without triggering the thermal grid.”

You tilted your head, impressed. “You figured that out yourself?”

He shrugged. “Kinda my thing. Patterns, loopholes, people who think they’re smarter than me.” His smile turned self-deprecating, boyish. “Never lasts long, though.”

You caught the flicker of something fragile beneath the bravado. Loneliness, maybe, or the echo of a kid still trying to be enough for a man who only spoke in mission briefs.

“Jason,” you said softly, “you’re better than you think.”

He looked up. The way his eyes softened in that moment, blue like shattered glass in low light, stayed with you.

He reached for a wrench, pretending to adjust the schematic mount just to have something to do with his hands. “You sound like her,” he said. “Your mentor. Wonder Woman.”

“She believes in people,” you replied. “So do I.”

He laughed once, under his breath. “That’s gonna get you hurt in this city.”

“Maybe,” you said, smiling faintly. “But it’s what makes me me.”

He’d stared at you a long moment then, like trying to memorize your face just in case. You hadn’t realized until years later that he was.

After that, the two of you became inseparable in that unspoken, dangerous way where nothing’s ever declared but everything’s understood. He’d find you after League briefings, offer to walk you to your quarters even though it was two decks away. You’d share midnight rations, trade scars like secrets. You still remember the sound of his laugh echoing through the hangar when you told him about the time you accidentally broke Hal Jordan’s flight ring trying to “borrow” it. He’d said, “Remind me not to piss you off,” but his tone said he already liked living dangerously.

-

The night before he died, the cave was unusually quiet. Rain whispered against the glass of the upper observatory. You were patching a graze on his cheek from a Joker skirmish that had gone too long, your hands steady but your heart not.

He sat on the examination table, legs swinging slightly, mask discarded. The bruises on his knuckles were purple-black, raw. You dabbed antiseptic onto the wound, and he hissed.

“Big bad Robin afraid of a little burn?” you teased.

“Not afraid.” His voice was soft. “Just distracted.”

You looked up. He was watching you, eyes flicking between your mouth and your hand. “You missed a spot,” he murmured, leaning forward, voice low, tender in a way that didn’t belong in the Batcave.

Your breath caught. “Where?”

He smiled, the corner of his mouth curving upward. “Right here.” 

You felt his breath before you felt the warmth of his skin, the brush of his lips hovering just shy of your cheek.

Then the alert went off. JOKER. WAREHOUSE. 

And everything after that was blood and silence.

You’d been too far away. By the time the League signal came through, it was already over. You remember the static in Bruce’s voice when he said we were too late. You remember the way Diana held you back as you screamed. The warehouse burned in the distance, and you swore you could still smell smoke days later.

You mourned him like a limb torn away.

Diana held you when the news came. Bruce didn’t speak for days. Nightwing shut down every time you said Jason’s name. You threw yourself into work with them both, into missions that left you bloodied and breathless, because the pain at least made you feel alive. You counted scars instead of memories. You told yourself it was enough.

You told yourself you were moving on.

But Gotham never lets its ghosts rest.

You didn’t know Jason was alive. You didn’t know that the Lazarus Pit had dragged him back screaming, bones reknitting, mind fracturing, rage calcifying in his chest until the only thing left of the boy you’d known was hunger.

He remembered your face first. Not Bruce. Not the Joker. You.

Somewhere between the fever and the blood, your name had been the only thing that kept him tethered. Astra. His light in the dark. When he clawed his way back to Gotham, that tether became obsession.

While you stitched up victims in the ER, Jason stalked rooftops, tracing the pattern of your nights. He hacked the hospital cameras. He watched you laugh with colleagues, pull your hair into a bun, flex your shoulder where a faint scar from a Penguin heist still marred your skin. He counted the freckles on your back from still frames. Mapped your pulse from the footage of your throat when you leaned down to help a patient. Memorized every habit, every gesture.

He knew you still favored your right side after a knife wound years ago. He noticed you flinched whenever someone mentioned the word warehouse. He knew the exact rhythm of your evening, when you’d leave, when you’d stop by the coffee cart outside the hospital, the alley shortcut you sometimes took to save five minutes.

He told himself it was protection. Watching over you. Guarding what was his. But deep down, he knew it was more than that.

You had become his relic of purity in a city long gone to hell, proof that something beautiful had once seen him, wanted him, maybe even loved him before the world broke him in half.

He watched you through fractured reflections: security screens, glass rooftops, puddles of rain that mirrored your figure as you passed. In another life, he’d have just walked up and tugged you into his arms. In this one, he couldn’t. The boy you’d known was dead, and what replaced him was built for vengeance.

He didn’t want to scare you. He just wanted to be near you again.

But Jason Todd never did know how to love without breaking something. And in his mind, the only way to keep you safe in Gotham was to make sure anyone who touched you bled for it.

To him, you were still his, whether you knew it or not.

-

Your apartment sits on the thirteenth floor of a crumbling brick building near Bristol Square. The kind of place that was grand once, a century-old structure with iron fire escapes and windows that rattle in the wind, but now just holds the echoes of better times. The walls are lined with cracks like spiderwebs, and the elevator hums in protest every time it climbs above the sixth floor. Still, it’s home.

Modest, but safe. You made sure of that.

There are WayneTech-grade motion sensors at every point of entry, cloaked under the guise of a “city security grant.” Reinforced locks on every door, Dick’s handiwork after the last time someone tried breaking in. You’ve got an emergency line to Oracle, a panic button in your bedroom, and three knives hidden in places only you would think to look.

In Gotham, “safe” is a relative term. It means you survive. It means you sleep with one eye open and call it peace.

The hallway smells faintly of old paint and someone’s late-night curry from the apartment two doors down. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing in irregular intervals, a heartbeat with arrhythmia. The city hums outside the cracked window at the end of the hall: sirens, engines, the distant bark of a dog. Gotham never sleeps, it just mutters in its nightmares, restless and alive.

You’re bone-tired when you reach your door. Every muscle feels heavy, your brain fogged with the sterile hum of hospital lights. You can still hear the faint echo of beeping monitors and shouted vitals in your head, a ghost of the ER following you home. You want a shower, maybe a drink, maybe just silence. The kind of silence that lets you forget the taste of blood in the air.

You fish for your keys, thumb brushing the dented keychain you’ve had since your League days, a small metal star, dulled by time. A gift from the boy who made your heart ache.

You’re halfway to the lock when you notice something on the mat. At first, you think it’s just trash, someone’s misplaced wallet, maybe, or an envelope slipped from a neighbor’s grasp. But then you see the smear. Dark, rust-colored, still wet enough to glisten faintly in the dim hall light.

You crouch down slowly. It’s not a wallet. It’s a drivers license. The plastic is warped, the edges melted from heat, like it had been caught in a fire and pulled out just before the flames finished their work. The photo on it is unmistakable.

The Joker goon from earlier tonight. The one who grabbed you.

A chill slides through your chest, slow and deliberate, as if someone poured ice water straight into your veins. This shouldn’t be here. He was discharged hours ago. You saw him walk out.

Your pulse quickens. A muscle jumps in your jaw. The sound of your own breathing grows too loud in your ears.

Then you see a piece of paper, left on the ground next to the license. The ink is dark and uneven, pressed into the page with heavy, deliberate strokes that look more like carved wounds than handwriting. You don’t need to pick it up to read the message. You can already see it clearly in the low yellow light of the hallway bulb.

This is what happens when people touch what’s mine.

Your breath catches. The words blur. For a second, everything in you goes still. The air feels thinner, the walls closer. Your throat works around a name you don’t dare say aloud.

It can’t be him. Jason’s dead. You saw the casket. You stood beside it, felt the weight of dirt hit wood. But your heart doesn’t believe your head.

It beats too fast, too loud, echoing through the narrow corridor like a drum. You swallow hard, scanning the hallway. Every sound becomes suspect, the hum of the light, the drip of a pipe, the soft creak of the radiator from the next apartment over.

You lift your gaze toward the shadowed end of the corridor, expecting, hoping, fearing, to see something. A flicker of movement. The glint of metal. The faint swish of a cape or outline of a domino.

Nothing. Just the empty stretch of hallway, humming faintly beneath the buzzing light. Still, the feeling crawls up your spine, slow and cold, settling between your shoulder blades. The kind of instinct that doesn’t lie. 

You’re being watched. You press your back against your door, hand slipping inside your coat until your fingers close around the collapsible baton holstered discreetly at your side. You flick your thumb against the trigger, and it hums quietly to life, comforting in its low vibration.

“Alright,” you whisper to the air, voice steadier than you feel. “If you’re out there, you’ve got three seconds to make yourself known.”

The silence stretches. The hallway holds its breath. One second. Two. Three. Nothing.

You exhale slowly, eyes scanning every corner again. You’ve trained yourself not to doubt your own senses, but tonight there’s something different. The shadows feel heavier, like they’re listening.

You crouch once more, this time picking up the ID and the note with a piece of tissue from your pocket. Old habit: don’t contaminate evidence, even when it feels personal. The paper crinkles softly in your hand as you fold it into an evidence bag you keep in your coat. You’ve learned to be prepared for the strange. Gotham demands it.

Then you notice the faint scrape marks on the doorframe, new, barely visible unless you know what to look for. A small groove near the lock. Someone’s been here. 

Someone who knew your locks well enough not to trip the alarm.

Your stomach tightens. You push the door open slowly, baton raised. The apartment greets you in familiar dimness, everything exactly where you left it. Couch, lamp, the small stack of medical textbooks on the coffee table, a mug half-full of cold tea. Nothing moved. Nothing broken.

And yet, the air feels… touched. Like someone had been here. Like someone had stood exactly where you’re standing now, breathing in your air, memorizing the space. You feel it in the way the curtains sway ever so slightly, though the windows are shut. You feel it in the faint scent that lingers, not blood, not smoke, something darker. Gunpowder and leather.

Your pulse hammers against your ribs. You turn, catching sight of your reflection in the dark window, the faint gleam of your eyes, the blur of movement behind you that isn’t really there. The city beyond is a wash of fog and neon. Gotham’s skyline stares back like a mouth full of teeth.

Your hand trembles as you flex flex your wrist. The bruise from earlier has darkened, purpling against your skin. The memory of that goon’s grip is still vivid, but now it feels… different. Not just pain. Something else. Something known.

Your fingertips ghost over the mark. The ache runs deeper than it should, echoing with a phantom pressure. You can almost feel his hand there instead, the weight of Jason’s palm, the heat of it, the way he used to hold you steady in combat drills, fingers strong but careful.

You shouldn’t think of him. Not now. Not like this. But memory doesn’t ask permission.

“Jason…” The name leaves your lips like a secret you weren’t supposed to say. The silence swallows it whole.

You close your eyes. You tell yourself you’re alone, that it’s just exhaustion, paranoia, ghosts of the past bleeding into the present.

But deep down, you know better. And in your apartment, as the city hums beyond the glass, a chill runs down your spine that no amount of Amazon training can shake.

Somewhere between love and vengeance, something has found you again.

-

Gotham is a creature tonight, breathing through its alleys, pulsing through the neon veins of its streets. The rain slicks every surface into a mirror, warping the city’s reflection until even the skyline looks like it’s drowning. Red, blue, and amber lights smear together in the downpour, like the city’s bleeding out in color.

You move through it the way you always do, quiet, practiced, unseen. The soft whir of reinforced boots against metal echoes faintly in the night as you scale another fire escape. The wind tastes like iron and ozone, sharp against your tongue. Every sense is sharpened to a knife’s edge; every motion rehearsed and restrained.

The armor is utilitarian, charcoal plates fitted over flexible mesh, the material whispering with each movement. The weight of your collapsible staff hums steady at your thigh, magnet-locked in place. The hood shields most of your face, lenses tinting your eyes silver in the reflection of the city’s pulse below. The suit’s not pretty, but it’s yours. Practical. Efficient. Anonymous.

They call you Echo, a name born out of necessity and loss. A whisper in the comms, a blur in the rain. No face, no past, no weakness.

Except one.

You can feel it clawing at you from the inside, restless beneath your ribs, the note, burned into memory, each word whispering like static. This is what happens when people touch what’s mine.

You’d told yourself it was nothing. A sick joke. Some clown-worshipping lunatic trying to get in your head. But your instincts, those sharp, honed, unrelenting instincts, don’t lie. 

Static crackles in your ear, cutting through the storm. “Echo? You there?”

You tap the receiver with a gloved finger. “Loud and clear.”

“Still on the east side?” Nightwing’s voice comes through warm and casual, a rare kind of lightness that doesn’t belong in this city. “Heard there was an incident at Gotham Memorial earlier. Joker’s leftovers giving you trouble?”

You slow your stride, glancing across the rooftops toward the distant glow of the hospital. The rain beads and rolls down your visor like mercury. “Something like that,” you say finally.

“You good?” he presses.

“Fine.”

There’s a pause, a worb of static before his voice returns, threaded with a smirk you can almost hear. “Fine, or ‘I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it’ fine?”

You sigh. “The second one.”

He chuckles. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

“Occupational hazard,” you mutter. “Keeps people guessing.”

“Or worried,” he counters.

You can’t help the faint smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Focus on your sector, Grayson. I’ll call if I find anything worth your acrobatics.”

“Copy that, partner,” he says, and the line clicks silent, leaving only the soft rush of rain in your ear.

You stand at the edge of the rooftop for a long moment, watching the city below pulse like a living organism. Your breath fogs the inside of your visor as you switch frequencies on your wrist console, listening to the police bands. Static. Then a fragment of something familiar:

“…bodies showing up again in the Narrows… word is the Arkham Knight’s militia’s back…” “…same markings—same word every time…” “…someone’s cleaning house. Joker’s crew mostly. Nobody’s talking…”

You adjust the volume, filtering the noise until the whispers align into something coherent.  You scroll through the frequencies, piecing together the fragments. It’s a pattern, you can feel it settling under your skin like static. Patterns were never your thing, but this one, you could pick up on, as though the same hand were orchestrating every strike, every body left behind.

You lean your forearm against the ledge, the cold concrete biting through your glove as you stare down into the veins of the city, mind made up on the lead you’ll follow tonight. The rain slicks your suit, beads catching the faint glimmer of distant light before rolling down and disappearing into the dark.

You shift your stance, tapping a command on your wrist display. The visor magnifies the skyline in segments, marking heat signatures, identifying civilians. No anomalies. No signs of militia movement. Just shadows. And yet… The hairs on the back of your neck rise. A familiar pressure curls through your chest, instinct, memory, warning. The kind of feeling you learned not to ignore after years beside the Bat.

You reach up, lowering your hood slightly as you scan the rooftops across the street. Nothing moves, but the dark feels aware. You can almost imagine him there, perched in silence, waiting. Watching.

You blink the thought away, exhaling through your nose. “Get it together,” you mutter to yourself, voice muffled inside the mask. “He’s dead.”

But the rain doesn’t agree.  It keeps whispering against your armor, soft and relentless, like a heartbeat trying to answer.

Somewhere above, across the square, a rifle scope glints once, catching the faint reflection of your movement before disappearing into shadow.

And though you don’t know it yet, the ghost you’re trying to forget is already watching, breathing your name like a prayer, tracing the path of every raindrop that dares to touch you.

-

The city hums beneath him like a live wire. Rain taps against the curve of his helmet, soft but insistent, each drop echoing through the comm array like a heartbeat he can’t turn off. The wind is sharp and unkind, slicing through the gaps in his armor and needling cold against the damp of his undersuit. It smells like wet metal, gun oil, and rot: the perfume of home.

Jason crouches on the lip of an abandoned hotel sign, the letters long since burned out, leaving only the faint, ghostly outline of VACANCY flickering in the rain. Below, Gotham stretches and breathes, alive in the way corpses sometimes twitch. He’s been up here for hours, watching, waiting, not because he doesn’t know where you’ll be, but because he always knows.

You’re predictable in that way.

Through the scope, he finds you instantly, moving along the rooftop opposite, a figure of shadows and starlight. The city spills its neon over you, painting your armor in molten hues. You move like muscle and memory, all precision and restraint, like you were born of battle. Grace sharpened into violence.

He adjusts the rifle’s balance against his knee, breath held steady, crosshairs following the lines of your body, not in target, but in reverence. He tracks every curve, every subtle recalibration of your stance, the way your fingers flex briefly around the staff holstered at your thigh. Even from this distance, he can tell when your breathing changes. He can tell when you’re thinking too hard.

The rain halos you, coating your armor in silver sheen. It softens your edges, makes you glow like the myth you used to be. It hurts to look at you sometimes. It hurts worse not to.

“Still too soft,” he murmurs, voice filtered through the modulator, a low mechanical rasp. “Still trying to save a city that doesn’t deserve you.”

The sound is swallowed by the wind, but he keeps talking anyway, half to the night, half to the ghost of you that’s lived in his head since the day he died. He tells himself it’s for discipline, to keep the mind sharp, to stay focused, but the truth is simpler: the silence drives him mad.

He adjusts the focus on the scope, breath ghosting against the inside of his helmet. And then he sees it, your wrist, exposed just enough as you shift your grip, the skin marked dark and defiant. The bruise. The one that started his fucking unraveling.

His stomach tightens. Rage flickers alive, molten and immediate, a flare that burns hotter than the rain can cool. He can see it all in his mind’s eye: the man’s hand on you, the pressure, the threat. The thought of it makes something inside him snarl.

The scope trembles in his grip, just for a second. He remembers the sound the man made when the blade went in. He remembers the moment the life left his eyes. The body hadn’t been art, Jason isn’t that poetic, but it had been deliberate. Precise. Meant to send a message.

The gun steadies again. His finger curls around the trigger guard, not pulling, just holding. He needs the tension, the grounding. Something to focus on that isn’t the ache behind his ribs.

“I told you,” he whispers, and this time the modulator glitches, the voice coming through human, ragged. “No one touches what’s mine.”

The words hang there, heavy as rain. Jason’s always been good at surviving what should’ve killed him. He’s less good at surviving what didn’t. He exhales, slow, trying to breathe the ghosts out of his chest. But they linger, as they always do. The memories come in fragments, sharp and too clear:

Your laugh in the Batcave, echoing off stone and metal. The scent of antiseptic when you’d patched him up, your hands steady, voice teasing. The faint shimmer of your hair when it caught the glow of the monitors. The scar along your ribs, a thin, silver reminder of the night he saved you from Penguin’s men, both of you bleeding and laughing in the aftermath like idiots.

He remembers the heat of your skin when he pressed his palm there, the way your pulse thrummed against his hand. He’d sworn to himself it meant something, that it was proof he wasn’t just another soldier in Bruce’s crusade. That maybe, for once, he’d been allowed to care for something real.

Then came the warehouse. The crowbar. The explosion. And when he woke again, the world had changed. You were gone from his reach, tucked safely under the wing of the Bat and his golden boy, while Jason became the ghost story parents told their vigilante brats to behave. The failure. The lost one. The cautionary tale.

He’d spent months after clawing his way back to sanity, if this even counted as sanity, watching you from afar. He told himself it was to keep you safe, to make sure you didn’t fall to the same fate he did. But that wasn’t the truth. It never had been.

He watched because he couldn’t stop. He watched you fall asleep at your desk, head bowed over medical reports, the city’s light spilling through the blinds. He watched you suit up at dawn, still half-asleep but unrelenting. He watched you laugh once when Nightwing said something stupid through comms, and it had twisted something sharp and ugly in his chest.

He’d memorized every piece of you in pixels and camera feed static. Every scar. Every freckle. Every mark he’d once traced in a world that no longer existed.

Now, seeing you through a scope again, flesh and blood and breathing, makes something primal crawl to the surface. It’s not lust, at least not on its own. It’s closer to devotion. The kind of devotion that borders on ruin.

He shifts his weight, resting the rifle aside. His knees creak under the armor. The city below crackles with thunder, and for a moment, the lightning catches on the curve of his helmet, flashing his reflection in the wet metal beneath him. A faceless god of wrath, born of failure and fire.

He lifts his helmet just enough to breathe the night air unfiltered. It tastes like rain and rust and you.

The rage subsides, leaving in its wake something softer and infinitely worse. Guilt.

You’d never forgive him for what he’s done. He knows that. The line between vengeance and obsession blurred long ago, and he crossed it without hesitation. But he can’t stop, not now, not when the thought of someone else’s hands on you makes the world go red.

He mutters under his breath, voice barely audible, the words caught between plea and promise. “You don’t get it, princess. You don’t know what this place does to people. What it did to me. You still believe in saving it… and I can’t watch it chew you up too.”

He runs a hand over his jaw, fingertips brushing the raised edges of the scar branded into his flesh. The ‘J’ burns cold even now, a phantom pain under the skin. Joker’s mark. The reminder of everything stolen: his youth, his purpose, his mercy.

And somehow, all he wants is to be seen by you again, just once.

He grips the edge of the sign until the metal groans under his gloves. The storm howls around him, wind tearing at the tattered banner still clinging to the side of the building. He’s used to the noise. It’s the silence afterward that kills him.

The scope lies abandoned beside him, droplets beading across the lens. He doesn’t need it anymore. He can see you perfectly from here. He can almost imagine your expression under the mask: that faint frown of focus, the way your lips purse when you’re listening to something through comms.

He wonders what you’d say if he spoke into your ear now, his voice filtered through static. Would you know him? Would you freeze like you used to when he called you princess in that low, teasing drawl? Or would you tell him to stop haunting you?

He smiles faintly at the thought, soft, sad, cracked around the edges. “You’d probably punch me first.”

Lightning splits the sky again, and for an instant, you glance upward, scanning the rooftops. Your visor catches the flash, and the reflection burns like a flare in his chest. 

Jason lowers his head, breathing hard, as if the sight alone costs him something. He remembers the way you used to look at him, not like Bruce’s soldier, not like a weapon, but like a boy who could be more. You’d been his tether once. His anchor. The only part of his life that hadn’t felt like punishment.

And he’d lost you the same night he lost himself.

His voice, when it comes again, is quiet, barely audible over the rain. “I’m still here, you know,” he says, as if the night might carry the words across the gap between you. “Still watching. Still keeping score.”

He reaches down, fingers brushing the rifle, but doesn’t pick it up. He doesn’t need to. The decision’s already made.

Soon. Soon he’ll stop watching from rooftops and shadows. Soon he’ll make you see what this city did to him, and what he’s become because of it.

He pulls the helmet back down, the hiss of the seal locking in place punctuating the thought. The world narrows again to HUD data and rain-streaked glass.

“Soon,” he murmurs, modulated voice echoing against the storm, equal parts promise and threat.

And below, you move across the rooftops, unaware that every heartbeat you take is matched by another, steady, relentless, and aimed directly at you.

-

The city swallows sound in Crime Alley.  The rain stops before it reaches this part of Gotham, like even the sky knows better than to touch it. The air is thick and stale, a cocktail of iron, rot, and burnt gunpowder that sticks to your tongue. Every breath tastes like the past.

You land in a crouch behind an abandoned bodega, the impact sending a ripple through the puddle at your feet. The streetlights behind you don’t reach this far down; the alley’s lit only by the dull pulse of a malfunctioning neon sign, flickering between OPEN and O EN, its last letter dead.

Your boots splash through shallow water as you move deeper in. The silence here is wrong, too complete. No rats, no wind. Just the buzz of the dying sign and your own pulse thudding in your ears.

Then the smell hits you. Copper. Burnt cordite. Something sour underneath, like spoiled meat left too long in the heat. It’s familiar in a way you wish it wasn’t. You’ve walked into enough murder scenes to recognize that particular perfume: blood, hot metal, and ego.

Your stomach tightens. You already know what you’re going to find before you see it. The body lies crumpled beside a dumpster, half in shadow. You don’t have to turn him over to know who he is. The shape of his jaw, the torn edge of his sleeve, he’s the same man who grabbed your wrist in the ER. The one who laughed when you threatened him.

Not laughing now.

You kneel beside him, your knees pressing into cold, wet concrete. His eyes are open, unseeing, clouded by the milky haze of death. The skin around his mouth is stretched into a grotesque grin, lips cracked, teeth bared in something that might’ve once been terror. The smile looks carved, forced.

And then there’s his chest. The word MINE gouged into flesh, deep, deliberate, clean. The cuts don’t bleed much now, but they’re fresh enough that the rain hasn’t washed the blood away. The letters are so precise they look surgical. Not rage. Not chaos. Control.

You swallow hard, bile rising. The back of your throat burns. This isn’t random. This isn’t Joker’s style, no theatrics, no message for the city. This was personal. A warning. A claim.

“Damn it,” you breathe, activating the wrist cam on your gauntlet. The lens hums softly, its light a faint blue shimmer in the dark. “Nightwing, I found our missing patient. He’s…”

A sound cuts through your words. Not loud. Just the faintest whisper of displaced air. Like a bird cutting through fog.

You pivot, staff drawn, instincts flaring. The world narrows to movement and shadow, then impact. A figure drops from the fire escape above, hitting the ground hard enough to crack the concrete. Water splashes outward in a sharp ring around him. For a moment, you see only silhouette: tall, broad-shouldered, framed by the weak halo of the alley’s light. Then he steps forward, and the shadows fall away.

The armor gleams even through the grime, blue-gray plating streaked with rain, its surface alive with faint pulses of light. His helmet bears a stylized “A,” glowing faintly like the eye of some mechanical god. Every step hums with power, the faint servo whine of tech that doesn’t belong to this decade.

The Arkham Knight.

He draws his pistol in one fluid motion. You barely have time to move. The first shot screams past your ear, sparking off brick. The second grazes your shoulder plate, searing heat through armor and skin. You roll, come up low, staff swinging out in a clean arc that catches his wrist. Metal clashes, the sound sharp enough to wake the dead.

He doesn’t falter. He twists, using the weight of his armor to pull you forward, the momentum slamming you hard into the nearest wall. The impact sends pain ricocheting through your ribs. Your breath leaves you in a rush, fogging the inside of your mask.

The Knight moves with terrifying precision, fluid yet brutal, like someone who knows exactly where you’ll be before you do. His strength is unnatural, almost mechanical. Every blow you block feels like it rattles your bones.

You manage to land a strike, your staff cracking across his helmet. The impact reverberates through your arms, but he barely flinches. The faintest tilt of his head, mocking. Testing you.

“Who sent you?” you snap, circling, trying to keep him in your line of sight. “Falcone? Scarecrow?”

The modulated voice that answers is low and distorted, threaded with dark amusement. “You really don’t recognize me, princess?”

You freeze. The word cuts through you like a blade, slicing past logic and landing somewhere far older, far softer. Princess. The name he used to use in training, in teasing, in that half-smirk way that always made Diana roll her eyes.

It can’t be.

He moves before you can think. A twist, a shove, and you’re disarmed, the staff clattering across the pavement, echoing like gunfire in the quiet alley. You reach for your sidearm, but he’s faster. Gloved fingers wrap around your throat, not crushing, but firm, in control. The cold press of armor pins you to the wall. You feel the rain sliding down your neck, your pulse hammering beneath his hand.

“You’ve gotten stronger,” he says, voice lowering, modulator still in place. “But you still hesitate.”

“Take off the helmet,” you rasp, struggling against the pressure. “Now.”

He tilts his head. Then a faint hiss as the armor plates at his jaw release their seal. The helmet lifts, slowly, deliberately, and then it’s him.

Jason. Older. Rougher. The boy you buried now forged into something harder, sharper. His hair is shorter, darker, broken in the front with a pure white streak. His face is scarred, pale under the faint blue glow of the visor lights. And the mark, the burned, puckered “J” carved into his jaw like a brand, stares back at you, ugly and holy.

And his eyes… they’re green. 

You forget how to breathe.

“Jason…” It comes out broken. “You’re…alive?”

He smirks, but it’s hollow. “Surprise.”

You can’t move. For a moment, it’s like the whole city goes silent. No rain. No hum of neon. Just his breathing, heavy and human, mixing with yours. He studies you like he’s trying to decide if you’re real. Then his gaze drops, your weapon, your stance, your trembling hands. He notices movement, every twitch of muscle. Just like he always did.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, as you start to reach out. “Not unless you mean it.”

You swallow hard. “How?” The word barely escapes. “Bruce…he buried you. We buried you.”

Jason laughs, the sound sharp, bitter, cracking at the edges. “Yeah. About that. Joker had other plans. And the pit had other side effects.” His expression softens, just slightly. “Guess I’m hard to kill.”

You can’t find words. The grief you buried, the guilt you learned to live with, it all claws its way back to the surface, raw and pulsing. You’d mourned him like a limb. Now he stands inches away, alive, angry, and unrecognizable.

“I watched you,” he says suddenly, voice soft but dangerous. “All these years. You think I didn’t see what Gotham did to you? Every scar, every night you came home bleeding because you still think this cursed city can be saved.”

He takes a step closer. Then another. The rain traces rivers down his armor, catching on the ridges of the plating. You can smell oil and something faintly familiar beneath it, leather and gunpowder and him.

You retreat until your back brushes the wall. His shadow swallows yours. He raises one gloved hand and brushes his knuckles against your wrist. His touch is light, almost tender, but it makes your heart slam against your ribs.

“I know them all,” he murmurs. “Every scar. The one on your ribs from Penguin’s blade. The one on your thigh, from a Narrows explosion a year ago. The way you hold your breath before you swing.” His eyes, fever-bright, lift to yours. “I know you better than you know yourself.”

Your voice shakes. “That’s not knowing, Jason. That’s stalking.”

He smiles faintly, eyes glinting. “Semantics.”

You shove him hard, but he doesn’t move. The armor barely shifts. “You killed that man,” you hiss. “You left him like that.”

“He hurt you.”

“He was a patient.”

“He grabbed you,” Jason growls, the words guttural. “He deserved worse.”

“That’s not your call!”

He leans in, nose almost brushing yours. “You’re mine… so yeah, it is my call.”

The air between you crackles, heavy and hot, a storm caught in a bottle. You can feel the thrum of his pulse through the space between you, the hum of tech in his suit syncing with the rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You think this is justice?” you ask, voice trembling. “Torturing people until you feel better?”

Jason’s gaze softens in a way that makes it worse. “No, princess.” He lifts a hand, brushes his thumb along your cheekbone. It’s a ghost of a touch, tender in a way that shouldn’t still exist inside him. “Justice is what I used to want. You’re what I came back for.”

The words hit harder than the fight. You flinch, not from fear, but from realization. The boy you knew still flickers behind his eyes, buried under fury and grief, but alive.

He catches your wrist again, this time gently, thumb tracing your pulse. “I’d move hell and high water for you,” he says quietly. “Slit throats, burn cities, anything to keep you safe.” His mouth twists, a half-smile without joy. “You think Grayson would do that? Bruce? They’ll always put the city first. I put you.”

“You don’t get to decide what I need.”

He smirks, a dangerous, tired sort of smile. “Don’t I? You’re here, aren’t you? Out in the dark, chasing ghosts. You miss it, miss me.”

“I miss who you were.”

“I’m still him,” he says softly. “Just… less naïve.”

You shake your head. “No. You’re something else.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, stepping closer again. “But you still look at me the same way.”

You want to tell him he’s wrong, but you can’t. You can feel your own betrayal in every shaky breath. The rain runs down his jaw, slipping over the brand on his skin. His hand rises, fingers brushing the base of your throat. The touch is electric.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Fighting like that.”

Your voice cracks. “Don’t, don’t talk to me like…”

“Like what?” His grin sharpens. “Like I used to? Back when you still liked it?”

“Like you own me.”

“Maybe I do.”

You swing at him, anger and grief and longing all tangled together. He catches your fist midair, turns it easily, and pulls you forward. The motion sends you crashing into him, chest to chest. His hand slides up to the back of your neck, firm but not cruel, anchoring you there.

“You always hesitated,” he whispers. “And I forgot how.”

The kiss detonates. You taste rain, gunmetal, and old ghosts. His mouth is rough and desperate, a collision of memory and need. He kisses like he fights: unrelenting, precise, furious with himself. There’s apology buried somewhere in the way his lips move against yours, a thousand things he’ll never say pressed into every motion. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

Your back hits the wall, hard enough to rattle the bricks, but you don’t push him away. His hands are everywhere, one braced beside your head, the other sliding down to your hip, then lower, gripping your ass, anchoring you to him as if letting go would kill him. The warmth of his touch burns through your suit, through skin, through the years of silence between you.

He tastes like smoke and rain, like something that shouldn’t exist anymore, hope, grief, home. You hate yourself for answering, for parting your lips, for meeting him with the same hunger that has haunted your dreams for years. But you do. Because it’s easier than breathing. Easier than saying goodbye a second time.

Your hands find his chest, not to shove him away but to steady yourself. The armor under your palms vibrates faintly, the hum of the tech like a second heartbeat. His own heart pounds beneath it, a rhythm you recognize even now. You remember it from another life, slower, steadier, when he’d fall asleep beside you in the Cave after training, too exhausted to take off his gloves.

When you finally break apart, both of you are trembling. The air between you crackles, charged, fragile. The rain slides down your faces, tracing old scars and new ones, blurring the line between tears and water. Jason’s forehead rests against yours. “Still think I’m dead?” he asks, breathless.

“No, but…” you whisper, voice barely audible, “I wish you were.”

He laughs quietly, the sound broken but sincere. “That’s my girl.”

Then, as suddenly as he came, he steps back. The helmet slides into place with a hiss, emotion locking behind glass and armor. He looks at you for a long moment, one heartbeat becomes two, then the corner of his mouth lifts into that familiar, infuriating smirk.

“Not here,” he says, voice modulated once again, detached and cold. “Crawl to me when you’re ready.”

“Jason!”

But he’s already moving. The grapnel fires with a metallic snap, line hissing through the rain. In an instant, he’s gone, swallowed by the mist rising over the rooftops. You’re left in the alley, the corpse cooling at your feet, the rain falling again at last. It mingles with the blood, turning the letters on his chest into a crimson blur.

You drag in a breath that tastes like rust. Somewhere above, thunder rolls, low and distant, echoing through the concrete canyons. And for the first time in years, you can’t tell whether you’re chasing Jason Todd or running from him. 

You force your breathing to steady. You’ve survived worse ambushes. You know how to lock trauma into a box, label it, shelve it. But this doesn’t fit anywhere. This is Jason for fuck’s sake. Alive, furious, and touching you like you were both still young and not already ghosts.

Your comm crackles. “Echo? You still on channel?” Nightwing’s voice, warm and too human, slices through the fog.

You thumb the transmitter, swallowing the shake in your throat. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Report went dead for a minute. Everything okay?”

You look down at the body, at the slashed chest and the water pooling black around it. “Not exactly.”

“What happened?”

You hesitate. If you tell him the truth you’ll have to hear the pity in his voice, the quiet calculation of how to contain the problem. You’re not ready for that. “Found the victim,” you say finally. “DOA. Not anyone high profile’s work. Markings are… deliberate.”

“Deliberate how?”

You stare at the body. “Personal.”

“Copy. Send location, I’ll get Gordon’s people on cleanup.”

“Negative.” The word comes out sharper than you intend. You lower your voice. “Not yet. Let me finish the sweep first.”

Another silence, heavier this time. Then he sighs. “Alright, Echo. But if you’re in over your head, you call me. No hero moves tonight.”

“Understood.”

You cut the line before he can ask anything else. The last thing you want is comfort.

Rain starts again, heavier now, washing over the scene. You pick up your staff, retract it, slide it home at your hip. When you look up, the rooftops are empty, no trace of Jason. Only the ghost of his touch on your skin.

-

You make it back to your apartment without remembering the route. The city moves around you in smears of color, headlights bleeding into the wet pavement, the smell of rain and exhaust wrapping tight around your ribs. Everything feels muffled, like you’re underwater.

You strip the suit piece by piece, the armor falling to the floor like dropped shells. The sound is small, metallic, like bones. By the time you reach the bathroom, you’re shaking. You lean against the sink, water running, steam curling like ghosts up the glass. The bruise on your wrist is darker now, shadowed by a fresh constellation of marks at your throat. His fingers. You press your fingertips there and feel the heat still lingering, like an ember smoldering under skin. 

You splash cold water over your face, again and again, until your skin stings. You can’t get the scent of him off you. When you close your eyes, you see flashes: the cut of his jaw under the alley light, the burn of the brand at his cheek, the way his mouth looked when he said princess. You’d thought you buried the part of yourself that could ache like this.

You were wrong.

You stumble back into the living room, half-dressed, half-hollow. The city hums beyond the windows, sirens rising and falling like the ocean. You collapse onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling, your heartbeat too loud in the silence.

You should call Bruce. File a report. That’s what the oath demands, the one you took when you became Echo. The same oath, in different words, you made at Gotham Memorial: to protect, to save, to preserve life no matter whose. You told yourself that meant all lives, even the broken ones.

But tonight, you didn’t save anyone. You found a dead man and the worst part is you understand why. Because when Jason’s hand touched your wrist, when he said he hurt you, something inside you didn’t disagree. It should have. It didn’t.

You curl your fingers into your palms until your nails bite skin. You want to feel something sharp and real, something that hurts for the right reasons.

The city outside is alive and sleepless. You can hear the muffled bass of a car passing below, the hum of transformers, the whisper of tires through rain. The world keeps moving. You’re the one stuck in place.

You try to steady your breathing, to fall back on the discipline that’s always saved you. Inhale: stabilize. Exhale: release. But all you can feel is the way he looked at you, like the years hadn’t happened, like you were still that girl with scraped knuckles and stubborn hope.

And still, a traitorous part of you aches for him. You remember the feel of his mouth, the shock of heat, the metallic taste of rain and blood. You remember how, for one suspended heartbeat, everything you believed in, every oath, every rule, fell away. There was only him. Only the gravity of what you’d lost and what had come back wrong.

You’d promised to heal, not destroy. You’d promised to save lives, not crave the man who takes them. And yet the thought of him watching you, knowing every scar, every routine, sparks something in your chest you can’t name. It’s not quite safety, not quite comfort. It’s recognition. The kind you only find in someone who’s seen you break.

You stand and wander to the window, pulling the blanket around your shoulders. Gotham stretches out below, all gray haze and amber light. The rain beads on the glass, then rolls down in thin streaks that catch the glow from the streetlamps. From up here, the city almost looks beautiful. Forgivable.

At 3 a.m., your comm beeps once. A sound so ordinary you almost don’t move. You wipe condensation from the window and glance down at your wrist display. The encryption signature is familiar: Bat-tech. You expect Nightwing, maybe a follow-up, maybe comfort disguised as protocol.

Instead, it’s one line of text.

DON’T LOOK FOR ME. I’LL FIND YOU.

No signature.

You stare until the words blur, until they stop being letters and become the shape of a heartbeat.  

He’s out there. Watching. Again. You look out into the dark skyline, half-expecting to see a flash of movement, a faint gleam of a helmet among the shadows. Nothing. Just the city breathing, endless and indifferent. But you know better. If he says he’ll find you, he already has.

You press your hand to the glass, fingers spread. Your pulse beats beneath your skin, visible even in the reflection, like a warning, or a countdown.

You tell yourself you should be terrified. And part of you is. But beneath the fear, beneath the tremor of adrenaline still coiled in your body, something else stirs, slow, molten, and alive. The part of you that still remembers how it felt to matter to him. To be the only light he ever called his.

For years you’ve been trying to save Gotham. Trying to save everyone. And somewhere along the way, you forgot what it felt like to be seen. Jason remembers. Jason sees.

And that might be the most dangerous truth of all.

-

By morning, the rain has turned to mist. It creeps through the cracked window and settles on your skin, cool against the heat that hasn’t left your throat. You don’t remember sleeping. 

You shower until the water runs cold. Steam curls around you, carrying the scent of antiseptic soap that can’t drown the ghost of gun oil. When you scrub harder, your skin protests, raw, pink, human. You stare at your reflection through the fogged glass. The marks at your throat have already begun to bloom yellow around the edges, faint echoes of where he’d touched you. The bruise on your wrist looks older than it should, like it’s been there for years.

He’s alive. Jason’s alive, and he’s killing in your name.

You keep replaying his words, the sound of your name in his mouth, the press of his lips against yours. The part of you trained to save lives recoils, screaming that he’s gone too far, that you should stop him before he drags you down with him.

But another part, the one that remembers the boy who smiled through split lips and bloody knuckles, whispers that maybe this is what Gotham does. It takes good people, twists them into something sharp, and calls it survival.

And deep down, you can’t shake the fear that maybe he isn’t the only one who’s changed.

You tell yourself to compartmentalize. That’s what you’re good at. At the hospital, you can hold a dying man’s hand, smile for his family, then walk into the next room and do it again. On the streets, you can disarm a gunman without flinching. You can take a life if you have to. You can save one, too.

But you can’t save Jason. And you can’t forgive yourself for not wanting to.

- 

By nightfall the next day, Gotham feels like a wound trying to close over something still bleeding. The air is thick with storm residue, heavy and metallic, as if the rain earlier had washed up the city’s sins and left them steaming in the gutters. Every light looks tired. Every window looks like an eye refusing to blink.

You’d told yourself you’d stay grounded tonight. That you’d work your shift at Gotham Memorial, chart vitals and change bandages, cling to the one place in this city where saving people still means something. But when the alert hit your comm, militia sighting near the Narrows Bridge, you were already pulling on the suit.

Duty. Instinct. Guilt. They’re all the same thing when you move fast enough.

The armor feels heavier tonight. The visor hums faintly as it syncs with your pulse, irregular, too quick. You adjust it, focus on the mission, not on the phantom warmth of his touch lingering like smoke along your skin.

Nightwing’s waiting on the roof of a half-collapsed high-rise overlooking the river. The stormlight glances off his armor, turning the blue stripe across his chest into a muted pulse of color in the haze. His hair’s plastered damp against his forehead. He looks tired in that way only people raised by Bruce ever do.

“You’re early,” he says, tone low but soft.

“So are you,” you answer, stepping beside him.

He gives a half-shrug. “Intel says the militia’s setting up something big along the docks. Possible artillery. Could be a smuggling op. Could be a trap.”

“It’s always a trap,” you murmur, scanning the skyline.

He smirks faintly. “And we always walk right into it.”

You glance over. “What about Bruce?”

His jaw tightens. “Following a lead at Dixon Docks. Scarecrow’s toxin flare-up. He’ll join us when he can.”

When he can. It’s always the same answer. Gotham first. The city’s veins always take priority over the hearts that beat alongside his. You’d learned that a long time ago.

“Then it’s just us.”

“Just us,” Dick echoes.

You drop down through the building’s steel skeleton, the rusted girders groaning under your boots. The air stinks of oil, rust, and something chemical, sweet and wrong, like paint thinner or fuel. You both move with the silent rhythm of long practice, weapons drawn, breath low.

Then you stop. The sound…there isn’t any. No distant traffic, no comms chatter, not even the hum of a power line. The silence feels heavy, deliberate.

“Dick,” you whisper.

“I know.” His escrima sticks hum to life, blue arcs slicing the dark. “Something’s off.”

You toggle your visor to thermal. At first there’s nothing. Then a flicker. Heat signatures. Half a dozen, closing fast.

“Ambush!” The explosion hits before the word’s even out of your mouth. A shockwave tears through the floor. Fire blossoms like breath from the earth. You fly backward, ears ringing, vision fracturing into shards of light. Smoke rolls through the rubble, white phosphorus, hot and choking. The air tastes like acid and ash.

You can barely hear Nightwing shouting through the static. “Echo, fall back!”

“Can’t see!” you choke, coughing, staff snapping open on instinct. You fight blind, guided by motion and memory, the whistle of bullets slicing the air. One man drops, then another. But there are too many.

“Go!” Nightwing’s voice cuts through the noise. “I’ll cover!”

“No!” You can’t even see him through the haze, just the flicker of his blue signal light cutting through the smoke. 

He grabs your arm, gloved hand warm through the armor. His mask lenses are fogged, his breathing sharp. You can see the debate in his eyes, stay or go.

“The civilians,” you rasp, even as your chest burns from the gas. “The ones nearby could get exposed to the gas. We don’t know what this is. Go. Get them out. I’ll be fine.”

He hesitates, muscles tight under his suit. “You sure?”

“Go!”

The second blast detonates before you can say anything else. A burst of compressed gas and something worse: Scarecrow’s toxin. It curls like fog, golden at the edges, seeping into your filters before your visor can compensate.

The world bends. Shapes twist. The sound of your own breathing distorts, echoing too loud, too close. The air thickens until every inhale feels like drowning. You can hear Nightwing shouting again, but the words don’t make sense. They’re fragmented, warped, like they’re underwater.

Then his voice cuts through, clear for one heartbeat, “I’ll come back for you!”

The beacon light flashes once, blue through the fog. Then it’s gone.

-

You wake up in the wreckage. Or maybe you never blacked out. The world feels distant, feverish. The phosphorus has burned out, leaving only the chemical reek of toxin and smoke. The ground’s littered with shrapnel and shattered glass that glints like frost.

Your comm’s dead. No signal. No sound. Only the faint, mechanical whir of approaching servos. You force yourself to stand, head pounding, throat raw. Your hand trembles as you grip your staff. The motion feels wrong, like gravity itself is lagging a second behind.

Then, you hear his voice. Modulated, mechanical, curling through the toxin haze.

“Always first for the city,” the Arkham Knight says. “Didn’t even check if you were breathing before turning tail.”

You freeze. “Jason,” you whisper.

The laugh that follows is static, jagged, electric. “He ran toward the blast. Always the martyr. Always chasing someone else’s shadow.”

The toxin distorts the edges of the world, lights flare too bright, colors too sharp. You turn in a slow circle, staff raised, trying to pinpoint him. The sound of his voice ricochets through the comm like a presence inside your skull. 

“Show yourself!”

“I already have.” A gunshot cracks the air. The bullet whistles past your ear, close enough that you feel the heat of it. You dive, roll, concrete tearing at your palms. Another shot, this time closer. Herding, not hitting.

He’s playing with you.

“Bruce and Dick, they’ll keep telling themselves it was strategy,” Jason says. “Collateral priorities. Just like me. But you and I know the truth.”

The toxin flares stronger. You smell smoke that isn’t there, feel phantom heat licking up your arm. You see, for a flicker, Nightwing’s face through the fog, panicked, shouting something you can’t hear. Then the image splits, doubles. Melts before your eyes.

You stumble backward, shaking your head, trying to break through the haze. “Stop it.”

“Oh, I’m not doing this,” Jason says. “That’s all your old friend Scarecrow. But maybe you needed the clarity.”

The air behind you shifts. A whisper of motion, fast as a heartbeat. A cable snaps around your waist, locking tight. You twist, try to swing, but a shock baton slams into your side, electricity flooding through your muscles. The world goes white.

You hit the ground hard, the taste of copper and smoke in your mouth. The Arkham Knight stands over you, the glow of his visor cutting through the dark. The stormlight glances off his armor, painting the blue-gray plates in gleaming silver. He moves with calculated calm, the confidence of a man who’s already won.

“Where’s Nightwing?” you rasp.

“Saving the city,” he says simply. “Just like always. You told him to go, didn’t you?” He crouches beside you. The armor hisses softly with his movement, the mechanical hum steady and intimate. The barrel of his gun touches your cheek, hard and hot from being fired. “Guess that leaves you with me,” he drawls, voice low and sardonic. “Some endings just write themselves.”

You glare up at him, jaw tight. “You think this proves something?”

“Oh, it does,” he says, leaning close enough that the modulator hums against your ear. “It proves I’m right. They’ll always choose Gotham. Just like they chose it over me. Just like they chose it over you.”

He chuckles under his breath, low and bitter, the sound vibrating through the armor between you. The barrel of his gun traces a lazy line along your cheekbone, almost tender, almost cruel. “I wanted you to come,” he admits, voice softening into something that sounds like confession. “I knew you would. You had to see it for yourself, that to them, you’re another soldier. Replaceable. Like I was.”

You twist, shove his arm aside, anger sparking in your veins. He doesn’t stop you. He lets you fight, lets you press your palms against his chestplate and push as hard as you can. The armor hums beneath your touch, heat radiating through the slick metal, through him.

“You’re bleeding,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the cut on your jaw like he’s soothing a child. “Maybe I could have gone about this another way.” 

“You wanted me here,” you snap. “You set this up.”

He tilts his head. “Of course I did. You needed to see it. Needed to see what I’ve known since I was a kid: that to them, we’re pawns on a board that only ever bleeds red.”

His voice drops, almost tender now, and that’s what makes it dangerous. “But not to me,” he whispers. “You’ll never be expendable to me. I’ll protect you from every monster this city makes, even if I have to become one to do it.”

You shove him harder this time, breath ragged. “You’re insane.”

He almost laughs, quiet and cold. “Maybe. But at least I’m honest about who I am.”

Outside, the sirens grow louder, distorted by distance and toxin, warped into something alien. Jason glances toward the noise, then back at you.

“Even now,” he says quietly. “They’re not coming for you. They’re coming for them.”

You close your eyes, the truth cutting sharper than the shrapnel embedded in your side. “You’ll kill yourself chasing this.”

He shakes his head slowly, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Baby, I already did.”

The cable around your wrists hums with energy, cinching tighter. The current pricks against your skin like heat lightning. “Let me go,” you whisper.

He leans close, the faint exhale of his breath brushing your ear. “Not until you understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That I don’t care about the city,” he says, voice breaking, raw and human for a heartbeat. “I don’t care about redemption or rules. I care about you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already reaching for his grapnel. The line hisses as it fires skyward. A moment later, the ground falls away. The city spins beneath you, neon, smoke, and the reflection of fire on wet glass. Wind tears at your hair. You struggle, but he’s stronger, and the harness locks with a mechanical click across your back.

“Where are you taking me?”

He doesn’t answer. The night rushes past, cold and alive. When you finally land, it’s on the rooftop of an abandoned clock tower. The gears inside creak faintly, frozen mid-turn. From here, Gotham stretches endless, glittering and indifferent.

He cuts the restraints at your wrists but doesn’t move away. Rain runs down his armor in slow rivulets. His visor glows faintly in the dark.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” you say, voice rough. “You think dragging me here changes the past?”

Jason takes off the helmet, lets it hang loosely from one hand. The night wind threads through his hair, lifting damp strands from his forehead. Rain clings to the sharp line of his jaw, catching on the faint, puckered scar that the pit didn’t erase. His eyes, once a clear, boyish blue, are different now. Green, deep and unnatural, edged with gold like something alchemized. They don’t look human anymore. They look reborn, volatile, burning with all the life and fury death left behind.

“I don’t need to change the past,” he says. “I just need to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” He steps closer, voice low, every word deliberate. “They’ll always choose the city. I’ll always choose you. No matter what it costs.”

You hold his gaze, heart hammering. You want to tell him he’s wrong. That it isn’t love, it’s obsession, it’s grief, it’s everything you both lost coming back as something sharp and unholy. But the words die on your tongue. Because deep down, you’re afraid he might be right.

-

The clock tower creaks around you like an old thing remembering how to breathe. Rain slides down its broken windows, pooling on the stone floor where moonlight glints through in thin silver blades. The great gears inside are frozen mid-turn, rusted teeth locked together, like time itself stopped waiting for anyone to fix it.

Jason moves through the room like he owns it, like he’s always owned the dark. The helmet is gone, left on a crate beside a scatter of magazines and cleaning cloths. His Arkham Knight armor hangs open at the chest, the plates discarded piece by piece until he’s stripped down to black tactical pants and a compression shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He looks… human. Exhausted. Too alive to be a ghost, too scarred to be the boy you remember.

A half-dozen guns sit on the worktable near the wall, each one field-stripped with obsessive precision. Beside them, coffee, still steaming. The smell of it threads through the air, mingling with gun oil, leather, and rain.

He lounges in a chair across from you, one leg stretched out, posture easy in the way that makes you tense. His eyes track you through the low light as you pace the length of the room. “Pacing won’t help,” he says finally, voice rougher without the modulator.

“Neither will kidnapping,” you shoot back.

He grins, small and sharp. “Call it protective custody.”

“Protective from what? You?”

“From him.” His tone flattens. “From Bruce. From everything that turns people like us into ghosts.”

You stop moving, jaw tight. “You think this is protection?”

“I think it’s the only way I can keep you breathing.”

The words hang between you, soft and dangerous. You exhale slowly, look around the space. The walls are lined with equipment, screens, weapons, old blueprints of Gotham’s infrastructure. The clock hands above you are frozen at 2:17, the same hour he died all those years ago.

You wonder if he did that on purpose. He always had a flare for dramatics. In a twisted way, it warmed your heart. 

“You don’t have to do this,” you say quietly. “Bruce doesn’t even know you’re alive. You could come back. We could–”

He cuts you off with a humorless laugh. “Come back? To what? To him? To playing by rules that got me fucking buried?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. The low light catches the lines carved into his face, the ‘J’ scar at his jaw, the half-healed burns along his throat. He looks older, heavier in spirit.

“I’m not going back,” he says. “Not until he answers for what he did.”

You swallow hard. “This isn’t justice. It’s revenge.”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “Finally, something honest.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It vibrates.  You fold your arms. “You said you didn’t want to hurt me.”

“I don’t.”

“Then let me go.”

His gaze flicks up to you, steady and unblinking. “If I let you walk out that door, Bruce will find you in ten minutes. And he’ll ask what you saw. What I said. He’ll use you to get to me. I’m not putting you through that.”

“This isn’t up to you.”

“It is,” he says quietly, “because I’m the only one who ever put you first.”

The words hit harder than you expect. You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because you remember: rooftops and laughter, the way his voice cracked the first time he called you “Astra,” the stolen training sessions where you both pretended you weren’t falling for each other. 

That was the boy. This man in front of you feels like a reflection warped by firelight.

You look away, fighting the tremor in your hands. “You don’t get to make that claim anymore.”

Jason stands. The motion is unhurried, predatory in the quiet. The floor creaks under his boots as he crosses the short distance between you. When he stops, he’s close enough that you can smell him.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he says softly. “Tell me you don’t still feel it.”

Your pulse kicks. “You’re not him.”

He tilts his head. “Aren’t I?”

“No,” you say, but it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself. “He was reckless, arrogant, stupidly brave, but he was good. He was…”

“Dead?” he finishes for you.

You flinch. He steps closer. 

“Don’t look at me like I’m a stranger,” he murmurs. “You think the pit burned everything out of me, but it didn’t. You’re standing here because I remembered you.”

His hand rises, fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. The touch is feather-light, but it feels like a strike. You should pull away, but you don’t. Because for one awful second, it’s him again, the boy grinning through split lips, promising to beat you in the next sparring match, stealing your water bottle when you weren’t looking.

The moment fractures when you step back. “You don’t get to use our past like a weapon,” you say, voice unsteady.

“I’m not.” He drops his hand. “I’m using it like armor.”

You blink, taken off guard.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone but Bruce,” Jason says, quieter now. “Not you, not Dick, not even Tim. I just want Bruce to see what he made. What his rules made.”

You shake your head. “You think this is building something? It’s destruction.”

He exhales slowly, looks away, then back. “Sometimes you have to burn down the city before anyone notices it’s on fire.”

Something in you cracks. “Jason…”

He meets your eyes then. The smirk fades, replaced by something raw, unguarded. The boy flickers through, just for a heartbeat. You want to reach for him, and you hate yourself for it.

The wind outside shifts, blowing rain through the broken window. It catches the side of your face, cool against skin that feels too hot. You take a step forward without realizing, caught in the gravity of him, and he doesn’t move away.

The distance closes. His fingers ghost along your jaw, trace the bruise he left there. You should shove him off, scream, do anything but stand there. But the touch is careful, tender in a way that feels like muscle memory, like something you once trusted finding its way back.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

He smiles faintly. “Neither should you.”

And when his hand slides up to tuck your hair behind your ear, the world goes still. The rain fades. The city hum becomes a pulse. For a second, all you can hear is his breathing and the faint, uneven rhythm of your own.

You search his face for something, remorse, maybe. Humanity. The boy who used to bring you coffee during graveyard shifts at the Watchtower infirmary. The boy who once told you you made the world less ugly.

He’s still there. You can see him. Buried, but not gone. And that’s what terrifies you most.

You step back before the air breaks, before your body remembers how to betray you again. “Whatever you think this is, it isn’t love.”

Jason’s expression hardens, but his voice stays soft. “Maybe not. But at least it’s real.” He turns away, sits back down at the table, starts reassembling one of the guns with deliberate, mechanical calm. The sound of the pieces locking together is louder than the rain.

You stand there, trying to slow your breathing, trying not to look at him, at the way the lamp light cuts across his scarred knuckles, at the easy, fatal grace in every movement.

You realize, with a slow, sinking dread, that you’re not his captive because of chains or weapons.  You’re his captive because part of you still remembers what it felt like to love him.

And part of you still does.

-

The days blur. Not in a feverish way, but in that strange, heavy quiet that comes when the world outside keeps moving and you’re suspended somewhere between waking and remembering.

The clock tower never tells the right time, but the light changes through the broken windows, and you’ve learned to measure the hours by the color of the sky. Morning: pale gray bleeding through the grime-streaked glass. Afternoon: the honeyed warmth of sun you can’t feel. Night: rain tapping like a heartbeat against metal and glass.

You’re not chained. You’re not hurt. You’re just… contained. No comms. No outside contact. No exits that don’t trigger his sensors.

Jason brings you food. Always hot, always real, not the ration bars or cold street takeout you expected. The first time, he showed up with Thai curry. The second, with coffee and pastries that smelled like the bakery near your hospital. The third, he didn’t say where he got it, just set it on the table and nodded toward the plate.

“You’re not eating enough,” he said.

You’d wanted to throw it at him, tell him this wasn’t care, it was control, but the truth was, you hadn’t eaten since the ambush. You’d been too shaken. So you sat, and he sat across from you, boots braced on the floor, armor jacket unzipped halfway.

You ate in silence. He didn’t push conversation, didn’t gloat. He just watched you, expression unreadable, eyes softer than you wanted them to be.

By the third day, you stopped pretending you weren’t listening when he talked. He’d stand near the window, voice low, recounting pieces of the world you couldn’t see: Scarecrow sightings near Robinson Park, Batman coordinating counter-ops, Nightwing injured but alive.

“Bruce and Dick are still running themselves into the ground,” he said once, turning toward you. “Trying to hold a city that doesn’t want saving.”

You sat on the couch, legs drawn up under you, watching the faint outline of rain crawling down the windowpane. “They’re doing what they can.”

He leaned against the window frame, arms crossed. “Dick and Tim… they’re doing what he taught him. That’s not the same thing.”

You didn’t argue. Not because you agreed, but because you were tired of fighting ghosts. 

He told you things you didn’t expect, that he hated what the pit had done to him, that he still dreamed sometimes of the Cave, of the hum of the computers and the smell of Alfred’s tea. That doubled down that he didn’t want to hurt them, not really.

“It’s him,” Jason said quietly. “Just him. The man who decided the rules mattered more than I did.”

You hesitated. “And what happens when Bruce is gone?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, softly, and maybe even a little unsure, Jason said, “Then I figure out who I am without hating him for it.”

You’d wanted to hate him in that moment, for the shaky conviction in his voice, for the way he made even ruin sound righteous. But there was something painfully human in the way he looked down when he spoke, as if he was ashamed of how much he still needed to be believed.

By the fifth night, the silence between you had shifted. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t hostile either. A strange kind of understanding had taken root, thin, fragile, but real.

You’d been sitting by the window again, watching lightning bloom in the distance, when he came in quietly, hair damp from the rain. He’d ditched most of his armor, down to a dark shirt that clung to his shoulders and the tactical belt slung low around his hips. The smell of gun oil and rain followed him, familiar now in a way you didn’t want to admit.

“Dinner,” he said simply, setting down a tray.

“You know,” you said, voice low, “most kidnappers don’t worry about nutrition.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Most kidnappers don’t bring you takeout from Little Saigon.”

“Wow,” you said, dry. “A gentleman and a war criminal. What’s a girl not to like?”

Jason smiled faintly, not rising to the bait. “Eat before it gets cold.”

You sat opposite him. The tower was lit only by a single lamp, dim, gold, pooling warmth between you. The city outside flickered in neon reflection across his face. 

Halfway through the meal, you asked softly, “Why me, Jason? Why not just disappear?”

He didn’t look up. “Because if I disappear, Bruce wins.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He set his fork down, leaned back in his chair. The lamplight caught in his eyes, green ringed in gold and crimson, weary but alert. “You mean why you.”

You nodded.

He exhaled through his nose. “Because you were the only thing that ever made it feel worth it. The missions. The blood. The bruises. You made all of it mean something.”

“Jason…”

“I’m not saying that to trap you,” he said quickly. “You don’t owe me anything. I just… need you to know that this isn’t about possession. It’s about protection.”

You studied him for a long moment. “You really believe that.”

“I do.”

“And you think I’ll thank you for it someday?”

He smiled, a small, tired thing. “I don’t need you to thank me. I just need you alive.”

The quiet stretched again. The rain softened to mist against the glass. You looked down at your hands, then up at him, at the line of his jaw, the faint twitch in his fingers where the trigger scars never fully healed.

He noticed your gaze, but didn’t move. “You used to look at me like that,” he said quietly. “Back in the Cave.”

You swallowed. “You used to give me a reason to.”

Something broke across his face, an expression you couldn’t name. Grief. Longing. Regret. He stood slowly, closing the space between you. When he reached you, his hand came up, not to restrain, not to threaten. Just to brush a strand of hair back behind your ear. The gesture was painfully gentle. His fingers were warm. You hated that it made you tremble.

“This isn’t you,” you whispered.

His voice dropped, rough. “It’s what’s left of me.”

Your eyes met. And for a moment, the distance between what he’d become and who he was collapsed. You could almost see the boy beneath the scars, the one who teased you on rooftops and smiled like the world hadn’t yet broken him.

Your throat tightened. You turned away before he could see your eyes.

He let his hand fall. “Get some sleep,” he murmured. “You’re safe here.”

You wanted to tell him safe wasn’t the right word. That walls, no matter how soft, still feel like cages. But you didn’t. Because the truth was, you didn’t feel unsafe. You felt something far worse… seen.

When he left, the room felt colder. The clock’s gears groaned softly, straining against rust. You wrapped your arms around yourself, staring out into the fog.

And when you finally whispered his name, it was to no one at all.

-

The sixth night arrives quietly. Gotham hums beyond the rain, a low electric purr that seeps through the cracks in the old clock tower. Inside, the air feels softer, warmer, somehow, as if the tension that had lived in the walls has begun to loosen its grip.

Jason’s jacket hangs over the back of a chair, his armor stacked neatly on the workbench beside the lamp. His guns are lined in meticulous order, magazines beside them, half-cleaned and gleaming under the dim gold light. He’s sitting by the window now, one boot braced on the sill, sleeves rolled, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers.

The smoke curls lazily toward the cracked glass. It smells faintly of clove and burnt sugar. You should say something. You choose not to. The sound of rain fills the space where words should be.

When he glances over, his expression softens. “You’re still awake.”

“I don’t sleep much,” you answer.

He hums low, thoughtful. “You never did.”

You cross the room, slow and measured, drawn more by the quiet than by him. He looks different in this light, less like the Arkham Knight, more like the boy who used to fall asleep in the passenger seat of the Batmobile after patrol, head tilted toward the window, gloves still on.

“Doesn’t feel right, does it?” you say softly. “Being still.”

Jason gives a wry half-smile. “Stillness never meant peace in Gotham. It meant something worse was coming.”

You stop a few feet away. “And now?”

He exhales smoke through his nose, eyes tracking the city. “Now it’s just quiet.”

You study him. The curve of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. The quiet isn’t peace for him, it’s punishment. The kind that comes when a man who only knows how to fight finally runs out of things to kill.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” you say finally.

He glances back, eyes flicking to yours. “Picked it up in the Middle East. Old habit, hard to break.”

“Doesn’t suit you.”

He chuckles. “Yeah? You always liked me better when I was trying to be good, huh?” The words hang there, somewhere between teasing and confession. You cross the last few steps until you’re standing beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his arm.

“I liked you when you were trying,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer. Just stares out the window, jaw tightening. You can see the reflection of Gotham in his eyes, the city lights, the flicker of distant lightning, and it makes him look almost luminous, like something sculpted from shadow and fire. He’s older now, all sharp edges and quiet gravity, the reckless boy you once knew tempered into something harder, more dangerous. The scars only make it worse. They cut across his beauty like signatures, proof that he survived what should’ve killed him. Even with those unnatural green eyes, bright and burning, touched by something that isn’t entirely mortal, he’s still devastatingly handsome. Maybe more so.

You reach out before you can stop yourself. The motion is small. A hand lifted, hesitant, brushing through the damp strands of hair that have fallen into his eyes. It’s the kind of gesture that once would’ve earned you a crooked grin and some smart remark about how you were mothering him again.

Now, he just goes still. Your fingertips graze his temple, the roughness of an old scar beneath the hairline, the soft heat of skin you haven’t touched in years. You feel his breath hitch, almost imperceptibly.

“Don’t,” he says, voice low, unsteady.

You drop your hand, pulse racing. “I’m not trying to fix you.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, flicking the cigarette out into the rain, “but you make me wish I could be fixed.” The silence that follows is almost unbearable. You can feel it vibrating between you, the push and pull of everything unsaid.

“Jason,” you whisper. He turns to face you. The glow from the city hits him in fragments, half shadow, half warmth. The hard lines of his face soften. He looks… tired. Human. Your hand moves again, slow, deliberate this time, resting on his arm. The muscle beneath your palm tenses, then eases. He doesn’t pull away. The warmth of him seeps into you, and you realize how long it’s been since you’ve touched anyone without a fight in between.

“You don’t have to keep carrying this alone,” you say quietly.

He laughs under his breath, no humor in it. “I don’t get to put it down.”

“Then let someone else hold part of it.”

“Who? Bruce?” His tone sharpens.

You shake your head. “Me.”

He blinks, startled. “You?”

“You said you were protecting me. Maybe let me do the same for you.”

For a moment, something flickers across his face, pain, hope, disbelief. Then he looks away, voice rough. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” you say. “I know you.”

He exhales, shaking his head, and the motion looks like surrender. You can see it in the slump of his shoulders, the way his hands flex at his sides. Then, quietly, he says, “You shouldn’t be this close.”

“Then move.”

He doesn’t. You step forward and wrap your arms around him. At first, it’s like hugging stone. He’s stiff, caught between reflex and restraint, his breath stuttering against your shoulder. Then, slowly, something shifts. His arms come up, hesitant, unsure, and settle around you. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. He smells like rain and powder and something faintly metallic, like ozone before a storm. His heartbeat is steady, grounding. 

You don’t know how long you stand there. A minute, maybe two. The city hums beneath you, alive and uncaring, while two people long past saving try to remember what comfort feels like. When he finally pulls back, his hands linger on your shoulders, thumbs brushing small circles against the fabric of your shirt. His voice is quiet, rough at the edges.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you still believe there’s something worth saving.”

You meet his gaze. “Maybe I just see what’s left of the boy I loved.”

He flinches, not much, but enough. His hands fall away. The distance returns like a shadow slipping back into place. He takes a step back, jaw clenched, eyes burning. 

“Go to bed,” he says softly. “Please.”

You nod, even though your throat is tight. You turn away, forcing your legs to move, feeling his eyes follow you until you disappear into the dim corner of the tower. When you lie down, the sheets still smell faintly of smoke and metal. You can hear him moving around, reassembling a gun, the rhythmic click of parts fitting together, a lullaby of control.

But beneath that sound, under the hum of the rain, there’s something else: the quiet, fractured breath of a man trying not to break.

And the worst part is, you understand. Because for the first time since he took you, you realize you don’t just want to leave. 

You want to save him.

-

The seventh night feels different. The air in the clock tower is thick, tense, alive with static. The storm outside has passed, but the thunder hasn’t left, it just lives quieter now, beneath your skin. The gears creak occasionally, an old clock still pretending it could keep time if it just tried hard enough.

Jason’s pacing. You can tell something’s changed before he says a word. His movements are sharp, contained, every step measured like he’s trying not to explode. His gloves are off, lying in a heap on the table beside a dismantled rifle.

“They’re getting closer,” he mutters.

You look up from where you’re sitting near the window, blanket draped loosely around your shoulders. “Bruce?”

He nods, jaw clenched. “Bruce. Dick. Tim. The whole goddamn cavalry. Took them long enough.”

You try to read him. He’s angry, yes, but beneath it simmers fear. Not for himself. You know that look too well.

“Then let them come,” you say softly. “They’re not coming here to kill you. They just want to bring me, bring you home.”

He laughs, low and bitter. “Home? You think that word means anything to him anymore? I died for him, and all he gave me was a grave.”

“Jason.”

“Don’t.” He rakes a hand through his hair, the muscles in his shoulders tight. “Don’t say my name like it’s some kind of redemption.”

“You’re acting like there’s no way out of this,” you snap. “There is. You could surrender, talk to him.”

“Talk?” He spins, eyes flashing. “You think there’s anything left to say? You think he’ll listen after everything I’ve done?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Because I know him. I saw him after we buried you. And because I know you.” That stops him. His head turns, eyes narrowing like the words hit somewhere deep.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that. Like I’m still him.”

You rise slowly, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “Because you are.”

“I’m not,” he says, stepping back. “That kid’s dead.”

You take a step forward. “Then who. Are. You?”

“The man who’s trying to keep you alive!” His voice cracks, raw and unguarded. “You think I don’t know what Bruce will do when he finds you here? What he’ll think I’ve done? I’ll rot in Arkham. I don’t give a fuck. But you? You’ll just become another casualty in his war, another scar he can justify away even as life tears you apart.”

“He won’t hurt me.”

Jason laughs once, broken. “Not on purpose.”

You shake your head, refusing to yield. “You don’t get to decide what happens to me.”

His gaze snaps to yours, wild, desperate. “I already did. Every night since the day I crawled out of that grave.”

Your breath catches. His name barely leaves your lips. 

And that’s when he kisses you. It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s collision, pain, anger, love, loss, all tangled together in a single impossible heartbeat. His hand cups the back of your neck, gloved thumb brushing your jaw as if to steady something that’s already shaking. The taste of rain and smoke fills your senses, and for a moment, it feels like falling.

You shove at his chest, breaking the contact. “You don’t get to do that!” you breathe, eyes wide, heart slamming in your chest.

He looks at you, chest heaving, eyes burning. “You think I don’t know that?”

“You’re just scared,” you say. “You know they’re coming, and you’re terrified of losing control.”

His voice drops, low and rough. “I already lost control. The second I saw you again.”

You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes. “You can’t fix what happened by holding on to me.”

He takes a step closer. “I’m not trying to fix it. I’m trying to keep it. You.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s there again—cutting you off mid-breath.

The kiss this time is slower, deeper. Less war, more truth. His hands frame your face with a tenderness that feels almost impossible, careful and reverent, trembling just enough to betray how hard he’s fighting to stay in control. You should pull away. You should scream, fight, something. But you don’t. Because beneath the scars and the armor and the ghosts, he’s still Jason. This is the man he became, the one carved out of pain and purpose, the one who bleeds for what he loves even when he shouldn’t. The one you’ve been trying not to love back.

And you do. God help you, you do.

The kiss deepens slowly, as if both of you realize in the same breath the truths that neither of you are ready to face. His mouth softens against yours; the first rough edge of it fades into something that feels like surrender. One hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing slow circles there, grounding himself in the proof that you’re real.

You respond before you can think, fingers curling in the fabric at his shoulder, drawing him closer until the space between you disappears. He presses you back against the table in the center of the clock tower, your back pressing against the firm wood. His breath trembles against your cheek, rain catching in the strands of his hair and sliding down to meet your skin. Your legs wrap around his waist, dragging him closer still. The warmth of him bleeds through the chill, through the armor, through every reason you’ve rehearsed for why this can’t happen.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, less urgency, more need. It’s unhurried, deliberate, the kind of kiss that memorizes rather than takes. Your tongues slide against one anothers, his hand drifting down to grip your thigh and hold you open against him. His other slips to your neck, holding you in place. His fingers squeeze in the pattern of the bruise he left days ago now, hard enough to refresh the blooms against your skin. Your heart stumbles. You can feel the moment he stops thinking, when instinct replaces restraint, when love and fury blur into the same ache.

Jason's hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you harder against him, the rough fabric of his tented pants scraping against the thin barrier of your clothes. The friction sends a jolt through you, heat blooming low in your belly as his hips roll forward in a slow, deliberate grind. You gasp, the sound muffled against his shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, nails scraping for purchase. He doesn't stop, his body pressing you back further against the table's edge, the wood biting into your hips as maps and scattered papers crinkle beneath you.

"Jason," you breathe, half-plea, half-warning, but it only spurs him on. His mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing the fading bruise he left days ago, reawakening the tender skin with a sharp nip that makes you arch into him. The pressure builds, his stiff cock rutting against your core through the layers, each thrust a teasing promise that stokes the fire without quenching it. The table creaks under the weight of your bodies, the rhythmic grind echoing the distant thunder outside, the storm's echo now thrumming between you.

His breath is hot and ragged against your ear, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tilting your head back to expose more of your throat. "Can't... stop thinking about you," he growls, voice fractured, hips snapping forward with more urgency, the friction coiling tighter in your core. You rock against him instinctively, chasing the spark, the table's edge digging in as leverage, your legs locking around his waist to pull him impossibly closer. You want him inside of you so badly it aches. The layers between you feel like torment, his pants rough against your inner thighs, the heat of him searing through, every rut sending waves of pleasure-pain that build and build.

He grinds harder, deliberate, the bulge in his pants pressing right where you need it, the rhythm relentless now. Your breaths come in syncopated gasps, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked leather and sweat, the faint metallic tang of the tower's gears underscoring each movement. His free hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit through your tactical pants, circling with rough precision that makes your vision blur. "Come for me," he rasps, lips brushing your pulse point, teeth grazing as his hips buck again, the friction hitting a fever pitch. "Let go, princess, I've got you."

The coil snaps. Pleasure crashes over you in a white-hot wave, your body arching off the table, cries muffled against his shoulder as tremors ripple through you. He holds you through it, hips slowing but not stopping, drawing out every shudder until you're boneless, clinging to him in the aftershocks. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breaths harsh, his own restraint fraying but unbroken, the evidence of his arousal still pressed firm against you. 

His mouth find yours once more and you taste salt. His or yours, you can’t tell. The kiss is unhurried, a quiet exploration, his lips trembling against yours as if he’s savoring the moment, committing it to memory. His hand slides to cradle your face, thumb brushing away a tear that might be yours, might be his, the dampness mingling with the sweat and rain on your skin. When he pulls back, both of you are shaking, foreheads resting together, breaths tangled in the narrow space between. The air is thick with the scent of leather, gun oil, and the raw intimacy of your release, the clock tower’s gears creaking faintly in the background, a reminder of time’s relentless march.

He stays close, his hand lingering on your cheek, fingers tracing the curve of your jaw with a tenderness that feels like a confession. “You let me…” he murmurs, voice rough but soft, cracking with something vulnerable. “You let me give you that.” His eyes search yours, green and unguarded, the usual sharpness dulled by the weight of what just passed between you. He’s not the Arkham Knight now, just Jason, raw and open, his heart laid bare in the afterglow.

You reach up, fingers curling into his damp hair, holding him there, keeping the world at bay for one more moment. “I wanted it,” you whisper, voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. “I wanted you.” His breath hitches, a small, broken sound, and he presses his forehead harder against yours, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

For a minute, you linger there, bodies pressed close, the table’s edge still digging into your hips. His hand slides to your waist, thumb stroking the skin just above your hipbone, a gentle rhythm that soothes the intensity of before. The rain outside has slowed to a drizzle, its soft patter blending with the distant hum of Gotham waking. His heartbeat thuds against your chest, a counterpoint to your own, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, the rare softness of a man who’s spent years running from it.

“They’re close,” he murmurs finally, voice low, reluctant, like he’s loath to break the spell. “I can feel it.”

You swallow, the weight of reality creeping back. “Then run,” you whisper, the words tasting bitter.

He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Not without you.”

“Jason…”

“I told you,” he says, softer now, his hand cupping your face again, eyes fierce with a love that’s as jagged as it is deep. “I’ll always choose you.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, lingering, and you see the decision in his gaze, not escape, but something final, something he’s ready to face for you.

The first flicker of the Bat-Signal’s reflection glows faintly through the rain-streaked window, a pale warning cutting through the dawn. Time’s run out. You don’t know if the next sunrise will bring rescue or ruin, but as your lips still sting from his kiss, your body still humming from the pleasure he drew out of you, one truth burns clearer than anything: you don’t want to be saved from him. You just want him back.

-

The sound comes first, distant at the edge of the city’s hum. A low, rhythmic thump. Not thunder. Not traffic. Rotor blades.

You hear them before Jason does. He’s by the table, stripping down a sidearm, movements crisp and mechanical. The light flickers once across his face, casting the green of his eyes into molten gold. Then the noise hits the glass, rattling it in its frame.

He freezes.

You stand slowly, pulse racing. “Jason…”

His head turns toward the window. The faint gleam of spotlights sweeps over the rooftops, cutting through fog and rain. The batsignal’s glow bleeds into the clouds above. 

“They found us,” you whisper.

Jason exhales, a sharp sound through his teeth. “Of course they did.”

He moves instantly, reassembling the pistol with practiced speed, holstering it, grabbing his half-fastened chest plate from the table. The calm precision of his movements is worse than panic. He’s not surprised. He’s ready.

“Jason, stop,” you say. “You don’t have to fight them.”

“Not fighting isn’t an option anymore, princess.”

“You’ll die.”

He glances at you, a flicker of something warm and raw cutting through the hardness. “Then I’ll make sure it’s for something that mattered.”

You step in front of him, blocking his path. “It matters if you live.”

His jaw tightens. “You still don’t get it. They’ll never let me.”

“Bruce will–,”

“Bruce will do what he always does.” His voice breaks on the edge of it. “He’ll try to fix me. And when he realizes he can’t, he’ll bury me again.”

The sound of the helicopter grows louder, closer. A crackle of comms static echoes faintly through your visor, the ghost of Nightwing’s voice.

“Echo, respond if you can hear this. We’ve got your signal.”

You look toward the window. The rain catches in the beams of light cutting through the fog, glowing like falling glass. They’re right outside.

Jason sees the way your eyes shift. “Don’t,” he warns.

“I’m not calling them off,” you say. “I’m asking you to let them in.”

His smile is soft and broken all at once. His helmet snaps into place. “That’s the problem, princess,” he says, voice flattening through the modulator. “They don’t knock.”

A flash of light blinds you. Glass shatters as a grapnel bursts through the pane, embedding deep into the wall. You duck instinctively, shards slicing past your cheek. The next sound is heavier, a figure landing on the balcony with the weight of judgment itself.

Batman. Behind him, another shape follows, leaner, faster, escrima sticks in hand. The blue insignia flashes in the gloom. Nightwing.

The air changes. Thinner now. Electric. Jason doesn’t move. He stands halfway between them and you, half-armored, rain slicking the plates of his suit. His hand hovers near his gun, but he doesn’t draw, not yet.

“Arkham Knight,” Batman says, voice gravel and command. “It’s over.”

The helmet turns, glowing blue visor fixed squarely on him. Jason’s laugh filters through the modulator, low, metallic, breathless. “That’s what you said at my funeral.”

Nightwing steps forward cautiously, escrima sticks loose in his grip. “Don’t do this,” he says, steady but soft. “Whoever you are… you don’t have to go down like this.”

The Knight tilts his head slightly, the motion slow, deliberate. “Whoever I am?” The voice crackles, distorted but edged with something dangerously familiar. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”

He steps closer, boots scraping across wet concrete. The rainlight gleams across his armor, turning gunmetal into liquid silver.

Batman’s jaw tightens. “You’ve been terrorizing my city, hurting my people. This ends now.”

“Your city,” the Knight echoes, quiet but venom-laced. “Always your city. Always your war. You never change, do you?”

Nightwing frowns. “How the hell do you know–”

“I know more than you think.” The Knight’s tone fractures, barely a heartbeat, but then hardens again. “Tell me, Batman, how long did it take before you replaced me? A month? A week?”

Batman stills. His fist flexes.

“Replaced who?” Nightwing demands.

The Knight laughs, a sound like static breaking apart. “Guess you really don’t know. That’s almost funny.”

He steps out of the shadows fully now, rifle raised, not to fire, but to aim directly at Batman’s chest. “Don’t worry, Bruce. You always were a piss poor detective.” The name slices through the distortion like a blade. Both Batman and Nightwing tense.

“How do you…” Nightwing starts, but the Knight moves first. Fast. Controlled chaos. Smoke grenades clatter across the floor. The room erupts in thick, choking fog. The modulator warps his voice into something hollow and omnipresent.

“You really have no idea… do you?” Then the first shot rings out, ricocheting off the chestplate of Batman’s armor.

Through the haze, Batman’s voice remains steady. “Stand down, Arkham Knight. You don’t want to do this.”

The reply is an instant snarl wrapped in static. “Don’t tell me what I want.”

A shimmer of blue light flickers through the smoke, Jason’s visor sweeping to follow it like a predator’s eyes, growling as Nightwing drops to your side, escrima sticks drawn. 

“We can still help you,” Dick calls out, tone pleading now. 

The Knight halts. The silence stretches taut. Then, low and metallic, Jason’s voice creeps out. “Help?” His bitter laugh cuts through the fog. “You left me in the dirt, Dick. You both did.”

Nightwing stiffens. Confusion flashes across his face. “What?”

Jason fires. The bullet cracks into the wall beside Nightwing’s head, deliberate, measured, a warning. The echo hangs. His silhouette shifts through the smoke, shoulders heaving, breath uneven. He lowers the rifle. His hand lifts toward the helmet latch.

“Don’t,” Batman warns, but his voice falters.

The Knight tilts his head, voice almost mocking. “What’s the matter, Bruce? You really have no idea… do you? Well why don’t I spell it out for you.”

The hiss of a seal releasing cuts through the air. The helmet falls to the floor with a hollow clang that echoes across the tower. Rainlight catches his face, that handsome face you kissed barely a day ago, and his eyes burn with something between fury and heartbreak.

Bruce’s breath catches inside the cowl. “Jason?”

Jason’s smirk is a broken thing. “You really didn’t know. I’m hurt, Bruce.”

“Joker sent me the tape,” Batman says quietly. “I saw him kill you.”

Jason’s voice breaks as he screams, “Don’t you dare lie to me!” His eyes shine wet, furious. “Now fucking tell me. How long before you replaced me? I saw your fucking Robin running around. Tim fucking Drake. Yeah, I dug that up too.”

“That’s not what happened.”

Jason laughs, a jagged, bitter sound. “You always told me, Bruce, focus on what I want, and I’ll get it. Well, do you know what I want right now?” His gun snaps up, trembling in his hand. “I want you to look at me!” he roars. “Look at what you left behind!”

The air hums, thick with electricity, rain, and ghosts. You move without thinking. “Jason, stop. Please.”

For the first time, his eyes flick toward you. The tremor in his hand deepens. And for a heartbeat, it’s all there, the boy you loved, the man he’s become that you yearn for most of all, and everything broken in between.

“Don’t make me do this!” Nightwing shouts, lunging through the smoke at Jason.

Jason’s roar tears through the air. “You already did!”

Impact. Armor against armor. The scrape of metal, the crack of fists, a grunt of pain. Batman’s voice cuts through it, “Stand down, Robin!”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!” Jason’s snarl rips through the haze. “That’s not who I am!”

Lightning flashes, illuminating the moment Batman catches Jason’s arm, wrenching the gun from his grip. Jason fights like a cornered storm, wild and precise, every blow years in the making.

“Why didn’t you save me?” he shouts.

“I didn’t know,” Bruce says, low.

“You knew enough!”

Batman lunges again and they crash to the floor. Jason twists, pinned beneath the weight of him. You can hear both of them breathing hard, the storm outside pounding against the glass.

“Jason,” you whisper.

He meets your eyes even as he struggles against Bruce’s gauntlet pressing into his shoulder. He looks back up at Bruce, like holding your gaze burns. “You can’t fix me,” he says hoarsely. “You never could.”

Batman stills. “Jason… I’m sorry. Just let me… if you come…”

The words land like a physical blow. Jason’s face twists, grief, rage, disbelief all warring inside him. “You think that changes anything?” he spits. “You left me to rot, and now you want me to come where? Home?”

“Not home,” Batman says softly. “Just… you’re alive.”

Jason laughs, a sharp, shaking sound that sounds more like pain than humor. He fires upward, one clean shot into the ceiling light. The fixture explodes, raining glass and sparks. By the time the glare fades, he’s gone.

The clock tower door hangs open, hinges bent, lock shattered. Batman stands motionless at the threshold, rain dripping from his cowl.

Nightwing swears, hitting his comm. “He’s gone. North quadrant.”

You barely hear him. The room spins with the echo of Jason’s voice, the weight of what just broke between all of you. You glance down. Near your boots, a folded scrap of paper, edges singed. His handwriting scrawled across it.

You don’t have to look for me. I’ll find you. Just don’t give up on me yet.

You press it to your chest.

Nightwing’s voice cuts through the ringing silence. “You all right?”

You nod faintly. “He didn’t want to hurt me.”

“That doesn’t mean he won’t,” Batman says, voice quiet and grave.

You look past him, the words sinking deep, settling somewhere you don’t want them to. Because you’ve heard them before: different voice, same conviction. You think of Jason, of how he said those same words about Bruce only a few nights ago. Two men shaped by loss, carved into opposite sides of the same coin. Both trying to protect what they love. Both convinced it means they have to hurt for it.

And standing here, you can finally see it for what it is: how their devotion mirrors each other, just refracted through pain. How Jason’s vengeance and Bruce’s mercy come from the same wound, one refusing to bleed, the other refusing to close.

You swallow hard, eyes still fixed on the window. “Then I’ll find him,” you whisper. “And I’ll make sure he can’t.”

Batman turns toward you, cowl shadowing his eyes. “You’re not going after him. This is my mess. I’ll fix it.”

But you already are. In your mind. In your pulse. In the part of you that never stopped believing there’s something left worth saving. Because Jason might have lost this fight, but deep down, you know this war between him and the world isn’t over.

And neither is the one inside your chest.

-

The ER is a blur of blood and fluorescent light—long enough into the shift that hours stop meaning anything. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve reset the monitors, how many sutures you’ve tied, how many families you’ve met with that hollow, practiced sympathy that never lands quite right. Gotham doesn’t heal; it festers. The city bleeds through the cracks of the hospital walls, dragging its chaos in on stretchers.

It’s been three weeks since the clock tower, since the fight, since the sirens, since Jason disappeared into the rain like smoke. The bruise on your wrist has faded to nothing. The one on your throat, his, hasn’t. Visibly it’s gone, but somewhere beneath the skin, you still feel it, a phantom ache that flares when you catch yourself thinking about him.

You haven’t seen him. Haven’t heard from him. Not a single note, not a single whisper on the comms. But his absence doesn’t mean silence. Because Gotham speaks in patterns. And lately, it’s been speaking in his.

Reports have been surfacing, low-level thugs and gang enforcers found strung up from lampposts, bloodied but breathing. Crime bosses dragged unconscious to the steps of GCPD, weapons neatly confiscated and bagged beside them. No bullets to the head, no explosive retribution: just efficient, brutal restraint.

Nightwing was the first to say it aloud, bold enough to say what no one else will. “He’s changing his playbook.” Tim’s the one who pulled the files together, unsure of what went down, what you all learned as none of you would tell him the truth following the tower. “Whoever’s doing this… they’re trained like one of us.” And Bruce…Bruce didn’t say anything at all. He didn’t have to. Because you all know who it is. You can’t prove it. Not yet. But it’s in your bones. You feel it every time another case file hits the table with Jason’s fingerprints all over it. Whatever happened after the tower, after that kiss, after he made you fall apart against his war table, after the Bat’s last words to him… it changed him. Or he’s trying to change.

And then there was Scarecrow. The attack two weeks ago: an ambush in the Arkham Asylum. Scarecrow’s toxin nearly killed Bruce, the whole city teetering on the edge of panic again. The official report says an “unidentified third party” intervened, neutralized the fear gas dispersal unit, and vanished before backup arrived. But you’ve read the unredacted version. You’ve seen the grainy footage: a red helmet, precision shots.

He was there. He saved him.

It’s what keeps you awake long after your shifts end.

-

You clock out just before dawn, scrubs clinging to your skin, damp with sweat and the faint iron scent of blood that no amount of soap ever fully washes away. The sky through the lobby windows is a bruised violet, the city still half-asleep and half-alive.

The streets outside glisten from the rain. Gotham looks soft in the early light, but you know better. It’s just pretending. You walk home with your hood pulled low, sneakers squeaking on wet pavement, the ghost of adrenaline still pulsing faintly in your veins.

You tell yourself the distance is good. That you need the quiet, the normalcy, the rhythm of being you again. A nurse. A protector. Someone who swore to save lives, not chase lost souls into the dark.

But the truth cuts through every time your gaze drifts skyward. Because you’re still looking for him. Every rooftop. Every alley. Every shadow that moves just a second too late.

You hate yourself for it. You crave it anyway.

-

By the time you reach your apartment, the rain has thinned to a drizzle. The city hums low and tired, the sound of sirens fading into the distance. You climb the stairs, the soles of your shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum. The hallway light flickers overhead casting long, stuttering shadows down the narrow corridor.

You fish for your keys, exhaustion heavy in your hands, muscles trembling from a double shift. The key slides into the lock with a click. You push the door open, stepping inside out of habit more than awareness.

The air hits you first. Not cold, not hostile, just charged. The scent is faint but distinct: leather, gun oil, and something sharper beneath it.

Your breath catches. Every instinct flares awake. The city outside hums on, oblivious. But in here, time folds. Every memory of the tower, of his voice, of his hands, all of it comes rushing back at once.

You stand perfectly still, eyes scanning the shadows pooling in the corners of your apartment. The lamp by the entryway flickers when you turn it on, spilling gold light across the room. And there, on the table by the window, sits a single object.

A helmet. Red, gleaming faintly in the dawn light.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

You don’t hear him move, but you feel it, the shift of air behind you, quiet, controlled. His voice follows, low and steady, softer than you remember.

“Miss me?”

You turn slowly. He’s standing by the window, where dawn cuts through the blinds in thin, pale lines that stripe across his face and armor. The helmet is gone now, resting on your table like a confession. The rest of him looks heavier somehow, shoulders slouched, dark jacket still damp from the rain, shadows deep under his eyes. The last traces of the Arkham Knight are there, but muted.

Jason Todd, not the ghost.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction.

He half-smiles. “You gonna say that every time you see me?”

“It’s been weeks.”

“Yeah.” He looks down, thumb brushing the scar at his jaw. “I figured you could use a break.”

You exhale sharply, stepping forward. “A break? You disappeared after the tower. After that night. We didn’t know if you were alive, Jason.”

“Guess that makes two of us.” The words hang there, dry, but not cruel. Just tired.

You study him. The cut across his lip has healed. The bruises are gone. The armor’s been replaced by something simpler, leather jacket and Kevlar, stripped of insignia, functional but unassuming. His gloves are fingerless now, his hands nicked and scabbed, the kind of marks you get from breaking bones, not killing.

“Where have you been?” you ask quietly.

He leans against the window frame, rain still streaking down the glass behind him. Gotham is waking outside, horns, engines, the soft ache of another day beginning. “Cleaning up,” he says simply.

You frown. “Cleaning up?”

Jason’s eyes flick toward you, tired, but steady. “You’ve seen the reports. The gangs turning themselves in. The weapons caches dropped at GCPD. That was me.”

You shake your head slowly. “That’s not your style.”

He smirks faintly. “Guess my style’s evolving.”

“Why?” you ask, softer now.

He hesitates, gaze shifting to the floor. When he speaks, his voice carries something new, an unfamiliar stillness. “Because someone has to stop the bleeding. Because Gotham doesn’t need another ghost. And because…” He trails off.

“Because what?”

He meets your eyes then, really meets them. “Because you made me want to try.”

The air between you stills. Your pulse stutters, the words hitting deeper than you’re ready for. You want to tell him not to romanticize this, not to make you his reason, but the sincerity in his voice is unshakeable.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “You were right. About the killing, the lines I crossed. I kept telling myself I was doing it for you. Protecting you, proving something. But all I was doing was making myself the thing I swore I’d never be.”

You step closer, heart hammering. “And now?”

“Now I’m trying to fix it.” His voice cracks on the last word. You can tell he doesn’t believe in redemption, not for himself, but he’s trying anyway. You can see it in the tremor in his hand, the exhaustion stitched into every movement.

“How long have you been working with Bruce?” you ask.

That earns a short, humorless laugh. “Working with isn’t the phrase I’d use. He knows I’m out here. He’s just pretending he doesn’t.”

You blink. “He really knows? Not like… how we all knew but couldn’t prove anything?”

Jason nods once, a wry smile forming on his lips as he sees your expression. “He saw me. Scarecrow’s compound. He didn’t say my name, didn’t reach for the cowl, didn’t try to stop me. Just… looked at me.”

“And?”

“And I realized I didn’t hate him anymore.”

Something tightens in your chest. “That’s… progress.”

“Don’t get too sentimental,” he says, but his smile is real this time, small, sad, but real. “I’m not doing this for him.”

“No,” you say, voice steady now. “You’re doing it for you.”

Jason shakes his head. “I’m doing it for us.”

You freeze. “Jason…”

He steps forward, slow but deliberate, close enough that you can smell the rain still clinging to him, the faint smoke from the city air in his jacket. “You believed in me when you shouldn’t have. You saw something left when I didn’t. I can’t change what I did, but I can make sure the next time you hear my name, it isn’t whispered like a warning.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

He exhales softly. “Yeah. I do.”

The city light shifts through the blinds, cutting gold lines across his cheek, his scar, his eyes. For a moment, he looks younger, like the boy you trained beside, the one who laughed too loud and promised the world was still worth saving. You reach up, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, the faint stubble there rough beneath your touch. He doesn’t flinch this time. He leans into it.

“Jason,” you whisper, “what are you going to do now?”

He glances at the helmet on your table, then back at you. “What I should’ve done a long time ago.”

“And what’s that?”

“Try.” He says it so quietly it almost breaks you. You want to stop him, to make him rest, to tell him that redemption doesn’t have to hurt this much, but you know better. This is the only way he knows how to live: walking the razor’s edge between ruin and salvation.

You drop your hand. “If you’re going to keep fighting, promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’ll let me know you’re alive.”

His lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. “That’s the problem with ghosts, princess. They only show up when they’re ready.”

He zips his jacket as he reaches for the helmet, tucking it under his arm like a relic of the war he’s still fighting, and moves toward the door. But before he leaves, he pauses, half-turned, caught between the light and shadow.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For not giving up on me.”

Your hand shoots out before you can think, fingers closing around his wrist as he turns back toward the door. The leather of his jacket is cool and slick under your touch, grounding you in the moment. “Jason, wait,” you say, voice sharp with urgency, cracking with something deeper, years of unspoken longing, of grief and hope tangled together.

He pauses, half-turned, the dawn’s pale light slicing across his face, catching the scar on his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble. His green eyes flicker back to you, questioning but guarded, like he’s bracing for rejection. You don’t let go. Instead, you tug him back, hard enough to make him pivot, the helmet clattering to the floor as you pull him into you.

Your lips crash into his, desperate and fierce, a collision of need that’s been simmering since the clock tower, since the nights you mourned him, since the years you thought he was gone forever. His mouth is warm, tasting of rain and something faintly metallic, like the city itself lingers on his tongue. He stiffens for a split second, caught off guard, then melts into it, his hands finding your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. The kiss deepens, hungry, teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a frantic dance of pent-up yearning. Your fingers thread into his damp hair, tugging at the roots, drawing a low growl from his throat that vibrates through you, igniting heat low in your belly.

He presses himself closer, his body a solid wall of muscle and heat. Your back hits the wall, the impact jolting a gasp from you, but you don’t care, his lips chase yours, relentless, his stubble scraping your chin, your cheeks, a delicious burn that grounds you in this moment. His hands roam, sliding under your scrub top, calluses rough against your skin, tracing the curve of your spine like he’s memorizing you. You arch into him, heart pounding, arousal flooding your senses, the world narrowing to the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the way he groans your name like a prayer.

“Fuck, princess,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough, raw with want. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited.” His hands slide lower, gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him, the hard line of his erection pressing through his pants, sending a fresh wave of heat through you. The kiss breaks, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the charged air. “Can’t stop thinking about how pretty you were when you came for me.” 

You don’t let him pull away. Your hands slide down his chest, fingers catching on the zipper of his jacket, tugging it open to reveal the tight black shirt beneath, clinging to every ridge of muscle. “Stay,” you whisper, voice trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. “Don’t run again. I… I want you.”

His eyes darken, a storm of conflict and desire. He pulls back, and lets you go entirely. You feel panic rising up in you, thinking he’s going to pick the helmet up and leave. Instead, he shifts, walking over to your living room and collapses onto your couch. Once he sits, he pulls a pistol from his pocket and sets it on the coffee table with a deliberate clunk. The metal gleams in the dim light, cold and lethal, a mirror of him: protector, killer, yours. Your breath hitches, too loud in the quiet, the sight sending a shiver of anticipation through you.

“What do you want?” you ask, voice unsteady, though you already know the answer.

His gaze rakes over you, slow and deliberate, drinking in the sweat-damp scrubs, the flush creeping up your neck, the way your chest rises with shallow breaths. “You know what I want,” he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that raises gooseflesh on your arms. “What we’ve always wanted.” You swallow, biting your lip as you talk in his massive frame. He leans back against the couch, arms crossing against his chest, tugging the leather tighter across his biceps. “Crawl to me. When you’re ready.”

The command is a spark in dry tinder, electric and commanding, igniting every nerve. You remember the first time he said those words to you, weeks ago. Your heart slams against your ribs, not fear, but power, the choice to surrender to the man who’s both your salvation and your ruin. 

You want him, this twisted devotion that’s been carving itself into your bones since the day you thought he died. Slowly, deliberately, you sink to your knees. The hardwood bites into your palms, cool and unyielding, each inch forward amplifying the heat pooling in your core. The dim light carves shadows across his smug smirk, the scent of rain and gun oil wrapping around you like a drug. Your scrubs whisper against the floor, nipples tightening with every brush of fabric, arousal slicking your thighs, the air thick with want.

Jason watches, eyes hooded, a predator’s smile curling his lips. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, praise warm and molten, laced with heat. “Look at you, so eager, crawling like you’re made for it.”

The words weave sin into worship, igniting a fire that pulses low. You reach him, kneeling between his spread thighs, looking up through your lashes. His hand cups your chin, thumb tracing your lower lip with possessive care, the calluses rough against your softness. “Missed you,” he rasps, voice thick with something raw. “Every fucking night.”

He pulls you onto his lap, your knees straddling his thighs, his erection pressing hard against your core through thin layers, drawing a gasp. His hands roam, peeling off your scrub top with reverent slowness, exposing skin to the cool air. His lips find your neck, hot and deliberate, trailing open-mouthed kisses that leave a trail of fire, teeth grazing just enough to sting. The scruff of his stubble scrapes deliciously, sending shivers radiating outward.

His fingers trace a scar on your ribs, lips following with a soft press. His hands map you like sacred ground, freckles on your shoulder kissed one by one. “Counted these through cams on nights I couldn’t sleep after I came back.” A mole below your navel is nipped gently, “Saw you undress and stroked my cock to it, princess. Thinking about how good you’d feel when I finally got my hands on you.” The confessions are dark, obsessive, fanning the flames of his love, twisted by years of watching from shadows.

You arch into him, gasping as his teeth graze your breast, the sharp sting blending with pleasure. “Jason…” His name is a plea, a prayer.

“Let me take care of you.” His smirk returns, fingers slipping beneath your waistband, peeling away scrubs and panties. The air kisses your slick folds, making you clench. He teases your arousal with slow, deliberate circles, fingers slick with your need, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet. “So wet already. Beg for it, princess. Tell me you need me.”

“Please,” you breathe, the plea a raw, empowering surrender, your voice trembling with the weight of choice. “Need you inside me. Never had… only want it to ever be you.”

Jason’s chuckle is low, filthy, a sound that curls through the air like smoke, settling deep in your bones. “That’s my slut,” he murmurs, “begging so pretty for me.” His eyes, dark and gleaming with predatory intent, hold yours as he leans back, the dim light catching the angles of his face, scarred jaw, stubble, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.

His hand drifts to the coffee table, fingers wrapping around the pistol’s grip with a deliberate slowness that makes your pulse stutter. The metal is cold, unyielding, its gleam a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body. He holds it up, letting the barrel catch the lamplight, a silent reminder of his lethal edge. Your breath catches, arousal and anticipation twisting tighter as he brings it to your skin, the muzzle’s chill kissing the sensitive curve of your inner thigh. The cold bites, a sharp shock against your fevered flesh, sending shivers racing up your spine, your core throbbing with need. He drags it slowly, deliberately, the metal tracing a languid path along the tender skin, teasing closer to the apex of your thighs, where you’re already slick, dripping for him.

“Only me, huh?” he growls, voice dark velvet, thick with possession as he leans closer, his breath hot against your cheek. The pistol moves higher, grazing the crease where thigh meets hip, the cold edge brushing so close to your folds that you gasp, hips twitching involuntarily. “You’re telling me no one’s ever touched you here? No one’s ever had you like this?” His eyes search yours, sharp and demanding, daring you to lie.

“No one,” you whisper, voice shaking but certain, your gaze locked on his. “Only you. Always wanted it to be you.”

His smirk deepens, dangerous and pleased, as the barrel slides upward, tracing the curve of your hip, then higher, over the soft plane of your stomach. The metal’s chill makes your muscles quiver, gooseflesh rising in its wake. “Good girl,” he rasps, voice low and rough, dripping with approval. “You’re mine, then. First and only.” The pistol pauses at the swell of your breast, the cold muzzle circling your nipple with agonizing slowness, the sensitive peak hardening instantly under the touch. You whimper, the sound escaping before you can stop it, your body arching toward him, craving more. The contrast of the gun’s icy edge against your burning skin is electric, every nerve alight, your core clenching around nothing.

He watches you, eyes hooded, drinking in every shudder, every hitch of your breath. “You’d let me fuck you with these hands,” he growls, free hand flexing, the calluses catching the light, hands that have pulled triggers, snapped necks, spilled blood across Gotham’s streets. “Hands that’ve taken lives, princess. Hands that’ve killed.” The pistol dips lower again, teasing along your other thigh, the barrel grazing the sensitive skin so close to your dripping center that you tremble, thighs parting wider on instinct. “And you’re begging for them, aren’t you? Begging for me to be the one to ruin you.”

“Yes,” you gasp, the word spilling out, raw and desperate. The gun’s muzzle brushes the edge of your folds, a fleeting, dangerous touch that sends a jolt of pleasure-pain through you, your clit throbbing under the cold kiss. “Only you, Jason. I swear, no one else. Just you.”

The barrel moves with agonizing slowness, sliding back and forth, your arousal coating the metal, dripping down onto his thighs in a warm, slick trail that makes him growl low in his throat. The contrast of the gun’s icy edge against your burning flesh is overwhelming, each pass amplifying the ache, your hips twitching instinctively to chase the sensation. “But you’re pure for me, aren’t you?” he rasps, voice thick with possession, the pistol’s tip circling your clit now, slick and precise, drawing a choked moan from your lips. “My good girl, saving herself for the man who’d burn this city to ash for her.”

“Yes,” you whimper, the gun’s chill mingling with the searing heat of his words, your body trembling under the weight of his claim. “Yours. Always yours.” Your voice breaks, raw and desperate, as the barrel presses just right, the cold metal nudging your swollen clit with relentless intent, sending jolts of pleasure-pain that make your thighs quake and your breath come in shallow, frantic gasps.

Jason watches, eyes hooded, a predator’s smirk curling his lips as he studies every shudder, every hitch in your breath. “That’s it, princess,” he murmurs, voice dark velvet, the pistol moving faster now, slick with your arousal, gliding through your folds with a wet, obscene sound that fills the quiet room. “Look at you, dripping for me, coming apart on my gun.” The barrel presses harder, circling your clit with a precision that makes your vision blur, your core clenching around nothing, the edge of release so close it hurts.

“Please, Jason,” you gasp, hips bucking against the cold metal, the sensation too much and not enough, your body arching toward him as the pistol’s barrel slides through your slick, teasing your entrance before returning to your clit. “Need you, only you.” Your words are a litany, a vow, as the pleasure coils tighter, banishing any semblance of embarrassment you have, your body trembling under the dual assault of his lethal touch and his filthy promises.

“Only me,” he growls, leaning closer, his lips grazing your neck, teeth nipping at the fading bruise he left days ago. “No one else gets to touch you, see you like this. I’d kill them, princess.” The pistol’s rhythm is relentless now, slick and cold, your arousal making it glide effortlessly, the pressure building to a crescendo. “Gonna make you come on this barrel, mark it with you, so every time I hold it, I remember you falling apart for me.”

The words, the cold metal, the heat of his voice, it’s too much. The coil snaps, pleasure crashing over you in a blinding wave, your body arching off the table, cries spilling from your lips as you come, hard and shuddering, your slick coating the barrel, dripping onto his thighs. The tremors wrack you, your vision spotting white, your core pulsing as he keeps the pistol pressed against your clit, drawing out every last shudder until you’re boneless, gasping, clinging to his shoulders.

He holds you through it, the gun still in his hand, now warm from your heat, a twisted extension of his claim. His forehead drops to yours, breaths harsh and tangled, his free hand cradling your face with a tenderness that contrasts the fire of before. “Mine,” he murmurs, voice raw, softer now, the vulnerability seeping through. “Always fucking mine.”

The pistol dips back into his pocket, its cold gleam lingering like a shadow of his lethal promise, slick with your release, a testament to the ruin he’s wrought. Jason’s hands find your hips, fingers digging into your flesh with a possessive hunger, pulling you flush against him. His erection presses hard through the rough fabric of his pants, a searing reminder of what’s to come, the heat of him bleeding through the layers. “Gonna make sure you feel it,” he growls, voice thick with need, low and guttural, “every inch of me, marking you as mine.”

He doesn’t rush, though, his eyes stay locked on yours, dark with desire but softened by something reverent, as if he’s memorizing the way you tremble beneath him. With a gentle but firm grip, he lifts you from the couch, your legs unsteady, slick thighs brushing together as he guides you toward the bedroom. Your body hums, oversensitive from the climax, far past embarrassment or fear, every shudder, every drip of your need laid bare for him, and you revel in it, in the way he sees you, raw and unashamed.

The mattress dips under his weight as he lowers you onto it, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he follows, looming over you like a storm about to break. He sets the gun on your bed side table and sheds his clothes with swift, practiced movements, jacket falling, shirt tugged off, pants discarded until his cock springs free, thick, veined, glistening with precum. The sight makes your core clench, anticipation sparking anew despite the aftershocks still trembling through you.

He kneels over you, his broad frame a wall of heat and shadow, eclipsing the dim glow of the lamp. His green eyes burn, raw and ravenous, locked on yours as he aligns himself, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance. “Took that so fucking good, princess,” he murmurs, voice rough but laced with awe, his hands sliding up your thighs to spread you wider, thumbs brushing the slick skin with a tenderness that makes your heart stutter. “Came so pretty for me, dripping all over my gun like you were made for it.” The praise washes over you, warm and intoxicating, stripping away any lingering shame, leaving only the pulse of want, the pride in being his.

The stretch of his cock is slow, exquisite, a searing burn as your walls yield, fluttering around his girth, each inch imprinting itself into your nerves. Your breath catches, syncing with the creak of the bedframe. He moves with deliberate care, hips rolling forward, filling you completely, the heat of him overwhelming. “That’s it,” he rasps, leaning down to press his lips to your forehead, a soft contrast to the intensity of his thrusts. “My good girl, taking me so well, like you were always meant to.” His words, his touch, his presence, they anchor you, tether you to this moment, to him, as the world outside fades to nothing.

He moves, hips rolling with deliberate languor, deep thrusts hitting that sweet spot inside, sending electric sparks skittering through your veins. The wet slide of him fills the space, a slick, intimate rhythm weaving with your soft moans, his low groans vibrating against your skin. “All I saw in the dark,” he murmurs, voice a rough caress, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “was you.”

His hand drifts to the table, fingers closing around the pistol’s grip. The metal is cold, unyielding, as he brings it to your skin, the barrel tracing a slow, deliberate line along your collarbone. The chill bites against your fevered flesh, a sharp contrast that makes your breath hitch, nipples tightening under the scrutiny of his gaze. 

“You feel that?” he growls, voice low, edged with danger. “This is me, lethal, but yours.” The barrel dips lower, grazing the swell of your breast, circling a hardened peak, the cold metal drawing a whimper as your core clenches around him, amplifying the heat of his thrusts.

His pace sharpens, thrusts harder, the bedframe protesting. The pistol slides down your sternum, cool and heavy, resting just above your navel, a silent promise of his power. 

“They think you’re untouchable, their shining hero,” he rasps, lips against your ear, breath hot, the gun’s muzzle pressing lightly into your skin, not enough to hurt but enough to thrill. “But here you are, spread for me, letting me fuck you raw with this at your skin, still fucking wet from you coming on it.” The gun drags lower, tracing the curve of your hip, the cold kiss amplifying every thrust, your pulse racing under its lethal caress.

He flips you with swift strength, your knees sinking into the mattress, bound wrists straining against the silk tie. The pistol finds your spine, trailing down the curve of your back, the metal’s chill making you arch, a gasp tearing from your throat. His hands grip your hips, yanking you back onto him, the new angle plunging him deeper, striking nerves that make you sob. Skin slaps skin, a primal echo, your breasts swaying, his balls brushing your clit with every brutal thrust. 

“Gonna fill you up,” he growls, voice thick, primal, as the pistol rests at the base of your spine, its weight a constant reminder of his edge. “Make you carry my kid, mark you inside so deep it sticks.” His hand splays over your abdomen, pressing where his claim might grow, your core clenching, milking him as he slams harder. “Feel that? Gonna put my baby here, princess. No one touches what’s mine.”

The gun slides to your hip, the barrel grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasing closer to where he’s buried inside you. The cold metal brushes your folds, a fleeting, dangerous touch that makes you shudder, arousal spiking sharp and overwhelming as you remember what it felt like to come apart on it. 

“You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs, voice dark velvet, the pistol’s edge nudging your clit again, your body trembling under the dual assault of his cock and the weapon’s lethal promise. “Fucking Bruce and Grayson… what do you think they’d do if you showed up round with mine?” The words are a taunt, laced with his shadowed defiance, a man who’s dancing between savior and destroyer.

Your climax crashes like a storm, his heat flooding you, a scorching rush that drowns your senses. Your cries tangle with his guttural growls, the relentless rhythm unbroken as he spills deep, hot and thick, shaking you to your core. “Take it, princess, mine forever,” he roars, voice breaking, raw and unguarded. The pistol drops to the mattress, forgotten in the heat of release, his hands gripping you tighter as he rides out the waves, murmuring, “Always fucking mine.”

Your bodies still, the air thick with the afterglow, the room heavy with the scent of sex and rain-soaked leather. He collapses against you, his weight a grounding anchor, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. For a moment, neither of you moves, caught in the fragile quiet where the world feels small, just the two of you, tangled in sweat and heartbeat. His fingers linger on your hips, tracing lazy circles, as if reluctant to break the connection, his lips brushing your collarbone with a softness that feels like a confession.

After, his touch softens further, fingers deftly untying the silk, freeing your wrists with a tenderness that contrasts the fire of before. He reaches for a warm cloth, wiping you gently, his touch soothing against your oversensitive skin, careful around where the gun’s cold kiss lingered. “So good for me,” he murmurs, lips grazing your temple, voice soft but laced with that familiar smirk.

You pull him down, guiding him to the bed, his weight settling against you as he rests his head on your chest, ear pressed to the steady thud of your heartbeat. His dark curls tickle your skin, damp from rain and exertion, his breath warm and uneven as he exhales against you. Your fingers trace the lines of his body, finding new scars, jagged, fresh, stories written in flesh. A thin slash across his shoulder, barely healed, pink and raised. “This one?” you ask softly, brushing it with your fingertips.

He shifts, eyes half-lidded, voice low but honest. “Falcone’s enforcer. Got too close last week. Knifed me before I put him down.” Your lips graze the scar, a gentle kiss, and he shudders, hand tightening on your hip.

Another mark, a puckered burn on his forearm. “And this?” Your thumb strokes it, careful not to press too hard.

“Scarecrow’s lab,” he says, quieter now, the memory heavy. “Took a hit from a rigged fuse box when I… when I stopped him.” His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away, letting you see the truth in his eyes, the shadow act of saving Bruce, the shift in his war. You kiss the burn, soft and lingering, and he exhales, a tremor running through him.

Your fingers move to a cluster of faint scars on his ribs, older but new to you. “These?” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates, then speaks, raw and unguarded. “Black Mask’s crew. Took out their safehouse last month. One of ‘em had a chain.” His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Didn’t go down easy.” You lean down, pressing your lips to each mark, tasting the salt of his skin, and he hums, a low, contented sound, his hand sliding up your back to cradle your neck.

You don’t ask what this is, what it will become. The future is a question mark, sharp and uncertain, but the weight of his body against yours, the vulnerability in his answers, is enough for now. “I knew,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest, “the second I came back, I wasn’t letting you go again. Didn’t know how, or what it’d look like, but you were always mine.” His words are a confession, heavy with years of yearning, of fighting to be more than the ghost he became.

You thread your fingers through his hair, heart swelling. “I don’t need you to be anything but you,” you whisper, voice steady. “Just… stay. That’s enough.” You’re grateful for every piece of him, scarred, jagged, alive, back in your arms, no matter how broken.

He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours, soft but fierce. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and the promise feels like a vow, sealed in the quiet of your shared breath.

-

The first light of dawn creeps through the blinds, painting the room in streaks of gold and gray. You rise together, movements quiet but synchronized, a ritual born of years fighting side by side. He dons the Red Hood’s armor now, the crimson helmet resting in his hands, no longer a symbol of vengeance but of something new, purpose, maybe, or penance. You slip into your vigilante gear, the familiar weight of kevlar and utility belts grounding you. His eyes linger on you, a mix of pride and possession, as you adjust your gloves.

He steps close, tilting your chin up, and kisses you, slow, deep, tasting of coffee and resolve. 

“Yours, always.” His voice drops, low and rough, as he pulls back, helmet under his arm, eyes blazing with that dark, jagged love. “And I’ll burn the world to keep it that way.”

You smile, heart steady, and slip out into the city. Gotham wakes, its pulse a low hum of sirens and smog, but you feel his gaze on you as you leap across rooftops, a shadow in the dawn. Protected. Desired. Claimed in the endless night, where love and ruin intertwine.

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[llillacwine]

I owe you a black eye and two kisses.

summary: It's been six months since you last saw the rest of the 11th Street Kids (sans Adebayo's bi-weekly 'checkins' and the occasional instance where you and Harcourt have wound up at the same bar, looking for some jerk's cheekbone to sucker punch). Now, you're on a rooftop surrounded by the whole lot of them, armed with nothing but beer, a carton of Marlboro Reds, and enough denial that anyone would think you're in the first stage of grief. Only, you're not grieving. You just can't stomach the way Adrian still looks at you, even after half a year of you ignoring his yearning, babbling texts, even after you pretended, stoic expression and all, that you didn't kiss him that night at Coverdale Ranch. Oh, well. What happens at Harcourt's stays at Harcourt's...right?

word count: 9.3k. Unedited, duh.

content warnings: Angst, yearning, slow-burn, miscommunication, perceived unrequited feelings, emotional avoidance, reader is a smoker (sorry to all non-smokers, but I would probably also need a cigarette after day in reader's life), demisexual Adrian truther, sexual tension, eventual fluff, Adrian's just down bad, bit of dry humping lol/smut-adjacent, reader is all over the place emotionally lol but good for her, the team all call her 'killer' but it's affectionate! (Also, I kind of wrote this was a reader who was younger than the rest of the 11th Street Kids in mind, i.e., maybe late twenties? So I guess an age-gap is sorta implied, but it's not that big of a deal).

note: I did not expect to write a Peacemaker/Adrian Chase fic, but idk man, I just love him, so we're here I guess.

Inspired by 'Crush' by Ethel Cain.

The trudge up the rickety staircase of Harcourt’s apartment building to the roof shouldn’t be such a painstaking task, but you take each step like it’s an inch closer to the gallows rather than the first gathering in months of the only family you’ve ever really known. Though, you honestly considered not showing your face at all, so you count every step taken as a tiny victory and try to swallow down the bile in your throat, telling yourself it’s too late to leave now. You did the tricky part—you got in your car, you drove here, you stomached the butterflies (too soon…?) fluttering about in your belly when Economos text you to say that the party would be on the rooftop. You’ve saved the world with these dysfunctional motherfuckers, you can manage a few beers and awkward conversations, have the decency to be amiable, and leave. 

You’d think, anyway.

The landing of the staircase creaked underfoot and the steel door to the rooftop was just ajar enough for a warm light to trickle through and over the scruffed toes of your trainers. A smattering of voices reached you—their voices, jumbled up in chaotic sentences as they cut over each other, swore, argued, exchanged ill-tempered fondness, and then…

“Is she coming, or what?” Peacemaker. Obviously—only he could have that petulant of a voice. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes affectionately. Chris was a nightmare, but was your nightmare—all of yours’ nightmare, really. A shared, waspish headache that you admittedly missed.

“She said she would, man,” retorted Adebayo, a saint coming to your defence when you definitely didn’t deserve it, “give her a chance.”

“She is late,” Harcourt interjected, a kind of bite to her voice that you knew meant it was killing her to agree with Peacemaker. “Maybe we should just drink.”

You lingered at the doorway, a pang of guilt for eavesdropping, but the better part of you (rather, the worst) wanted to hear what else they had to say. What he had to say.

Still, it was Economos who chimed in next, a tilt of confusion about him as he said, “I don’t get it. Are you really telling me that none of you have heard from her this entire time? I know she’s, like, a mega bitch and everything—”

Thanks, John, you thought sourly, missed you too, man.

“I mean,” cut in Adebayo timidly, and you can vaguely imagine her grimace, “I see her every week. Though, it’s kind of against her will…”

“I’ve seen her a couple times. At bars and stuff,” said Harcourt tersely. 

You’re grateful for that. It was odd, for you to care so much, but you really didn’t want the others knowing what brought you to those bars. Harcourt knowing was one thing—she understood you in ways that the rest of them never really could. You had matching bruises on your knuckles, a swelling that never really went down, litanies of cuts and scars. And, a ribbon of violence that traced the stubborn length of you traced the very same length of Emilia Harcourt, too. You both wound up at those bars not looking for a cheap drink, but an even cheaper thrill, the kind that left you choking on blood in a dingy alleyway and nursing a migraine the next day. Sore ribs, split lips. The kind of violence that was pried from you after Adebayo’s fuck-up of a press conference.

Fuck Amanda Waller.

If only Peacemaker had the same discretion as Harcourt.

“I’ve seen her, too,” he added argumentatively, as if it was a competition. “Yeah,” Chris said contentiously, and you could only assume they had all turned to level him with suspicious looks, “that’s right! She came around a few times and we got high together. Beat that.” 

You pinched the bridge of your nose, wondering when was the best time to walk outside and put an end to it all.

Then, you heard him. A soft, pitchy rejection in his tone that made your heart ache.

“Has everyone seen her but me?” Adrian asked solemnly.

“Uhhhh…” Economos, again, “I haven’t, buddy, so…” 

“That doesn’t count! You haven’t even been here, dude. I live, like, a few blocks from her—” Wait, how does he know where you live? “—and I haven’t seen her at all since—”

“Hi, guys,” you blurted, rushing out onto the rooftop. 

Adebayo exclaimed your name, the others echoing it happily. She met you halfway, yanking you into a hug that was warm, and loving, and so sudden that you almost forgot about the welt on your ribcage—the swollen, bluing aftermath of a nasty blow delivered to your middle last night from some burly biker. You hissed, blanching at first, but recovering quickly enough to sling an arm around her waist and squeeze.

“Hey, Ads,” you mumbled, laughing softly.

“I knew you’d come,” she said proudly. “C’mon, girl, let’s drink!”

She dragged you over to the rest of the group, and you tried not to grimace at the dull ache in your ribs. A bunch of lopsided grins greeted you, Adrian’s shoulder touching yours just enough for you to flinch and swap places with Peacemaker, sidling up next to Harcourt.

“Hi, you,” she muttered, bumping shoulders with you. The glint in her eyes was knowing and conspiratorial, and the sutures over her eyebrow were an unsettling comfort to your own wound. 

“Thanks for inviting me,” you said airily in return, still not glancing at everyone properly.

“Fuck,” whistled Economos, “anyone would think you’re the guest of honour.”

You slanted him a crooked grin. “Jealous, John?”

“Pfft. Nah. Just glad to see you.” He gave you a brotherly jab to the shoulder. 

The kinder they kept on being to you, the more that ribbon of guilt and violence throbbed. Right now, it stung the most in your side, with that pulsing bruise. Second only to the burning against the side of your face, where Adrian’s gaze was surely trying to gouge holes into your skull—maybe with the intent of unspooling your brain, trifling through all of your thoughts to see if any of them were about him. 

(Most of them were, really. You hoped he never managed to figure his wormy little way into your head, like he has s swith the another troubling organ of yours). 

“Here, killer.” Peacemaker unceremoniously thrust a beer bottle into your hands, flashing you a smirk. “Remind us, how many butterflies did you kill that night? Twenty?”

“Nah,” laughed Adebayo, “more like thirty!”

“Fifty-six,” you said in faux-modesty, trying to muster a smile.

“Fifty-fucking-six!” yelled Peacemaker. “A toast,” he said then, smiling around at the lot of you in that circle, holding beer bottles and suppressed feelings, a fracturing of old wounds and new, “to the 11th Street Kids! We came, we motherfucking rocked it! No matter how far away we are from each other—even our boy Economos, and Little Miss Avoidance over here—!” you winced, trying to grit your teeth and bare them through the shameful heat in your cheeks, “no one will ever break us apart!”

The delicate tinkering of glass bottles knocking together in a toast and everyone’s cheers made your most genuine smile yet tug at your mouth. Peacemaker was clapping Adebayo on the back with an accidental amount of aggression, overexcitedly saying an impassioned, “fuck yeah!” after his first swig of beer. Harcourt stole a furtive wink your way as Economos’s hand companionably squeezed your shoulder. And, just across the makeshift circle you had all made for Chris’s little speech, Adrian’s eyes didn’t leave you. 

Ashamed, you tried to tuck your head behind the bottle, chugging at the lukewarm beer until there was nothing but dregs in it and a settled, bloating warmth in your belly. When you resurfaced, he was still staring at you with a kind of woundedness that wasn’t too dissimilar from a kicked dog. In fact, Adrian Chase had always been rather doglike. Biting at a bone of his own salvaging at the feet of whoever would kick him the hardest, just to see if he’d crawl back—usually Peacemaker. But now, Adrian seemed to be dangling on the leash of your rejection instead. You silently wondered if it was some masochistic thing of his (you wouldn’t put it past him to get off on being ignored for six months). 

“C’mon.” Harcourt’s hand touched your elbow, and you suddenly remembered that you were on her rooftop, that this was a party and not a punishment. “You got a smoke?” 

“Do I?” you scoffed, taking out a carton of Marlboros from the inside of your jacket. 

Harcourt looked at you like you were a saint. “I missed you. Did I mention that?”

“Not yet,” you teased, bumping shoulders with her as she walked the two of you over to the roof’s edge, “missed you too, though. S’pose I owe you one, though.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that, then?” she challenged as she exchanged one of your cigarettes for a fresh bottle of beer.

“For…you know,” you muttered, leaning in, glancing briefly over your shoulder to where the others were standing in the same spot, belly-laughing over something, “not telling the others about stuff.”

“Can a woman not have secrets?” Harcourt’s wry smile got lost in a puff of smoke, but the sentiment wasn’t lost on you.

“I guess you’re right.” 

“Speaking of,” the teasing nature of her voice also wasn’t lost on you, “are you going to talk to him at all tonight?”

“Oh, for fuck’s—” You jammed your own cigarette between your lips. “I told you about that in confidence.”

Harcourt laughed good-naturedly. “Probably a mistake.”

“What happened to a woman having secrets?”

“I mean, I had to break it to you, killer, but it’s not really much of a secret,” she told you what you already feared. You swallowed thickly, taking a particularly sharp drag. Her smile was weakly comforting as she knocked a spiral of charred ash against the ledge. “I think he told, like, everyone he knew. Even the nurses at the hospital—”

“Yeah, thanks,” you said hoarsely.

“...and his mom…” 

“Yep, that’s—”

“Remember Judomaster? I’m pretty sure he told him, too.”

“Okay, I get the gist, Harcourt,” you seethed. She laughed at your misfortune, blowing the smoke out the corner of her mouth as it curved into a lopsided grin. She looked far too self-satisfied, and you couldn’t help but shatter her smugness. “Well, you know who else talks, don’t you?” That shut her up cold. “Yup. Peacemaker. Last time I saw him, he was going on and on about some kind of party boat—”

“All right, killer. You proved your point,” interjected Harcourt indignantly, cutting a harsh glare over her shoulder to make sure the others weren’t listening. Fortunately for the both of you, they seemed pretty distracted by a heated competition between Chris and Economos to see who could neck a bottle of beer first. Then, she levelled you with a quiet, disconcerting sort of look. “So, you see him often then? Peacemaker…” 

You and Harcourt grew up on similar cutthroat principles and training. You were both taught to keep your face straight and thoughts private, but you were also taught how to gauge other people’s. So, it wasn’t as much of a slight against her ability to micro-manage her expressions as it was a talent of yours to know her better than you knew yourself. And it was there, transparent as anything, a muted tinge of almost-jealousy at the idea of you and Peacemaker having regular hang-outs. 

Even though you couldn’t think of anything worse than being around Chris more than a few hours at a time, you felt for her. Really, you did. It would be a lie if you tried convincing yourself that you hadn’t thought about the half-chance, mad possibility that Adrian had somehow found a girl who knew just as many niche facts about animals as he did. 

“No,” you said gently, stubbing out your cigarette before placing your hand on her shoulder. “Not as often as I see you.” 

Harcourt smiled impishly. “Women, secrets, et cetera.” Just then, her eyes glanced inadvertently over your shoulder and rolled exasperatedly. “Oh, fuck.”

You looked too, a hand lifting to muffle your snorted laughter when you saw Chris mimicking a fishhook to reel Harcourt in. When she just glared contemptuously at him, staying firmly at your side, he feigned an impatient sigh and propped his leg up against the nearby step for leverage, pretending to wrestle more with the bait. 

“Go on,” you teased, mouth at the shell of her ear. Neither of you missed the way Chris swallowed thickly, or the ruddiness on the nape of his neck. You felt Harcourt stiffen under the hand still on her shoulder. “I don’t think he’s gonna give up ‘til you talk to him.”

“And what about you, huh?” she demanded, still making lethal, unflinching eye-contact with Peacemaker. “Are you gonna talk to Vig?”

“Suck my dick, Harcourt. Or, better yet, Peacemaker’s!” And you marched right over to the others. You waved your empty bottle at Economos. “I’m all empty, old man.”

“Old—old fucking man—” 

“Here you go!” Adrian was snatching the empty bottle from you and replacing it a little too fervently with a fresh one, the liquid capsizing and splashing onto your wrist. He panicked instantly, launching himself at you with the hem of his shirt coming to dab at the stickiness. “Shit! I’m sorry, that was—oh, fuck—”

“S’fine,” you muttered, stealing your arm away from him before the maroon of his button-up could touch the drying tackiness on your wristbone. You ignored the rejected squint of his eyes behind those slutty glasses of his, turning to Economos and Adebayo as you cocked your head to a little table. “Wanna sit?” 

Adebayo stared at you knowingly. “Oh, uh, maybe we should…Adrian…”

“Hey, no, that’s…” Adrian was blinking very quickly, a sheepish red dusting his cheeks, “that’s no sweat! Look, hey, it’s Peacemaker. My bestie. I’ll, uh, I’m gonna catch him and Harcourt up on all the cool new spider facts I know. Like, did you know—jumping spider mothers produce spider milk—”

“Sounds good, buddy,” said Economos, patting him on the back.

You sit with Economos and Adebayo for almost an hour of back-n-forth gossiping. In that time, you knock back another three and a half bottles of beer. Warmth swelled in your stomach, dulling the bruise on your ribs, trickling through to your heart. The corners of your vision felt fuzzy with a twinkling that could either have been the booze, the fairy-lights, or the presence of your friends. 

It seemed Harcourt was right, though. Everyone really did know about you and Adrian, including Economos and Adebayo, who tormented you relentlessly about it. Adebayo had already spent the last six months of not-so-subtly checking in on you torturing you about the whole thing, so her taunts weren’t as creative or half as crude as Economos’s. You bristled over all their teasing, pretending that it didn’t needle you at all. But, your gaze kept drifting to him—this ball of energy bouncing between Harcourt and Peacemaker, still doglike in nature, still looking over to you every few minutes, still handsome in that nerdy way that made your head spin. He looked better though, you thought decidedly, as Economos and Adebayo grasped at each other through their laughter at your expense (“—do you think he’d tell her about spider mating rituals whilst he’s balls-deep?” howled John). He was cute before; infuriating, yeah, but there was a bigger reason why you couldn’t be around him (if it was purely his ability to frustrate you to no end, you similarly wouldn’t hang around Peacemaker). 

Now, it was worse. Now, his mousy curls had a fluffiness to them they didn’t have when you last saw him, a tousled softness that made them fall all dishevelled and pretty over his forehead—one lock of hair even touching the frame of those aviator glasses of his that you remember the silver press of against your forehead when he kissed you—Fuck. No. You’re not going to think about that. You’re not. 

You explicitly told yourself you wouldn't think about it at all tonight, in fact.

Then again, you already had. Ensuingly, you couldn’t quite stop. And now, your mind seemed to be slipping through your fingers as easily as water. Enough so that you lost all your wits and forgot to keep track of how long each of his stolen glances last, how often he looked over, and for the first time that night, your eyes met. Your lungs emptied. The words on Adrian’s tongue died and he looked to be briefly choking on his own saliva as Harcourt and Peacemaker continued to talk amongst themselves, ignoring his coughs. Lamely, you couldn’t seem to look away. Even when he settled, swallowing threadily against the tightness in his throat, even when you notice the sweet dilation of his pupils and the tug of a bright smile at his lips, even when he fucking waved at you, boyish and stupid, and God, you hate him. You hated him so much. And you’re thinking about it again. You’re thinking about it so much, you were back there, at Coverdale Ranch, the sky bruised-blue, a bullet-grazed wound at your thigh, stinging as you knelt shakily in the bloodied dirt at Adrian’s side.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Six months ago.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you were chanting, smothering one dirtied palm against your own exit wound and using your other trembling hand to slap gingerly at Adrian’s masked face. “Vigilante? Hey…hey, c’mon, you’re…you’re okay. Right? C’mon, wake up.” He didn’t move. Your throat ached. “No, shit. Fuck you,” you seethed, prying your hand away from your thigh and using it seize his mask, tearing it off. You tapped a bit more aggressively now at his bare face, smearing your blood against his skin. “Fuck you, you motherfucker. Wake up.”

His eyes didn’t flicker, his mouth didn’t twitch into some shit-eating grin, his nose didn’t so much as twitch. You stifled a whimper against your shoulder, cradling his unmoving face, splaying your fingers against the curve of his jaw. Your blood haemorrhaged with his.

“Fuck!” you shouted, thready with tears. 

Heart sore and heavy in your throat, you whipped around, looking for the others. The battlefield was a blur of severed limbs, butchered butterflies, viscera, but you couldn’t make out a single member of your team. Not through all the bloodshed, nor the shameful tears gathering in your waterline, and especially not the pulsating agony in your thigh. That pain seemed to take a throbbing backseat with Adrian, lifeless, in your lap, though. It didn’t matter that a bullet grazed at your flesh, leaving it blistery and red and so tender you could sob. It did matter, however, that the insufferable guy who couldn’t keep his mouth shut that you spent the last few weeks pretending to loathe was bleeding out in front of you. That you saw him, minutes ago, get shot in what you thought might be the base of his spine. But you couldn’t have been sure, not with the smattering of gunpowder and screams and butterflies dropping dead at your feet. 

The air reeked of cadaverine and gunsmoke and the stench of your own humiliating denial. You swore you hated him. You swore it. Even when Harcourt jabbed you in the ribs with an elbow, rolling her eyes when you vehemently denied any kind of attraction towards the loudmouthed weirdo whatsoever. Even when Peacemaker told you, laughing so hard that he had to grab at his belly, that Vigilante complained to him about a ‘raging hard-on’ after watching you kill a guy.

“Oh, hey…Why’s your face all wet?” Adrian. That little shit. You were too relieved to let go of his face. Too startled to notice the tears rolling down your muddy cheeks. Adrian’s eyes blinked in slow realisation. “Oh, shit! Are you crying—were you crying over me? Naw, man. Peacemaker’s not gonna believe this!” 

You stared at him in disbelief. “You were shot. I saw it. He…” You thumbed viciously at his cheekbone, a hoarseness to your throat that wouldn’t go away, “he shot you in the back. You were dead. I thought—”

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, the pet-name awkward on his tongue, airy too through the weakness still in his body as he feebly waved a pathetic hand at his side, “it’ll take a lot more than a bullet to the spine to kill me.”

“That’s…” you blinked at him, “that’s literally not—”

“Holy fuck. Your thigh.” Adrian suddenly launched himself upright, barely swearing under his breath at his own pain—too busy ghosting his fingers tenderly around the sensitive, bullet-torn skin of your thigh. “That looks sore. Not your thighs,” he pouted then sullenly, “I liked them.”

“It’ll take more than a bullet to the thigh to kill me,” you mumbled wryly, hands limp in your lap now.

Adrian met your eyes, his own brighter than you’d ever seen them, even now, in the dead of night. “Touché.” 

You noticed, then, his fingers were still touching the bare skin of your thigh where the bullet had frayed the black ripstop of your combat trousers. The callus pads of them felt surprisingly nice against your skin, caressing clumsy circles around the raw gash.

“I didn’t know you liked my thighs,” you said quietly, closely minding the soft ministrations of his fingers.

“I didn’t know you liked me,” he retorted, slanting you a haughty smirk. “Not enough to cry over my dead body, anyway!”

“You’re not dead,” you snarked.

“Even worse. That means you cried over my perfectly healthy body. That’s a little fucked, killer.”

“Perfectly healthy—Vig, he shot you in the tailbone. I don’t know how you’re not paralysed from the waist down,” you said indignantly, hoping he wouldn’t notice your blatant deflecting.

Though, he did. Of course he did.

“Potato, potahto.” He lifted his other hand, using his thumb to gently wipe away a smear of blood against your cheek. “You were worried about me.”

“I’d be worried about any of you if you got shot,” you said defensively.

“Harcourt got shot. Like, twice,” Adrian remarked, matter-of-fact.

You startled. “She, what? When? I didn’t—fuck, is she—”

“She’s fine,” said Adrian lamely, “Economos is with her. She’s a tough cookie, killer.”

“You’re insufferable, Adrian. Seriously. You’re a sick fuck, and…and I wish you did die—”

“No, you don’t!” he insisted happily.

“I do. I really, really do—”

“You would’ve cried,” he said, giggling as he brushed his thumb over your browbone, next. “Well,” Adrian supplied impishly, “you already did cry. But, like, more. God, this is amazing. Peacemaker’s gonna be so stoked for me, man. He so owes me, too. I was telling him, bestie, she so likes me back, I can tell. And he was all, dude, she fucking hates your guts. And I was like, no, she just pretends to hate my guts, but really, she wants me so freaking bad—” 

It was to shut him up, you’d later convince yourself during sleepless nights of heated shame and yearning agony, cutting yourself up into ribbons as you fought the impulse to slip your hand into your panties and think about it all over again…It was to shut him up. 

One hand snatching the nape of his neck, the sweat-slick tufts of curled, damp hair there, the other tentatively touching the stricken column of his throat, your mouth covering his. Hot, and heavy, and angry enough that your teeth nicked his bottom lip as soon as a surprised, pretty whimper left him at the feeling of your chest pressing against his. He didn’t kiss you back at first, too taken aback—his nails even accidentally sunk into the uninjured meat of your thigh, a delicious kind of neediness to the pressure that made you kiss him even harder. Then, his mouth was melting against yours, and it was messy, and lusty, and his other hand started gripping at the small of your waist, prettily groaning into you. A smirk of your own carved its way into the kiss, so smug and self-effacing at the little sounds you were earning simply from a kiss. But then Adrian was yanking you into his lap with little effort at all (still, a sweet noise of shit, sorry breathed against you when you hissed at the sting in your thigh), and both of his arms were around your waist, and suddenly, without you really understanding how, he had the upper hand.

You mourned longingly for the power, his hands kneading at your hips as he kissed you without coordination or any particular skill, but for what he lacked in experience, he made up for in the kind of enthusiasm that made your head spin. Tongue, and desire, and the gentle massaging of your waist. 

“Hang—” he pecked your lips chastely, swaying as he leant back, “hang on. M’so sorry—just wanna—God, I could kiss you forever, I just, I gotta—” You yearned to kiss him again. To grab him by the shoulders, to meld your ribs together, to kiss him ‘til his lungs were blue. Instead, you sat back onto your haunches, feeling incredibly greedy and a tad bit humiliated at the hunger sitting dormant in the pit of your belly as your heavy-lidded eyes watched him fumble for something in the inside of his costume. There was a terrible, maddening moment where you earnestly thought that the kiss was bad for him—were you too eager, did you bite his lip too hard, had you humiliated yourself—then, he was clumsily flattening his glasses to his face, grinning at you almost drunkenly through his returned vision. And suddenly, Adrian Chase was looking at you like you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. “Sorry,” he said abashedly, “wanted to see you whilst we—”

Preciously, his voice cracked. A flustered pink touched his cheeks, rosy and callow. To surmise, he gestured bewilderedly at the two of you, his mouth kiss-swollen, yours resisting a grin. 

You stared at him, breathing raggedly as the tang of copper settled heady on your tongue.

“You’re such an idiot,” you whispered, with barely contained desire.

“Yeah,” Adrian agreed frantically, “m’whatever you want. Can you—do you wanna—could I—” 

You kissed him hard enough to knock him back flat against the grass, swallowing the grunt of pain he muffled passionately against you as his wound touched the ground. Adrian’s hands returned to your hips, grabbing at them, pulling you down until you were flush against him, and you were both all bloodied and breathless in the dirt, making out like teenagers in a cheesy slasher flick. The frames of his glasses pressed obnoxiously against you, askew and cool against the sweat-beaded skin of your forehead. 

Not that you cared. Not that you’d acknowledge at all until after, when you miserably noted the dent they etched just above your browbone. Instead, you kissed him harder. Frantic, starved, teeth-clashing in that awkward kind of way that was reminiscent of your first kiss—part of you wondered if this was Adrian’s (an uglier part secretly hoped it was). As you briefly tugged his bottom lip between your teeth, Adrian let out this strangled, pretty sound that was half-whimper, half-laugh, as if he couldn’t believe this was actually happening after weeks of pining after you like a rotten dog whose canines might fall out. His tongue slid desperately against yours, in a sacred, needy tangle that made you wonder if it was his way of convincing himself that this was real, that you were actually kissing him senseless. 

Mercifully, you decided to offer him something else to anchor him to the moment—however fleeting or impulsive. Your fingers dragged through his hair, tugging at his curls hard enough to make his breath hitch. It couldn’t have gone better; his hips twitching up frantically, clumsy, without thought or reason, only need. The sting of the torn, lacerated flesh in your thigh should’ve been unbearable, but the heat in your belly drowned it out. Every nerve was Adrian—his taste, the jutting up of his thigh coming to rest between your legs, the way he squeezed at your hips as if you might slip between his fingers. 

He kept on kissing you. On paper, it was a disaster; spit-slick and rhythmless, but you didn’t want anything more. You wanted the raw hunger of him, the devotion that spilled out through the unhinged, neurotic cracks. You wanted him pawing at you like some kind of starved virgin, trying to invert himself and fold you into the aching stomach of his yearning want. Every time you pried away for air, he chased your mouth with his own, his lips all pillowy and soft and dewy, whining softly at the absence until you gave in again, lips crashing back against his so hard you thought it might leave you with matching bruises as well as bullet-wounds.

You licked into him, shameless, greedy, digesting every last depraved sound he was making as if it might keep you sated and full for the rest of your debauched life. Adrian arched into you, thumb stroking your hipbone now where your black tee had ridden up enough to give him an inch of skin.

“Fuck, shit, you’re,” he was panting now, voice trembing, “you taste real good, killer, like…is this how kissing is actually supposed to be, ‘cause…why don’t people kiss more, this is…” 

“Do you ever stop talking?” you murmured against him, kissing him again, lazier this time, somehow sloppier. 

Adrian’s hands got so needy that they dragged your hips just right against the chiselled ridges of his suit, and it was all over. You moaned, pitchily, right into his mouth, before flying back, lips leaving his, your hands grasping for purchase on his bent knees behind you. Embarrassment twined in your belly, right alongside the desire curling up like a snake. They both sat in unison, preening and laughing at you in the middle of all your twisted organs and buried appetites.

Reality seemed to sink back in. Finally. It returned, first, with the white-hot stabbing of mangled nerve-endings in your thigh. Then, the bloodbath around you—the dismembered limbs and actual puddles of blood, the fluttering of limp wings from the exorcised butterflies, freed from their meat-suits. All of it flooding back into your vision with a sea of scintillating dots, until: Adrian. Underneath you, awestruck and achingly handsome. Glasses still crooked, fogged a little, but his eyes still on you, blown and pretty and reverent. He kept one hand on your waist, thumb still circling your hipbone, but the other returned to your high, to the frayed material of your trousers, to the bare skin around the gash.

“Hey, knuckleheads!” Peacemaker’s voice carried over all the debris and corpses. You couldn’t quite make him out through the wreckage of the barn, but his voice alone was enough to frighten you and have you smearing Adrian’s spit from your lips. 

“Fuck,” you hissed, staggering to your feet. The pressure it put onto your thigh was almost blinding. Adrian was next to you in a beat, trying to steady you, putting a sweet hand to the small of your back, wonderful and caring and— “Adrian, fuck off!”

He flinched, retracting his hand with the haste of a child that touched something too-hot and was scorned for it. His wide eyes blinked at you far too innocently for someone covered in blood-splatters and viscera and the remnants of butchered organs, still kiss-bitten.

“I was just—” 

“Helping?” you sneered, swiping spit and regret from your mouth, a bead of his blood, too, onto the back of your hand. “Yeah, fuck you, Adrian. Christ, what the fuck was that?” 

Vigilante’s expression was so guileless it almost hurt. “That was you kissing me.” He blinked, slow. A kicked puppy who didn’t understand the rejection. His mouth twitched into a crooked smile. “And it was—wow, holy shit, it was—”

“Don’t!” 

Peacemaker yelled both of your names again. “You two better not be dead over there because I swear to God—” 

You grabbed Adrian by the collar of his ridiculous suit, yanking him close enough that you could see the slight cut in his bottom lip from your teeth. “If you say one word about this to anyone, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes myself. And we’ll really put your it’ll take more than a bullet to kill you bullshit to the test.” 

At first, Adrian swallowed, thick and hollow, so vehemently that you heard it. Then, after a long beat, and his eyes flicking feverishly between your mouth and your malicious gaze, he did something grotesquely irritating.

He fucking smiled.

“Cool!” he said brightly. “So you’re saying this is just between us. Real sexy,” he winked. “C’mon, killer.” 

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“—Oh, girl, you’ve got it bad.” 

Right. The rooftop. Harcourt’s. The taste of him lingering with the stale tang of beer on your tongue. Adebayo and Economos, laughing at you. Worse of it all, across the roof, Adrian was still looking at you, grinning at you happily and beckoning you over.

“Shut up,” you said witheringly, blinking back at Adebayo and Economos. “No, I don’t.”

“You do,” wheezed Economos, “you really do. Fuck. I mean, I don’t see it—but I’m happy for you, if that’s what you’re into.”

“I’m not—” You shut yourself up before you could dig a bigger hole. Their laughter got louder, and Adrian had finally stopped trying to wave you over in your periphery. You glanced miserably at your empty bottle. “I need another drink.”

“She’s thirsty, she means,” Adebayo cackled, grabbing Economos’s arm as they both doubled over.

“Oh, you can all eat shit!” you snapped, storming over to the crate of beers.

For the next hour, you tried to make yourself scarce. Peacemaker tried dragging you into a conversation at one point, but as soon as he mentioned the moon-eyed look Adrian kept throwing your way, you stalked off. Punk-rock was blaring from a speaker that was probably stolen from one of Harcourt’s neighbours and you were chain-smoking on a sunlounger. 

“Are you going to sit here all night?” Harcourt perched herself next to you on the deck chair, pinching your cigarette from you.

You snatched it back, slanting her a mock-stern glare. “Maybe.” You glanced sparingly over her shoulder at the others, a frown pushing your brows down. “Where did Peacemaker go?”

“Fuck if I care,” she said too quickly.

“Sure.”

“Don’t start. He’s been trying to get your attention all night,” she remarked, “and you’ve ignored him the whole time. At least I spoke to Chris.”

“Nothing to talk about,” you replied flippantly, taking a swig of your drink.

“I can think of one thing.”

“Emilia.”

She rolled her eyes at you, affectionately, and levelled you with a droll look as she called you by your name, too—not killer, but your name; just as severe (if not a little teasing) as you said hers.

“Hey, what the fuck? This was brand new, man, you can’t just—” You both looked over, and even you couldn’t stop the laugh that fell out of you at the pathetic sight of Adrian’s maroon shirt now drenched in foamy beer, some of it dripping from his curls and flattening them to his damp forehead. “Naw, dude, I liked this shirt! So unsanitary—”

“Lighten up, Adrian!” Economos snorted, already shaking up a second beer. 

“Yeah, man,” said Adebayo brightly, “I think you look great. ‘Should be your new look, really.”

“Oh, fuck both of you!” 

“He’s an idiot,” said Harcourt fondly, but she was staring at you.

“Yeah,” you muttered bitterly, finishing off your drink as Adebayo started to empty another onto him, “he is.”

“That’s—” Adrian choked as some of it fell into his mouth, indignant, “that’s it!” 

He was suddenly ridding himself of his shirt, the material desperately clinging to his saturated skin as he peeled it off. He was saying something obnoxious and loud to the others as he wrung out the beer, dropping it to the concrete floor with a splat, but you couldn't really hear. Not with the new planes of skin available to your starved gaze—chiselled abs, a toned chest, wet and glistening from the beer that seeped through his shirt, and the beer your friends continued to spray him with.

All of a sudden, it felt like your heart had lodged itself in your throat and was trying to work its way out of all the cartilaginous knots and sinews there. You knew he had to be built to some degree, because of his moonlighting as Vigilante—shit, you’d seen him fight, you’d seen him butcher people. This shouldn’t be such a shocker to you, but it felt like a sucker-punch all the same, to see him like this: all lean muscle and sharp lines and an angled V-line that had your eyes raking over the white waistband of his underwear peeking through his ruined jeans. 

You felt sick.

“Might as well take it all off, dude,” said Adebayo mournfully, Economos shaking another right down Adrian’s bare torso. 

Maybe this was a punishment, actually. Maybe this was some kind of fucked-up torture method they all arranged before you got here, to get back at you for being so flighty.

Adrian was talking about the totally unscientific possibility of beer-acid burning his ‘sensitive skin’ as he hastily started to unbuckle his belt—with one hand, could someone put you out of your misery? His thumb popped open the button of his jeans, same hand working to undo the zip, and he was stepping out of them with a boyish grin now, apparently not minding being drenched in lukewarm beer as much now he was almost naked. Almost, key word. Still clinging to him, indecently and drenched, leaving very little to the imagination, was a pair of white-briefs, and fuck—was Vigilante packing?

 “Fuck me,” you whispered darkly.

“I’m sure he would,” smirked Harcourt, “if you asked nicely.” 

You stared at her in betrayed horror as she got up, stalking over to join in, spraying him with a can of her own. And it really did feel like betrayal, because what the fuck? Was nobody else seeing what you were seeing? 

Adrian, drenched and oblivious, genuinely looked like he had been cut and carved to flagellate all the carnal parts of you that wanted things you couldn't have. Skin hot and glistening under the fairy-lights, muscles flexing as he craned his neck back to gulp down some of the beer showering down on him. Laughing through all of it, like this was a joke, like it was funny at all—boyish and insufferable, an arrogance lilt to it, you thought sourly. He was doing this on purpose. He was doing it to belittle you and make you feel small, and silly, and guilty for ignoring him—it was the only explanation.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” you announced in an awkward, pained blurt. The others waved you off absently, brief ok!’s and a giggly Adebayo bidding you a, don’t fall down the stairs, girl! You almost forgot to take Harcourt’s keys off of her, but she dangled them in front of your eyes with a smirk as you brushed past, and you snatched them, hastening to the stairwell. 

And, honestly, if it wasn’t for Adebayo’s wry tease making you hyper-conscious, you might’ve actually fallen down the stairs in your haphazard stumble. Frantic need and shame carried you, hand tracing chipped drywall or the steel of the banister, sweat-slick. The other clutched so tightly at Harcourt’s keys that you felt them bite at your skin enough to draw blood.

Her apartment offered a solace, even in its sparseness and the shadows. It reeked of black coffee and bleach—rubbing alcohol, maybe, from tending to her own wounds. The nostalgic, chemical smell made you subconsciously touch the bruise on your ribs and flinch at the tenderness. Your feet carried you to the paltry bathroom, rummaging through the mirrored cupboard over her wash-basin until you found a roll of gauze, a wad of cotton pads, and some antiseptic.

“Fuck it,” you said to yourself, rolling up the cotton of your plain tee and tucking it between your teeth. The bruise on your ribs was gnarly. Just looking at it made you feel nauseous. Where the guy’s signet ring bullied at your abdomen had left a bunch of raw scrapes, small pearls of blood trickling from the tiny sutures you stitched the night before that must’ve torn tonight. You dabbed at it with a cotton pad drenched in bactericidal and hissed through the material of your t-shirt stuffed in your mouth. “Shit, motherfucker, ouch—”

“Hey, killer, are you peeing in there?” Great. Could your night get any worse? “It’s me—Adrian, if you forgot how my voice sounds. Hah.” You kept quiet, incisors sinking into your tongue. How did you not even hear him enter the door? Was he really that good? “Erm, the others sent me to check on you. I dunno why either. Like, I thought Harcourt, maybe—’cause, you two are obviously besties now, or whatever. Not that I care. Peacemaker’s still my BFF. Eagly’s second. And you’re…” You heard something then, not quite footfall, but softer. You swore it sounded like his forehead resting gingerly against the other side of the door, but you cursed yourself for even thinking about it. “You’re still the coolest person I know,” he finished gently, quieter than you’d heard him all night.

Hardening your jaw, you dropped the cotton pad into the sink. It was rosy with your blood, pinkish as it touched the damp ceramic. You didn’t respond to him. You even tried not to breathe.

“Hey, can I, erm…Can I come in? Or not, that’s okay, too. I can just sit here, y’know, and wait for you to…” He went silent. You tread as softly as you could to the door, mirroring him as you rested your forehead against the wood. “Did you know that male spiders die after mating? Yeah,” Adrian said enthusiastically, when you let out a little scoff, “sexual cannibalism kind of thing. It’s freaky as hell, but, like. Ain’t that romantic? They want to bone so bad that they fuck these black widows and orb-weavers, knowing she’ll kill him afterwards and eat him right up.”

You let your fingers hover over the doorknob. “Sounds pretty masochistic to me, not romantic.” 

Adrian’s laugh was shaky, like he couldn’t quite believe those were the first words you had for him in months. “Romantic,” he argued, a bit pitchy.

“It’s cannibalism, Adrian.”

“It’s love.” The earnestness in his voice almost made you laugh. Almost.

“If your definition of love involves a black widow eating her partner after sex, you’re crazier than I thought,” you replied, snorting.

“Fine. Call it a grand gesture. Call it commitment to the spider-vagina. I don’t know. Call it terrible natural selection. The point is that they know the woman-spider is going to kill them and eat them for breakfast, but…they try, anyway. And Peacemaker keeps telling me that you’d probably eat me up—metaphorically, of course. He doesn’t think you’re a cannibal or anything. But, yeah, he reckons I don’t stand a chance. And I don’t. I didn’t want to. I—” Adrian swallowed hard, a bit of a croakiness to his voice that you desperately tried not to find attractive, but it made your knees weak. “I want you to eat me like a spider, killer.”

All right. You weren’t expecting that.

“You’re such a fucking weirdo, Adrian,” you said with nothing but fondness (and maybe a tinge of incredulity).

“Can I see your face?” 

The question—so innocent in nature, thready with emotion—made you have to physically grip onto the doorknob so as to not melt into the tiled floor of Harcourt’s shoebox bathroom. It made you think about him clumsily fumbling to put his glasses on mid-kiss so he could see you. It made you think about a few days after the night at the ranch, after you were discharged from the hospital and Peacemaker came to see you at your apartment, brandishing a blunt like an olive branch and telling you that Adrian had begged the nurses to let you see him—not realising it was you who requested that he would be blackbooked from the visiting hours.

“Adrian, I don’t—”

“Please?” Shit.

You opened the door. It wasn’t lost on either of you that he could’ve easily opened it himself, it wasn’t as if it was locked, or that he didn’t have an insane amount of strength in those arms of his. Thus you were reminded when you saw him there, lingering in the dimness of Harcourt’s hallway, ridiculous in just his jeans, the obscene tighty-whities still clinging to his hips, but his chest bare and slick with beer that had dried tacky against his torso.

“You look really pretty,” he offered lamely.

“You’re shirtless,” you said, somehow even more lame.

Adrian grinned awkwardly, all teeth. “Yeah, uh, I don’t know if you saw but Economos and Ads kind of—motherfuck! That looks gnarly!” He was suddenly crowding you against the ledge of the bathtub, staring in horror at the bruise you forgot to cover up, the hem of your tee tucked into the underwire of your bra. As you swore disgruntledly and reached to yank down the material, Adrian grabbed your wrist and lifted it away, using his other hand to tentatively trace his fingers around the contusion. “What the hell, killer? Has this been here all night?”

“Well, I didn’t do it falling down the stairs,” you snarked.

“I didn’t say that you did?” He blinked at you obliviously. Right, you forgot he wasn’t exactly well-read in sarcasm. Then, he was dipping his chin hollowly again, forlornly inspecting the swelling over your ribs. You suddenly felt incredibly naked and vulnerable, despite him being far more underdressed than you were. “Was it Harcourt?”

You barked a startled laugh. “What?” 

“Well, she’s got those stitches on her eye. Maybe you’re both in some kind of fight club,” Adrian rambled. “I mean—not that you could say if you were. First rule of fight club, right? At least your Tyler Durden isn’t a hallucination, though, and Harcourt’s real. Wait! Unless you’re Brad Pitt, because he’s also really hot, and maybe you’re a hallucination. A group hallucination, and we’re the only ones that see you, and that’s why you never called—” 

“Do you ever stop talking?”

Adrian smiled at you impishly. “Last time you asked me that, you kissed me so hard I thought I was gonna—”

“Jesus.” Angrily, you yanked down your tee, batting his hand away from you. “I can’t believe you told everyone about that, by the way. I told you that if you did, I’d shoot you.”

“Well, I didn’t think you meant that!” he exclaimed defensively. “I thought it was one of those funny, mean jokes you and Peacemaker say—like, oh, if you don’t shut the fuck up, Adrian, I’ll murder you! Like that. I don’t know why you’re so mad that I told everyone. None of them seemed that surprised when I did so, like, no harm done.”

You swayed until you were slumped on the ledge of the bathtub, head drooping tormentedly between your shoulders. “I can’t believe I let you kiss me.”

“I can’t believe it either!” Adrian said excitedly, beaming at you. You narrowed your eyes at him in a belligerent pinch. He seemed oblivious, and even moved to kneel on the bath-mat under your feet, his broad shoulders inadvertently knocking your knees as he sidled between them. His hands sat patiently in his lap. Dog, you thought to yourself. “Do you wanna dress that?” 

“I don’t need to address anything—”

“No,” he giggled, “dress your bruise.” You hated yourself. “It looks pretty nasty, s’all. And obviously I’m used to doing these things, so.” 

“It’s fine,” you mumbled.

“Well, it doesn’t look fine…”

“Well, it is, so just—fucking drop it, Adrian,” you said resentfully, standing up from the bathtub, stepping around his knelt figure, and storming into Harcourt’s dark living room. You were distinctly aware of him rushing after you, your name on his tongue, as you started to pace the length of the room like a caged, frightened animal. “You’re insufferable, you do know that, right?”

“I mean,” he squinted at you, “you’ve told me a couple times. So’s Peacemaker, but—”

“There’s a reason I didn’t call you. Or meet up with you. Or let you visit me while I was in the hospital.” 

Adrian’s eyes softened at that last one. “You didn’t—let me…” 

“I told the nurses explicitly not to let you in,” you told him triumphantly, folding your arms over your chest in self-satisfaction. Adrian just stared at you, moonlight etching deeper at the straight lines of his abs as it passed through the gap in Harcourt’s ratty, floral curtains. You don’t think you’d ever seen him so sullen, or heard him this quiet. It was hard to stay smug as pangs of remorse settled over you. You tried to let defensiveness harden you, snapping an obnoxious, “The others all visited. Apart from Harcourt, obviously, but I went to see her, on her wing. I knew you were there. You came every day, Chris said. But I didn’t want you there, and I definitely don’t want to eat you like a female spider, Adrian!” 

“Oh.” 

“I kissed you because…” Fuck, fuck, fuck! What were you doing? “...because I was scared, and hurt, and you got shut. A lot happened that night, I was just—I don’t know. I was overwhelmed. I shouldn’t have done it. M’sorry if I gave off the wrong idea. And I apologise for the others, if they’ve told you that I like you. They shouldn’t have done that. Especially Peacemaker, he…” You swallowed, throat thickening around the bile of your words, “he should know better.” 

“Oh.” 

Adrian’s voice was so small. He really did look, and sound, like a kicked puppy now.

“I thought,” he scratched at the nape of his neck, muscles twitching in his abdomen, flexing in his arms, and you hated yourself for thinking about him like that, even now, “I dunno, I guess I just thought they didn’t let me in because I escaped the hospital and refused to pay health insurance. I’m against all of that, you see—fuck UnitedHealthcare, and all of that. Erm…” Adrian stared sadly at his feet, “I didn’t realise that you just didn’t want to see me.”

Your heart ached. The bruise on your ribcage hadn’t felt so painful all day. You even swore that the long-since healed gash on your thigh from that rogue bullet stung, just enough to remind you of Adrian’s fingers near it, tender and callused.

“Adrian—”

“No, I’m sorry, man. Oh, fuck-balls. You probably think I’m a right sicko, now! Telling you all that shit about cannibalistic spider sex. I’ve killed creeps for less!” he out-cried, stropping over to Harcourt’s recliner and flopping into it. It rocked under his weight, the hinges cringing slightly as he dropped his hands miserably into his lap. “Aw, man, killer, I’m sorry for coming off as a pervert.”

“Adrian, what, you didn’t—”

“You don’t have to lie, it’s fine! I could’ve told you literally anything else about spiders to cheer you up—like, did you know they have blue blood? See, I’ve got so many other cool facts, and I went and told you the one about mating rituals. I’m not a sex-pest, all right?” Adrian said it so vehemently you wondered if this was something he’d been called before, and you had to stifle your laughter behind a hand as you imagined Peacemaker, most likely, calling it him. “Great! Now, you’re laughing at me. The girl of my dreams thinks I’m some kind of perverted cannibal who wants to bone her and then have her eat me, and she’s laughing at me.”

You walked over, slowly, as if approaching an easily-frightened animal that was bathing and trembling. You came to stand between his thighs, just as he had knelt devotedly between yours minutes ago, and you sucked up the will to settle your hands on his worried shoulders, kneading at the knots there.

“I don’t think you want me to eat you,” you murmured.

“No?” 

“No. I think you’re a headcase. But, a cannibal…not so much.” Bravely, you threaded your fingers through his damp curls, brushing them gingerly off of his forehead. He blinked up at you, prettily through the thick lenses of his glasses, and kept himself very still, as if any sudden movement might frighten you and make you revoke the privilege of your touch. “M’sorry for being mean. I’m a bit emotionally constipated, I think.”

“That’s fine. I think I’ve got, like, emotional diarrhea, so. We can balance each other’s emotional shit-patterns out,” Adrian offered sweetly. 

You shook your head fondly at his grossness. “I don’t regret kissing you. Well, I do,” you admitted, “but only because of how I reacted, after. I didn’t let you visit me at the hospital because I was scared that I’d kiss you again, and…well, yeah, the constipation.” 

He looked disconcerted. “Actual constipation?” 

“No, the emotional one I was talking about.” You let your fingers massage against his scalp, but your thumb smoothed over his browbone. You liked touching Adrian, you decided. You’d missed it. You missed him. “I didn’t know how to look you after…”

“I mean…” Adrian stared at you, eyes mirrorbright and smile surprisingly soft, hands even having the confidence to lift up and settle delicately on your waist, “I didn’t really know what to do, either. It’s not like the Discovery Channel exactly tells you what to do after the girl of your dreams gives you the best kiss of your life.”

“Stop calling me that,” you protested, skin hot under his splayed fingers.

“No, but you are! Seriously!” he said adamantly. In his excitement, he unintentionally squeezed at your hips, and the pressure made you almost whimper. “You’re, like, this super badass motherfucker who killed fifty-six butterflies! You’re so cool, and pretty, and funny, and you’re like if a black widow was a real person, and I dig that so much. They’re all right,” Adrian asserted happily, like he was exactly where he wanted to be—you stood between his strong thighs, your fingers raking absentmindedly through his beer-sticky hair, admitting that you’re the girl he dreams about, “you’re way out of my league. And I love that. I mean, what fucking loser guy doesn’t want a girl way cooler than him?” 

“Okay,” you mused dryly, “starting to rethink my position on the whole you-want-me-to-eat-you thing. Maybe you do.”

“Eat my ass, maybe,” he joked. Then, his eyes widened in horror, squeezing at the meat of your hips again, nails burying this time. “Fuck, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that. Jeez, maybe there is something wrong with me…”

“Mm,” you said thoughtfully, “maybe you are a sex-pest.” 

Adrian grimaced at you through a lover-boy smile. “I really, really missed you, killer.” 

You hummed, eyes moving over his pretty face. “I missed you too.” 

“Do you, erm,” he glanced pathetically at the front door, “did you wanna go back up? Get another drink?” 

“You know…” You sunk one knee onto the right arm of the recliner, smiling down at his rapid blinks and widening mouth, “I was thinking we could just…” Another knee, until you were straddling him, the warmth of his lap welcoming and familiar, his nails biting at the flesh of your hips so needily, “stay down here, for a while? Just you and me?” 

Adrian nodded so eagerly that you almost laughed in his face. Doglike, indeed.

You did feel a bit bad, all things considering. This was the last thing you expected to do tonight, to be straddling Adrian’s lap as his palms explored the expanse of your back underneath the cheap cotton of your tee. But, you promised him that if he told anyone about that kiss, you’d shoot him in between the eyes—and you just so happened to be rather fond of those eyes…and his slutty glasses…and him. So, you figured you owed him at least two kisses, if not a bullet. 

And anything else that would happen to occur on that recliner, well…what happened at Harcourt’s stayed at Harcourt’s, right?

a/n: not rly sure how I feel about that ending. considering a pt ii but idk maybeeee.

[suprsnupi]

SOFT AND ONLY YOU

pairing. clark kent x fem reader

your childhood best friend is synonymous with ‘the guy you call when something (inevitably) goes sour.’ clark is dependable, steady, safe. and maybe—well, more than maybe—the grass is greener in his bed. or: two times your love life needs a little clark kent tlc. third time’s gotta be the charm, you swear.

wc. 18k+

tags. 18+ explicit nsfw, unprotected piv/mating press, size kink, slightly (?) jealous sex, first time cunnilingus, fingering n squirting, multiple orgasms, edging, creampie, light hair tugging, pathetic clark who whimpers, anecdotes and yearning, talk of past toxic relationships, hurt/comfort if u squint (!!!)

— basically what ciderclark could have been if they werent pussies LMAO. title from the cure's just like heaven aka the most romantic song forever ^u^

Clark lives through every day like the ice cream store’s about to close. 

In other words, he’s an avid believer in carpe diem, and he is never too busy. 

It’s admirable, really. How he’s always bustling in tandem with Metropolis, zipping in and out of the Daily Planet with a Jitters Coffee in hand and two suits on his shoulders. Flying up and down town to open doors for grandmas, kick lost balls back over the fence, zoom past Stryker’s Island to let Lex Luthor get a real good look before he starts another day in prison. 

‘Superman doesn’t have time for selfies’ is bullshit. 

He always makes time for one more thing. One last squeeze in his itinerary, whether it be volunteering to take pictures for someone else’s article or being the one in the picture himself—posing straight and strong, beaming that friendly grin before he takes off to seize the day! 

Which is why he's the first one you text when you finally dump the guy you've been seeing. 

It started with that dream. The one that's been recurring for about a week, enough that you remember the details down to where the specks of dust will end up as they float through the air. 

The one where you find him sitting at the front of the school bus, saving a seat with that beat-up backpack decorated with Mighty Crabjoys pins and patches. Sun already high up, and it’s balmy inside, the smell of old vinyl upholstery and seat cleaner already soaking your clothes while the driver skips to the next song on his Johnny Cash CD. 

Clark is wearing a bright, dorky grin on his face. Says something over the loud rumble of the engine like: ‘Gosh, we have a test—I know, why on Monday—but you will knock it outta the water. Here comes the sun!’ 

Or, if you’re going by last night: ‘Seize the day!’ 

And last Friday: ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ which might’ve come from one of those Shakespeare playbooks on his shelf. Probably the one with the deepest stress lines on the spine, because that’s just how he is. 

Not like you know, though. Shakespeare has always been Clark’s specialty. 

Your heart flutters. 

You laugh and ruffle your hands in his downy black hair, and he doesn't do anything to fix it (even when you aren't looking) and you get off a stop before school so he can break his lunch sandwich in half. 

Then, you spend the last twenty-odd minutes scuffing sneakers against the dusty sidewalks, sun warming your backs, talking about the latest music and baseball games, the who likes who and the I like— 

The bed creaks when you prop yourself up on your elbows. 

Your head spins, still stirring and cottony with the last of deep sleep, and your phone alarm is trilling incessantly on your nightstand. 

It’s weird how these things have been happening more frequently. Especially considering you’re fresh out of a breakup, if being ghosted and then dumping the guy a week later over voicemail could be considered one. 

You thought of it as more of a casual fling, really. A talking stage, as some would call it—a date here and there, just getting to know each other. 

Been seeing might be a misleading way to put it. That implies a certain threshold of intimacy, one you hadn’t passed. 

He’d fallen silent once you started talking about Smallville. About your best friend, who’s six-four and raised on Kansan corn, a gentle giant you followed to the city and kind of planned to keep in your life. 

(He ghosted you the next day. But just to one-up him, you think you might’ve started thinking about canceling the next date when he asked just how important Clark was over anybody else.) 

Eyes dry and bleary, your lips are chapped because you somehow started drooling at midnight. Air conditioning’s still on—you always forget despite the nightly reminder text Clark sends you—and you’re shivering under your blankets, hair a mess and plastered to your forehead. 

Your Queensland Park apartment is dark and blue with the morning haze, save for the tiny sliver of light shining through your bedroom door. It’s from the lamp you leave on in the sitting room. Ma Kent lent it to you—something to have from home, as if you didn't take her overgrown son with you. 

The shade is stained glass, like those ones you find at an old library. Simple and cerulean and rimmed with tarnished brass, and the slightly greenish tinge from the glass color superimposing on the warm lightbulb greets you every day without fail. 

So does Clark, with his good morning motivational texts—exactly at seven-thirty, even on weekends. 

It’s clockwork. Expected. The same exact time those bus doors would open and wash you in a wave of exhaust and vinyl. 

Once, it was ‘Sun’s up, guns out!’ with a photo attachment. 

It was him on the front page, framed in a way you know for a fact that Jimmy Olsen got the photo credit in the byline. 

He was in his suit, all blue like your lampshade and red like the color of the flannels he left in his wardrobe drawers in Smallville, and he was holding a semi-truck over his head. Biceps straining against the seams of his costume, dark hair windswept in the way his Internet fangirls go crazy over. 

You snorted at it. Alright, you...giggled, and maybe you had a pep in your usual morning slouch, but that’s all there was to it. Seriously. 

It’s just so endearing that in the lifetime you’ve spent with him, Clark has never run out of cheesy things to say. 

You reach across your tangled blankets and wrinkled pillows, grasping clumsily for your phone on the nightstand. You swipe up on the screen, shut off your alarm, and immediately pull into the last message he sent you. 

Two minutes ago: ‘Hit a home run like Clark.’  

He’s added that stupid bobblehead of Chicago's eponymous cub mascot you got him as a gag gift one Christmas, way back in grade school. The one with the left ear chipped off and a poorly painted Meteors logo over the red and blue C.  

A small, fond grin blooms on your face, uncontrollable. 

You weren’t aware that he kept it. Hell, you didn’t even know that he brought it to Metropolis. 

But that’s just how Clark is. Thoughtful at his core. Kind and sentimental. Actions speak louder than words and the whole works. 

He’s tucked himself neatly into your breast pocket. The edges of you line up like the stars, and you house every little thing he’s done in the space between your heart and lungs. 

And it’s the steadiness of that which grounds you here. 

When things inevitably go wrong, you call him first. CLARK KENT, branded in big letters on your phone screen. 

He’s down for anything. Picking you up after a bad day at work, killing (sorry, escorting out) the cockroach that mysteriously found itself in your apartment, helping fold your fitted sheets because you can never do it quite like he and his Ma do. 

That’s the kind of man your childhood best friend is, in all his messy-curl, soft-sighed glory. Crooked glasses that he didn’t start wearing until high school, suits by the day and flannel pajamas by night. Blushes if you stare at him for too long, earnest in everything he does. 

Consistent. Cerulean sea glass patiently shaped by the test of time. 

You like his message and swing your legs onto the floor. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet, and you pad over to the thermostat, turning down the AC and wandering into the bathroom while you think up some witty response. 

A pun is too cringy to send. You could just prattle off the date of the next Cubs v. Meteors series, but Clark probably already has a season ticket, so there’s no point. 

Your phone buzzes, twice. 

Daily Planet newsletter | Friday, April 27 

REMINDER: 4th date, Matthew 

You grimace at the second pop-up banner. 

You still haven’t cleared your calendar of pre-planned dates. 

In your sleep-smudged state, you had forgotten. You were lucky enough to score a job that lets you leave early on Fridays, so you just set the afternoon as your go-to day for completing your miscellaneous tasks before the weekend. 

Chores, laundry, dates. 

You worry the inside of your cheek between your molars. 

You decide to blame it on the dream, and the fact that you were immediately greeted by Clark’s text. 

Over-optimistic, typed out in that cheery voice you know he intended to send it with even though you can’t possibly hear it. You can hear it in your head though—how it squeaks slightly, pitches up in the way it does when he’s excited. 

You really haven’t spent much time with Clark recently, you realize. Seeing him doesn't count, because technically, everyone in Metropolis sees him, even if it’s a red blur rocketing around the stone corner of an Art Deco high-rise. 

You’ve just...been busy. With work, and your broken electric kettle (right, you have to fix that before you do something rash at work), and your unlucky streak in relationship business. 

He’s definitely busy with balancing Superman and his articles too, but... 

That’s a silly thing to worry about, isn’t it? 

Making time is practically enshrined in his philosophy, his raison d'être. And if not today, then tomorrow, or some other day. You know Clark Kent well and long enough to understand that he’s superb at making up for things.  

Maybe you should take a page out of his book. 

TO: clark kent  u busy tonight?  we should bring back friday dinner for good lol  but at ur place, mines messy 

Delivered with a whoosh. 

You put your phone face down onto the bathroom counter and wrench the sink on, cupping your hands beneath the rapid stream. Frigid water splashes onto your face. 

Pressing your wet fingers against your eyelids, stars bloom in your vision. Two breaths, in-out. Long inhale, short exhale. 

Like this is just an exercise. Like your heart didn’t stammer for several beats after you punched the send button. 

He’s probably on his way to work right now. Gets up early like he’s still in the heartland. Like he has cows and crops to tend to instead of interviews and articles. 

All things considered though, Mr. Kent wouldn’t be happy if his son was always tardy or MIA to farm work like he is in the city. 

A quiet laugh bubbles in your stomach. You wonder how he even gets in and out of the Planet in that ridiculously bright suit. 

You swipe your hands on the soft fibers of a hand towel and pick your phone up again. 

He’s in the middle of formulating a message, three dots dancing after each other in the text bubble. 

You press the first letter of what you want to say on the keyboard. There’s no going back now. 

TO: clark kent  my boyfriend said so btw 

Nice to let him know, right?  

(You hope he remembers the joke.) 

Clark’s dots disappear for a moment. You imagine him pondering in the way you know so well: cheek sucked in and caught between his teeth, eyes wandering to zone out at the ceiling. 

Then they start again, bopping along in consecutive order. 

Three buzzes, muted against the cradle of your palms. 

FROM: clark kent  Haha, ok.  I’m not flying tho  and I don't have melon pops. 

A snort finds its way out of your nose. You feel warm despite the cold water still beading on your face. 

He remembers. 

Which is sweet on its own, referencing those two times he’s come to your rescue in times of love-life crisis. 

Which goes back to how making time (be there in a jiffy) and giving thoughtful gifts (thought you might like these flowers) and comforting you when you need it most (oh, sunshine, if you wanted someone to dote on you, you could’ve just asked me) practically runs in his blood. 

And he’s right. It’s pretty doting—and dare you suggest—boyfriend-like already. 

…Oh. You freeze. 

It dawns on you then that a sappy, sickly smile that’s strikingly close to a lovesick one has been creeping onto your face. 

Oh, no. 

—

Your first heartbreak comes during your eighteenth summer in Smallville. 

Well, it’s less heartbreak and more embarrassment. 

Turned to face the popcorned wall of the general store, you wait for the line to connect. The retro payphone handset is cold in your hand, just like how it’s cool in here, the barest respite from the hell on earth outside. 

Of all days to fall for something stupid, you chose Senior Ditch morning. You should have just lazed around at the Kents’ like Clark asked you to. 

The fan in the far corner rattles in the way it has since before you were even born, paper streamers dancing on the metal grate. The dial tone finally starts droning—ouurrrrr. 

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, index finger tangled in the cord. Please don’t be mad. 

He picks up on the first ring—click! Waits in silence for another second before finally addressing the elephant in the cornfield with his usual cheery voice, “So. Nate's a jerk, isn’t he?” 

Sighing, you rub your thumb over your eyelid, press the speaker closer against the shell of your ear. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

“’S fine.” You can see him in your mind, flattening his mouth into that weirdly reassuring upside-down smile. “We all learn some way, right?” 

“Mhm,” you swallow and do a quick check of your surroundings. 

Eddie the clerk is wiping down the counter—milkshakes sold out today—and Mr. Stone is getting ready to set up today’s round of rummy in the back. 

No sign of that asshole Nate. 

No sign of anyone, really. Kind of stupid now that you think about it, setting a ditch day during the peak of a heat wave. 

“Just say it.” You lean your shoulder against the wall and look out the windows. The white backside of the painted GENERAL STORE letters glare back at you. You pitch your voice down, “Told you so, sunshine.” 

Clicking his tongue, “I don’t sound like that.” 

“Your Ma would disagree.” 

“Well, I didn’t tell you so, sunshine,” he sighs. You can hear the small smile bleeding into his voice. “I just said that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.” 

“Right.” You draw out the word, honey-slow on the ‘i’.  

“Right?” Clark laughs, a windchime sound. Your tone has completely passed over his head. “I only meant you might enjoy your day off more if we were polishing off a pint of Neapolitan and binging Star Wars instead of going on a date.” 

You stay silent for a heartbeat. Wheels spin in your head—why the hell are you calling him anyways? 

Clark should be mad. That you brushed off his advice, that you woke up early to walk to town instead of his house. That you ditched him for some boy who couldn’t even care for you like he does. 

But he isn’t. He’s so water-under-the-bridge forgiving and sweet and— 

Fuck, if you aren’t sorry for being stupid. It might be the embarrassment or the sting of slapping yourself mentally or even the heat, but you’re half-desperate when you say: 

“Please pick me up.” You blurt it so fast that you think the words muddled into one. Silence. Static over the line. “Clark? Hey, you know I’m sorry for—” 

You hear a faint jingle over the staticky line, then a far-off yell, “Pa! I’m going out!” 

“Drive safe!” Another beat. “Darn boy left the phone hangin’ again. That you, sunny?” 

You bring your hand up to your mouth and stifle an amused exhale against the back of it. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Kent.” 

He clicks his tongue, a mannerism that’s almost identical to the way Clark does it. “Mm, way he was lookin' all concentrated, I knew it had to be you. What’re you doin’ out in this heat anyway?” 

You set your mouth into a flat line. “...Things.” 

The bell to the store rings, and Eddie choruses a ‘hey, Mr. Morris’ without even looking up from the counter. 

Mr. Morris nods to Eddie, waves to you and then tilts his head with a frown. He’s been coming here long enough to know where you take your usual perch with Clark, so it must be strange to see you without the Kents’ awkwardly big son. 

You point to the phone, and his frown relaxes with an oh. 

“Things, you say,” rumbles Mr. Kent. You could probably see his greying beard fluffing up if you squint hard enough. “Does this have something to do with Clark bein’ all mopey this mornin’?” 

“Um,” you stammer, swallowing. You wince. “Maybe. I...well, a guy asked me to meet him.” 

“Oh. See, I’d say if a boy doesn’t show up to take you himself, he in’t worth chasing, but I think you heard enough of that from Clark,” Mr. Kent drawls. Your nose furrows, deepening your grimace. “Well, I hope that works out for you someday. If you need to find me—prob’ly in twenty minutes if my boy is abiding the speed limit—I'll be in the barn.” 

He lets out a hearty laugh. You echo him, albeit weaker and half-awkward. 

“Yeah, Mr. Kent, I—I'll see you ‘round.” 

You hang your head and hook the handset back onto the payphone. 

Main Street is distorted by heat waves. The cracked asphalt wobbles along with the fading white paint dividing the lanes, and you think about Clark. 

Tearing down the roads at a speed of exactly 30 mph, hands tapping at nine and three on the sunwarmed wheel.  Skipping to the next Rascal Flatts song on the CD that never leaves the truck, like it’s just another day. 

Mr. Kent said that Clark was looking all concentrated on the phone. You know that look like the back of your hand: lashes resting against his cheeks, eyes trained down and glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. Tongue caught in the pocket of his cheek, dimple pressing in as he mulls over whatever is playing out in his head. 

And then you wonder when was the last time he cut his hair—it's gotten quite long, enough that when he tugs a cap on, his curls stick out of the back—and if he managed to get the magnitude of his laser vision right this morning because last week, he burned himself shaving. 

You lean your head against the pane, graciously cold on your cheek. 

The heat must be playing tricks, you think, with a superimposition of Clark swimming on the glass. 

(Or it might just be that you kind of, maybe, really miss him and whatever weird thing he’d randomly blurt out if he was here.) 

Smallville Giants cap snug over his head, downy hair curling out of the snapback in the way you imagined it to be. The brim is low over his forehead, shadow making the blue of his eyes shine out in that somewhat off-putting way they do in the dark.  

He grins in that lopsided, downturned way that reminds you of the Kents’ border collie, Shelby, thumping her tail against the ground. A laugh escapes you in a small exhale through your nose, and you brush your fingertips against the window. 

And then he taps the glass. 

Real. Solid. Smile widening to show teeth with a double-exposure in the reflection. 

Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around. It really is him, arms firmly crossed over a white-shirted chest and charming dimples shining at full force. 

“What—Clark!”  

You must look like a fool right now, limbs all frozen up in surprise and eyes wider than the fine china saucers Mrs. Kent likes to display in her dining room. Eddie laughs from behind you, slapping a rag onto the metal counter. 

“Hi!” Your best friend’s broad hand is a blur as he waves, voice muted by the glass. “I think you ordered a chauffeur?” 

You quickly stride over to the door, pushing it open. The bell rings with a clear, windchime sound; a blast of searing, humid hellfire presses down on you. Sweat begins to bead at your neck. 

“Very funny.” Still, you’re helpless to the fond smile that tugs at your face. Clark strides over, freckled cheeks slightly pinkened, thumb pressing into the palm of his other hand. 

The left side of his mouth quirks up at the same time he shrugs his shoulders. “I came, you called.” 

Letting the door shut, you step out into the Kansan summer and stand under the shade of your abnormally tall friend. You’re earnest, from the bottom of your heart, when you say, “Thank you, Clark.” 

A nervous scoff skips out of his mouth, and he palms the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Come on.” 

He urges you to a nearby alley—strange. 

You don’t remember hearing the truck, and there’s no sign of it on the street either. Getting from the farm to town in the time between Mr. Kent picking up the phone and you hanging up would be impossible unless he was breaking the sound barrier. 

You let him walk ahead of you, lengthening the gap between your and his strides. 

“Wait,” you start, steps stalling, “how did you...?” 

Clark freezes and slowly pivots to face you, mouth twisted in a way that screams guilty. “Okay, don’t be mad.” 

“Dude—” 

“—I flew here because I didn’t want you getting heatstroke—” 

“—I’ve been waiting for you to fly me since forever.” 

He pauses, mouth mid-word and his index finger in the air, like this is a debate rebuttal and not a page out of your wildest dreams. 

Clark didn’t take the truck. He’s going to fly you back home. 

Like they do in the fucking Titanic, but in the air. Where the birds fly. Where you can look down and see the rippling fields and the cows that look like brown and white clouds in the grass. 

Pinching his lips till they turn white, he wipes his hands on his blue-jean thighs and stares at you in that absent, froggish way. “Sure, I guess that works out.” 

You bound over to him, stomach bubbling with a schoolgirl-giddiness you only remember feeling when he does something so thoughtful and sweet. Which is every day. 

So maybe that’s not normal. You should probably seek medical attention. 

You circle around him and reach to grip his shoulders—they're firm beneath your hands, conditioned by years of helping out on the farm (and also a little bit of alien genetics). 

Clark obliges, almost mindless, bending his knees by a fraction to let you jump onto his back. 

He smells like hay and sunshine and a long day at the lake. Fresh, clean linen, a faint tang of salt next to a braid of sweet corn silk. 

Like the same citrus soap he's used since forever, and the old books at the library. Like a thread of oak wood—same as the tree in his backyard and the walls of his bedroom. 

It’s more comforting than any cologne or Mrs. Kent’s stew. 

You know it now. Clark Kent will always be someone you can run home to. 

You dig your chin into the crook of his neck and shoulder, sighing. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” 

Clark cranes his head back, trying to get a glimpse because of course he does. He’s always a stickler for eye contact when talking—it's inscribed into his heartland manners. 

The tips of your noses brush, two compasses crossing. 

“Hmm,” he hums, weak, “I don’t know. Maybe last week, when I let you copy my physics homework.” 

“Helped me, you mean.” 

“Yeah…” 

You flick the tip of his ear, already red and warm like someone tried to tear it off. 

“You’re mean.” 

“I love you too, by the way,” he quips, pushing off the floor gently. 

Then he starts floating, legs unfurling as he drifts up. Your laugh is light as you tighten your arms around his neck, him holding you close to his warm back. 

That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. Like he believes in it, a hundred percent. Like he isn’t just saying it because he loves you like he loves everyone else. 

“C’mon.” You tap his collarbone. He hooks his acquiescing arms under your knees. Squeezes your calves once with his broad palm, reassuring. 

You push down the odd feeling swelling in your chest as the wind starts to comb its fingers through your clothes. 

It’s okay like this. 

Comfortable, steady. Held by your best friend. Soaring above the little town that Clark makes feel like the whole world has been singled to this hundred-thousand-acre plot. 

“Just this once, okay?” Clark says, though the way he says it with a wobbly face makes you think that he wouldn’t mind a round two. “Because we’re already skipping school.” 

“Right,” you nod, grin widening, “and we should totally be back in time to finish up Porter’s final essay.” 

He pinches his mouth. “What do you mean you haven’t finished?” 

“Okay, I only need my thesis.” You press your ear to his shoulder and look down at the quickly shrinking Smallville. “...And everything else after that.” 

The wind, mercifully cooler, whistles around you. Oh, there’s the windmill, and the winding road, and the golden, rippling fields for as far as the eye can see. A soft sigh leaves you. 

You’re going to miss the cornfields and the lightning bugs. The way the air smells slightly heavy when a storm’s approaching. How everyone is so well-knit with each other, how things are easy and unthinking. 

Automatic, the most natural thing in the world. 

“Sunshine, you—” he sputters, breaking you from your spiral. You’ve stopped just beneath the clouds, moisture wetting his curls till they’re pitch dark and plastered to his forehead. 

He cranes his head down to rest his chin on your forearm. Sighs, resigned. 

“That’s barely the introduction.” 

—

By some stroke of luck, you bitterly break up with your first long-term boyfriend at the same time Clark gets his first apartment. 

It’s small in here, still bare and honest. Ceiling popcorned and a little warmer than eggshell white like a small-town general store. The carpet is light brown, and you’re sure there’s a strange stain in some dark corner. 

And if you had to be honest, you think Clark chose this place specifically because it was ugly. He always puts his highest hopes in even the smallest and most shriveled of things. Even in Lex Luthor, that miserable eggshell of a CEO. 

(But it’s all in typical Downtown fashion. At least he isn’t settling in the snazzy, gentrified Upper East Side. 

This is temporary, he said, ‘till I can find a place in Midtown. But that’s for when the rent there miraculously dips, which is likely never unless metahumans start shooting lasers out of their eyes in front of the Daily Planet. 

Wait...) 

The temperature doesn’t work, either. 

Well, it does. Kind of.  

But it’s confined to just a small unit attached to the wall, so you can’t even feel it if you’re more than five feet away. 

His bedframe sits in the corner disassembled, futon rolled out over a full-sized mattress that’s been plopped in the middle of the room. He could’ve fixed that, given his super speed and strength and whatever else he has. Even could’ve done his entire studio in a day, but he didn’t. 

Because he was ‘waiting for you’. For two weeks. To come over to help him set up and have a little housewarming party after, just like the movies. Junk food and sodas and all. 

You think back to how you got here. 

Soaked to the bone. Shivering. Clothes vacuum sealed to your body and umbrella inverted in your clenched hand. 

What a day for your boyfriend to be an asshole and give you an ultimatum: break up, or cut your last root from Smallville. 

Ergo, you did what any best friend would do. 

You chose Clark, because it has always been that way. 

Clark doesn’t give ultimatums. Doesn’t get insanely, obsessively overbearing when you talk to other guys and absolve himself of any wrongdoing if you catch him staring at a girl. 

He’s forgiving. Concerned, yeah, but not authoritative. 

For god’s sake, he exclaimed ‘what in tarnation’ when he cracked open the weathered door and saw you dripping all over the hallway. 

“My boyfriend sent me here,” you told him, gaze downturned in guilt, and his face softened from surprise to wordless understanding. 

That’s how things have always been between you. Wordless. A language of eyes and gestures you’ve been fluent in since your formative years. 

You squelched inside like your feet had cephalopod suction cups on the bottom of them. Clark helped with shucking off your heavy jacket while you mumbled through the long story (not so) short. 

The ultimatum. 

How you realized in the moment that your now-ex was trying to isolate you from your friends.  

How that jerk—you refrained from asshole or motherfucking egotistical dickwad because a certain someone would cough—was so gung-ho about being the guy for you. 

The first one you had to call.  

As in, expected you to overhaul your pre-established laundry list of speed dials. Like he wanted to be the one you called at midnight to hide a body (Lana and Pete) or the one you relied on if you were, god forbid, stranded in Blüdhaven (Clark). 

As if, when you did call him, he actually came to your rescue instead of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Um, sorry babe, I’m a little busy.’ 

And maybe as you kept going on, it started to dawn that you weren’t really bitter about breaking up. 

You were more bitter about being stupid enough to stay with him for so long. For just pushing the little icks to the side, all ‘cause he might’ve been a little pretty and he made you feel okay every three or four days. 

Clark had been sifting through a box while you explained. Rain still pattered outside, racing down the window, but it was lighter than the absolute storm that had slammed into you on the way here. 

He paused, turned a little pink at the ears, and handed over a haphazardly folded towel like he was consciously controlling his actions. 

Which was weird. Because he’s always meticulous about his laundry. 

“Wait, sunshine,” he stuttered before you disappeared into the bathroom. “The plumbing’s opposite. Cold is hot and hot is cold.” 

“Thanks, Clark.” 

And then you unfolded the towel, and there lay a neatly creased pair of your underwear. Clean. Clothesline scented. 

You remembered this one. 

Late night, big calculus test the next morning. Cramming in his dorm, and you brought an extra change of clothes that you ended up using. You probably dumped your stuff into his hamper by mistake. 

You laughed, a little too loud. Clark heard you, and you heard him plead don’t say anything in a low, defeated tone through the thin wall. 

You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Because Clark’s just like that. 

Sentimental. Plan A to Z. Keeps your stuff in case you need it ten years down the line. 

And besides, you’re here now. That’s better than spiraling into a self-beatdown or throwing darts at a picture of your ex’s face. 

You stop at the doorway of the bathroom with your eyes still itching and red-rimmed, a towel wrapped around your body. 

The apartment is eerily still, frozen in a moment. 

Everything in this 400 square foot place is raw. 

Exposed. Naked. White painted brick on the windowed side, stucco boxing the rest in. 

Like all of Clark’s life has been dwindled down to a couple boxes and furniture bought off Craigslist. A couple white-painted nails sticking out of the wall and a broken outlet, as if that’s fine. 

It is, for a fresh graduate who’s paying rent off savings and an entry-level salary from the Daily Planet. 

(Thank god for that full-ride scholarship he managed to snag four years ago.) 

Plus, you trust that Clark has his priorities straight, because according to the to-do list endearingly taped to the mirror, the fridge is installed and working, and he’s already deep cleaned every surface. 

Dust specks float past you, and there’s a breeze—slightly clammy from the aftermath of a storm—circulating from an open window. 

Widening patches of sky peek out from the clearing clouds. The air smells wet, in that good, after the rain way. A tad salty from the bay, too, with a hint of chill. 

The rays of a New Troy golden hour paint the room in faint, honeyed gold, and the ceiling fan in the main room is spinning in languid circles, droning on with a rusted noise that’s starting to grate on your nerves. 

You can hear the metro rattle by below, the foundation of the complex shivering slightly as it rumbles on the tracks. There’s a tune playing from another door down, jazzy and vague. 

You take two steps out of the bathroom, bare feet padding from old tile to worn carpet fibers. You peek around like some cartoon character, searching for a telltale sign of Clark. 

Empty. His gingham beige-brown curtains, same as the ones from Smallville, flutter with a gentle breeze. 

But laid on top of his futon-mattress combo is one of his old shirts—you stifle a laugh, it’s the Crabjoys one that shrunk in the dryer—and the pair of shorts you left with your underwear. 

Small miracles. 

You pull the shirt over your head. Smells like Clark, all citrus shampoo and line-dried cotton. Comforting, in the way he’s so familiar that he feels like home. 

The tide of self-deprecation in you subsides. 

You dig into the freezer next—because ice cream makes everything better, obviously—kitchen tiles warm against your soles as a geyser of cold air billows up. Not frigid. Just cold, like it’s barely working. 

There’s a pint of Neapolitan, which has maybe a single, pathetic, half-scoop left in it. 

You move on. 

The frozen custard that you vividly remember him buying and sending you a picture of two days ago is in the same state as the pint. And—even worse—there's a frustratingly empty box of ice cream sandwiches. 

Prodding further, pushing aside frozen food and ready-to-microwaves... 

Oh, a box of honeydew cream popsicles! 

And there’s one left. It’s semi-melted in your hand, barely holding onto its shape. 

You get that he’s all corn-fed and trying to bulk, but how much sugar does Clark need to consume in a day? 

A flutter of movement catches your eye just as you’re ripping and crumbling the cold, plastic wrapping into your fist. 

Right. Old building like this—there's a fire escape. 

You find Clark slumped against the raw brick on the rusted landing, bones loose under the tangerine sky and curls ruffled by the evening breeze. Well, less slumped and more crumpled. 

Legs pretzeled at an awkward angle to fit on the escape landing. Shoulders hunched so he can fit. New glasses folded up and tucked into the collar of his pajama shirt—Crabjoys again, this time the right size. 

(You don’t want to know how many of those shirts he has.) 

An open book is flattened against his stomach, browning page corners dog-eared and well loved. 

Tom Sawyer. Of course. 

An old bedtime story turned favorite book. Vaguely, you remember that Mrs. Johnson in third grade chastised him for writing multiple book reports on it, even if they were completely different and lent a new perspective each time. 

(She eventually gave up. Clark Kent continued to write his weekly reports on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer until his Pa caught on and introduced him to Huckleberry Finn.)  

Chipped paint rasps at your bare shins, and your shorts hitch up as you duck out the open window. The grate is hard beneath you when you drop next to him with the iced treat in hand; it's already half-slush, coating your fingers with sticky, melon-flavored cream. 

"Didn't get one for me?" he croaks, rolling his head to face you. The shadow of a passing flock of geese dances over his face; a shift in the wind, and his eyes are clear and soaked in golden hour light. 

"Last one in the freezer, cowboy," you tell him, offering the popsicle. He presses the flat of his tongue against the syrup rivulets on the back of your hand—you wrinkle your nose. "You're gross." 

"And you're the one who's stealing my last melon pop.” 

He sinks his teeth into the soft cream, and you bite after him.  

“How’d you dry the rain off the grate?” you ask, fingers curling around a rough bar. It’s weirdly warm against your skin. 

Doesn’t feel gritty like the fire escape in your apartment does. Your hand comes away without a smudge. 

Wow. He really meant it when he crossed off deep clean on that to-do list. 

“Heat breath.” 

Perks of being superpowered. “Huh.” 

You take turns like this, switching bites until only the wooden stick remains. You leave it between your teeth, leeching the last of the cold into your mouth and letting your sticky hand dry in the wind. 

Below is a street you don’t remember the name of, jam packed with the post-workday rush. Taxis, trucks, and bikes splash through shallow puddles.  

A cat yowls across the street, and the middle-aged guy busking beneath the awning on the corner is ripping a riff on his trumpet. 

The traffic song wraps around you, rhythmed in a syncopated hymn that drowns out the rush of blood that comes to your ears. 

"I've been reading up on the area," Clark starts. "There's this bodega, right down the block. Oh, and the bakery on 38th and Scott, we could try their brownies if we line up at six." 

"Big city plans for a small-town guy," you say, droll, chewing absently on the wooden stick. The back of your head lazes against the auburn rough of the bricks, and a gentle breeze sifts between the buildings. 

Clark scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder with you. He's a furnace like always, skin pinkened and glowing in the way it does when he’s in the sun. 

He puts his chin on your shoulder, looks at you real closely—eyelids at half-mast, mouth pressed into the shape of mischief. You give him a sidelong stare, holding the blue of his pupils. 

In them—cloud swirls, the shadow pattern of the birds above soaring by with a breeze that trails its fingers down your spine. 

You feel a little warm under his stare, blood rushing to your head. "What?" 

"We're gonna have so much fun here," he finally says, smile breaking out on his face. "Smallville One and Two, reporting for duty!" 

You let out a wheezing laugh, looking up at the clouds. There's one shaped like a flying man, puffy marshmallow limbs stretched in a starfish. "And let me guess, you're One, and I'm Two." 

"Fine, Smallville Half and Half." 

"But which Half comes first?" 

"Doesn't matter," Clark grins. Knocks his knee against yours, reassuring in that way you know so well. "They come in pairs. Do not separate." 

You shove his shoulder—doesn’t budge. His deltoid is hot beneath your hand, though you aren’t sure if it’s really him or you that’s warmer.  

“Cheeseball,” you mutter. Eyes rolling, even with the grin tugging incessantly at your mouth. 

He laughs with the odd, boyish charm he’s never really grown out of. It tickles something in your brain, how he starts off with a quick scoff that devolves into full-bodied hiccups. 

You want to hear it forever. 

You want to stay here forever with your legs cramped together side by side on the hard fire escape. Skyscrapers and stone for as far as the eye can see, cut by the grid of streets that beat with the heart of Metropolis. 

“Oh!” Clark straightens like he’s been struck. Reaches into his pocket, draws out his phone. He taps around the screen and then shows you a video. “Look, Pa sent me this.” 

It’s home in the Kents’ backyard. Rippling gold fields and heavy panicles of grain, a soft static that used to lull you right to sleep. Old, metal-wood fences and the cry of cicadas. 

You squint at the screen. 

Cows graze like little brown and white clouds in the sea of green. It might be Linus yonder by the leftmost fence, and Franklin flicking his tail next to Patty. Or is that Shermy and Lucy? 

You can’t tell them apart like Clark can. 

There’s an irregular shape shadowed by Franklin’s back leg. He zooms in for you without asking and oh—it’s a calf. 

Fluttering ears. Big, softhearted eyes. Fluffy brown coat. Reminds you of Clark, in a way. All earnest and new to everything. 

The bottom barrier of their fence is still broken, you notice. It’s just a small tear, probably from the time his powers started developing. 

He had torpedoed—yes, like a missile—out of the back door and banged his head into the base of the fence before the screen door could rattle back into place. 

Guess that crack there serves as a reminder: no flying on the farm.  

“Cute,” you say. “We should go back sometime soon.” 

He smiles in agreement and reaches back to place his phone on the windowsill. His arm flexes in front of your eyes—hard lines and veins rising beneath tan skin—and you suddenly get why the freezer is so empty. 

You clench your jaw and duck your head. 

“Anyways” —he cuts himself off, tucking his lips between his teeth as he thinks. “Uh, I got my suit in the mail, too. Been hiding it in the closet, ‘cause I haven’t set up my bedframe yet.” 

You keep your eyes trained on your knees but let a smile pull at the corners of your mouth. He was waiting for you. “Can I be the first to see?” 

He scoffs in amusement, dimples sinking in easily. It never fails to amaze you, how they’re so ready to just appear even when he’s only talking. 

“Don’t be silly, I know you were peeking when Ma was making it.” 

“Thank you for the astute observation,” you mumble. Unneeded heat gathers in your cheeks. 

“A-S-T-U-T-E.” Clark is unfazed as you stare at him blankly. He shrugs, corners of his mouth pulling down like it’s no big deal. “It was in the crossword this morning.” 

Eyes flicking up, you plant your palm on the side of his face and hold him away. “Okay, third place winner of Smallville Middle’s spelling bee.” 

“Well—! Most sixth graders would stutter on perspicacious too,” he stammers, words smushed by your hand to his cheek. 

You mumble, “Apparently not Loretta and Marcie.” 

“I’ll have you know that I could spell the first-place word.” Swatting your hand off with a flippant wave, Clark plucks Tom Sawyer off his chest and sits up properly, letting it flop onto the grate. “Bouillon: B-O-U-I-double L-O-N. Because Ma always uses it in her stew.” 

You know. You were there, waiting for him by the steps with a rented movie you don’t remember anymore and chips in case he was hungry. So sure he would win. 

And if you still call Marcie ‘Marcie-Farcie’ in your head? Well, Clark doesn’t have to know that.  

Reaching around him (and ignoring how solid and furnace-hot his chest is in your arms), you lean into him with a fake-coy smile. “Hey, could you spell loquacious for me right now?” 

“Lo...?” Clark’s brows furrow with that faint wrinkle between them. You kind of want to smooth it out with your thumb. “Oh, don’t be mean. And—hey is for horses.” 

You blow a short raspberry. “You’re no fun.” 

“I’m very fun,” he stammers, voice pitched high. “I wear trunks on the outside. I—I like Neapolitan ‘cause I get to eat all of my favorite flavors.” 

“Right,” you say, nodding politely. You press your mouth tight, trying not to laugh as Clark returns the hug and holds you tight. “Right.” 

“And I can fit a hundred lollipops in my cape, isn’t that great? Oh—and I can recite all of Romeo and Juliet.” 

He clears his throat. Steadies himself, posture straightening. Slips into that tone he's been practicing, dubbed the Superman Voice. “Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona—” 

A short laugh leaves you, uncontrollable. Joy sloshes around in your chest. “Alright, alright, you’re fun.” 

“I knew it,” Clark says, giving you a pointed look. Eyebrows raised and clear blue eyes shining with something you can’t name. 

The breath in your lungs unravels to the quick.  

You still haven’t pulled away, arms tight around his chest. He’s warm, alive, grounding. 

Safe, in the way he’s always been. 

And on a more bitter note, in the way your ex hated. With a capital H. 

In that what’s so great about him way. In that maybe you should stop seeing him way. 

It never made any sense. 

Clark’s nothing but honest. Soft. A sweet, heartland, golden retriever to the core who names his parents’ cows after Peanuts characters. 

The thought of liking someone while they were in a relationship wouldn’t cross his mind. Hell, the thought of even liking you, single or not, wouldn’t either. 

…Would it? 

Clark coughs, untangling himself with a long inhale. “We—should start. Um, on my furniture. Like I said, we’re gonna have so much fun once we settle in.” 

“Dude, you make it sound like we’re gonna live together.” You ignore how that idea makes your chest feel odd. 

Like your heart’s about to leap out and crack your sternum. Like waking up to the sight of your sleep-soft best friend making breakfast is a perfectly fine thing to think of. 

“I mean…” He shrugs, lips pinching and angling downward as if he’s truly considering it. “You honestly slept at my parents’ house more than your own.” 

Your throat runs dry, caught. “Your—well, your bed’s just comfier.” 

“Yeah, it’s ‘cause Shelby farted on it.” 

“Ew.” 

—

The thing about lightbulbs is: they aren’t the same as before. 

Older lightbulbs take some time to light up. Flip the switch, open the circuit. Gentle buzz, and the filaments catch with a current, every second stretching into the next before the brightness flickers and then peaks. 

Those were the bulbs in Smallville and Clark’s old apartment. 

Newer lightbulbs are instantaneous. Snap of the finger—flick and light, like a Zippo. And that’s you right now, standing in the shadow of a pent-up tsunami of realizations that’s about to hit you full force. 

This is familiar. 

Standing in front of the door to Clark’s apartment, bag heavy on your shoulder and shifting on your feet as you wait for him to answer your knocks. 3-D glares back at you on the golden plate, bright against the dark, polished wood. 

Familiar, but not the same. 

For one, his old apartment was chipped white paint and Downtown charm. This one’s Midtown class, all dark marble and crisp navy blue. 

And for another, you’re nervous beyond reason, and you’re seriously considering just finding a hole to wither in. 

Your heart is stuttering. Knocking around between your lungs, tapping at the underside of your sternum in a way Clark’s super-hearing is sure to pick up on. 

Long inhale, short exhale. This is just dinner, just like the million others you’ve had. 

Except, you’re kind of dolled up—as in, a smidge more makeup than you’d usually wear around him (which is close to none, because he’s seen you in middle school with acne and that terrible haircut). As in, you fixed your sweater for glaring wrinkles in the elevator and made sure your jeans didn’t have lint on them. 

Except, over the course of the very short workday you spent mulling over your bad decisions, it started to wash over you that blaming everything on that dream would technically be blaming your own subconscious. 

“One sec,” you hear, muffled by the door. The latch clicks, and there’s Clark, warm smile on his face, dimples like gentle craters in his cheeks. “Hi.” 

Your stomach somersaults and lands with a pathetic hop. 

Which is bad. You think you need an icepack, or medical attention, or frankly, anything to peel your mind off the sight of Clark in his white button-up, undershirt visible beneath the fabric. First two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins nestled in the crook of his elbow, glasses half-buried in his combed-down curls and slacks sinfully tailored to his thighs. 

The smell of bagel crumbs floats around him, weirdly. Toasted, fresh, with a hint of…vanilla bean, which isn’t his usual vanilla. Not that you mind; you briefly consider just pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt and—no. 

You think of him agonizing over two bottles—extract or bean syrup—in the grocery store before your mind scrubs itself blanks. Whiteboard clean. Nothing rattling around if you shook your head. 

Like when the tide pulls all the way back from the beach. Like when you’re staring down at the plain of barren, sandy dunes below your feet, look up, and stare into the face of a hundred-foot-wave question of oh, when did he suddenly become attractive to you? 

Sure, you might have realized that what you’ve been missing in other guys has been lurking in your golden retriever of a best friend for eternity. That no other guy would treat you so sweetly like he did. 

But that’s different.  

That’s pining and idealistic stuff.  

This is insane. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally. Gripping the table’s edge-y. 

It’s one thing to want someone emotionally, but physicality is a completely different thing. And now, two seconds deep into a miles-long stare, you’re suddenly aware of just how badly you'd want Clark if he wasn’t your best friend. 

In the same way he was in that picture of him lifting a semi-truck like a fucking paperweight. Damn Jimmy Olsen for always getting Superman’s best angle, so much that you’ve developed a peeve for when the random people in your feed start gushing paragraphs about taking off their pants or whatever. 

(Of course, if someone caught wind of that, they didn’t hear it from you…) 

Or the same way he was in the aftermath of that first real heartbreak of yours. When you dripped all over his welcome mat looking like a sad paper-maché of a freshly broken-up and bitter barely-graduate, and then helped him move into his apartment and totally didn’t stare when he did all the grunt work for the heavy furniture. 

Or—you dread to think—Smallville. 

When he was still sort of skinny and awkward and a fish out of water. Still being fed corn from sunrise to sundown, winning the runner-up to half his contests, and accidentally melting a hole through a lab table in chemistry and giving you that sheepish, smile-wince look of endearing guilty apology. 

Oh. 

The wave crashes over you. Burning cold. Startling. Dreadful. Heart entering freefall. 

You maybe. Might. Probably. Definitely. Have harbored a secret, heavily denied and-or repressed crush on Clark Kent. 

Corn-fed and six foot four Clark Kent. Academic whiz and full-ride merit scholarship recipient Clark Kent. Who unironically finds it beautiful to say things like ‘what the hay’ and ‘oh, sakes alive.’ 

The Clark Kent who waited two weeks for you to help him move in when he could’ve done it himself in two minutes. The same guy who dropped everything to pick you up after you were stupidly pranked. 

Your childhood best friend. Whose name is synonymous with ‘no.1 most dependable and would die for you.’ Whose toddler pictures you’ve had a guest-starring role in. 

You barely register Clark tilting his head, brows furrowing in mild confusion. “Sunshine?” 

“Hi,” you blurt, a little flat. “Clark.” 

You’re sure your mouth is at an awkward, slightly sour angle, because he studies you before slowly stepping back to let you in. You’re half-ready to run to his bathroom and bang your head against the mirror. 

He just. Looks at you. Lips set in that slight pout of consideration and his right-hand dimple shifting. 

You avoid his eyes, feigning interest in his doorframe. Dark wood, solid, and ridiculously small when Clark is filling out the space inside. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, shifting on your feet. “Never better.” 

“Okay,” he says. Simple, short. Like he’s not going to think deeper into it—at least you hope he won’t. He flashes a small smile, “I’m making bagels.” 

You shove down the urge to snort at how in character that is for him. 

Here you are, freaking out over the newfound discovery that you were none the wiser to secretly yearning for Clark since high school. And he’s unconcerned, shifting his mouth to and fro in the expressive way you know so well and making fucking bagels for dinner. 

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah.” Clark lets an easy grin rise on his face, and he reaches to grab the strap of your bag, reeling you into his apartment. You echo him, a light laugh escaping as you kick off your shoes and let him take your things. 

He nudges the door shut with his heel and peers into your bag, surprise etching into the line of his brow. 

“Woah.” Reaches in, pulls out a bottle of wine by the neck. It’s ridiculous how your stomach starts simmering with want when you see how big his hand is compared to the glass. “So, I’m guessing you bought this to make up for my lack of ice cream?” 

You blink, twice. Takes a moment for you to eke out a squeaky, “Uh, sure.” 

Too casual to be innocent, you dig your hands into your pockets and stroll into the kitchen with uptight leisure. You exchange stiff pleasantries while you avoid his eyes—how’s work and you won’t believe what the media’s saying about you right now. 

Orange-yellow light spills out from inside the oven. Clark’s bagels, slightly more malformed than the ones you’d find at a coffee shop, have just started baking, still pale and lumpy. 

His apartment has changed slightly since the last time you saw it; the sitting room is still straight ahead, tall glass and blinking city lights; hallway to the right, the faint outline of doorways visible despite the lights being off. 

But there’s frames on the wall now, glass panes glared by the amber light coming from the lamp next to the TV. The couch is different—more sunken in, like it’s seen its fair share of nights crashing onto the cushions in exhaustion. 

And there’s stuff pinned to the fridge door. Mismatched magnets from Jitters Coffee and some touristy store in Gotham (though you didn’t know they even existed), and random sticky notes taped to the metal. 

CALL MA and Crabjoys reunion ticketing: Apr20 are the ones that really get you. Remind you that some things never change. 

You zero in on a photo strip painstakingly centered in a magnetic frame, long sandalwood beams squared around four snapshots of you and Clark. 

Together. Pinching each other’s cheeks with one of those dumb filters from the photobooth in Metropolis Uni’s gift shop. You remember this one. 

Spring semester of junior year, wide smiles full with the relief of surviving midterms week. The booth had been so small that you had to sit in his lap. He was warm when he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you steady. 

Your core stirs. Unintentionally, of course. But still enough to send a violent wave of rapid-firing neurons into a massive short-circuit. 

It doesn't help that Clark is radiating that same heat when he comes up behind you. Sidles up next to your arm, setting his hand on the blue cabinet above and kneading his cheek between his teeth. 

“Uh,” he starts, quiet like the subtle hum of the oven’s fan, “are you hungry?” 

It’s barely five. You’re still lingering on the photo strip, studying the way Clark’s watching you in that long-ago moment. Eyes soft, smile angled downward in a manner you’d call adoring. Like he’s in love. 

Not that love you usually practice. The one where you kid with each other and battle in footsie under the dinner table. The one you’ve been swimming in since childhood, when he slept with a Meteors poster under his pillow to manifest their next win. When you made eyes at other boys and he had to remind you to pay attention in class. 

But one where he looks like he wants to take you by the collar of your shirt too. Lean into you, full tilt and without hesitation, like he’s yearning to become one under your skin and carve his name into the underside of your ribs. Like he’s got a spark of desire flickering in his chest. 

Or not. You could be delusional. 

You remind yourself to inhale. “No, I—I’m good.” 

“Okay,” he says, voice rumbling low. Your knee twitches—the barest, involuntary spasm of a muscle in reaction to the sparks setting off behind your ribs. “Because I think we need to talk.” 

You go ramrod-stiff so quickly that you swear one of your joints cracks. A thrill runs through your heart—fuck, he definitely caught on. If there’s one thing about his policy of making time, it’s that establishing clear communication is included. 

Pitched in a somewhat sheepish tone, “What?” 

“I mean,” he ducks his head down, shoulders tight as he gestures between the two of you with a finger. Looks back up at you with earnest eyes, blue so clear you can see yourself in the glassy reflection. “You’re acting weird. Did I do something?” 

You shake your head, immediate. Relief courses through you, but it’s quickly replaced with a wave of guilty heartache. Here is a man who only wants to be sweet and care about you, and you’re thinking you might want more. Want him to kiss and touch and say, I’m in— 

“No, it’s not you—I’m just…” you fish for an excuse “…a little stressed.” 

“Well.” Clark does a short, dorky side-to-side, shoulders more relaxed. “Talk to me.” 

Your throat feels full when you swallow. Pulse thundering, you tap the picture with your finger. “You kept it.” 

He looks a little stunned, head listing to the side owlishly. “Why not?” 

You shrug. Stupidly, “Dunno.” 

A smile breaks on his face, tender as a rising sun. Certain, too, like he needs to remind you that duh, “It’s my favorite picture.” 

Oh. 

You didn’t know that. He keeps the most romantic (arguably) picture of you and him on his fridge, where it’s impossible to not pass by on the daily. That’s fine. 

Your stomach clenches in a way that makes you feel stricken and stupidly, ridiculously heartsick. 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Not,” he huffs, shifting to lean against the fridge. He’s almost the same width—god—and you’re a little too distracted with the solid shape of his bicep tightening under his sleeve and the barest dip of muscle before his elbow. “You still haven’t answered the question.” 

Frowning, “What question?” 

“What you’re so stressed about,” Clark says. 

Pinching his mouth to the side, his dimple winks as he studies you. He’s been doing that a lot—new nervous habit, you suppose. “Does it have something to do with your text this morning?” 

Your jaw clenches, caught. “Maybe...” 

He knows you too well. 

Clark does that thing again—tilts his head, going from one side to another. Like he’s trying to gauge you from every angle. You fiddle with a loose string in your sleeve. 

He blurts, “I didn’t like Matthew, by the way.” 

Which—okay. Valid. Clark is honest as always, and he’s entitled to his own opinions, which you agree with, because looking back, Matthew was pretty unlikeable. 

He insisted on splitting the bill—not that you’re salty about needing to pay, for god’s sake, you have a job and a fair amount of disposable income, but because he was just cheap. Like he needed someone to pick up his slack and excused it with, ‘well, everyone’s all about equality these days, right?’ 

And he only wore a faint, sneerish smile as if he was embarrassed to appear more than nonchalant. Chewed cinnamon gum like it was his second job, rolled his eyes at the slightest thing. 

Never laughed, unless it was in derision when a kid tripped over their own feet, or something. And he was addicted to wired headphones. And pretended to be an avid reader—you know he was acting, because he couldn’t tell you who narrated The Great Gatsby despite it being opened to the last chapter in front of him. 

You might’ve overlooked a lot of things about Matthew because he was cute. Baritone and solemn dimples and curly black hair and eyes that curved into crescents at the slightest twitch of his mouth. 

And, alright. Just for the sake of adding it to the pile of late revelations that have dawned upon you during this hour: 

You probably swiped right on him because he resembled Clark. 

Not a little. A lot. In an almost eerie way. 

Like he was his evil twin from Park Ridge or something, but skinnier and vampirish, and lacking freckles and that eclectic, heartland music taste. 

But enough about that. You never told Clark you were shooting your nth shot with another guy and hoping he’d be the one. He shouldn’t know who Matthew is. 

There are probably a hundred thousand Matthews in Delaware, but only one Matthew the Clark Clone. 

(How long has he been listening in on you?) 

You blink at Clark for a few seconds. His ears start flushing pink the longer you stare, you notice. 

“Yeah, I didn’t either,” you mumble through the words, pausing between syllables like it needs some effort to force out. 

“I know it’s not my place to say,” he sighs, looking down at the cool tile beneath your socked feet. “But...maybe you haven’t gone the best way around finding love.” 

“Why, you jealous?” You mean it as a joke. A flippant, throwaway line to tease. 

But Clark looks at you hard. Plucks his glasses off his head and sets them down on the counter, serious.

Faint frown lines surface on his face, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he blinks, and he’s back to normal, pretending the wall is so interesting. “…No.” 

You poke his cheek. It’s warm; a current of sparks runs up your arm and into your heart. “Admit it. You already know you could do better than half the guys I’ve cried to you about.” 

His eyes flick to the ceiling momentarily before meeting yours again. Stammers over his own breath and squeaks as he asks, “Just half?” 

Oh, he’s jealous. 

You can see it, clear as day. Clearer than Clark’s pretty eyes. That maybe you aren’t alone in this. That just like always, you’re on the same page as your best friend. 

“Okay,” you say, leaning closer to him in challenge. “So, what’s your advice, Mr. Kent?” 

He allows himself an inhale—one he doesn’t really need, being superpowered and all—and purses his lips. 

He’s blushing in the way you know so well, the way he does when you look at him for too long. Like some shy bastard. Like he isn’t aware of what’s starting to brew between you. 

The thing about Clark is that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes literally, like when a kid slapped a heart sticker onto his supersuit. 

But he’s so open about his desires that it’s sometimes hard for him to hide them. Like now—standing with his shoulders bunched up and tense, practically holding his breath as his pretty ocean eyes drift around and eventually land on your lips. 

His lashes flutter. Exhales stutters a little, let out slowly. 

Says under his breath, “Well, sunshine, I think more organic relationships have better benefits in the long run.” 

“Uh-huh.” You’re helpless to the slow, amused grin bubbling onto your face. “Elaborate.” 

Clark keeps on rambling, eyebrows shooting up as he explains, “Like, you hardly know anyone on a dating app, right?” 

“Right.” 

“And—you know, romantic feelings can develop elsewhere.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes!” he exclaims, gesturing wild nonsense with his hands. “For example, Cat’s really into this whole friends to lovers thing, and honestly, I think she’s got a point.” 

You fold your lips inward, holding them between your teeth as you try not to laugh. 

“See, she says that people benefit from already knowing their partner,” Clark says, gaze trailing down without a thought. “That ultimately, friends sometimes feel the most fulfilling love. And it’s easy for them, to communicate their desires” —he finally catches himself, eyes wide and blinking quickly— “and stuff.” 

You open your mouth, running dry from nerves. Quiet and sheepish, still unsure despite seeing all the signs, “Wanna put that to the test?” 

The way his inhale quivers should be illegal. “I—don’t know what you mean.” 

“I mean,” you say slowly, surprising yourself with how steady you feel despite the uproar rioting in your chest, “maybe—you know, Cat’s theory. Maybe I do need someone who knows me.” 

Clark’s eyelids flicker, and then finally squeeze shut. His voice is tight when he murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.” 

You say his name. Soft. Quiet. Like a Friday night in Smallville at the Kents’. Like the aftermath of a dinner get-together, when you used to sit on his bed and cover your face with a comic instead of talking with the neighbors in the living room. 

He makes a small noise of response, a gentle hymn that comes with the smallest up-tilt of his head. A couple curls fall loose over his forehead and without thinking, you brush them to the side with a trembling finger. 

Some things between you don’t need words. Like when you’re hungry and find an orange already peeled. Or when you glance at each other during a movie and find that the other is also trying not to laugh. 

But this needs words. Need the confirmation that yes, Clark Kent can make time, but he can also make a different space in his already big heart for you, too. 

“Sunshine?” His whisper is vulnerable, cracked wide in the middle. “I can hear your heartbeat, y’know? It’s the one where you’re planning something.” 

Fuck. You can’t take it anymore. 

“I like you.” It spills out without a second thought, but you steamroll on, fingers dragging from his hairline and down to cup his cheek. 

You sound like a damn teenager professing her undying love when you say it again. “I like you. Since Nate, when your Pa said you dropped everything to get me. And I just— 

I realized nobody loved me like you,” you choke out. And it feels so free to say that, as if some vice you didn’t know was clenched around your heart has released itself. “And I took that for granted when I should’ve—” 

“Sunshine,” Clark cuts in, breaking your laundry list of guilt. Says it with that heartland twang you’ve been missing from his voice because he changes it slightly to fit in with Metropolis. 

He doesn’t say more. Just leans in. Places a peck to the corner of your mouth. 

And you stare at each other for seconds. Eyes wide. Something you can’t name shooting through your heart and oh. 

Oh, it feels like you’re finally on the right side of heaven to wrinkle his stiff workshirt in your fists and pull him in for a real, dizzying kiss. 

One you know you can’t turn back from. One that makes your body feel so viscerally alive, like livewire has been activated under your skin. 

You’re going to feel this for days, you think. 

Clark moves his lips over yours like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s really going to savor the seven-odd years you spent oblivious to your own feelings. 

Your chest is vibrating with anticipation, core growing warmer and warmer until you realize that there’s a hot wetness growing between your legs. And of course Clark decides that now is the perfect fucking time to wrap his arms around you and lift. 

You think he was made for this. To hold you like you’re made of foam. To be so strong and tender at the same time, cradling you closer like he’s trying to fuse into your skin.  

Wouldn’t mind, a thought smears by in your mind. 

He sets you down on the counter, which is cold and hard beneath you. Breaks away for a split-second to angle his head differently, catching you with your mouth still parted. Sweeps his tongue leisurely along your bottom lip, nips and sucks as he plants a large, burning palm on your knee and shifts it to the side with a light but firm push. 

You swear a star sparks in your skull and starts bouncing around the cavity of your chest. 

He kisses you deeper. Hungrier, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Corralling you between the wall and himself, hands coming up to graze from your waist around to your back, thumbs caressing in circles over the bare sliver of skin beneath your sweater, which you didn’t know until now had ridden up. 

“Should’ve” —a soft sigh unfurls in you as he peels himself off, only to attach himself to your jaw, taking his time as he blazes a shallow line of kisses to your ear— “done this sooner.” 

“Well,” his voice is rough, mouth forming a simper against the underside of your jaw’s hinge—kisses there, and then closer and closer to your throat. You bare your neck to him, easy and unthinking; the ceiling spins above you. “Better late—” sucks at the sensitive, tender spot just beneath your chin, fuck “—than never.” 

You register that he’s sliding his hand under the back of your sweater, pressing hot skin along your back. Fingers skating over the divots in your spine, he drags himself back up and waits there with his nose beside yours like he’s asking for permission. 

His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth barely lifted up, a smile about to unfurl. You plant a chaste kiss on his lips, and as you pull away, he lurches forward, as if he’s trying to chase another hit. 

“Wait,” he mumbles, some dreamy look surfacing on his relaxed face—brows floating up slightly, seam of his pink and swollen lips parting. “Come back.” 

“I’m gonna pass out if you keep kissing me like that,” you say, tone whispered.

Even then, you might be understating yourself. You feel like you’re teetering on the knife’s edge of sanity. 

You run your hand down his chest and pinch the fabric just above his belt, untucking it absently and looking down at him through your lashes. You don’t even know why you lament honestly, “And then I can’t take this off. And then we can’t fuck.” 

Clark frowns, opening his eyes to look at you in that upturned, tragically kicked-puppy way that makes you ache. In your chest, at the crux of your thighs. 

Too fast? You avert your eyes in shame. 

“I prefer the term making love.” His lashes flit in a way that would make some of the women at your workplace envious, and he’s holding your eyes in his pretty blue ones. Reminds you of the sky in the countryside, just after the last raincloud has cleared up, the scent of petrichor still heavy in the air. 

You nudge yourself forward and brush your mouth over his upper lip. Salt and sugar blooms on your tongue. “Oh, I forgot that you talk like a geriatric. We should stop before your knees crack.” 

“Ah, we can’t have that,” he hums, genuine concern blooming on his face, just beneath that stupid, bright tipsy-flush on his cheeks that make you feel something weird. 

Slips his hand out from under your shirt, gently takes your chin in his grip and rubs his thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip, all while brushing his mouth over his ministrations. Pouts like he’s the one being subject to the hormonal mutiny that’s making you feel so violently alive.  

You want, want, want. 

Tugging at his shirt, abandoning your restraint to push your hips forward and against his solid stomach and fuck, a sound escapes you that sound suspiciously like please? and he breaks into a breath-stealing smile like a coy cat that just got the cream. 

It’s no surprise that you barely blink before you find yourself lying supine and sinking into his mattress. Smells like that damn vanilla, and sandalwood, and the wind of Smallville. As if he flies back just to dry his laundry on the porch clothesline. 

The blankets are peeled back neatly. Fitted sheet soft to the touch—you curl your fingers in the cotton for something to ground yourself with, because apparently Clark isn’t enough. 

Pillows plush and considerately placed beneath your head, the mattress dips for the weight of Clark settling on his knees between your legs.  

He sort of hangs there for a second as you catch your breath and reel in the uncountable minutes of insanity that have just passed. Scrutinizes you with gentle, earnest eyes, cupping the back of your clothed knees with broad, kind hands. 

He presses his thumb into the outside of your knee, right in the faint divot where the cap sits over bone, tendon, and muscle. You swallow, watching him as he traces his eyes up and down your body—collected, steady. 

Safe in the way he has always been. Clark squeezes the top of your calf once before letting his hands slide up—a line of flinty sparks follows him—to cup your hips.  

“Sunshine,” he rumbles, soft eyes meeting yours. Tilts his head, loose waves of inky hair falling over his forehead. Adam’s apple bobbing, he lets go of your hips and holds your hands instead, all earnest and somewhat guilty. “Do you mean it?” 

You blink up at him, confused. “Huh?” 

“That you like me.” He turns over your hands so he can press his thumbs into your palms. “That you want this.” 

A small, almost disbelieving laugh scuffs out of your mouth. Of course he’s double and triple checking. 

“Silly,” you say, curling your right-hand fingers around his thumb. “I can’t lie to you.” 

“Can you say it again? Just to be sure.” 

“Clark.” You lift his hand toward your face. Kiss the back of it softly, and smile at how comforting the feel of his skin is. You’re all innocuous and doe-eyed when you say, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me and make me feel it for days.” 

His breath stammers in a way that makes you flush. All barely-held restraint and trembling like you’re doing something to make him weak. 

He gives you a tight, downturned smile once he settles himself, the same one that would flash across his face to reassure you. 

Except, it’s a little different now. Except, there’s something terrifyingly raw swimming in his—you've just noticed—unnaturally dilated pupils, and you’d be wrong not to call him lovesick or fond. 

Maybe he’s always looked at you like that, all benign and wanting, and you didn’t realize until now. The thought of beating yourself up over wasting so, so much time when Clark was right in front of you flickers through your head, but it’s quickly wiped away when he gently lets go of your hands and starts undoing his button-up. 

You’re fixated on the way his fingers work the buttons—nimble, with just the right application of pressure to pop it open. You follow them all the way down to the last, where the hem you untucked earlier hangs over the tent rising in his slacks. 

He’s big, the crotch of his pants tight. The outline of his cock is visible through the dark fabric. Holy shit. 

Your chest tightens for a breath.  

Unconsciously, your thighs squeeze tighter in search of friction. 

Futile. Clark nudges his knees wider to stop you as he shrugs away his shirt and then strips off his undershirt. 

You hope your eyes aren’t bugging out. 

He’s sculpted like a goddamn Greek statue—solid muscle, defined pecs and shoulders—yet soft at the same time. A thin layer of fat hugs his abdomen in true farmer fashion, mellows out his broad frame and you suddenly want to wrap your arms and legs around him and maybe just let him fuck you animalistically like that. 

“C’mere,” he says, syllables muddled together with his eyes all fluttering and mouth loose like that, like he’s drunk off desire. Like he’s also noting how heavy the air has gotten, hazy with lust. Takes your fingers in his again, draws it toward the center of his bare chest. 

His skin is blistering under your palm. A furnace almost; your neck prickles with heat as another wave of arousal tides over you. 

And then you feel it. Pounding hard enough to pulse like it’s right under the first layer of impenetrable skin and not buried beneath layers of fat, muscle, and bone. A strange, not-quite-human thrum that kisses your fingertips. 

Clark takes a steadying breath, pitches himself down to kiss you all while holding your touch firmly over his heart. 

His lips slide over yours—longing, like the short minute that’s passed since he last kissed you was an eternity. 

And his heartbeat jumps. 

Actually. Speeds up to thunder at what seems like a hundred miles an hour, strong and loud and trying to leap into your palm. Stays like that for the honey-slow seconds that your mouths lazily dance, and for another ten after he ducks his flushed face into the right side of your neck. 

He smells like an underlayer of woodsy cologne and flour. Like the faint, diluted scent of corn ripening in the wind. Like home. 

“You make me so nervous,” Clark finally says, voice lilting into borderline self-amusement. “God, sweetheart, you have no idea.” 

His lips press over your jugular, feeling the pulse there. Eyelashes flutter on your skin as he nips your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to know that your blood will darken the surface later. 

Somehow, in the smudged haze of craving and teeth, he finds his way to the button of your jeans. Pauses there, forefinger picking at the overlap of denim. 

Your breath freezes in the same moment as his. 

“Please?” he asks so sweetly. You cant your hips up in response. 

His exhale hisses out all at once, almost a gasp. Cheek searing where it lays on your neck, deft touch working the button out of its nest and zipper rasping as he opens it. 

The sound of it is so loud in his otherwise still bedroom. 

Your breath shudders when he slips your jeans down, over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Cold air hits your clothed cunt, cooling the wetness that’s gathered in your panties. 

Your jeans get stuck around your left ankle, to which he giggles boyishly to himself between breaths, and oh, your heart swells so much that you feel too small for the mush of endearing-lovey-sweet churning in your chest. 

You tug at your sweater, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and wrestling the lump of fabric over your head. Takes a minute, because you’re a little shaky and practically bursting at the seams with anticipation. 

Then you’re laying there and letting Clark take you in, all vulnerable with your undergarments mismatched (gosh, maybe you really should have picked underwear that matched your bra) and clothes discarded out of sight. 

And it’s stupid, really. How your inhale hitches. A little stall, if you will, at the dawn of an aching expression on his face, looking at you. Really looking at you. 

Like he wouldn’t have this any other way. Like he’s trying to find the best way to get under your skin, just like how he inspects a chessboard to make his next move. Like he already knows what’s going to make you twitch, or clench, or come so hard that you see the pearly gates. 

Fast and unprepared and in his own bed, fitted sheet already wrinkled while you try not to squirm because you’re a little embarrassed that your bra is black and your panties are white with navy polka dots. 

“Don’t stare,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a mortified squeak. 

“Why not?” Clark just smiles. Easy. The most natural thing in the world, when he grazes his fingertips over the waistband of your panties. “I'm just admiring the most beautiful woman.” 

You scoff, crossing your arms over your bare stomach. “Yeah. My eyes’re up here, you know.” 

“Really,” he protests. Dips his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. “Or as Ma would say, I’m happy as a clam.” 

Draws the smallest tension and lets the band snap back against your hip, because he just has to be cheeky and tease. 

“Oh,” he gasps in revelation, heartland twang starting to bleed back into his low, baritone words, “or that’s a sight.” 

Your skin burns, feverish from your soaked cunt to your head. 

Then Clark shifts himself down to nuzzle the damp gusset, applying the barest feather of pressure over your clothed clit. He shudders. Wraps his arms around your thighs so he can hold you closer as he starts laving over the thin fabric. 

A soft sigh spills out of your mouth, helpless. Nakedly sweet and honest in a way you didn’t expect yourself to be. 

Uncontrollable, your fingers thread into his downy hair and tug lightly. 

He groans quietly but doesn’t listen, mouth instead moving back up to your stomach. 

Clark buries his nose just under your navel. Breathes you in, solid biceps tightening slightly around your thighs. Exhales with a muffled, broken sound that echoes your own and your heart flips. 

“Baby, you’re so soft,” he mumbles, head angling down to start blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses back down your stomach, up the delicate inside of your right thigh. Presses himself close to your skin, licks over where your pulse thrums between your legs and sucks. 

You inhale sharply, shifting your hips, now aware of just how empty you are. 

He hums in response, teasing the same spot on the other side of your cunt. You wriggle a little more, trying to get his mouth where you want it. 

Impatience burns behind your ribs. You want it, you want it so fucking bad that the need cuts you open and raw, like barbed wire drawn taut over your sternum. 

“Please,” you breathe. Can’t even recognize your own voice now, all breathy and desperate. Looking down at him through your lashes, you dart your tongue over your bottom lip. Tastes like salt, and him. “Clark, please.” 

Eyes flicking up to yours, he hums in low question. Tilts his head, so his curls tickle your inner thigh. “Patience is a virtue, y’know.” 

You swallow, going still for a fractured moment. You come up blank, like a reel left out so long that all the fish of your thoughts know it’s bait. “I...” 

A gentle smile rises to his face. “’S alright,” he says, all saccharine and forgivingly merciful. Water under the bridge, you think to yourself. “I’ll remind you.” 

Slips his fingers under the elastic of your waistband again, pulls down your panties as a flare of sudden, sharp need rips through you. Curves his smile a little sharper when the gusset sticks to your cunt for a moment, tacky with your arousal. 

The flimsy little piece of fabric lands somewhere out of sight, too, and Clark lets a nearly disbelieving sigh puff out from his mouth as he stares at your naked sex.  

You watch, mesmerized and head floating in a near-dream state, as he lowers himself flat onto the mattress—you don’t miss the subtle way he grinds his hips down—and lays his head against your thigh. 

“Should—should I tell you now that I’ve never done this before?” 

Curse your stupid, big mouth. 

Clark stiffens. Stares at you with eyes unblinking and wide. “What?” 

Your stomach drops in panicked freefall. “No—fuck. Not like that.” 

“I’m gonna need some clarification,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“I’m not a virgin,” you blurt. “If that’s what you think. I just...” 

He blinks at you, finally. Questions in that earnest, pleading voice, “No, that’s—sunshine, are we going too fast? We can stop right now.” 

A wave of heavy embarrassment crashes down on you. 

Your palms slap onto your face, eyes squeezing shut at the mortifying, humiliating fact that— “I’ve never had a guy go down on me!” 

“And” —you have to fight yourself to be honest about this— “half the time, I don’t come anyway.” 

Clark just sort of twists his mouth, looking at you with those melancholic eyes, dimples shifting as he processes. 

Just zones out a bit. As if he isn’t laying stomach-down on the bed, extremely eager to eat you out two seconds ago. Okay, maybe he is still a little eager, just toned down. 

But you can see it. In the way he blinks, up at your eyes and down to your navel. In the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, ready. 

He wets his bottom lip. Says, in a hoarse, choked voice like he really can’t believe it, “But you’re okay?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, peeling your fingers off your face, “more than okay. So you better ruin it for everyone else.” 

He smiles, dorky and charming, face all ruddy. You lament—oh, you feel like a fucking travesty with the way his dimples make your heart somersault like that. 

“So,” he starts, pitching his head down to study your sex. Trailing his fingers from your thigh to your folds, he wets himself with the slick arousal already there. “What even happens after you have sex with other guys? When you aren’t satisfied?” 

You try not to worm around as Clark gently strokes the tip of his middle finger up your seam. You shiver, though, when he pauses just below your clit and drags back down. 

“Just…I take care of myself after. Obviously,” you mumble, restraining the urge to lift your hips just so and let his thick fingers fill your aching cunt. But patience is a virtue, and you’ll be damned if you don’t find out what Clark’s whole reminder is about. “Lots of sore wrists and stuff.” 

An easy grin blooms on his face again. Start pumping the tip of his finger into you, slowly working you open. 

“Like this?” he asks, once the second knuckle of his finger has been swallowed by your cunt. Thicker than you thought it would be. Which makes you wonder about and crave the stretch of two. 

“Yeah,” you try to keep your voice from squeaking, but it does anyway. You cover your mouth with the back of your left hand and card the right into his silken, messy waves. “I just—god, you’re thick.” 

“Easy, honey,” he shushes. Kisses the top of your mound, to which you respond with a soft, open sound. Takes his mouth lower, minuscule centimeter by minuscule centimeter, until he’s pulling out his one finger and stretching you out with two, just as he latches his scorching mouth around your clit and sucks.  

You moan. Loud, embarrassing, pitched up at the end. 

The feeling of being so full aches in you. Feels like he’s penetrating your entire body. Like he’s going to live in the cavity of your chest forever, and right now you’re more than willing to keep him warm. 

He laps at you all while rocking his fingers, getting your parted folds all sticky and slick with saliva and arousal. Detached himself with a tacky string of viscous liquid, eyes rolling up before they shut, forehead nuzzling into your stomach. 

“Did you do it like this?” He crooks his fingers, thick and hot in your cunt, presses into a spongy spot that makes you tug at his hair for more. You whine a little. “Or that?” 

Slides impossibly deeper into you, bypassing that first spot and nudging his fingers into a place that shoots white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine, and his tongue swipes searing over your clit and you think you fucking gush a little down to his wrist. 

“God,” you choke out, and Clark just keeps teasing that spot, moaning softly into your cunt and stroking and rocking his touch until your stomach starts to tighten, all raw and urging. “There, there, shit.” 

It’s like a switch has flipped in you. 

You’re fucking ruined for life. Hips rutting up to chase the next thrust of his fingers, the next flick or swipe of his tongue as your neurons go into overdrive. Sobbing: “Oh, Clark—baby, fuck, that’s—good, so good, Clark, please—” 

He rolls his tongue hard over your sensitive clit, upping the intensity at which his digits are fucking into you—a filthy push-pull that you can hear, lewd noises of your cunt spasming in as he bullies that bundle of nerves inside you. 

“C’mon,” he groans, a desperate sound vibrating into you. Kisses your clit again, and you feel another surge of wetness coat your inner thighs when he shoves his fingers in deep to keep stimulating your g-spot. Sounds all wrecked and wanton when he rumbles, open-mouthed over you, “That’s it, honey. Keep doing that. Make you feel better than all those jerks, yeah?” 

You keen, high-pitched. Hips rutting up into his face, unabashed, muscles gradually tightening until you’re all wound up. 

It’s getting to be too much, like you’re being filled to the brim and then some. Like you’re about to spill out of your own skin, all ‘cause of your best friend’s ministrations. His tongue. The way he stuffs a shallow, wanting moan into the crook of your inner thigh and cunt. How he’s shifting his hips into the mattress, how the bedframe is creaking slightly from the movement. 

Your pulse is pounding. Like you’re trying to mimic the way his heart was when he let you feel it, and your head is spinning with it, too. 

And then Clark dips the tip of his tongue low, tasting you from the top of the opening of your sex—fucking gasps with a sound that almost cries and drags the flat of his tongue hot up to your clit. Wraps his plush, sweltering lips around it and starts laving with abandon, grinding his fingertips into your g-spot. 

It’s not the way he’s lapping at you that makes you break. It’s not even his thick, full fingers stretching you out in a way that burns so sweetly in you. 

It’s just Clark. 

He reaches for the hand you have buried in his hair. 

Wraps his warm, gentle palm around your wrist. Squeezes you once, firm enough to ground you by a thread-thin tether. Kneads his thumb over your pulse point and looks up at you through his lashes, eyes out of focus and so honest. 

Starbursts pop in your vision. 

You swear you black out for a second as you come, moans shaky against the back of your hand. 

Your orgasm hits you hard and soft at the same time. Crests and crashes with a tidal wave of wetness that dribbles out of your cunt, soothes over your head as bliss fills your body. Your ears are ringing, hearing smudged and cottony like you’ve been dunked in the pool and someone’s trying to talk to you from above the surface.  

You quiver, helpless as you chase the aftershocks against Clark’s eager mouth. 

There’s a trembling sincerity when he slowly pulls his fingers from you, like he’s reluctant. He’s still guiding you down from the last ripples of ecstasy, tongue undulating over the still-twitching seam of your cunt, whispering pleasant nothings between each lick like he’s found an altar between your thighs. 

But he doesn’t bring you down. Doesn’t let you stray far from that high-up edge, nose now pressed into your clit as he wraps his thick, solid arms under your legs, then over your stomach to lock you in place. 

“Clark,” you sigh, squirming from the stimulation. You can hardly recognize your voice, all tender and soft and pitched. “Clark.” 

His lips make a wet, lewd sound when he reluctantly draws himself away from your cunt. Leaves a web-thin, almost star-spun string of slick connecting you to him, panting so feverishly that he pushes your legs closer to your chest. 

He hums, looking a little dazed. Eyes unfocused, tongue darting out to taste that string of fluid, which breaks and dribbles down his chin in a way that makes your stomach riot with butterflies. 

"Going somewhere?” he rasps, and god, if that doesn’t make your heart leap for the chance to give him another and then some. 

“No,” you mumble, heat prickling under your skin. 

Clark blinks at you, cheek squished to your inner thigh. Lets his eyes roll closed when you stroke your fingers through his hair, exhale balmy on your bare skin. 

“Okay,” he says, quiet. 

This time, he’s slow with it. Takes his time, languid and sensual flicks and laves meant to wriggle between your seams and pick you apart from the inside.  

Tides you through your refractory period, sighs when you start to tighten your thighs around his head again. Lights that spark in you once more, using his drenched, arousal-shiny fingers only to play with your clit while his tongue slips into your throbbing cunt instead. 

You don’t know how much time has passed. You only know this: back arching and hips twitching as Clark guides you toward another orgasm, skillfully fucking you with his tongue like this is his last meal and he needs to savor it. 

You feel a telltale tingle in your core again. Coils up tighter, raw, wrings you dry until you’re rocking your hips and pushing at his head to go deeper, faster, harder. 

Faintly, you register his bedframe creaking. Clark moans—loud, honest, fervent, broken in a way you’ve never heard—right into your folds and— 

Your inhale catches. Stammers as your high starts to crest, and you whine, pliant and helpless, fuck— 

Clark stops. Retracts himself, tongue sweeping over his swollen bottom lip to gather your wetness. Swallows, and your eyes follow the motion of his Adam’s apple. 

He looks more wrecked than you feel. Looks like he’s the one dangling on the precipice of coming, like he’s the one who’s been licked within an inch of his life. 

He sits up, kneeling between your legs and shit, he’s blushing all the way down to his chest. Pink from head to pec, hair plastered to his forehead from what you assume is the humidity between your thighs. 

“Gosh,” he pants. Long inhale, short exhale. He closes his eyes like he’s tasting the last of you lingering on his tongue. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, sunshine.” 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, panic spiking in your chest. “What’s wrong?” 

He groans. Folds himself back down by the waist and buries his burning face into your sternum. Kisses the skin there, and drags his fingers up your spine to dawdle on the clasp of your bra. 

“Not you,” comes his muffled murmur, still pressing sincere, reverent kisses on your chest. “Just—you taste too good.” 

You pause. Process the fact that Clark had to take a second because he was enjoying himself too much. And a laugh spills out of your mouth. 

You comb your hands through his hair, making him shiver when your nails scrape on his scalp. “I was about to come again, you know.” 

He groans, mortified, and presses his forehead harder against your sternum. 

“Gosh,” he stutters, and you’re pretty sure that’s his word of the day, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it.” 

“Take what?” You cup your hand to his warm, flushed cheek, tilt his head up to look at him. 

He stares back at you, mouth glistening and parted, eyes flicking down to your lips. He swallows. 

“I think—well, I almost,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “I didn’t want to come yet. And uh, I don’t have a condom.” 

You guess he’s your best friend for a reason. 

Here you are, looking each other up and down and realizing that you’ve both unwittingly edged yourselves. Get a load of this fucking comedy. 

You huff, amused. Squeeze his cheeks in your palms, and your heart flutters when he smiles, bashful. “You’re funny.” 

“Sure, sunshine. I'll make that up to you,” he says, shifting his fingers on your back and undoing your bra. “So just to be sure—” 

“Yes, Clark,” you grumble, tangling your fingers in his curls and tugging. Hard. You swear his eyes roll into his skull a little. “We can fuck without a condom.” 

“You’re so crass,” he chides, and cool air hits your breasts. 

Your bra lands somewhere soft, cushioned, and when you look, you find that he’s thrown it and the rest of your clothes—with terrifying accuracy—into his hamper. 

That cracks something wide open in you. It blooms in your chest, unfurls like the first thaw of spring. 

He’s so sweet. There isn’t another word for how he makes you feel. It’s just a something, somehow, stitched together with a lifetime of bandaids and inside jokes. 

And you mourn. Even though the space between your bodies is so tight that your skin is sticky with humidity, even though his belt is clicking and he’s asking again, because he’s got that devastating habit of being a quintuple-checker: 

“Will you let me have you?” 

Not can I. Will you. 

You snap out of your daze, heart still sighing dreamily as you practically leap to help tear his belt out of the loops. 

“Is that a yes?” he wonders out loud, laying his forehead on yours. He squeezes his eyes tight when you unzip his fly and relieve a little more pressure from his hard cock. Chokes out, “For the record—oh, god—I’m a yes. Please.” 

Clark kisses you with undisguised desire when you palm him over his underwear. He’s scorching in your palm, weighty when you try to grind the heel of your hand on it. 

He whimpers. Honest to god whimpers, a ruined sound that whistles in the miniscule space between your open mouths, and your arm jerks, startled by how sudden and unexpected and hot that is. 

Clark does it again, louder this time. Your core throbs.  

“Baby,” he groans, furrowing his brows in concentration, “as much as I like that—” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, steadier than you expected yourself to be, with your throat running dry and heart pounding in your throat. “Yeah, I want—” 

“I know,” he says. Gently nudges your hand off his clothed erection, crowds you up against the headboard. Then he takes you by the knee, hand blistering up your thigh, and delicately guides you to lay on your back. 

Your head lolls to the side, nose pressing into one of his pillows. Smells like home in a way you can’t really explain beyond the faint scent of sleep and lemon detergent. Smells like him, in the purest sense possible; all wool-soft and mellow, like the kindest comfort during a winter storm in Smallville. 

He shimmies out of his pants. His cock bobs up, all eight inches and girth standing at attention, the head deeply flushed and pearled with pre. It slaps lightly against his navel, leaving behind a thread of slick that breaks quickly, and you burn white-hot and raw with lust.

Clark slides a plush pillow under your hips. Gazes down at you through his lashes, eyes shining with a light that makes your chest ache. Whispers, almost to himself, “You’re so pretty. My pretty girl.” 

You don’t remember how you respond to that. 

Because Clark is taking his cock in his hand, and that has the audacity to make his size look normal, and he strokes himself slowly as he guides himself toward your soaked cunt. You think you lose your breath. 

He breaches you with a single, slow thrust, with an open-mouthed stammer of breath, and there’s so much of him sliding forward that you don’t even try arching your back to let him go deeper. And he just waits there, to the hilt, girthy and heavy and pulsing in time with your dripping, stretched cunt, and you’re so fucking full of him that you think you won’t be able to get up tomorrow. 

Good thing it’s Friday, is the last thing that runs through your mind before he bends over and takes you with him, folding your legs against your chest like you’re one of those fucking origami cranes he makes in his free time.  

(Yes, you’ve seen the box under his bed. No, not the one with his suit. 

The one with a thousand colorful, paper cranes he folds at his desk when anonymous tips are slow and takes the time between work and alien invaders to painstakingly link them all up onto a thread of fishing line. The one he brings to a thrift shop every time he finishes a string, just so a lucky someone passing by could have a little goodness in their day.) 

And Clark fucks like this means more than the world to him. Slow, sensual, with purpose. Grinds the searing head of his cock into the spot that made you see starbursts on his tongue earlier, cloistering his chest against your shins like he needs—not wants, but needs, desperately, more than air or sun—to live in your skin. 

He moans in time with you, breathes out in a voice that sets you ablaze, “God, you’re so tight—sunshine, you’re perfect.” 

He’s everywhere. Whimpering with his mouth over yours. Slipping his thumb expertly over your twitching clit over and over until you’re trying to arch into him, but you can’t, because he’s fucking you with his entire weight behind each world-stopping thrust and oh— 

You get why he says ‘making love’ like an old-fashioned loverboy. 

Because he is. Because he’s pushing and pulling into your cunt like he’s promising, like he’s revering. Heavy and softhearted and caressing the outside of your hip with a warm, soothing hand, and you understand. 

“I love you,” you gasp. Just feels like the right thing to say, head spinning and mouth wet with his and your spit. Tastes like salt, and yourself. “Clark, please.” 

“I can hear you,” he chokes out in the middle of an aborted whine. Ducks his nose behind your ear, breathes in the scent of your skin, all flushed with heat and thinly veiled with sweat. “Your heartbeat, it’s—so fast.” 

He jerks up into your walls with a calamitous, devastating grind. Makes that same gush of wetness drool out of your spasming cunt, and when he plunges in you again, his pelvis slaps into the fat of your ass with a sound so tacky your ears burn, all shameful and alive. 

“You liked that,” Clark gasps, taking your bottom lip in his mouth and sucking. Lets go after a moment when he’s satisfied with how swollen and pliant you are and rolls that bundle of sparking nerves between your thighs. You clench around him, uncontrollable, legs bucking up to no avail. “Holy—I love you, too. Gosh, I love you so much for so long, you’ve no idea—” 

You can’t recall when your orgasm started cresting. It had just built slowly like one of those soda bottles that used to explode in Clark’s face randomly, creeping up on you like all this. 

The realization that you are deeply, raptly in love with your best friend. That you want with him what all the people in the movies have—being late for your train because you get coffee together in the mornings; finding sweet, handwritten notes on his fridge, right next to your photobooth strip; passing each other in the hallway like two familiar ships, exchanging an earnest kiss before he runs off to fold the laundry and you to take inventory of the groceries. 

And you want him forever. Yours to kiss. Yours to curl up to when the night gets too cold for even his thick, pillowy duvet, for him to hold you close and mumble his thoughts against your cheek. 

A ruined whine rips through your lungs. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of the precipice. 

He starts the hand holding your hip, dragging it up your side, over your ribcage. Traces the space between your bones, splays his hand wide for a moment between your breasts. Pushes down slightly, and you can feel your own heart leaping to try and touch him. 

Oh. This is proving to be too much for you. 

And then he reaches up to take one of your hands still tugging at his hair, threads his fingers between yours. Holds on tight, grounding. 

Clark kisses your cheek. Chaste and sweet compared to the downright filthy way his cock is sparking the live wire under your skin. 

Locks your eyes with his unfocused ones, and all you see in your smudged, pleasure-sick vision is the way he’s looking at you with something between disbelieving awe and endearment. 

You come with his name already in your mouth and sugar-salt on your tongue. 

He works you through the aftermath, rolling his hips with a gentle, powerful grace as you shiver and sigh brokenly against him. Makes love with a trembling, earnest sincerity, until you’re melting and he’s approaching his orgasm. 

Clark doesn’t slow when he lowers your legs. Your thighs are a little sore, and you’re still rushing with your own high when he holds you tight in his solid, secure arms until your breasts are flattening against his chest. 

It isn’t long until his rhythm is stammering like your poor heart, until he’s following you close over the edge, stuffing a low, warm, quivering moan close to your ear and spilling hot ropes deep into you like this has been his life’s mission all along. 

—

You wake with the moon kissing your back and the AC kicking on. 

Mouth dry, because it somehow found itself open, and there’s a spot of drool crusting on your cheek. You’re hungry, and it’s late by the analog display blinking from the top of the nightstand. 

The clock sits just under a lamp. Familiar, like a second home. Blue-glass shade, tarnished brass. 

And then you remember that this isn’t your apartment. You’re waking up in Clark’s bed, soft sheets pooling around your hips, and he’s done the favor of cleaning you up and putting out an old, threadbare shirt and a pair of shorts at the foot of the bed. 

Crabjoys and college shorts. Of course. 

The door creaks, letting a rectangle of golden-warm light stretch across the floor. 

He’s standing there, in pajamas patterned with little brown cows and glasses hanging off the collar of the worn-thin shirt tight on his biceps and chest, and he’s balancing a little plate with a sliced bagel and condiments you can’t see well. 

His curls are egregiously messed up. The back of his hair sticks up at an odd angle, presumably from your incessant tugging in the throes of pleasure (your stomach warms at the reminder), and his ears are bright red in the dim light. 

Your heart swells for a sigh. There he is. Your best friend. 

“Hi,” he breathes, shuffling into the room. He’s wearing tattered bunny slippers that squeak a little. “Good thing I set a timer on the oven. Could’ve burned our breakfast for dinner.” 

“You spoil me,” you say, sitting up to reach for the shirt. You pull it over your head and he’s there before you when you emerge from the worn cotton, pressing a grateful kiss to your temple. 

“That’s because you're the best thing in the world,” Clark rolls his eyes, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks. 

He’s so gentle. Intimately familiar. 

You’ve already loved him for a lifetime. 

You wouldn’t mind one more. 

— kisses to the lovely wonderful betas dee @kentbot and nini @dancing-inasnowglobe for prereading this crazy fic for me! please let me know if u enjoyed, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated <33

[winchesterswhore]

do you ever look at a man and think i need you in the most disgusting, vile, pathetic, animalistic, disturbing, vulgar and morally questionable way possible

[ohcaptains]

sit around and miss you

pairing. frank castle x female! reader. an. hello!!!! pls reblog & comment if u like !!! love u warnings. 18+. female receiving penetration, spit play (!!in mouth!!), detailed descriptions of violence, use of the word sir, references to somnophilia (but not actually happening), mouth covering? with hand. frank’s a big meany who loves you.

synopsis. frank’s antsy after a night shift, especially when his buddies were talking smack about how he’s leaving you in bed all alone.

Keep reading

[heavenlybodies333]

Almost Caught -C.K

Setting: Kent family farm, Smallville

Synopsis: You visit the Kent farm for the weekend and watch Clark play the perfect son in front of his mom—but he’s anything but innocent when he’s alone with you in the barn.

cw: Rough sex, semi-public sex, exhibitionism risk, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, creampie, slightly bratty reader, dominant Clark, near-caught scenario, suggestive teasing, unprotected sex, filthy language.

You really were trying to behave. You swore you were.

You’d come out to Smallville for the weekend—supposed to be sweet and wholesome, meet-the-mom energy. Martha Kent was everything you expected and more: kind, warm, soft-spoken, with those homemade pies that made you question if she had some magical abilities of her own. The woman adored you, welcomed you like family.

But you were one blink away from throwing all that kindness straight out the barn window because Clark Kent in farm boy mode was something dangerously unfair.

T-shirt sticking to his chest with sweat, biceps flexing every time he lifted a hay bale, that damn cowboy hat he wore backward while fixing the tractor. You watched him from the porch like a woman possessed, thighs pressed together, sipping lemonade with trembling hands.

He’d kiss your cheek sweetly in front of his mom, whisper “you okay, baby?” with that boy-next-door charm like he didn’t fuck you raw the night before in the backseat of his truck with your panties shoved in his pocket.

By noon, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You caught him in the barn, alone, wrench in hand, working on some old farming equipment. Sweat dripped down his neck, his white tank clinging to every ridge of muscle.

“Clark,” you breathed, stepping in behind him and shutting the barn door.

He turned, brow furrowed, wiping his hands on a rag. “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you pouted, toeing off your shoes. “My boyfriend’s being way too good in front of his mom and it’s driving me insane.”

He chuckled, setting the wrench down and crossing his arms. “You like seeing me play the perfect farm boy?”

“You have no fucking idea.” You closed the space between you, slipping your fingers under the waistband of his jeans, your voice dropping. “It makes me want to be a very bad girl.” Clark’s jaw tensed—his kryptonite wasn’t green anymore. It was you.

“You know we can’t—”

“I locked the door,” you whispered, licking up his throat. “Unless you want your mom to find out what a dirty mouth her sweet son actually has when he’s knuckle-deep in me—”

“Jesus,” he hissed, grabbing you by the waist and pinning you to the nearest stall wall. The air left your lungs as your back hit the wood, his thigh forcing its way between your legs.

“Thought I was being nice,” he growled against your throat, “but you just don’t know how to act, do you?”

“Not when you walk around like that,” you whined, grinding down on his thigh, your panties soaked through your shorts. “You’re killing me, Clark.”

He popped the button on your shorts like he was pissed, yanking them down with your underwear in one go. He didn’t even bother undressing himself—just pulled himself out, already hard, thick, angry.

“You want to get fucked like a slut in my mama’s barn?” he muttered, hiking one of your legs around his hip.

You nodded desperately, arms thrown over his shoulders. “Want you to—

You didn’t get to finish the sentence—he shoved into you in one brutal thrust, knocking the wind from your lungs as your nails dug into his back.

“Oh fuck— Clark—”

“Shut up,” he grunted, pounding into you with slow, punishing thrusts. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

“You’re the one—oh God—fucking me like this!”

He bit down on your shoulder to keep himself from groaning too loud. You were soaking wet, squeezing him like your pussy was made for him, and the sounds of skin slapping filled the barn with every thrust.

“You like being fucked where anyone could walk in?” he hissed into your ear, holding you up like you weighed nothing.

“Yes—yes—fuck me harder—”

He angled his hips, hitting that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back, and then—just as you were spiraling, breath caught in your throat—

“Clark? You seen the pie dish?”

Your heart stopped. Martha’s voice came through the window, clear and close. Clark froze, one hand clamping over your mouth, the other still gripping your ass as your body trembled on the edge of orgasm.

Your eyes met his—wild, terrified, turned on as hell. He stayed still, cock buried inside you, both of you straining to hear.

“Check the pantry!” he called back, voice perfectly casual. The man didn’t even stutter.

You wanted to moan, but his hand stayed firm on your mouth. You both waited in silence, barely breathing. Then—footsteps retreating.

Clark smirked. “Told you we’d get caught if you kept acting up.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you whispered, “Don’t you dare stop now.” He didn’t. He fucked you harder. He had you coming in seconds, his hand still over your mouth, soaking his abs with your slick as your body shook. He didn’t stop until he was full of you, pumping you full of hot cum with a grunt in your ear. You gasped into his shoulder, body twitching from overstimulation as he stayed buried inside you, panting against your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you whimpered when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes blown, sweat dripping off his temple. “You’re gonna make me walk back in there leaking down my thighs.”

Clark laughed, breath hot against your neck, voice low and smug. “Good. Maybe you’ll behave now.”

You scowled, still trembling, tightening your legs around him. “You’re an asshole.”

He nipped your jaw. “Keep it up and I’ll take you right here again after dinner. Bet you’ll still be wet.”

He let you slide off him slowly, steadying you with that absurd strength like you weren’t melting. You wobbled when your feet hit the barn floor, thighs slick and sore, your pussy aching and stuffed full of him.

You reached for your shorts, legs jelly, but Clark caught your wrist. “Leave ’em,” he said, smirking as he pulled your panties from his back pocket—the same ones from last night. “I’ll hold onto these.”

“Clark,” you hissed, wide-eyed. “I have to sit at the table with your mom!”

He leaned in, kissed your swollen mouth, and whispered, “Then try not to squirm too much, sweetheart.”

Back in the house, you sat at the Kent family table like nothing happened. “Everything okay?” Martha asked sweetly as you stepped back inside the house.

You cleared your throat, forcing a smile and ignoring the way your legs wobbled. “Just needed some fresh air.”

Clark kissed your cheek like the gentleman he absolutely wasn’t. And under the table, he slid his hand up your thigh again.

a/n: my cat is sick and im writing smut to not lose my mind lmao. i hate adulting. luckily the vet can see us tomorrow morning so im hoping for the best for my furbaby. sorry for ranting like this im losing my mind because thats my baby and if anyone has a cat who stopped eating all of a sudden any advice/comfort would be appreciated<3

[yuta-nakamots]

Permanent Scars - B.Barnes

Pairing - Post-Thunderbolts!Bucky x Urban Renewal Specialist!Reader

Genre - Fluff, Angst, Smut

Warnings - pretend that Bucky lived in the Avengers Tower after his deprogramming in Wakanda (maybe he did a back-and-forth thing to attend events in New York while primarily residing in Wakanda), takes place in the 14 months after Thunderbolts, emotionally constipated!Bucky and reader, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, oral (f receiving)

Summary - As an urban renewal specialist, you rebuild what’s been broken while Bucky carries what can’t be undone. Through bars, bookstores, and blueprints, your paths keep crossing, each moment a quiet reminder of what was lost and what can be fixed. Somehow, in the wreckage, you meet in the middle, building something new from the rubble. 

Word Count - 9.0k

Author’s Note - My first ever smut piece for Bucky! And also my longest work for him yet. I wanted to write something that I’ve never written before. I so often see Bucky paired with some type of enhanced reader or the Congressman x Assistant trope, but never someone that works parallel to him, close but never touching. I’ve also been enjoying all of the ‘tweet like you live in the MCU’ stuff, and this was one of the ideas I’ve gotten from them. However, I know nothing about urban planning, civil engineering, etc., so please just walk with me here lol 

Now Playing: Permanent Scars (EP) - Christopher

Track 1 - Permanent Scars

The morning haze hadn’t lifted from Washington yet, but the streets were already loud with jackhammers and low-simmering complaints. Dust curled off a half-demolished row of bricks, clinging to scaffolding, to work boots, to lungs. The street still smells like ash—not fresh, but that lingering kind that clings to warped rebar and memory.

You adjusted your safety vest and narrowed your eyes at the warped blueprints clipped to your work tablet. The budget for city reconstruction was laughable, too many shortcuts, and not enough reinforcement along the drainage line. Again. Behind you, two contractors argue about the new electrical wiring, and ahead, another crew is tearing up the sidewalk where a sewer line burst after Sam Wilson slammed a Hulked-out U.S. President into a laundromat almost a year ago. 

“Wouldn’t need all this if the damn Red Hulk didn’t plow through it like a cartoon,” one of the contractors muttered nearby, wiping sweat and grit from his brow. 

Another worker nodded, growing a plastic water bottle into a wheelbarrow. “Every time they show up, they wreck more than they fix. Heroes, my ass.”

“Wouldn’t need these patches if the damn heroes could keep their fights in the sky,” someone else muttered. 

You don’t turn around. You don’t comment. You’ve heard it all before. Resentment was common. It echoed off brick and rubble like reverb in a cathedral. You felt it too. Quietly. Reluctantly. 

You say you work for a neutral civic initiative—post-Blip infrastructure, nonpartisan rebuilding. But everyone knows your organization gets a majority of its funding from the New Avengers Foundation. 

Everyone sees the dirty Avengers lanyard still looped around your neck, the peeling Iron Man sticker on your tablet case, and the Captain America pin, albeit small and scuffed, tucked against the collar of your high-vis vest. You forget it’s there until someone looks too long. 

And then, like a misfired memory, you feel him before you see him. 

Across the street, just beyond a busted green awning where a bodega cat glares from behind a shattered window pane, he steps out—pressed slacks, a dark coat, collared shirt beneath, and a navy tie that’s slightly askew like he just yanked it loose. His hair is longer now, neatly combed back, and his beard is groomed to something sharp and official. A United States flag pin glints on his lapel while his hands are in his pockets. 

James Buchanan Barnes.

There’s no mistaking him, not even when he’s dressed like a man who writes policy instead of breaking through windows. It’s in the way he moves—shoulders drawn taut beneath the coat, eyes scanning without staring. Still wired for threats, still listening for footsteps that don’t belong. The morning light halos around him in a pale gray haze, and something in your gut twists. 

It’s been years since you last saw him, but memory doesn’t age like faces do. You still remember the first time you spoke to him at a S.H.I.E.L.D. fundraiser, of all places. You were just an intern then, in a hand-me-down dress with fraying seams and a glass of champagne you didn’t know how to keep steady. He was dubbed an ‘esteemed guest’ and shoved into a suit he clearly hated. He said more with his silences than most people did with speeches. You had only exchanged a few words that night, but they’d stayed with you throughout the years. Short, steady, and weighty. 

You kept crossing paths for a while after that. You moved from the urban reconstruction initiative in S.H.I.E.L.D. into full-time work under the Avengers while the former organization was revealed to be compromised and undergoing internal investigation. You attended meetings led by Tony for infrastructure recovery, reviewing budget allocations, and learning where every dollar went after every battle on the streets. 

You weren’t a hero, not the way they were. But they started calling on you like you were something close. A handful of galas and a hundred or so meetings in the Avengers tower led to the far and few conversations you had with Bucky, always on the sidelines. Quiet, but never forgettable. 

Then the Snap happened, and the world started bleeding from too many cracks to plug. People scattered, towers full. You never expected to see him again, especially not like this. 

And yet here he is. Bucky Barnes, walking toward a building you helped redesign after it was blown up three years ago by some street-level vigilante. He wore the weight of policy like it was a second uniform and looked more like a senator’s aide than the soldier history taught you to pity. 

He doesn’t look across the street at first, yet you know the exact second he senses you from the slight shift in his posture, the way his head tilts, like a wolf catching a scent in the wind. And then his eyes meet yours. 

You don’t smile. He doesn’t wave. There’s no reunion music here. Just cement dust, morning chill, and the humming tension of too many words left unsaid. 

You don’t know if he has changed. But you know you have. 

He clocks your vest, the blueprints tucked under your arm, the crumbling infrastructure behind you. Then his eyes land on the Captain America pin. You think you see his mouth twitch, just a little, but not quite a smile. 

As he approaches, you straighten. Involuntary. Defensive. Proud. He’s not the only one who can scan a person in three seconds flat. 

His voice is rougher than you remember. “You always were better at cleaning up the messes.” 

You raised a brow at his words. “Somebody has to.” 

He nods, slowly. “Didn’t think I’d see you out here.”

“Didn’t think you still walked the streets without an escort,” you shot back, poking at his position as Congressman and New Avenger. 

He lets the jab hang there for a beat before answering. “I’m enough protection for myself. And I’m just out getting coffee,” he says simply, motioning over to a café, miraculously still intact. 

“I thought you hated cafés,” you murmur. 

He shrugs. “Still do. But they’re the only ones open this early.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know if you want to say anything at all. So you don’t. 

The quiet doesn’t stretch awkwardly. It sits heavy but familiar. It’s the kind of silence that used to happen between you two back at the galas and the hallways of the tower when neither of you had their words, but both of you were thinking the same thing. 

The voice of a contractor cuts through it. “Hey, you wanna look at this foundation line before the city inspector comes breathing down my neck? Some of the outer supports still look like they’ve been through an alien attack.” 

You glance over and nod, about to walk away, when the contractor adds with a snort, oblivious to who you’re talking to, “no offense, but next time a superhero levels a block, they should at least send someone who knows how to swing a damn hammer.” 

You see it before you hear anything—the flicker in Bucky’s eyes, the tension that threads through his jaw. The contractor doesn’t know a super soldier is right next to you. He probably wouldn’t have said those words if he did. 

You heave an exhausted sigh. “I should get going.”

Bucky doesn’t bristle. Instead, he exhales a short breath, almost a laugh. “Welcome to politics,” he says wryly, as if that explains the whole situation. 

You offer a faint smile. “Should’ve stuck to brooding in corners. You were better at that.”

His lips curve, just barely. “Still do that. Just now I wear a tie.”

You let out a soft huff, amused despite yourself. Then, more gently, “be careful, Barnes.”

“I’m not the one working on a half-demolished building,” he points out.

“True,” you concede, already stepping away from him, “but at least my job doesn’t require shaking hands with people who used to fund HYDRA.” That one lands, and you both know it. He doesn’t argue. Just dips his chin in a faint, solemn nod. 

You turn before the air gets too tight, before one of the workers calls you again, before you do something reckless like stay and ask him how he’s really been. The sound of your boots crunching over gravel fills the space between you. 

“Hey,” he calls out, quieter now. “Don’t vanish again.”

You pause and glance back at him, just a little. “Didn’t plan to.”

That’s the closest either of you got to honesty that day. 

Track 2 - Lose A You

The rain started as a warning—a slow, hesitant drizzle over the city. Then it turned harsh with thunder in the distance. The planning meeting was the first thing to get washed out. 

It wasn’t just any meeting either. Valentine had commissioned your firm to help with the continued reconstruction of Lower Manhattan after the Void Event. She called it ‘strategic optics.’ You called it ‘trying to put a manhole cover over a crater’. You were supposed to be reviewing the zoning for a new multi-use shelter hub, but the downpour made it impossible to walk the perimeter, so your crew packed it up early. 

You ducked into the nearest bar on instinct, not because it was convenient, but because it was familiar. The place was one of the only neighborhood joints in the city to survive the past decade mostly intact. Every contractor on your team treated it like a second break room. The staff here knew you by name, and by drink. 

As you step inside, brushing water from your shoulders, the manager behind the bar gives you a nod and starts pouring before you even sit down. You’re halfway to the counter when you spot him in the corner booth, hood up and shoulders hunched, like the world had settled too heavy again.  

“You stalking me now?” you ask, tone light. 

Bucky looks up, and for a second, the weariness in his eyes almost convinces you to sit somewhere else. But then he tilted his head to the open seat across from him. No smile. No protest. Just room for you. 

You slide in. He offers you a few fries from the basket in front of him. You decline, and he doesn't press.  

“Still doing city work?” he asks after a beat. 

You nod. “Still trying to fix what the world keeps breaking.” 

He exhales through his nose. “Figures. You always were good at picking up after the rest of us.”

You take in his appearance fully. He’s in a worn leather jacket and a plain black shirt, damp from the rain, the sleeves of his jacket shoved halfway up his forearms. No gear. No badges. Just him.

“What about you? Hiding from the world or just this side of New York?” you ask. 

“Hiding from the team,” he admits, dragging a fry through cold ketchup. “They’ve been trying to get me to join a TikTok challenge for outreach.”

You laugh into your drink. 

He shrugs. “Figured this place would be safe. Didn’t know you were back in town.” 

“I’m always in town.”

He looks up, surprised. “You come here often?”

“Long enough that the staff knows what to pour when I walk in.” 

Bucky leans back, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to calculate things. “Guess I always thought you’d moved on. After the Blip, after Tony….”

Finally, he asks quietly, “why’d you start this work? City infrastructure, planning…You could’ve done anything else.” 

You stare into the glass in front of you. “I interned at S.H.I.E.L.D. back in the day. Did you know that?” He shakes his head. “My childhood apartment was in the city. When the Chitauri came through the sky, I watched our ceiling cave in. I didn’t even recognize the street I grew up on the next day.”

Bucky doesn’t say a word, doesn’t interrupt. 

“I admired them. The Avengers. I still do, in a way. But when you lose your home to the very people meant to protect it, something changes. You see both sides. The people who live in the rubble and the ones who caused it, even if they didn’t mean to.” You finally lift your eyes to his. “I believed in heroes. But after that? I get why people wanted rules and why they were scared. They didn’t want another Ultron…or a Winter Soldier.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens. He turns away slightly, the overhead light catching on the black panels of his hand. “They wrote the first drafts of those because of me.”

“Hey,” you say gently. “Don’t do that.”

He faces you again, his eyes narrowed. “You’re defending the Accords.”

“No. I’m defending people’s right to want to feel safe. But you’re not the reason why they w Your hand finds his wrist, your fingertips brushing the cool vibranium. “No. They wrote them because governments got scared. You were just the easiest face to pin and make people fear.”

You took a breath, then added on, “you once told me that people only rebuild when they believe something’s worth saving. You said that to me at some Stark gala, thought you were just being nice because I looked lost and underdressed.” His gaze snaps back to you, startled, but you didn’t flinch. “I remembered…figured you didn’t.”

“I did.” His response is immediate, sharper than you expected. “I do remember. I never forgot anything you said to me. Sometimes I would think about your words, your voice, while I was in Wakanda. After….everything. It stayed in my head longer than most things did.” 

You inhale. It’s too much and not enough. Your pulse hammered in your ears.

“I remember that night,” he admits quietly. “You had a crack on your phone and a sheet with handwritten notes about how to redesign emergency shelter protocols that you would tell to anyone who would listen.”

You laugh a little. “I thought you forgot.”

“I didn’t.” 

That stops you cold. 

You had spent years convincing yourself you were a ghost in the background of the Avengers, a function of Tony’s payroll, not someone to be remembered. But yet he did and he didn’t just remember your voice or your words. He remembered you. 

“I used to wonder where you’d gone after the Blip,” he continued. “I kept looking. You weren’t with the team. You weren’t in the Tower for meetings. I thought maybe I’d imagined you.” 

Something shifts in your chest, something undeniable. 

Your phone buzzes on the table, but you don’t check it yet. 

“I started my own firm. Urban protection and recovery. We partner with communities impacted by enhanced incidents—rebuilding housing, reinforcing infrastructure, and making sure the right people are being heard.”

Bucky leans back a little, his shoulders pressing into the cracked leather of the booth. “You were always the only one in those meetings who spoke like every life mattered.” 

You blink, taken aback. “You remember that?”

He hums while taking another fry from the dish. “You fought like hell for a safer subway system after that alien guy came down and tried to kill Tony, the sorcerer, and that spider kid.” He paused. “Tony said you were annoying. I liked hearing you argue with him.” 

“And he paid me to do it, too,” you add, half-laughing. “Can you believe that?” 

You hesitate for a second, then continue, “I kept up with you, after…you know…” You shift your glass slightly on the table. “I watched the news about the Flag Smashers when you and Sam started showing up. And then when you ran for Congress with all those speeches.”

“Bad campaign decision.” He exhales a laugh. “No one tells you how exhausting smiling is.”

“You never smiled at those galas either.” 

His eyes shift fully to you, a flicker of something softer there. “Didn’t have a reason to.” 

You hold his gaze, and for a moment, both of you are silent as if letting the weight of the past catch up. 

Your phone buzzes again, and you glance down. It’s a message from one of your contractors, telling you the crew decided to meet again tomorrow, same time, same place. You stare at the screen for a bit longer than you should. 

When you finally look back up, Bucky’s watching you. Carefully. Thoughtfully. Like he’s deciding something. 

He clears his throat. “You ever been to the new Watchtower?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t know it was finished.”

“It’s not like it was before. It’s not all team briefings and PR.” He leans in, putting his elbows on the table and propping his chin up on his right hand, tracing shapes with his left. “Some of us are actually trying. Making real connections again. Trying to fix what we broke. I thought maybe you’d want to see that.” 

You study him, his expression, his body language. His tone isn’t performative, not like he’s trying to sell you something. If anything, he sounds tired. Hopeful, but tired. 

“You’re inviting me to a superhero hideout?” you ask, quizzically.

He shrugs. “I’m inviting you to see that maybe we’re not all lost causes.”  

It’s late when you arrive. The Watchtower isn’t quite the gleaming monument it once was—less a beacon now, more a repurposed husk with heart. 

Inside, it’s quieter than you expected. Warmer too. There’s a faint hum of activity down a corridor, the sound of muffled chattering and music playing. It’s domestic in a way you’d never imagined the Avengers could be. 

You walk alongside Bucky through wide, echoing halls that hold memories neither of you forgot. “I used to think this place was untouchable,” you murmur as you pause beside a glass panel, a floor-length window overlooking the city below. “It felt like this tower would always be watching over everything. Even when it crumbled, it still felt like a symbol.”

“And now it’s just…home for a bunch of weirdos who can’t retire,” Bucky remarks. 

It makes you smile a bit. “That doesn’t seem all that bad.” 

He doesn’t reply, but you feel his eyes on you as you take a slow turn through a hall. The residential area. It wasn’t somewhere you had gone often, but there was one time you had stood behind Tony, watching over his shoulder as he talked with Steve about rebuilding an area in Brooklyn. 

You hear voices—loud ones—growing closer. Bucky reacts instantly. Not with fear, but with the familiar instinct to shield. He reaches for your wrist gently and tugs you toward the nearest door. 

“Come on,” he says under his breath. 

When the door clicks shut behind you, the noise outside is muted. Inside, you take a moment to breathe in the space. His room. 

It’s personal. Not military, not sterile. There’s a record player in the corner, a few jackets slung over the back of a worn armchair. A small shelf holds books—actual books, not just tactical manuals. There’s a framed photo on the desk, turned halfway toward the wall. You can’t quite see who it is. 

You step towards the bookshelf, running your fingers along the edge of it, and glance back at Bucky. “You decorated?”

His lips press into a line, but he doesn’t deny it. “Didn’t feel like the space was truly mine until I did.” There’s a softness to the way he leans against the closed door now, arm crossed over his chest. No team to run from. Just you. 

Your fingers trace along the spines of books that were clearly well-loved. “You know, I used to think you didn’t keep anything aside from the backpack you came in with, like you were afraid if you left a mark anywhere, it would mean you existed.”

Bucky shifts slightly, the corner of his mouth pulling tight like he wanted to say something but bit it back. 

You turn to face him. “But this…this feels like someone who finally isn’t afraid of being known. “

He exhales a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t quite make it. “Someone on your team said we don’t belong here, the team of us,” he says after a moment. “That all we do is leave damage behind for someone else to clean up.” 

Your chest tightens. “Who said that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replies, shaking his head. “The thing is…they’re not wrong.” He looks at you, his words coming steady but raw. “That’s the cycle, isn’t it? I destroy, you rebuild. Over and over. It’s starting to feel like all I leave behind is damage and hurt under the guise of false hope and promises.”

You step closer, and the air between you shifts, less tension and more weight. “You don’t just break things, Bucky. Sometimes you make space for something new to grow, and I think that counts for something.” Silence follows. Not the kind that demands to be filled, but the kind that lets things settle. 

“I used to think we were on opposite sides,” you continue. “But maybe we’re just…different halves of the same machine. You break things and I put them back together in a way they were meant to be.”

His eyes soften. “That’s a pretty generous view of someone like me.”

You take another step. Close enough that his breath brushes your skin. “It’s not generosity. It’s recognition.” 

The distance between you is there, but it’s heavy with all the thoughts you couldn’t bring yourself to voice. Instead, your hand finds his jaw, tentative. He doesn’t flinch away. He simply looks at you as if he’s seeing you truly. 

When you lean in, the first press of your lips to his is almost reverent. A question, not a demand. 

Bucky answers without hesitation. His lips move against yours gently, a little uncertain but sure in their wanting. It’s neither rushed nor desperate. 

You pull back, barely, searching his eyes for something—regret, confusion, anything that might stop this before it goes further. But then he’s the one who comes back in. 

The second kiss is different. There’s no hesitation this time. His hand slides around your waist, the other curling at the nape of your neck like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. You find yourself pressed against him, fingers threading into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of him, solid and steady. 

His head tilts and he takes. His mouth parts yours open, messy and warm and wanting. You sigh against him, the sound swallowed into him like it was meant to be kept. 

His lips slow before they stop altogether, his forehead resting slightly against yours. His breath fans over your cheek, shaky and soft. “You know,” his voice low, “we never really talked much…back then. But I still remember,” his fingers brushed the hem of your shirt like he’s testing a boundary, “the way you looked at me in the hallways, the way you talked to me at events as if my opinion mattered. I always thought it meant something.” 

His words make your breath catch. 

“I think we do have shared experience even if we were never close,” he says quietly. “The grief. The guilt. The way we both keep pretending we’re fine when we’re not.” 

That breaks something in you. Not painfully, but just enough to let the ache show. 

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you kiss him again with purpose, like you’ve decided, like you know what comes next. 

Bucky kisses you back immediately, relief melting into the heat between your mouths. This time, you both lean in fully. Your hands drift up his chest, curling at his collar as you push the jacket off his shoulders. He shucks it off without ceremony, throwing it to the floor before pulling you closer.

Clothes come off in intervals, naturally, as though your hands know each other already. When your shirt finally drops to the floor, his hand pauses at your bare waist. Bucky looks at you like you’re something delicate. Precious, even. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. 

You’re both bare by the time you reach the bed. He settles you onto it gently, like laying down a memory. Then he hovers above you, eyes flickering over your face. He kisses your mouth once more, then your throat, your shoulder, his metal hand stroking down your side. 

When his fingers finally slip down to your heat, you’re already aching and open. He exhales shakily at the feel of you, his eyes fluttering shut as if it wasn’t just his fingers he was using. 

As he strokes two fingers through your folds, his eyes darken at the slick he finds. You arch into his arm as he teases your entrance, dipping in just enough to make you want more, your thighs twitching around him. 

Your own hand finds his cock, already heavy and hard, where it sits against your thigh. He groans when you wrap your fingers around him and start to stroke, slow and matching the rhythm of his own hand working you open. 

“That feels so good—fuck,” he mutters, his voice cracking when you twist just right. 

When your thumb brushes across his tip, he groans low in his throat, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When he opens them again, they’re darker. Focused. 

“I want to taste you.” 

You blink up at him, breath catching.

“I want to make you fall apart before I’m inside you,” he adds, his voice wrecked with sincerity. 

He slides down between your legs and drapes your thighs over his shoulder like it’s instinct. The first press of his tongue is careful and curious. Then, he licks into you like he’s trying to memorize the taste, making you gasp. 

When your legs tighten around his shoulders, he moans into you, the vibrations shooting through you and causing you to buck against his mouth. His metal hand comes to rest on your lower stomach, pinning you down. He eats you out with a patience that borders on worship, his tongue tracing slow, precise circles around your clit before plunging deep, over and over, until you’re trembling. 

It’s the warm glide of his fingers that sends you over the edge, paired with the way he looks up at you—like you’re something sacred, something he doesn’t believe he deserves—that unravels you. The tension coils tight in your core, building with each drag of his tongue, each precise press of his fingers curling inside you. Your hips lift of their own accord, seeking more, needing it. 

“Bucky—fuck—” you gasp, and your hand flies to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as your climax hits. 

It’s molten. A flood of sensation that crests and crashes over you, your muscles clenching, back arching. Bucky doesn’t stop, not until your thighs tremble and you give a firm tug to his hair, pulling him up into a kiss that tastes equal parts salty and needy. 

Your slick coats his lips, and you taste yourself on his tongue, the sensation only adding to the need growing between your legs when he grinds his cock against your thigh. 

“Bucky,” you breathe, and he looks at you like the world might end if you say you’ve changed your mind. But you don’t. You just exhale a quiet “please.” 

He nods. Once. Slow. Like a promise. 

He lines himself up and rests there, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, both of you holding still for just a beat, as if acknowledging the shift in your relationship and the fact that nothing will be the same after this. He presses in slowly, thick and steady, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside you, your bodies flush. 

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His forehead rests against yours, and all you can feel is the stretch, the fullness, the way your body accepts him like it’s always known him, like there was always going to be a moment like this. 

“Doing okay?” he asks, not moving above you. 

You hum, arms wrapping around his shoulder. “Yeah,” you whisper. “More than okay.” 

He pulls back just enough to thrust in again, the rhythm slow and careful. Each drag of his cock inside you is deliberate, as if he’s learning every inch of you from the inside out, mapping you by feel. You meet him stroke for stroke, your nails skating across his back, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep him close. 

It’s not just sex. It's a discovery. It’s years of weight condensed into this single moment, this slow and simmering give and take. 

You kiss him again, softer and less urgent. His hands find yours, fingers lacing together above your head as he moves inside you. It’s a slow, steady rhythm, like the tide pushing against the shore—patient, relentless, inevitable. The stretch of him inside you makes your body arch, makes you keen against his mouth. He groans low at the way you squeeze around him, burying his face in your neck as his hips roll forward again. 

The friction is maddening. Your slick heat wrapped around him, your thighs bracketing his hips, your heartbeat pounding in rhythm with every deliberate stroke. His body is so close, pressed flush to yours, chest to chest, forehead to forehead, his breath mixing with yours in the narrow space between. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “So good…”

You tighten around him in response, the tension curling in your belly once more. Not sharp or fast, but inevitable and overwhelming. You feel it building, from the inside out, pulled taut like a string that’s about to snap. 

“Bucky—” you moan, louder than you expect, the sound breaking free before you can stop it. You cry out, gripping his hands where they’re still tangled with yours above your head, and the orgasm rolls through you, hot and aching, slow but consuming. Your body clenches around him, and you feel him falter. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he tries to hold out. But the feel of you, the way you’re writhing beneath him, it’s too much. 

You feel him start to pull out, but before he can finish, you let go of one of his hands and reach down between your bodies. You wrap your fingers around the slick length of his cock, stroking him through it. 

“Come for me,” you urge, watching his face. 

That’s all it takes.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, hips stuttering as he spills himself across your stomach in hot, thick streaks. His eyes flutter closed, mouth parted, completely undone as you stroke him through it, using your slick and release to glide along his length. You watch the way his jaw flexes, the way his breath catches in his chest, the way he says your name like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment. 

While he’s still trembling, you guide him upright gently and lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the flushed head of his cock, then licking away the final bead of cum clinging there. Bucky exhales something like a moan, his chest still heaving. 

After a moment, he reaches to his nightstand for a tissue to clean you up, careful and quiet, the gesture more intimate than anything he’s said. When he’s done, he lies beside you, pulling you into the curve of his body without needing to ask. 

His metal arm wraps around you like instinct, drawing you in until your back is flush with his chest, his hand resting low on your stomach, right over where he’d just been. Your skin is still warm, damp in places, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is how close he holds you, as if letting go might undo everything. 

You can feel his heartbeat against your spine—uneven, slowing gradually—and the way his breath ghosts against your shoulder. One of his legs tangles with yours, grounding you, and his fingers, still a little unsteady, trace soft circles over your hipbone. 

No words, just silence and skin. You breathe him in, pressing into the warmth of his body, the comfort of being somewhere you didn’t realize you missed. 

It’s only when your breathing finally evens out that you notice the muffled sounds beyond the door. Footsteps down the hallway. Laughter. The distant clink of a spoon against a mug. Life in the tower, moving forward like nothing’s changed. 

But everything has. 

You curl your fingers around his wrist and hold it there against your belly. His metal hand, the one he doesn’t always trust, rests against your thigh like it belongs there. And maybe it does. 

But when you wake the next morning, he’s gone. 

Track 3 - It Could Have Been Us

Three weeks. No word from him. No note. No call. Just silence. 

For three weeks, you walk through a ghost version of your life, haunted by fragments of that night—his mouth on your skin, the stretch of him inside you, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your cheek after. Skin to skin. Real. Or at least, it felt that way…to you. 

You try not to let yourself get distracted thinking about him. You tell yourself you’re not that girl and you’re not someone who breaks protocol for a man who can’t even say goodbye. 

But still, you look. 

Each time you’re out in the field supervising rebuilds, negotiating zoning lines, reviewing environmental damage reports, you scan rooftops, alleyways, the far ends of crumbling lots for him. A glimpse. A shadow. Anything. You even check your phone at night with a tiny sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, he somehow got ahold of your number or even wired your phone. 

But your screen stays dark. No strange pings. No unmarked numbers. Just silence. 

You start to wonder—did you misread everything? Did you dream that night into something bigger than it was?

Because there’s no way a man touches you like that and forgets it. No way he moves that well, grinds into you with that kind of practiced focus, finds your pulse with his lips, and breathes against your skin like he’s praying—for what? Mercy? Meaning?

No way it was just a one-time thing. 

Unless it was. Unless he knew exactly what he was doing, inviting you to the Watchtower. Unless all of that tenderness, all of that depth was just another skill in his arsenal, another tool left over from years of being told who to be, how to move, how to manipulate people. 

Maybe you were just convenient. Familiar. Close. 

Maybe he regrets it. 

The thought sits in your chest like wet concrete, heavy and unyielding. You start to hate yourself for hoping. For believing. 

You’re off duty when you see him again. 

It was an early Sunday, one of those times when the city still feels gentle. The bookstore smells the way it always does—paper, coffee, dust warmed by sunlight. The scent that comforts you when you want to disappear, when you want to feel like a girl again and not a displaced urban planner with dirt on her boots and burnout in her bones. 

You’re halfway through the sci-fi aisle when you see him. 

His vibranium hand cradled a novel in the historical section, the other turning the page with more care than the average person would. You could see the way his eyes tracked each word like it mattered. 

And somehow, at that moment, like he felt your gaze on him, he looked up. 

The moment stretches between you. One heartbeat. Two. Three. 

“Hey,” he says, almost unsure. 

You freeze, your brain caught between fight or flight, yet you still manage to force out a response. “Hey.” 

He shifts slightly, holding the book in one hand like it’s a shield. “Are you mad at me?”

“No.” Your eyes dart away to the nearest book cover.

He nods like he believes you, like he wants to. He sets his book down on the shelf next to him, but doesn’t move closer.

“I didn’t mean to leave like that,” he starts. “Wasn’t my choice.” 

You don’t ask for details. You don’t offer forgiveness. Instead, you only hum in acknowledgement, reaching to pick up a random book in hopes of distracting yourself and your emotions from running rampant. 

He searches your face for something. Recognition? Permission? But whatever it is, you’re not ready to give it. 

“I should’ve found a way to tell you,” his voice was low. “I thought about it—about you—every day. But I wasn’t in a place where I could reach out. Valentina pulled me into a mission before I could even—”

“You don’t owe me anything,” you blurt while shifting a book back and forth between your hands. The words come out too flat, too practiced, a shield forged from old hurts and warped expectations. 

Bucky flinches like he hears everything you’re holding back. “I know I don’t. But I still felt like I should say something.”

There’s a twinkle of something in the back of your mind. Hope, maybe, or the last remnants of it, trying to resurface. But you tamp it down, quick and ruthless, before it can spread. 

You’re just another person, a worker, you remind yourself. Another tool that helped move a greater mission forward. And maybe you meant something to him for one night, but one night doesn’t change the nature of the game. You’ve been discarded before. You know how to read the signs. 

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. The sound feels too loud in the quiet bookstore. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, already pulling it out. Your fingers fumble on the screen as you drag it out from the confines of your clothing while Bucky turns his attention towards the book he had previously placed on the shelf. It was a message from one of your coworkers about a zoning problem near a park. 

You let out a quiet sigh. “I should go.” Bucky shifts like he wants to follow, but doesn’t. His hand curls around the edge of the book. You force a smile. “Duty calls.” And then you’re taking your leave, ducking past the register, any book that caught your eye now long forgotten. 

That night, despite constant back-and-forths at work that took nearly all your patience, you couldn’t sleep. You toss and turn, then finally roll over and grab your phone. While scrolling through notifications and apps, you find yourself scrolling through your camera roll. 

You looked through pictures from the past week, mostly odd shots from sites you were working on, but your finger froze mid-scroll just as it reached the most recent pictures. It was a candid photo, grainy and golden. Bucky, in the history aisle of the bookstore, with his face partially turned away, his hand reaching out to a book on the shelf. 

Your chest tightens, and you stare at the photo longer than you should, your thumb hovering over the screen. The sight of him, softened by sunlight and oblivious to the camera, undoes you in a way you can’t name. 

Something in you feels guilty. Not just for leaving him in the store so suddenly, not just for giving him no chance to fully explain himself, but for ever thinking you meant anything to a man like him. 

Maybe you expected too much. Maybe you imagined too far ahead. Maybe you built that night into something it never was to him. 

You swallow and press your thumb to the trash icon. The screen blinks. Photo deleted. You set your phone down and try to forget about it, try to let it be a symbol of you moving on and letting go. You tell yourself it’s for the best, that you were never meant to carry this. 

But minutes later, you find yourself reopening the camera roll, almost on autopilot, and going to the recently deleted folder. There he is. Still golden, still reaching, still not looking at you. 

You hesitate but tap ‘Recover’ anyway. The guilt inside you shifts, it curls in on itself like something both shameful and tender. 

You don’t look at the photo again, but you can’t bring yourself to delete it either. You just let it sit there in your camera roll among the rest of the images, haunting you in silence. 

Track 4 - ONE

It’s weeks until you see him again, this time, surrounded by the shimmer of string lights and the low hum of community chatter at an event. 

The volunteer event had been quietly announced weeks ago as part of a city initiative to revitalize neighborhoods damaged during the Void event. You’d been involved in the planning, helping to secure permits and route supply chains, but the street still surprised you. The entire block had transformed with lanterns strung between light posts, folding chairs scattered in loose clusters in front of bodegas, kids chasing each other through puddles left behind by a passing rain shower. 

The community center is nearly finished now. Repainted and reframed. Someone had even repaired the old mural near the entrance—the one you remembered standing in front of during your first week on the job, thinking how unfortunate that a piece of art fell victim when it had done no wrong. 

In the weeks leading up to tonight, Bucky had begun showing up. Quietly, unannounced, without commotion. He came once every few days, whenever his schedule at Congress allowed, or whenever he wanted a break from the team. He wasn’t there for press or recognition. He carried scaffolding, pushed wheelbarrows, held ladders, and took directions from site managers with nods instead of attitude. Kids asked him questions about his arm and about Captain America, and Bucky humored them with just enough detail to make them feel heard. 

You knew those words he overheard on-site about not trusting enhanced individuals must still echo in his mind. You figured this was his way of trying to change that narrative, to remind people that some of them do care. Still, beneath all that, you wanted to believe that there was something more person. Perhaps this was Bucky’s way of finding a path back to you. 

But most of all, you weren’t expecting Bucky tonight. 

He stood near the edge of the main tent, his white button-down rolled at the sleeves, collar casually undone, his hair loosely framing his face. His stance was guarded, arms folded at times, but his expression softened just enough when approached. 

Throughout the night, you caught glimpses of him taking photos with kids—awkward at first, but game enough to crouch for selfies and smile when prompted. Older men stopped him, too, some to shake his hand, others to ask loaded questions about politics or foreign policy. From what you caught through gaps in the crowd, Bucky seemed to be handling it well with brief nods and short responses, offering what little he could without feeding into anything deeper. 

Still, his presence alone was more than enough because it meant he was trying. For the neighborhood. For you. Especially after the day at the bookstore. 

You hadn’t spoken to him after that incident. Instead, you threw yourself into work, days blurring into each other. You busied yourself meeting with urban engineers, conducting soil assessments, and signing off on contractor bids. Every time your mind wandered to him—his voice, his questions, the way he looked at you in the bookstore, the way he glowed in that accidental picture—you pulled yourself deeper into logistics. 

Now, you stood at the center of the event, culminating weeks of working on one single block, a project brought about by none other than Valentine Allegra de Fontaine. She had given you a clear directive for this whole operation. Frame this entire rebuild as grassroots, not Avenger-led. This was about local heroes, ones that cared not just about stopping national threats, but rebuilding lives. It meant being visible, controlled, and approachable. 

Bucky had shown up on his own accord, not because Valentina forced him to, which is why you spent the better half of the night splitting your consciousness. Half of you watching Bucky, tracking the line of his shoulders as he greeted someone, the other half was answering questions from the local news crews and press, selling the story. 

You were mid-sentence, gesturing toward the newly installed solar lighting system on top of a building, when someone called your name. It was a middle-aged woman, who you knew to be a retired teacher, who had been volunteering since the start of the project. “He should say something too,” gesturing toward Bucky. “Don’t you think?”

Before you could answer, some of the other community members were already ushering him toward the makeshift platform with a microphone stand planted in front of it. As he stepped up, you watched from the crowd, heart in your throat. 

Bucky looked out over the audience. Light from the lantern caught on the gold accents of his arm. He cleared his throat. “I’m not great with words,” he started, “but most of my life, I…I didn’t have places like this. I didn’t know what community looked like until I started showing up to places like this…until people like you showed me your reasons to stay and gave me a reason to stay.”

He paused. You could feel the silence stretching. You moved before you fully processed it, stepping onto the platform to stand beside him. You didn’t say anything, just reached for the microphone, your fingers brushing his. He let go without resistance.

You angled the microphone toward your mouth, heart hammering. “Congressman Barnes once told me that it’s easy to feel like you’re too broken to be part of something again.” You looked out at the crowd, filled with people you had come to know during your hours of supervising, yet you could only think of the man next to you. “But he agreed with me on the importance of showing up. You help build, then before you realize it, you’ve become part of the foundation for something bigger.” 

You glanced over at him. “That’s what this is all about. It’s not just rebuilding things that were broken. It’s rebuilding trust. Neighborhood. Homes.” You let your voice find its rhythm. “The community center is more than just a building. It’s a place for stories, for healing.” 

You glanced sideways at Bucky, but his eyes were already on you. You offered the microphone back to him. He hesitated, then leaned in. “I didn’t grow up here, but I’ve walked these streets a fair bit,” his voice rough around the edges. “But during the times I was able to help out, I learned that sometimes you fix things with your hands, sometimes you do so just by showing up.” 

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t rehearsed. But when the clapping started, it was real. 

The press didn’t catch much—too focused on getting wide shots and polished statements from local figures. But the neighborhood remembered. 

Later, the folding chairs were stacked, paper plates shoved into trash bags, volunteers leaning against walls like they’d lived a hundred days in one evening. 

You found a spot on the edge of the street, a fair distance away from the congregation of people, but close enough to still see everyone. Bucky appeared next to you with two plates of food and a pair of chilled sodas. No words exchanged. Just soft gestures and the press of his shoulder as he sat beside you. 

The food wasn’t much—some homemade dishes and an array of things catered by local restaurants—but it was good. It was better than most things you’d tasted in the last few weeks when you were able to catch a breath between working. 

You ate in silence for a while. Comfortable. Full of small breaths and quiet closeness. 

“I haven’t felt like I really had a home anywhere since the Battle of New York,” you pondered. 

Bucky didn’t speak right away. You didn’t know what to expect from him either. 

“Maybe it’s time to build one.” 

You turned, finding his gaze already on you. It wasn’t performative sadness or pity. His words had a certainty to them that burned low and steady. 

A pause stretched between you, soft and breathless. Suddenly, you became all too aware of the warmth of his body against yours, the way your knee touched his. But for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you had to run. 

You just sat there with him, in the middle of a recovering city, eating from paper plates while sitting on the curb with the scent of fresh paint still clinging to the night air. 

Months pass. The city continues to rebuild and enters the final stage with your proposal for the last Void-affected district. 

Your shoes crunched softly over gravel as you surveyed the lot, now vacant after an abandoned warehouse was demolished. Your team spread out in a loose formation behind you, notes in hand, voices low as they reviewed zoning codes and temporary easements. Behind them, the skyline fractured into something new—still scarred, still healing—but more whole than it had been in a long time. 

This lot, once condemned, was now designated for your final project under the Void Recovery Initiative. It was to be a mixed-use development designed around trauma-informed architecture. There would be wide sidewalks for accessibility, layered soundproofing to blunt the noise of the city, filled with plenty of green space to breathe. A community garden would center the space, providing a place where people could plant things and watch them grow. 

At the heart of your plan was affordable housing. Real, regulated, guaranteed housing. Not the kind of ‘opportunity zones’ peddled to press cameras and billionaires. 

You had fought for this tooth and nail. 

The city council had pushed back on your proposal, citing population density and high costs. But Valentina had intervened just enough to remind them that you were the only one with a proven track record for delivering these kinds of projects and offered to match their funding. She told you it was a political victory. But it didn’t feel like that to you. No, this was personal. 

You were holding your clipboard against your chest when you heard the crunch of footsteps beside you. 

“Delivery,” Bucky chimed, and you turned to see him holding out a cup of coffee. The writing on the side reads your order, something tried and true from a local café. His other hand held his own cup, metal fingers curled around the paper sleeve. 

He looked comfortably out of place in his usual unofficial uniform consisting of dark jeans, a black t-shirt, and a leather jacket. His hair wasn’t slicked back, and he wasn’t wearing a U.S. flag pin. He never had any of that when he was with you. 

“Appreciated.” You take the cup from him with a smile spreading across your lips. 

The two of you walked the site together, weaving between taped-off zones and temporary fencing. You pointed things out to him without pausing your steps, knowing he would follow. Occasionally, his hand would brush your arm, steadying you as you stepped over uneven ground, even though you didn’t need the help.

You let him do it anyway. 

There were no declarations between you. No questions about what this was, or where it was going. Just the slow and certain rhythm of being together. The quiet moment when he held your clipboard while you reviewed notes with the rest of your team. A shared glance when someone mentioned incorporating a plaque for the New Avengers in the community garden. The way he stepped aside so you could lead without ever making his presence seem larger than it was. 

One of the engineers waved you over, asking a question about elevation tiers. When you turned back, Bucky was crouched beside a small stray blueprint, studying it intently. 

You came up beside him and nudged his side. “You gonna start escapading as a zoning analyst?”

He tilted his head as if considering his option. “Thought about it. Might be easier than Congress.”

“Way better coffee,” you noted, lifting your cup. 

Bucky huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “Yeah, and I’d finally get to see your world.” 

You looked out over the lot, taking in the sloping foundation lines, the steel markers in the dirt, the outlines of future homes that only existed on paper for now. “You’ve seen more of it than most,” you tell him. “Even before all this.” 

You meant every word you said. Bucky had walked through every half-demolished block with you after the community event. He’d shown up to every zoning meeting you invited him to, even the long, boring ones where local representatives argued about setbacks, non-negotiable requirements, and preventative infrastructure. Bucky never acted like it was beneath him. 

And during the months when the world felt like it was still struggling to return to normal, he helped carry your blueprints, your burdens, and your aching heart. 

Now, here he was again—coffee in hand, hair ruffled by the wind, his vibranium arm glinting beneath his jacket sleeve as he stood beside you on ground you’d reclaimed. It was land you could build something real on. 

Bucky glanced at you longingly, eyes soft, then back at the notes and sketches on the papers in your grasp. “You know,” he said slowly, “not to get sentimental or anything, but I think we’re getting pretty good at this.”

You raised a brow at him while taking a sip from your cup. “What? Urban redevelopment?”

He smiled crookedly. “Rebuilding. Us. The city.” His hand brushed yours, just enough for his fingers to graze your knuckles. You slipped your hand into his, interlacing your fingers loosely.

And maybe that was the point of it all. Not the rebuilding itself, but who stayed after the rubble cleared, who stood beside you when the dust settled. 

Autoplay: If you like this, you may also like Buck Off - B.Barnes

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WHERRRRREEEEE ARE THE NOTES ON THIS

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PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIANS (2023—) Trailer Season 2

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killatrav: Had some adventures this offseason, kept it 💯 (x)