♡Lily♡

Hi! I didn’t expect you to visit..(2006)

[um-soybean]

WƐĿƇ♡MƐ 🫶

NΛѴĪƓΛƬĪ♡N🧭

Masterlist!

About me/this blog!

Fandoms I write for!

Current worry: caved and redownloaded obey me 😞

[conleches]

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

body language masterlist

a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

550 words to say instead of fuckin said

638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

some more body language help 

[bellero]

REBLOG TO SAVE A WRITER

[stcrgazerlily]

━━━━━━━ MR. AND MRS. TODD!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jason todd x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you cannot believe this day is real; the day you’re marrying the love of your life, jason todd.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none, absolute fluff, corny ahhh vows, bruce giving a speech, batcat + dickory crumb(s), brucejason moment, also someone PLEASE lmk if the read more thing works!, 2.3k words

Jason plays with his tie for what feels like the hundredth time. His reflection looks like the picture of calm, but inside he’s a jumble of nerves.

“She can still run away.”

Jason glares at Damian from over his shoulder. “Don’t you have some sword to play with?”

“I am attempting to prepare you for all possible outcomes.”

Before Jason can snap something back, Dick steps in—are his eyes red again? “You're getting married. You're allowed to freak out a little.”

“I’m not.” He deadpans.

Tim has his hands shoved into his pockets. “I've checked everything three times. Nothing's on fire.”

“Right.”

Roy grins. “You’re totally nervous.”

Jason huffs. “You four are the worst groomsmen ever to exist.”

A chorus of protests ensues. While they bicker amongst each other, Jason goes quiet. It still feels surreal to him that, in less than an hour, you’ll become Mrs. Todd. He has more contingency plans than what's deemed sane for today, and yet Jason can’t help feeling nervous because what if? What if somebody barges in? Or there’s a breakout at Arkham? Or whatever else might happen that will ruin today.

He’s spent most of his life waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now that he’s so close to a future with you—he doesn’t want to lose it like all of the other good things he’s ever had.

“Where’s Biz anyway?”

Everyone pauses for a moment, then Roy says, “I think he said he wasn’t going to eat.”

Jason curses.

He knows it’s stupid; there’s less than half an hour left before you two pronounce your vows and get legally married. But. He needed to see you. The sky is blue and the grass is green; it’s another universal truth that your sole presence calms Jason.

He knocks on the door of the room you’re in. Hands in his pockets, still as a rock.

Steph pokes out her head. “You can’t see the bride just yet. So, shoo!” She motions with her hand for him to leave.

“I need to talk with her.”

Steph’s eyes soften and she lets out an over-exaggerated sigh. “You are literally the most dramatic groom I've ever met.”

She then shuts the door in Jason’s face. Wow, rude.

There’s chattering inside, a few noises of protest, but slowly all of the bridesmaids trickle out. Before Jason can step in, you take hold of the door.

“You can’t see me yet, it’s a surprise.”

He slumps against the door. “Mhm. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then you sound closer—you must be in the same position he’s in. “Hey, Jay?”

“Yes, princess?”

“Do you… do you feel slightly nervous?” Before he can answer, you continue. “It’s not like a bad nervous, it’s like a… rollercoaster. Yeah, that’s it!”

“You’re comparing our marriage to a rollercoaster?”

You laugh. “It’s those same nerves, exciting but you still have a funny feeling in your stomach.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” He pauses. “I had to get out of there. It’s just—I want today to be perfect. You deserve nothing less.”

“You bastard.” There’s a sniffle on the other side. “You can’t ruin my makeup before the pictures are taken.”

Jason widens his eyes in panic, almost getting up and barging in. He cannot handle it when you cry. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“Because I love you so much.”

His shoulders slump; what a relief. “I love you too.”

“I don’t need today to be perfect, just by being with you it already is.”

Jason grins, head tilted against the wall. “You’re not getting rid of me now.”

It’s only Jason and the wedding officiant in the room. It’s a beautiful room, with a massive marble fireplace, wooden floors, details on the walls and columns. There’s a large window at the back that shows the sprawling gardens of the estate. To the side, a mahogany desk with all of the paperwork and pens for everyone to sign.

The light trickles in and hits Jason on the face, but he doesn’t blink once, completely absorbed by the still-closed door.

Then it does, with a light click. Jason’s world tilts.

Jason is not a religious man, but he knows an angel when he sees one. You look absolutely stunning; he swears his heart stops.

He picks at the collar of his suit. “Yeah— that’s not fair.”

You laugh and walk over to him at the window. Your fingers gently readjust his collar. “You look stunning, Mr. Todd.”

He can’t help the expression of pure adoration that is written all over his face.

“Shall we begin?” the officiant says.

You nod and release Jason’s collar. To be honest, Jason doesn’t hear a single word of what the officiant is saying—he's too busy looking at you.

“I do,” he manages to say.

And then, “I do.”

“You’re now husband and wife.” The man smiles at the two of you. “Now for the personal vows.”

Jason slips a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. It’s been touched and folded far too many times. He actually doesn’t need it; he knows the speech by heart, but still.

“I never thought I'd be standing here.” He looks at the floor for a second before locking eyes with yours. “Not because I didn't believe in love or anything. I just never thought I'd be lucky enough to keep it. I've spent most of my life fighting; fighting to survive, fighting to be understood, fighting against the parts of myself I wish I could leave behind. Then you came along, and for the first time, being with someone didn't feel like another battle.”

Small tears are already blossoming in your eyes, a lonely tear or two falling down the slope of your cheek, and you’re fighting a smile.

“You saw me at my worst and stayed. You saw the anger, the scars, the mistakes, the things that keep me awake at night—and somehow, you loved me anyway. I don't know if I'll ever deserve that. What I do know is that every morning I wake up beside you, I'll spend the rest of my life trying. I promise to be honest with you, even when it's difficult. I promise to trust you with the pieces of myself I've always kept hidden. I promise to stand beside you when life is easy and when it isn't. I promise that no matter what happens, you'll never face it alone.

“I can't promise perfection. You know better than anyone that I'm far from perfect.”

Jason is not even hesitant; he delivers his words like gospel—a mix of unwavering security and blind faith.

“But I can promise this: you will always have my heart, my loyalty, and a home with me. And if the world ever comes for you, it'll have to go through me first. I love you. Today, tomorrow, and every day I have left. And I choose you. Every single time.”

Tears are freely falling from your eyes, and he’s quick to wipe them away. You let out a small laugh and start yours.

“Jason,” you let out a small laugh and shoot him a pointed stare. “You can’t laugh.”

Jason’s eyes are absolutely soft. His entire body is relaxed, and you’re sure he doesn’t realize he’s inching closer. “Wouldn’t dare to.” You take a breath. “People see your strength first. They see the confidence, the stubbornness, the way you walk into every room like you're ready to challenge the world. But that's not the man I fell in love with. I fell in love with the man who cares so deeply it hurts.” You smile, getting emotional again. “I mean, remember when we met?”

Jason smiles.

“I fell for the man who would give everything he has for the people he loves. The man who pretends he doesn't need anyone, but reaches for my hand when he thinks no one is looking. You have the biggest heart of anyone I've ever known. And it is the greatest privilege of my life to be trusted with it. I promise to love every version of you: the fearless one, the angry one, the gentle one, the kind one. And the one who is still learning that he doesn't have to carry everything by himself. I promise to remind you that you are worthy of love on the days you forget. I promise to laugh with you, argue with you, grow with you, and stand beside you through every chapter of our lives. I promise to be your peace when the world becomes too loud.

“Your partner when the road gets hard. And your home, wherever we are. You once told me that trust doesn't come easily to you. So thank you for trusting me. I choose you too, in the good and bad days, no matter what happens because, Jason, I love you. With my whole soul.”

Jason says nothing for a second, a thousand thoughts and feelings crossing his face. You instinctively brush one of his hairs away from his forehead; he closes his eyes briefly. Moves closer, his hands gravitating to your waist to kiss you—

The officiant coughs, and even he looks moved, but he snaps out of it and redirects the two of you to the table. “We need the two witnesses now.”

Roy and Dick are there in less than a second, eagerly picking up the pens and signing. You and Jason do too—you even share the same blue ballpoint.

The officiant reads over the document, making sure nothing is amiss. “Perfect. You’re now legally husband and wife.” He smiles. “Congratulations to both of you.”

Jason captures your mouth. The kiss is both sweet and hungry, and by the time you two remember that you can’t kiss for eternity, he smiles, forehead pressed to yours. “I love you, Mrs. Todd.”

You kiss him again. “I love you too, Mr. Todd.”

The wedding is perfect. Or rather, it’s perfect because Jason is there enjoying it by your side.

There’s dancing and drinking, laughter and cheering, and the constant congratulations! The muscles of your face hurt from how much you’re smiling, but you won’t stop.

Time moves far too quickly, and you’re caught in a dream you don’t want to wake up from. You see the world through a sparkling filter; everything is bright and good, and what could ever go wrong if you and Jason are together? Then comes Bruce’s speech.

He stands up, perfectly poised and straight. Beside him, Selina is looking up at him with a look of pure love. She squeezes his arm, and he gives her a small private smile.

“I’m not fond of speeches. Most of you know that. Yet somehow my children keep finding reasons to put me in situations where public speaking is expected. Tonight is no exception.”

There’s a small ripple of laughter.

“When Jason was young, there was never a quiet moment. He was curious about everything, stubborn about everything, and absolutely convinced he knew better than everyone around him. Some things never change.”

Some more laughter, and you lean against your husband’s arm—you’ll never get sick of saying that. He presses a kiss to your hair, eyes slowly moving from you to Bruce.

“What has changed is the man he's become.” Jason suddenly finds the tablecloth really interesting. “People see Jason's strength first. His determination. His ability to keep moving forward no matter what stands in his way. What I've always admired most is his heart. Jason cares deeply. Sometimes more deeply than is good for him. He loves fiercely. He protects fiercely. And when someone earns a place in his life, he never stops fighting for them. That has always been true.

“Today, I watched him look at the woman he loves, and I realized something. For a very long time, Jason spent his life surviving. Now he's building one with this lovely woman by his side.”

He looks at the two of you, smiling at you first— it’s not wide, but it’s honest— then settling on Jason.

“And there is nothing I could be more proud of. To my new daughter—thank you. For standing beside him and seeing the good in him that has always been there. And to Jason—there is very little left for me to teach you. But if I can offer one piece of advice, it's this: the people we love are not burdens we carry. They are gifts. Cherish this one every day.”

He raises his flute of champagne, and the rest of the guests follow.

“Congratulations. I love you. And I'm proud of you. To the happy couple.”

Dick starts crying immediately, Roy pretends he isn't emotional while actively crying into his drink, and Damian acts disgusted by the display while secretly recording it.

Those are just a few of the reactions Jason catches before raising his glass to Bruce and then slowly drinking. Things are not perfect between them—they may or may not ever be—but this, this is progress.

The cake comes next; exactly like the one on your Pinterest board, made from a mix of yours and Jason’s favorite flavors. You cut it together, but the moment the knife is away, you sink your fingers into it and smash it all over his face.

Everything stops for a second, and then Jason is laughing. Bright and loud, before he takes another piece and does the same thing to you, aiming for your mouth instead (he doesn’t want to ruin your makeup).

The world fades away when you and Jason have your first dance together. Your head is pressed to his chest. Looking up, you find he’s already looking at you before making you spin. You giggle and pull him down for another kiss (Damian pretends to be disgusted in the crowd).

The dancers come onto the floor; Roy and Lian, Kory and Dick, Damian and you (though he claims he does not dance but does so anyway), Bruce and Selina, Artemis and Jason at some point…

Jason and you end up exhausted, tipsy, and drunk on your love for each other. Buzzing with excitement for the honeymoon.

Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Todd!

[vigilantekisser]

apple lotion

pairing: college!matt murdock x f!reader

18+ cw: unprotected [irresponsible] sex. just the tip (until it isn’t). mutual loss of virginity - slight bleeding. thighfucking. pussyjob. slippery slope. creampie. mutual pining. idiots in love. religious references/guilt. banter as foreplay lol

summary: your friend’s reputation of being good in bed is common knowledge to the entire living-and-breathing student population of columbia. confusion arises when he tells you he’s actually a virgin. (wc: 11k - i know 😔)

a/n: hello. :) this is PURELY self-indulgent wish fulfillment, initially written for the touch prompts “foreheads pressed against each other” + “two fingers against a pulse point,” then i swiftly lost control after the first 2k words. I LOVE LOVE LOVE MATT MURDOCK JUST THE TIP FICS, i love their authors, and so here is my contribution!!! addtl warnings: lots of talk about religion, purity culture talk, matt’s guilt (featuring my favorite: intrusive thoughts of bible verses during sex). matt & reader lose their virginity to each other. that’s it… enjoy my filth…

“No fucking way.” 

It’s ridiculous: Matt’s desk isn’t made for two. Not even close. It’s for this reason that you’ve ended up almost on top of him, trying to act like your thigh isn’t pressed to his. 

And if your excuse for all this was that you were trying to get any real learning in, you’d be a liar, and a bad one at that. 

Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred. 

The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.

Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him. 

Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him. 

Not like you.

So, rash girl that you are,  you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.

“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”

His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”

Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.” 

Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping. 

“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”

“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”

Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully. 

“Well, then, enlighten me.”

Enlighten me.

You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”

You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.

Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”

One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.

“Yeah,” you manage.

“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”

“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.

“Well—yes?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”

As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”

It takes you a second.

To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips… 

Oh.

“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”

Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.

“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.

“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”

He’s grinning wide. “Because?” 

“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..” 

Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!

“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”

“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!” 

You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan. 

“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”

“Worse? How is that worse?”

“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.” 

Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.

A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.

Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are.  In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”

His head tilts fractionally. 

“Sorry?”

“It’s all fiction.”

“Being good at oral is fiction?”

“Yes.” 

“As in, not real?”

“Yes.” 

Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.

There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful. 

“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”

“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”

A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!

“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.

“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.

“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.

“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”

You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.

“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”

“Oh God.”

“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”

“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”

Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.

“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”

“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”

Fuck me, you think, panic blooming white-hot, Fuck me, literally, preferably now–

“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.

So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage: 

“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”

Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.

“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”

You blink. Fuck.

He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just… 

A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?

“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”

But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.

He’s… crying. 

That made him cry?

No way. You’ve never seen him cry before. 

No, no. He’s wheezing. 

From laughter.

“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”

“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”

“You walked into that one again.”

“That’s not funny!”

.

Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though. 

Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it? 

That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.

Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.

An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.

But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest. 

The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants. 

Which is clearly how you see him.

So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much. 

Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to. 

Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect. 

He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard. 

Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.

Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.

“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”

Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak. 

“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”

“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”

He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”

“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch. 

“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”

He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.

Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”

But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”

Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?

Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate. 

He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.

No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.

Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.

“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”

Matt tilts his head.

“I’m a virgin too.”

Oh?

That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it. 

He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.

“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”

You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you. 

“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”

“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”

“Dick.”

He smiles.

You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”

Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”

You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.

“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”

“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”

You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.

“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”

Right.

Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.

He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.

“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”

“Just do it once—then it’s over.”

“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully. 

“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.

“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.

The issue, of course, is that he’s hard. 

Hard and sweating and stuck. 

If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now. 

Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.

You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”

“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”

“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”

Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.

Christ, Matt. This how you do it?

He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking. 

But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.

His thumb strokes your side.

“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

You nod before your brain can even catch up.

“…Okay.”

For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.

There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful. 

Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—

It jerks, slipping sideways.

You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.

“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure. 

It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.

“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.

“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”

You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment. 

Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.

“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below. 

Jesus. 

But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.

“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.

Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help. 

Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.

“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.

He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”

“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”

A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”

“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.

Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated. 

His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Wait. Wait—”

He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”

“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”

It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—

“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”

You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”

His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now. 

“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the necklace, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.

Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.

You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”

His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”

Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching. 

You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.

It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.

“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”

For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.

That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”

At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely. 

“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”

And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.

Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”

“Not really.”

“They expensive?” 

“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”

“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply. 

RRRIP—!

Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum. 

“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”

“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”

His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”

“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”

Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop. 

But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?

The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.

He should stop.

“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”

Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts. 

You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.

And Matt’s losing it.

He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.

His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.

You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”

His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.

And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him. 

You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.

It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough. 

“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”

“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”

As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.

Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.

“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”

And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.

The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.

The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.

Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor. 

Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.

“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”

And if your hand causes you to sin…

“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you. 

Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.

“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”

You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.

Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”

“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience. 

He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.

Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.

But how can he refuse you?

“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”

You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.

You do no such thing. 

“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”

Need you, Matt.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”

You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief. 

God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven. 

No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…

Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.

Then he’s pushing forward.

Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.

“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”

You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.

“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”

Hurts.

Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.

If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—

But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.

The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.

As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.

Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.

“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.

“What’s unfair?” 

Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.

“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”

Christ. 

Matt swallows.

This girl is gonna be the death of me.

“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles. 

“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.

“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”

Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.

“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”

The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.

“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—” 

But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.

The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.

“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.

“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”

“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”

But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.

He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.

You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.

“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—” 

Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.

His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.

You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.

“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”

Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.

And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.

Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.

Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…

Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good. 

“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.

It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.

“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.

He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again.

Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”

As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.

“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.

One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.

“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.

The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.

“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.

He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.

Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.

By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—

He can’t.

He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.

And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.

…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor… 

It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.

…not in the passion of lust.

Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?

He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.

As long as he doesn’t come inside you. 

That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.

But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther? 

He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.

“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”

But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”

And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.

“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.

It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.

And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.

Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.

Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.

Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.

Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely. 

His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.

The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.

“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.

“Yeah.”

Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”

The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”

Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters. 

“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”

“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling. 

Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”

“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”

“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”

There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck. 

A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”

“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.

“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”

You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.

“We should probably get back to studying.”

“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”

“You’re the one who made me more behind!”

His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”

You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.

For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.

The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.

“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly. 

“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”

Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”

“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”

There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.

“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”

“Yes we are,” Foggy agrees cheerfully, plucking the bill from her hand. He tucks it neatly into his wallet and tips his dice bag toward her in mock toast. “To young love, and finally getting its head out of its ass.”

[yunyuu]

✶ GOOD FOR NOTHING!

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ the moments when they get insecure in your relationship.

including ⠀! ⠀ bruce wayne. dick grayson. jason todd. tim drake. damian wayne. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsession. angst. fluff? masterlist. english is not my first language. ✶

BRUCE WAYNE

Bruce doesn't get insecure because another man is richer.

Or younger.

Or prettier.

Bruce gets insecure when you look happy.

Really happy.

The kind of happiness that has nothing to do with him.

You come back from lunch with friends and you're smiling.

You tell him some stupid story.

Something insignificant.

And he listens.

He even smiles.

But something cold starts growing inside his chest.

Because for a second—

A single second—

You forgot him.

You existed outside his orbit.

And Bruce hates how much that bothers him.

Hates it.

Because he knows it isn't normal.

Love shouldn't feel threatened by independence.

Love shouldn't ache when the person you adore proves they can survive without you.

But Bruce has buried everyone.

Parents.

Partners.

Children, in some ways.

Every person he loves becomes a ghost eventually.

So when he sees proof that you have a life beyond him, beyond Gotham, beyond this endless nightmare—

Something ugly whispers:

"She'll leave too."

Not because you stopped loving him.

Because one day you realize you can be happy somewhere else.

And Bruce has never been able to compete with peace.

That's why he watches you sleep.

Not because you're beautiful.

(Though you are.)

Because unconscious, you're still here.

Still his.

Still choosing to stay.

At least for tonight.

DICK GRAYSON

Dick's insecurity comes from being loved too easily.

Nobody talks about that part.

Everybody loves Dick.

That's the problem.

Everyone wants a piece of him.

Everybody gets a smile.

A joke.

A hug.

A piece of his heart.

Eventually he starts wondering if there's anything left that actually belongs to him.

Then he meets you.

And suddenly he's selfish.

Violently selfish.

For the first time in his life he doesn't want to share.

Not your attention.

Not your affection.

Not the version of you that laughs so hard you snort.

That version belongs to him.

At least that's what the ugly part of him thinks.

Then one day he catches you laughing at somebody else's joke.

And something inside him cracks.

Because that's his thing.

Making you laugh.

Making you look at him like he's sunlight.

And now somebody else did it.

It's ridiculous.

Pathetic.

He knows that.

But Dick has spent his entire life being replaced.

First by new Robins.

Then by new heroes.

Then by new priorities.

The world always keeps moving.

So sometimes he looks at you and sees the future.

A future where you're still smiling.

Still laughing.

Still alive.

And he's the only thing missing.

The thought makes him physically sick.

Not angry.

Not jealous.

Just heartbroken.

Like mourning a death that hasn't happened yet.

JASON TODD

Jason's insecurity smells like blood.

It always comes back to blood.

You touch his face one night.

Nothing special.

Just your hand on his cheek.

Soft.

Careful.

Like you're handling something fragile.

And Jason almost pulls away.

Because all he can think about is the corpse.

The boy in the warehouse.

The body left in a coffin.

The thing he became afterward.

You look at him like he's a man.

Jason looks at himself and sees a dead dog.

A mistake wearing human skin.

The insecurity doesn't come when another man flirts with you.

Jason can put a bullet through that problem.

The insecurity comes when you're kind.

When you're gentle.

When you're patient.

Because he doesn't understand why.

You should be scared of him.

Everybody else is.

You should see the violence under his skin.

The rage.

The ugliness.

Instead you kiss him.

And every kiss feels like you're forgiving something he hasn't confessed.

That's what fuck him up.

Not the fear that you'll leave.

The fear that if you ever really saw him—

Every piece of him—

You'd finally run.

And he'd have no right to stop you.

TIM DRAKE

Tim doesn't become insecure.

He becomes obsessed.

There's a difference.

Insecurity implies uncertainty.

Tim doesn't doesn't understand uncertainty.

He gathers evidence.

Creates patterns.

Builds timelines.

You take seventeen minutes longer to answer.

He notices.

You use a different emoji.

He notices.

You seem tired around him.

He notices.

Soon he's drowning in data.

Thousands of tiny details.

All meaningless.

All devastating.

Because the truth is simple.

Tim has never believed he was lovable.

Useful?

Absolutely.

Necessary?

Without question.

Lovable?

No.

People need Tim Drake.

They need Robin.

They need Red Robin.

They need the detective.

The strategist.

The genius.

But him?

Just him?

Tim isn't convinced that person exists.

So he starts testing reality.

Do you still smile when he's exhausted?

Do you still reach for him when he's quiet?

Do you still love him when he has nothing left to give?

Every answer is yes.

Every single answer.

And somehow that makes it worse.

Because if you love him this much—

Then you have the power to kill him.

And Tim knows better than anyone what happens when someone gets access to your weakest point.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Damian's insecurity is almost unbearable to see.

Because it hides under arrogance.

You won't see it at first.

You'll think he's annoyed.

Offended.

Insufferable.

Then you'll realize he's hurting.

Damian spent his childhood earning affection like a soldier earns medals.

Perform.

Win.

Perfect.

Repeat.

Love was never given.

It was awarded.

Conditional.

Temporary.

One mistake and it vanished.

And then there's you.

You loved him on days he lost.

You loved him when he was cruel.

You loved him when he was stubborn.

And Damian never learned how to trust that.

So every time you praise somebody else—

His stomach drops.

Not because he's jealous.

Because he's terrified.

The fear is immediate.

Primitive.

Childlike.

"What if she sees someone better?"

"What if she realizes I am not enough?"

"What if she leaves?"

He hates himself for it.

Despises it.

The son of Batman.

The grandson of Ra's al Ghul.

Reduced to this.

Reduced to lying awake at three in the morning listening to you breathe.

Checking.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Making sure you're still there.

Sometimes you'll wake up and find him staring.

Not because he's being creepy.

Because for one horrible moment he dreamed you left.

And when Damian opened his eyes, he needed proof that reality hadn't followed you out the door.

If you want to be in my DC taglist let me know :)

© 𝐘unyuu 2026 — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[torchdd]

the three times johnny storm got rejected and the one time he didn't

The first time Johnny Storm asked you out, you had been working at the Baxter Building for exactly twenty-three days.

Not that Johnny knew that.

Or cared.

The exact number only mattered because Ben had started counting.

Apparently there was a betting pool now.

You discovered this later.

Much later.

After Johnny had already become the single greatest inconvenience in your professional life.

The afternoon itself had started normally enough.

The main laboratory was alive with its usual rhythm — the low hum of machinery, holographic displays casting blue light across the walls, Reed muttering equations under his breath while completely ignoring the sandwich sitting untouched beside him.

You occupied one of the workstations near the center of the room, reviewing data collected from a recent space survey. Several holograms floated above the desk in front of you, columns of numbers shifting as you reorganized them.

The work was tedious.

Which was exactly why you liked it.

Nobody bothered you when you were working.

Well...

Almost nobody.

You had become so focused that you failed to notice Johnny enter the lab.

A mistake.

A terrible mistake.

Because Johnny Storm had the uncanny ability to detect when he was being ignored.

You became aware of him only when a shadow fell across your desk.

Then came the smell of smoke.

Not actual smoke.

Just warmth.

Like standing too close to a fireplace.

You didn't bother looking up.

"Hello, Johnny."

There was a pause.

A surprised one.

"You knew it was me?"

You continued typing.

"Nobody else announces their arrival like a burnt marshmallow."

From somewhere across the room, Ben barked out a laugh.

Johnny ignored him.

You could practically hear the grin stretching across his face.

"That was funny."

"It wasn't a joke."

"It was a little funny."

"No."

"See, that's your problem."

"My problem?"

"You're denying yourself joy."

Finally, you looked up.

Johnny was leaning against the edge of your workstation, arms crossed over his chest.

And unfortunately—

Very unfortunately—

He looked good.

Everybody knew Johnny looked good.

It wasn't exactly breaking news.

The problem was that he knew it too.

The confidence practically radiated off him.

The easy smile.

The bright eyes.

The infuriating certainty that the world belonged to him.

You had met men like him before.

Men who thought charm could unlock any door.

Men who believed persistence was romantic.

Men who expected eventual success.

Johnny Storm simply happened to be the most attractive version of that problem.

You looked back down at your screen.

The conversation was over as far as you were concerned.

Unfortunately, Johnny disagreed.

"So."

You sighed.

"So?"

"So."

His grin widened.

"Wanna get dinner with me?"

The laboratory fell silent.

Not immediately.

Not dramatically.

But one by one, the conversations died.

You noticed Sue stop walking.

Ben stopped pretending to work altogether.

Even Reed glanced away from the monitor in front of him.

Waiting.

For what?

You had no idea.

The answer was obvious.

You looked up at Johnny.

At the confidence in his expression.

At the certainty.

The expectation.

Then you smiled politely.

"No."

Silence.

Johnny blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Like his brain needed an extra moment to process the information.

"...No?"

"No."

"Just no?"

You nodded.

"That's usually how no works."

Ben immediately doubled over laughing.

The sound echoed through the entire laboratory.

Johnny pointed at him without taking his eyes off you.

"Stay out of this."

"I literally can't," Ben wheezed. "This is the funniest thing I've seen all week."

Johnny looked genuinely offended.

Which somehow made the situation even funnier.

You gathered a few files from your desk and stood.

The conversation had reached its natural conclusion.

At least for you.

Johnny, however, looked like a man experiencing a minor existential crisis.

"You didn't even think about it."

"I did."

"For how long?"

You considered it.

"A second."

"A second?"

"A generous estimate."

This time Sue laughed.

Actually laughed.

Johnny turned toward her.

"Sue."

She raised both hands immediately.

"I'm not helping you."

"You could've helped me."

"You asked her out before learning her middle name."

"I know her middle name."

"No, you don't."

Johnny opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

You smiled.

Sweetly.

Professionally.

The exact smile that had terrified investors, government officials, and one NASA director.

Then you walked away.

Leaving Johnny standing in the middle of the laboratory.

Staring after you.

For the first time in a very long time—

Completely speechless.

The second time Johnny Storm asked you out, he had a plan.

Now, in Johnny's defense, this was already more effort than he usually put into anything.

Johnny Storm was many things.

Confident.

Impulsive.

Charming.

Occasionally heroic.

Frequently annoying.

Planning ahead, however, was not one of his stronger qualities.

Which was precisely why Sue became suspicious the moment she saw him ironing a shirt.

Not wearing one.

Ironing one.

Actually ironing one.

With concentration.

Like a man preparing for war.

"Johnny."

He looked up.

"What?"

Sue stared.

Then pointed at the iron.

"What is that?"

Johnny frowned.

"...An iron?"

"No. I know what it is."

"Then why'd you ask?"

Sue narrowed her eyes.

Something was wrong.

She could feel it.

"Why are you using it?"

The answer came immediately.

Too immediately.

"No reason."

"Oh, God."

Johnny groaned.

"Can you stop acting like I'm planning a crime?"

"You only iron shirts when you're planning a crime."

"I do not."

"Johnny."

"I don't."

"Last time you ironed a shirt you tried to race a fighter jet."

"That was one time."

"Johnny."

"Two times."

Sue sighed.

Deeply.

The kind of sigh that only came from being related to Johnny Storm.

Then she noticed the shirt.

Black.

The nice black one.

The one he only wore when he was trying to impress somebody.

And suddenly everything made sense.

"Oh."

Johnny immediately knew.

"Don't."

"Oh, my God."

"Don't."

"You're asking her out again."

"I wasn't hiding it."

"You ironed a shirt."

"That's not hiding it."

"That's announcing it."

Johnny pointed accusingly.

"You're supposed to support me."

Sue laughed so hard she had to sit down.

The annual Future Foundation charity gala occupied three entire floors of a Manhattan hotel.

Scientists.

Investors.

Politicians.

Reporters.

The usual crowd.

The sort of event Reed attended because he had to.

The sort of event Sue attended because she was good at it.

The sort of event Ben attended because there was free food.

And the sort of event Johnny attended because cameras existed.

By the time the evening officially began, the ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and designer gowns.

Music drifted through the room.

Champagne flowed freely.

People laughed.

Networked.

Discussed science and funding and the future of humanity.

Johnny spent exactly thirty-seven minutes pretending to listen before his attention wandered.

Not intentionally.

It just happened.

Because then he saw you.

And every coherent thought immediately left his body.

Across the room, you stood beside a group of researchers from MIT.

One hand wrapped around a champagne glass.

The other gesturing as you spoke.

The soft gold lighting caught the side of your face.

Your dress wasn't even particularly flashy.

It wasn't the most expensive gown in the room.

Or the most dramatic.

Or the most attention-grabbing.

Yet somehow—

Johnny couldn't look away.

It annoyed him.

Deeply.

Because this kept happening.

Every time.

He'd see you.

And suddenly nothing else felt nearly as interesting.

"Uh oh."

Johnny didn't even have to turn around.

Ben.

Obviously.

"What?"

"The look."

Johnny frowned.

"What look?"

"The one where you forget how blinking works."

Johnny finally turned.

Ben was eating shrimp.

A concerning amount of shrimp.

"You sound obsessed."

Ben nearly choked.

"ME?"

"You."

"Brother."

Ben pointed his shrimp at him.

"You've been staring at that poor girl for five straight minutes."

Johnny rolled his eyes.

Then looked back across the room.

You were laughing now.

Something one of the researchers had said.

The sound didn't reach him through the crowd.

But he could see it.

The smile.

The way your shoulders relaxed.

The way your head tilted back slightly.

And suddenly—

The ballroom seemed a little brighter.

A little warmer.

A little easier to breathe in.

Johnny froze.

"...oh."

Ben saw the realization happen in real time.

"Oh, no."

"What?"

"You got it bad."

Johnny immediately scoffed.

"I do not."

"Johnny."

"I don't."

"You ironed a shirt."

"STOP BRINGING UP THE SHIRT."

The problem with you was that you never made anything easy.

If you had disliked him, this would've been simple.

If you'd been rude, dismissive, cruel—

Simple.

Easy.

Understandable.

Instead, you were always nice.

Warm.

Funny.

Patient.

You smiled when he talked.

You laughed at some of his jokes.

You remembered things he told you.

You cared when he got hurt on missions.

You checked in after long nights.

You brought him coffee when he forgot to sleep.

And somehow—

Somehow—

You still wouldn't go out with him.

It was maddening.

Completely maddening.

Because Johnny knew when someone disliked him.

You didn't.

Which meant the issue wasn't him.

At least...

Probably not.

Hopefully not.

Maybe.

Actually he wasn't sure anymore.

Which was somehow worse.

He found you nearly an hour later standing near one of the balconies overlooking Manhattan.

The city stretched endlessly beyond the glass.

Thousands of lights scattered across the darkness.

The skyline glowing against the night.

For a moment he just watched you.

Not in a creepy way.

Probably.

Okay.

Maybe slightly.

But in his defense, you looked beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that made people stop mid-sentence.

The kind of beautiful that made entire rooms feel quieter.

The kind of beautiful Johnny was rapidly discovering could be extremely dangerous to his health.

You sensed him before he spoke.

Without turning around, you lifted your champagne glass.

"Hello, Storm."

Johnny grinned.

There it was.

Storm.

Always Storm.

Never Johnny.

Never anything softer.

Just Storm.

Like he was some persistent weather condition.

"You knew it'd be me."

"I heard the ego approaching."

Johnny pressed a hand over his heart.

"Wounded."

"You'll survive."

"I might not."

You finally looked at him.

Amusement flickering behind your eyes.

And there it was again.

That feeling.

That awful, wonderful feeling.

The one that had become increasingly difficult to ignore.

Johnny leaned against the railing.

Trying very hard to appear casual.

Trying very hard to ignore the fact that his pulse had suddenly sped up.

"Dinner."

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

"No."

"I haven't even finished the sentence."

"You don't need to."

"Come on."

"No."

"One date."

"No."

"One drink."

"No."

"Coffee."

"No."

Johnny stared.

The smile on your face grew.

Tiny.

Barely visible.

But definitely there.

And suddenly he realized something.

You were enjoying this.

Not the asking.

The teasing.

The back and forth.

The challenge.

The fact that Johnny Storm kept trying.

The realization made him grin.

"You think this is funny."

"A little."

"A little?"

"A moderate amount."

Johnny laughed.

Actually laughed.

Because somehow that answer felt exactly like you.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked.

The city lights reflecting in your eyes.

The breeze catching your hair.

The amused expression you'd never show reporters.

And before he could stop himself—

Before his brain could catch up—

He asked quietly,

"Why not?"

For the first time that evening, you paused.

Not because you were considering it.

He could tell you weren't.

But because the question surprised you.

Johnny wasn't usually serious.

Not with this.

Not with you.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then your smile softened.

Just slightly.

Enough that he almost missed it.

"Because you're asking."

Johnny groaned immediately.

"Oh, that's evil."

A laugh escaped you.

Warm.

Genuine.

The kind he rarely got to hear.

And somehow—

Somehow—

It felt worth the rejection.

Which was probably the most concerning part of all.

Because as you turned and started walking back toward the ballroom, Johnny found himself watching you leave.

Again.

Not upset.

Not discouraged.

Not frustrated.

Just...

Wanting to follow.

And that realization hit him like a freight train.

Because somewhere between the first rejection and the second—

This had stopped being a game.

And Johnny Storm, much to his horror, was starting to think he might actually like you. REALLY like you. Which was a disaster.

An absolute, five-alarm, Baxter-Building-level disaster.

The third time Johnny Storm asked you out, he made the mistake of believing he was making progress.

In his defense, there was evidence.

Actual evidence.

Not much.

But enough.

You laughed at his jokes more often now.

Not all of them.

That would have been ridiculous.

But enough that Johnny started keeping track.

You no longer immediately walked away whenever he approached.

You voluntarily sat next to him during meetings.

Once, you had even fallen asleep in the common room with your head resting against his shoulder after a thirty-hour work session.

Granted, you'd been unconscious.

And yes, Ben still brought it up every chance he got.

But still.

The point stood.

Progress.

Tiny.

Microscopic.

Embarrassingly insignificant progress.

But progress nonetheless.

Which was how Johnny found himself wandering into the lab at two in the morning feeling oddly optimistic.

The Baxter Building was quiet.

For once.

Most of Manhattan slept beyond the massive windows.

The city lights glittered against the darkness while the lab itself remained illuminated by computer screens and floating holograms.

Reed had finally been forced to go home by Sue.

Ben had disappeared hours ago.

Even H.E.R.B.I.E. seemed quieter than usual.

The only person still awake besides Johnny was you.

Of course.

Because apparently sleep was optional for scientists.

You sat alone at one of the workstations, knees tucked beneath you in your chair while several files floated across a holographic display.

A half-finished cup of coffee sat forgotten beside your laptop.

You looked exhausted.

Your hair wasn't done.

Your glasses had slipped down your nose.

One sleeve of your sweater covered most of your hand.

And somehow—

Somehow—

Johnny thought you looked prettier than every supermodel he'd ever met.

It was honestly becoming a problem.

A serious one.

A medical condition, probably.

"You know."

Your voice broke through the silence before he'd even spoken.

Johnny smiled immediately.

"You know what?"

Without looking up from your screen, you replied,

"If you're standing there staring at me, you could at least say hello."

Busted.

Johnny walked further into the room.

"I wasn't staring."

You finally glanced up.

The look on your face said liar.

"No?"

"No."

"You've been standing there for at least thirty seconds."

Johnny dropped into the chair across from you.

"Okay, maybe a little."

"A little."

"A moderate amount."

That earned him a laugh.

A real one.

Not polite.

Not professional.

A genuine laugh.

And suddenly Johnny felt absurdly pleased with himself.

Which was dangerous.

Because whenever Johnny Storm felt confident, terrible things usually happened.

Like now.

You returned your attention to the files in front of you.

The room settled into comfortable silence.

Comfortable.

The word itself surprised Johnny.

A year ago, silence would've driven him insane.

Now?

Now he didn't mind it.

Not with you.

He watched the glow of holograms reflect against your face.

The way you absentmindedly tapped your fingers against the desk while reading.

The little crease between your eyebrows whenever something annoyed you.

The tiny details he'd somehow memorized without realizing.

The realization should have terrified him.

Instead—

"Hey."

You didn't look up.

"Mhm?"

Johnny grinned.

"Wanna go out with me?"

The answer came instantly.

"No."

Johnny groaned.

"You didn't even think about it."

"I did."

"For how long?"

"Long enough."

"You're impossible."

This time you looked up.

The corners of your mouth twitching.

Amusement dancing in your eyes.

And suddenly Johnny had a horrible feeling.

The kind that only appeared right before disaster.

You were planning something.

He could tell.

You leaned back slightly in your chair.

Studying him.

Far too innocent.

Far too calm.

Dangerous.

Extremely dangerous.

Johnny narrowed his eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

You smiled.

Slowly.

"Oh, nothing."

That smile.

That smile had never meant anything good.

Johnny pointed at you.

"See? That's exactly the smile."

"What smile?"

"The one that means you're about to emotionally damage me."

Your laugh echoed through the quiet laboratory.

And for one brief, beautiful moment, Johnny forgot he was supposed to be suspicious.

A fatal mistake.

Because then you spoke.

Casually.

Like you weren't about to commit a crime.

"I don't date blondes."

The silence that followed was immediate.

Complete.

Johnny blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

"...what?"

You looked completely serious.

Terrifyingly serious.

"I don't date blondes."

Johnny stared.

Then stared harder.

Then looked around the room as if waiting for somebody to jump out and explain the joke.

Nobody appeared.

Because there was nobody else there.

Just you.

Trying very hard not to laugh.

And him.

Experiencing psychological warfare.

"I'm sorry."

Johnny held up a hand.

"No."

He pointed at his hair.

"My hair?"

You nodded.

"Your hair."

"My hair is the problem."

"Unfortunately."

Johnny sat there.

Speechless.

Actually speechless.

Which almost never happened.

Then he leaned forward.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he was handling unstable explosives.

"Your reason."

"Mhm."

"For rejecting me."

"Mhm."

"Is because I'm blond."

"Correct."

Johnny stared.

You stared back.

Neither of you moving.

Neither of you blinking.

And then—

The tiniest smile appeared.

Right at the corner of your mouth.

Johnny immediately pointed.

"THERE."

You burst out laughing.

Immediately.

Completely.

The sound filled the laboratory.

And suddenly Johnny understood.

"Oh, you're evil."

Your shoulders shook.

"You should hear yourself."

"You rejected me because of my hair."

"It was funny."

"It wasn't funny."

"It was a little funny."

"It was deeply hurtful."

That only made you laugh harder.

Johnny slumped back in his chair.

Hand over his heart.

Absolutely devastated.

Or pretending to be.

Mostly pretending.

Maybe.

The problem was—

The problem was that he couldn't even be upset.

Because you were laughing.

Really laughing.

The kind that made your eyes crinkle.

The kind that made your entire face light up.

And God help him—

Johnny would probably let you reject him a hundred more times if it meant seeing that look again.

The realization hit hard.

Hard enough that for a moment he forgot to joke.

Forgot to flirt.

Forgot to play the part everyone expected from Johnny Storm.

Instead, he just watched you.

Quietly.

And something shifted.

Small.

Almost imperceptible.

But real.

Because suddenly it wasn't about winning anymore.

It wasn't about proving he could get a date.

It wasn't about the challenge.

The chase.

The game.

It was you.

Just you.

Sitting across from him at two in the morning.

Laughing at your own terrible joke.

Looking happier than you'd looked all week.

And for the first time, Johnny realized he would be perfectly happy sitting here forever.

Not because he thought you'd eventually say yes.

Not because he expected anything in return.

But because he liked being around you.

Way more than he probably should.

Way more than was safe.

Way more than a man was supposed to like someone who had just rejected him because he was blond.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Eventually, your laughter faded.

The room settling once more.

And before either of you could say anything—

The lab doors slid open.

Ben walked in carrying three sandwiches.

Took one look at Johnny.

One look at you.

And immediately knew.

"Oh, she rejected you again."

Johnny sighed.

Deeply.

Painfully.

"Because I'm blond."

Ben stopped walking.

"...what?"

"Because I'm blond."

The silence lasted exactly two seconds.

Then Ben doubled over.

The sandwiches hit the floor.

And his laughter echoed through the entire Baxter Building.

Johnny seriously considered setting something on fire. Probably Ben.

You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you reached for your laptop.

"You're both ridiculous."

"She says after rejecting me because of my hair."

"Which was funny."

"It wasn't."

"It absolutely was."

Ben nearly dropped another sandwich laughing.

You ignored both of them.

With the ease of someone who had spent far too much time around the Fantastic Four, you began shutting down the holograms floating above your workstation. One by one, the glowing screens disappeared until the laboratory finally returned to its usual dim lighting.

The clock in the corner of the room read 3:07 a.m.

A fact that suddenly made your entire body feel exhausted.

You closed your laptop.

Gathered your notes.

Finished the last sip of your coffee.

Then stood.

Johnny immediately frowned.

"Where are you going?"

You blinked.

"...Home?"

"It's three in the morning."

"Exactly."

"You can't just leave at three in the morning."

You stared at him.

Johnny stared right back.

As if this was a completely reasonable concern.

As if he hadn't personally watched you leave the building at worse hours.

"Johnny."

"What?"

"I have to be back here at nine."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

Johnny stood up.

Looking genuinely offended.

Like the answer should've been obvious.

"I can't let a lady go outside by herself at three in the morning."

The silence that followed lasted exactly two seconds.

Then your expression changed.

Not amused.

Not teasing.

Just...

Confused.

"Outside?"

"Yeah."

"Johnny."

"What?"

You adjusted the strap of your bag.

Still staring at him.

"I'm not leaving the building."

He blinked.

"What?"

"Sue gave me one of the guest rooms."

Another blink.

"...What?"

You pointed vaguely toward the elevators.

"Two floors down."

The realization hit him all at once.

The room.

The guest room.

The one Sue had offered months ago after one too many late nights.

The one literally inside the Baxter Building.

The one Johnny somehow forgot existed.

"Oh."

You smiled.

Sweetly.

Far too sweetly.

"Goodnight, Storm."

Then you turned.

Walked toward the door.

And left.

Just like that.

The laboratory doors slid shut behind you.

Silence.

Johnny stood there.

Motionless.

Staring at the empty doorway.

Ben watched him for a moment.

Then another.

Then—

"...You forgot she lives here."

Johnny pointed aggressively toward the elevator.

"She doesn't live here."

"Close enough."

"Not helping."

Ben snorted.

Johnny dragged a hand down his face.

Then sighed.

Long.

Deep.

Dramatic.

The sigh of a man experiencing true suffering.

Finally, he muttered,

"I'll dye it."

Ben frowned.

"What?"

Johnny looked completely serious.

"If that's the problem, I'll dye it."

For a second, Ben simply stared at him.

Trying to determine whether this was a joke.

Unfortunately—

It wasn't.

Johnny was genuinely considering it.

"You cannot be serious."

"I am."

"Johnny."

"I am."

"Johnny."

"I'll go brunette."

Ben folded in half.

Actually folded.

The laughter that erupted from him was so violent he had to grab the nearest desk for support.

Tears immediately sprang to his eyes.

"Oh my God."

Johnny looked offended.

"What?"

"You've got it BAD."

"I do not."

"YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT CHANGING YOUR HAIR."

"It's called commitment."

"It's called being down catastrophic."

Johnny opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

And unfortunately for him, he couldn't come up with a single argument.

Because somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice was already wondering whether he'd look good as a brunette.

By the time Johnny Storm asked you out for what would eventually be the successful attempt, he had completely given up on succeeding.

Not in a depressing way.

Not in a woe is me, nobody loves me way.

Just...

Realistically.

The same way a man stops expecting to win the lottery.

Or stops expecting Reed to remember where he left his keys.

Or stops expecting Ben to stop bringing up the blonde incident.

Some things simply weren't going to happen.

And apparently one of those things was you agreeing to go on a date with him.

So Johnny adjusted.

Mostly.

Kind of.

Not really.

The flirting never stopped.

That was impossible.

Breathing was less natural to Johnny Storm than flirting with you.

But somewhere along the way, the asking had changed.

It wasn't a challenge anymore.

Wasn't a game.

Wasn't even hope, really.

It had become routine.

Comfortable.

A running joke that belonged solely to the two of you.

A question.

A rejection.

A laugh.

Then life continued.

Simple.

Predictable.

Safe.

Which was exactly why it hit him like a truck.

The afternoon itself had been unremarkable.

The Baxter Building buzzed with its usual energy.

Researchers moving through the halls.

H.E.R.B.I.E. rolling around somewhere in the distance.

Reed locked inside a laboratory with three whiteboards and no awareness of time.

Normal.

Completely normal.

Johnny found you exactly where he expected.

At your desk.

Surrounded by files.

Halfway through organizing an absurd amount of research data because apparently nobody else in the building knew how to label things correctly.

Sunlight poured through the enormous windows.

Golden and warm.

Painting the laboratory in shades of amber.

You sat with your sleeves pushed up and your hair pulled back, entirely focused on your work.

Johnny smiled before he even realized he was doing it.

The sight had become familiar.

Comforting.

Like coming home.

Which was—

Nope.

Not thinking about that.

Absolutely not.

He dropped into the chair beside your desk.

You didn't look up immediately.

Just hummed in acknowledgment.

The sound alone somehow made him grin wider.

"Hey."

"Mhm."

"Wanna go out with me Friday?"

There it was.

The usual question.

The routine.

The joke.

Johnny reached for a pen on your desk while waiting for the inevitable rejection.

Maybe you'd say no because he was blonde again.

Maybe you'd tell him he talked too much.

Maybe you'd invent another ridiculous excuse.

Honestly, he was looking forward to hearing it.

Then—

"Okay."

Johnny grabbed the pen.

Then froze.

The room suddenly felt very quiet.

Very.

Very quiet.

Slowly, he blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Surely he had imagined that.

Because there was no way—

No possible way—

He looked up.

You were still sorting files.

Calm.

Composed.

Entirely unbothered.

Like you hadn't just detonated a bomb inside his ribcage.

"...What?"

You slid another folder into place.

"Friday works."

Johnny stared.

The pen slipped from his fingers.

Hit the floor.

Neither of you moved.

For one horrifying second, Johnny became convinced he was hallucinating.

Maybe Reed had accidentally released toxic fumes.

Maybe he'd finally lost his mind.

Maybe Ben had hit him with a truck.

Any explanation seemed more likely than what had just happened.

"You..."

His voice cracked.

Actually cracked.

Mortifying.

"You said yes."

You finally looked up.

And there it was.

A smile.

Not the polite one.

Not the professional one.

Not the one you gave reporters or investors or strangers.

A real smile.

Warm.

Soft.

Entirely yours.

And somehow that was even worse.

Because suddenly this wasn't a joke anymore.

"Oh my God."

You laughed.

Immediately.

Of course you did.

"Oh my God."

"Johnny—"

"OH MY GOD."

The laboratory doors slid open.

Sue walked in carrying a tablet.

She stopped immediately.

Looked at you.

Looked at Johnny.

Then frowned.

"Why are you yelling?"

Johnny pointed.

Couldn't form words.

Physically incapable.

Sue turned toward you.

You smiled.

Entirely too innocent.

"I said yes."

The tablet slipped from Sue's hands.

Clattered onto the floor.

Silence.

Then—

"...WHAT?"

[the-darklings]

you said Jason Todd would be an annoying bf, do you have any specific thoughts on why?? im a long and diehard fan of him, I’ve read the fics, the comics, seen the movies, etc. I KNOW he’d be a difficult piece of shit but I wanna know the almighty Kat’s take on it.

NOT ME GETTING LIKE 20 MESSAGES ASKING FOR JASON THOUGHTS GUYS PLS??? I DON'T EVEN GO HERE, BUT FUCK IT, FINE. 18+ for nsfw. mdni.

JASON TODD AS YOUR BOYFRIEND HDCS—

Loving Jason Todd is not easy. It's a lifestyle adjustment at the bare minimum, and the first thing to understand is that he's not some soft golden retriever boyfriend. Never has been, never will be.

He's not Dick (charming, attentive, performative), he's not Tim (anxious, observant, analytical), he's not Damian (devoted to a fault, awkwardly sincere); he's the one who came back wrong and never fully unlearned the rage or the wrongness of that come back.

He doesn't meet people the way normal men do. No Hinge profile, no striking up conversation at a coffee shop unless he's already aware of you as a potential informant.

The way he ends up in your orbit is one of three things: you crossed paths with one of his cases (you witnessed something, you live above the wrong building, you're the cousin of some dead girl, you work at the diner three doors down from the safehouse, and he noticed you because his job is noticing things, and then he kept noticing you, and that part wasn't the job); or you're tangentially Bat-adjacent (you work at WE, you're an old friend of Babs's, you patched him up once at a free clinic and didn't ask questions), which he hates in theory and seeks out in practice; or you're a complete civilian and he's furious about how attracted to you he is, which is the funniest one (for us) and the most dangerous one for him.

For the first dozen interactions he's rude. Not really cruel or anything. Jason has a deeply skewered and fucked up moral spine despite everything but he has it. He's brusque, he's short with you, he gives you the kind of one-syllable answers that make you check whether you've offended him somehow, and you haven't, he just doesn't waste words on people he hasn't decided require air from him.

But here's the thing: he keeps showing up.

You'll see him at the bar three nights in a row, sitting where he can see the door. You'll mention offhandedly that you can't find a decent mechanic one time and a week later your car runs better than it did when you bought it and the guy at the shop says "yeah some big guy paid in cash, told me not to mention it"; you'll say in passing that the back lock on your apartment door sticks and the next time you come home it's been replaced with something that looks like it could survive a small explosion. He'll never bring any of this up, and if you bring it up, he'll go "don't know what you're talking about" with that infuriating half-smirk and change the subject completely .

This is his love language and it's unbearable, because Jason won't ask you out, he won't say anything, really. He's just slowly making your life safer and more functional and waiting to see if you notice, and every time you do notice, he gets a little more annoyed that you're getting under his skin and keep noticing.

When he finally starts engaging with you, his flirting is mean. Affectionate-mean. He'll roast your taste in music, your coffee order, your shoes, the book you're reading, the way you say a particular word. He calls you stupid pet names that are technically insults: sweetheart, princess, trouble, and the one he reserves for when he wants to see you actually flustered, baby, and he watches you very carefully to see how you respond.

If you bite back his entire face changes. He gets delighted, he'll lean in over the table and go "oh, you've got a mouth on you, huh?" and you can see him tucking this information away in real time. If you go shy he'll keep pushing, gently, until you laugh, because he's testing you, he needs to know you can handle him before he lets himself want you any more than he already does.

You will not have a defining-the-relationship conversation. He will not ask you to be his girlfriend in some sappy way. One day you'll just realise he's been at your apartment four nights in a row, there's a toothbrush in your bathroom that isn't yours, he's eating your leftovers like he pays rent, and when his phone buzzes he angles it away from you with a look that says don't ask.

And if you ask what you are to each other he'll say something like "the hell kind of question is that?", not unkindly, just like the question itself is so ridiculous he can't believe you wasted a breath on it; obviously you're his, he thought you knew, he's been acting like it, hasn't he? Keep up!

He hasn't been acting like it in any way a normal person would recognise, but to him the fact that he hasn't killed anyone over you yet is a love sonnet <3

His texting habits are a horror show: he doesn't text first, ever, until suddenly he texts you twelve times in a row at 2 a.m. (u up. u home? answer the phone. fine. ignore me. fuck. txt back when u see this) he leaves you on read constantly (he's not ignoring you, he read it, he doesn't see why a "got it" was needed), his messages are all lowercase and full of typos because he texts with one hand while doing something else (cleaning a gun, driving, running across a roof), he'll send you a single question mark in response to a long vulnerable message and then forty minutes later show up at your door with takeout and not mention it.

He saves your contact under something stupid like Trouble or Headache or Don't pick up.

He works nights, he gets shot some of those nights, and he'll absolutely disappear for 48 hours with no contact and then reappear in your kitchen at 3 a.m. bleeding from somewhere he won't show you. When you panic he'll go "Jesus, breathe, it's not even that bad" (which is the sentence equivalent of holding a grenade) and he'll not apologise for the disappearing, but he will look slightly ashamed when he realises you actually couldn't sleep.

He doesn't know what to do with the fact that you worry about him; it short-circuits him, people don't worry about Jason, Jason worries, or Jason handles it, and the role reversal, the uncomplicated care, is a wound he can't reach to scratch.

Then comes the obnoxious-about-your-attention phase, which is when he gets very annoying and very hot simultaneously, because Jason is territorial in a way that would be a red flag if he weren't so weirdly principled about it.

He'll not tell you who you can talk to, will not check your phone, he will not get jealous in the openly controlling way that signals abuser. He's not that.

But what he will do is loom (when you're at a bar and a guy is talking to you, Jason who was across the room is now somehow magically standing directly behind you with a hand on the small of your back, not saying anything, just radiating, and the guy will leave, and Jason will not comment);

Scoff (anyone shows interest in you within his sightline, he makes a noise: short, derisive, almost a laugh, like the idea is so absurd it's funny anyone is trying);

Ask too-casual questions ("who was that on the phone?" he says, not looking up from the gun he's cleaning on your coffee table (concern.) and you can hear that the casualness is performed, that he's in fact extremely invested in the answer, and he's furious with himself for caring);

Mark you in stupid little ways (steals your hair tie and wears it on his wrist, leaves his jacket at your place "by accident" four times in a row, bites the side of your neck where it'll show above your collar and is unrepentant when you complain about it).

Now: the slap-on-the-ass-then-prickly move, which is the Jason behaviour pattern that will define the first six months of dating him.

He's physically affectionate in a way that's cocky, performative, almost rude (the hand on your ass when he's walking past you in the kitchen, the fingers around the back of your neck when he's leaning over to grab his beer, the bite (he's a biter, I'm afraid, that man cannot keep his teeth to himself) at your shoulder, your jaw, your ear, the teasing physicality of pulling you back into his lap when you try to get up, holding your wrist when you reach for something, hooking his ankle around yours under the table).

All of this is easy for him, it costs him nothing because he's performing the part of "guy who is comfortable touching his girl" because it's the closest he can get to being affectionate without admitting that he wants to be.

But the second you try to flip it, try to initiate genuine closeness, try to climb into his lap when he didn't put you there, or to cup his face and look at him too long. Even say something soft like I missed you in a voice that means it, Jason goes rigid. Not for long, a second, maybe two, but you'll feel it: the full-body lock, and then he'll deflect with a joke. A kiss that's more aggressive than tender, a hand on your waist that turns you around so you're not facing him anymore.

He can't take it when you mean it. He can give and give in the language of teasing physicality, but tenderness received, sincere tenderness, the kind that means I see you and I'm not going anywhere, that's the language of the family that buried him while he was still dying, that's the language his mother used, that's Bruce's voice in the cave and Bruce's silence in the alley after.

He doesn't trust it, he doesn't know how to be on the receiving end of it without flinching, and this will be one of the hardest things about loving him.

You can't push, he's spent his whole afterlife being pushed, and you have to be willing to let him deflect six times before he takes it on the seventh, and it takes months, sometimes longer, before he can let your hand stay on the side of his face for more than a second without turning into it like he's trying to escape his own want.

The way you eventually crack it is sneakier than confrontation. You do it in transit, in passing, when he's distracted: a kiss to his shoulder while he's at the stove, fingers through the hair at the back of his neck while he's mid-sentence about something else, I love you mumbled into the crook of his arm at a moment when neither of you is looking at the other.

It has to be cheap, it has to be easy to ignore, because if you give it weight he can't hold it. Over months, he learns to take it without flinching, then to lean into it, then (eventually, miraculously) to ask for it (never with words, he will never use words for this, but he'll plant himself within reach of your hands and wait, like a stray cat learning where the food bowl lives).

He's also annoying about your safety in ways that are sometimes touching and sometimes infuriating: he has opinions about every person in your life.

He's run background checks on people you went to college with and isn't sorry, he will text you the route home (not ask, tell) take 5th not the alley tonight, he has bought you (without asking) pepper spray (good), a small folding knife (lowkey concerning), a panic button that is wired to him specifically (worrying that this exists, kinda sweet that he thought of it), and a self-defence class he'll not attend with you because "I'll just correct her form and piss her off".

He gets weirdly quiet when you mention being scared of something (not comforting, quiet, you can see him processing: who, where, when, can I get there in under fifteen if she needs me) and you have to actively redirect him before he goes and breaks someone's hands.

He'll never, ever tell you not to do something dangerous, because Jason understands the impulse to walk into things, but he'll follow you in from a respectful distance where you can't see him. Close enough that if anything happens he's the second person who knows, and this is actually one of the most loving things he does.

He doesn't try to keep you small, he just makes sure that if the world tries to swallow you, it has to go through him first.

The intimacy doesn't really start in bed, it starts in his apartment.

The first time you're allowed in there (and you have to be allowed, because Jason has safehouses you'll never see and he has the apartment, and the apartment is the closest thing he has to a self he doesn't have to hold a weapon against) and the thing that will undo you is how much care lives there: there are books everywhere, dog-eared, some stained, there's good coffee, a record player, spices in the kitchen that mean he actually cooks for himself, and the bed is made.

The bed is made. This is the detail that will catch in your throat. Jason Peter Todd, who came back from the dead, who lives with a body that's been to war, makes his bed every morning (some habit from the manor, or from before the manor, or from somewhere he won't tell you about) the corners are tucked, the pillows are arranged, and he'll be sheepish and dismissive if you notice but he'll not stop doing it.

Now, the first time. It doesn't happen in his apartment, you don't get into his apartment for months. The first time happens at yours, and it happens because the tension has been so unbearable for so long that one of you finally has to break it, and it's going to be him, and the way it happens is going to feel (at the time) like an accident, even though it absolutely is not.

He's been at your place too late, he's been finding excuses to be at your place too late, and on this particular night the excuse is your faucet, sweetheart, you said it was leaking, I can fix it, no I'm not gonna pay some guy to do it when I'm right here, and he does fix it, except then he doesn't leave.

You open a beer for him, and the two of you end up on your couch, and there's a moment (a very specific moment) where you've been laughing about something stupid and the laughter trails off and he's looking at you and you're looking at him and the whole apartment is suddenly quiet, and you can hear the fridge humming, and the click of the clock, and the way his breathing has gone shallow.

He'll break it the way he breaks everything: with a joke, with a deflection ("what," he says, low, rough, daring you, half a smirk on his face) and you're going to call his bluff, because by now you know how he works.

You're going to lean in first, and his whole face is going to do something you've never seen it do before (a flicker of oh, fuck) and then he's going to kiss you back like he has been thinking about it for a year, which is because he has been thinking about it for a year, and the kiss is not soft. It's a hungry thing. The kiss of a man who's been holding himself back from this for so long that the moment he stops holding back, there's no halfway; his hand goes to the back of your skull, immediately, fingers in your hair, and he tilts your head where he wants it, and the small noise he makes against your mouth is the first time you've ever heard him sound undone.

Jason pulls back first, and his hand is on your jaw, his thumb on your bottom lip dragging across it. He's looking at you with an expression that's somewhere between starved and pained, and he says (and you'll remember this forever, "you sure?") and the question is not a polite formality, he needs you to look him in the eye and confirm it, and when you do, when you say "yes," clearly, no hesitation, he's on you in a heartbeat.

The first time is fast, not because he doesn't have control (Jason has frightening control), but because he has too much tension in his body and he genuinely can't moderate it on the first pass.

It's also slightly clumsy in places. He knocks over your lamp (oops), he'll laugh about this later, and you'll be on the floor before you make it to the bedroom. Your shirt doesn't survive (rip). He tears the collar of it dragging it off you, mutters fuck, sorry without sounding sorry in the slightest, and goes back to your throat, and it's intense in a way that doesn't feel like sex so much as like finally, like something that's been building between you for months has finally been allowed to happen.

His hands are everywhere and they're huge. You'd noticed the size of his hands in the abstract before. The way they wrap around a coffee cup, the way they look on the steering wheel.

But the first time you feel one of them spread flat across your stomach, fingertips just barely under the waistband of your jeans, you understand the reach of him in a way you didn't before.

The sheer span, the way one of his palms covers ground. He's careful with his strength even when he's gone. In a sense, he's been careful with it his whole life because he's had to be, and the carefulness shows up as a deliberate slowness even when everything else is fast. Fingers on the inside of your thigh that take their time getting where they're going, a thumb on your hipbone that presses just hard enough to be a question

He's going to be louder than you expected, with his mouth, not his volume.

He runs commentary even the first time, which is partly nerves (Jason gets mouthy when he's anxious, you'll learn this) and partly that he genuinely can't help himself. He'll mutter against your throat ("Fuck, you have no idea how long—") and then cut himself off, because he didn't mean to say that out loud, and instead he'll bite, hard, just under your jaw, like he's trying to put the sentence back in his mouth.

He'll say "look at me, look at me, baby," not as a command but as something closer to a request, and you'll realise later that he needs you to see him for this, that he can't do it with you looking at the ceiling, that some part of him needs proof of recognition.

He'll bury his face in your shoulder when he comes and his hands will go tight on your hips; tight enough to leave marks, you'll find them in the morning, four little crescents low on each side, and the surge you feel at seeing them in the bathroom mirror will be embarrassing to think about.

He will be, for one breath, two, completely undone, and you'll feel the shudder run all the way through him.

And then almost immediately, the second it's over, the shutters come back down. Not fully, but you can feel it, the way he reassembles himself, the joke he reaches for to cover the rawness of what just happened ("so, the faucet's fixed," he'll say, voice rough,) and you'll laugh, and that will be his way of saying don't make this a thing or I will lose my nerve.

He doesn't stay over that first night. He kisses your forehead in your doorway (which is somehow more tender than anything that just happened) and he says, "I'll text you," and you know he won't, and he doesn't.

Three days will pass and you will think, oh, that was it, that was the thing, and on the fourth day he'll show up at your door at midnight with takeout and a look on his face that says I tried to stop thinking about you and it didn't work, and the second wave begins.

The early sex (the first month, maybe two) has a specific flavour to it that's worth naming: it's frequent, very intense, and it has an undercurrent of him trying to prove something, though even he doesn't know what.

He fucks you like he's daring himself to keep doing it, like every time he expects you to be different in the morning, colder, distant, regretful (or maybe he's expecting himself to be those things), and every time he's mildly stunned that you aren't, that he isn't, and he punishes himself for the relief of it by being slightly more of an asshole about everything else for a few hours after.

Physically, in this period, he's exhausting in the best way.

His stamina is genuinely a problem (he's in extraordinary physical condition, he can go for an extremely long time, he has the recovery of a man who jumps off buildings for a living), and you will, at some point in the first month, look at him afterwards while you're trying to remember how to breathe and say something like Jesus Christ, Jason, and he'll grin at you, sweaty, smug, infuriating, and say "problem?", and you will hit him with a pillow.

He'll laugh, fully, not the half-laugh he gives most of the time but something that comes from his actual chest, and you will realise, then, you're going to love him for the rest of your life and it's too late to do anything about it.

He's also a tease from the very beginning. Catastrophically so, but in the early days the teasing has a sharper edge to it. Almost competitive, like he's trying to see how far he can push you before you break. Like he needs the proof that he can take you apart in order to believe that this is real.

He'll get you right to the edge and then slow down deliberately, two fingers stilling exactly where you need them to be moving, his mouth lifting off your skin at the worst possible second, and when you complain (when you swear at him, which he loves, which you'll learn fast he loves) he'll laugh (that low, mean, delighted laugh, mouth right against your ear) and say something like "you got somewhere to be, sweetheart? we got all night", and you'll want to kill him.

He loves it when you try, it's free foreplay, and the rule he has invented entirely for his own amusement is that the more you mouth off the longer he draws it out, and he'll absolutely tell you this to your face ("you wanna keep talking? we can keep going. I got nowhere to be") while you're shaking apart underneath him, and the bastard means it, too.

He's very good with his mouth, and he knows it, and he treats it like a settled fact you don't need to discuss.

The first time he goes down on you, he does it with the same focused, watchful attention he brings to everything else. Eyes up, watching your face, two fingers wrapped around your wrist where it's gripping the sheet because he likes feeling the pulse there, and he will not be hurried, will not be talked out of taking his time, and he will absolutely look up at you afterwards with his mouth still wet and say something insufferable like "yeah, I thought so," and you will want to push him off the bed, and he'll laugh every time you try.

The shit-talking is non-negotiable from day one, he can't keep his damn mouth shut.

He runs commentary the entire time, and the commentary breaks down roughly into three modes that he flips between without warning.

The first is mean (observational, smirking, designed to make you squirm) "oh, that's what does it for you, huh?" breathed against your ear when he's noticed exactly which thing is making you fall apart,

"look at you, fuck, you're a mess for me already and I've barely touched you," "yeah? you gonna ask nice?", "that's it, that's it, sweetheart, you can do better than that, c'mon, let me hear it,"

And the meanness is never actually mean, it's delighted, you can hear the smile in it. He's having the time of his fucking life winding you up and he wants you to know it.

The second mode is filthy, full stop. Jason at midnight with his hand between your thighs is saying things like "fuck, you're so wet, you're soaking through my fucking jeans, baby, you been thinking about this all day or what?"

Running narration of what his hands are doing right now ("that's it, just like that, you feel that? right there?"), running narration of what his hands are about to do ("gonna take my time with you tonight, gonna make you beg for it, you know that, right?"), running narration of what he's planning to do once he's recovered ("give me ten minutes, sweetheart, ten minutes and I'm gonna have you on your knees, gonna fuck your mouth till you cry, you want that?"),

and (most catastrophically) running narration of what he was thinking about doing earlier, when you were just standing in his kitchen in his t-shirt making coffee and didn't know he was watching: "you have any idea what you looked like in my kitchen this morning? in my fucking shirt with nothing under it? I had to leave the room, sweetheart, I had to go take a cold shower like a goddamn teenager, I was gonna fuck you on the counter, I was thinking about it the whole time you were talking to me about your friend, you didn't even notice—"

He likes hearing himself called things, sometimes. Likes the specific small power of Jay, please, Jason, fuck, please please please. And he'll work for it, he'll deliberately drag it out of you, "what do you need, baby, you gotta tell me, I can't read your mind," knowing perfectly well he can, in fact, read your mind, knowing exactly what he's doing.

The third mode is the one he doesn't mean to do, and it slips out anyway, usually when he's lost focus and his guard drops for half a second. Almost devastatingly tender things that he covers within two seconds because he didn't mean to say them out loud, "god, you're so fucking pretty like this," and then, immediately, recovering, "yeah, you like that, huh, you like when I say nice things to you?" with a smirk back in place, like the first half of the sentence didn't happen;

Or "shit, sweetheart, look at you, look at—fuck, c'mere" and then he kisses you hard enough to shut himself up;

Or, the worst one, the one he'll pretend for years he never said, said quietly into the curve of your shoulder when he thought you were too far gone to hear him: "I don't know what to do with you, I don't know what to fucking do with you,", and he panics about it the second he hears himself.

Because I don't know what to do with you is dangerously close to a confession he isn't ready to make, and so he bites your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark and follows it up with "you got such a pretty mouth, you gonna put it to use or what?" before the pause can land.

He calls you everything (sweetheart, baby, princess, good girl, brat), and in the early days these are all you get.

He uses your name only when he's serious, when he's looking at you and he means it, and you will learn to clock the difference: the pet names mean I'm having fun, your name means I love you and I'm not going to say it yet, and you will notice (months in, looking back) that for the first stretch of your relationship, he never said your name in bed, not once.

The night he finally does (really says it, low and ragged, looking at you, fuck, followed by ragged exhale of your name breathed against your temple, is the night you'll know something has changed in him that you don't have words for yet.

Jason, almost as a rule, likes when you talk back. He likes it when you mouth off. The single fastest way to get him to lose his composure is to be a smartass while he's trying to wreck you.

He'll go "oh, you've got jokes," and then he'll prove a point, and the dynamic this creates is one of the most addictive things about being with him: you can spar with him, in bed, all the way through, he will not shatter, will not get hurt feelings, he will meet you every time, and the back-and-forth is genuinely funny in a way that almost nothing else in your life is.

Sex with Jason is, weirdly, often fun, in a way you didn't know it could be. You laugh, sometimes, mid-thing, and he laughs too, his forehead dropped against your shoulder, his whole body shaking with it for a second, and it doesn't break the heat, it deepens it, because it's involuntary, it's unguarded, and he gives it to you anyway.

Jason has a body that has been through something. He has scars he doesn't talk about, he has somewhere in him a permanent tension (a vigilance) that doesn't fully go away, ever.

In bed that tension goes somewhere; he fucks like he's trying to outrun something, and there's a quality to it (especially in the early months) of too much, too hard, too fast, like he's trying to drown out a noise in his head with the sound of you. And it's incredibly hot but it's also, sometimes, a flag.

For the first stretch he refuses to be seen during sex, in a particular way that takes you a while to clock: he prefers positions where he's behind you or above you, where you can't easily reach his face, where his expression is something you have to work to read.

He keeps his shirt on more than you'd expect for the first month or two. A faded grey henley, usually, that he won't take off, even in your bed at 2 a.m., even with his hand down your pants, and you'll learn not to push it.

He avoids long eye contact; and if you reach up to cup his jaw mid-fuck he'll catch your wrist and pin it, gently, smoothly, like he's playing, but he's not playing. It's redirecting, and you'll eventually understand that he can't let you look at him like that yet because if you do, he'll feel it, and feeling it is what he came to bed to not do.

Jason's body is a map of the life he's lived, and you'll learn it in pieces. Slowly, over months, because he doesn't sit you down and explain it. You have to find each one and decide whether to ask.

It's worth saying clearly that his scars aren't pretty. They're the body of a man who's been beaten, shot, burned and stitched up by his own hands more times than is reasonable.

There's the long, ropy line down his left forearm from a knife in Hong Kong (he'll tell you that one, eventually, a clean story he can shrug off); there are the round puckered scars of bullet wounds in his shoulder, his thigh, low on his right side where it nearly took a kidney (these are boring to him, he genuinely thinks they're uninteresting, "occupational hazard, sweetheart"); there's a long pale stripe across his ribs from something he won't name, and a smaller jagged one at the corner of his eyebrow you'd noticed before you ever saw the rest of him.

There are the ones that don't have stories he wants to tell. The scars on his back that don't match anything ordinary, a clustered constellation of marks across his shoulder blades and lower spine that you won't ask about and that he will not explain, ever. The pattern of which you will eventually stop being able to unsee, and there is, at the back of his neck, just below the hairline, a thin curved scar he touches absently when he's thinking and will never tell you the origin of.

The crowbar is not a single scar, it's a map. A knot of healed, raised tissue along his ribs where one strike landed wrong, a notch missing from the side of one knee, a hairline kink in the bridge of his nose that you can feel when you kiss him, and a small permanent deviation in the way he holds his left wrist that you'll notice when he's gripping a glass. None of which he names for you, and none of which you ask about, because some part of you already knows, and he can tell that you know, and that knowledge is part of why he can let you near it at all.

The rule, for all of it, is you don't flinch.

The first time he lets you really look at him in full light (really look, not the half-dark of your bedroom but the morning sun coming in over the bed) he's watching you like he's waiting for you to recoil, holding too still, and what you do in that moment will determine what he can be with you for the rest of your life.

And the right move is to look, to actually look, not perform unbotheredness, not avoid; trace something, if he'll let you, with one finger, pick the smallest scar, the one at his eyebrow maybe.

Something he doesn't have feelings about, and start there slowly, and don't say anything stupid, don't say anything at all if you can help it, just look at him after like yeah, and?, because that's what he needs: not for it to be invisible, but for it to be uninteresting as a verdict on whether you want him.

After that morning, eventually, he stops keeping the shirt on.

Eventually he stops flinching when you touch the rougher places mid-sex. Eventually (months later, maybe a year) he'll let you press your mouth to the worst of them, deliberately, while you're on top of him. Your lips against the knot of healed tissue along his ribs, and his breath will catch and his hand will close hard around your wrist but he'll not stop you, and that (that, more than the first I love you, more than any of the words) is the moment you'll understand he has decided to stay.

When he's having a bad night (when something happened on patrol, or someone said the wrong name, or it's an anniversary of something he won't tell you about) he'll want you in a way that is almost desperate.

He won't say it, he'll just show up at your door at midnight with a bruise on his jaw and his hands already on you, your back hitting the door before it's fully closed. His mouth at your throat hot and wordless in a way it usually isn't, and the first time you realise he's doing this (that he's using you, sweetly and gently and not in a bad way, as anchor) you'll have to make a choice: you can either let him have it, no questions asked, every time, and let him use sex to skip past the feeling, or you can occasionally slow him down.

Catch his face in your hands, say his name, make him look at you, make him be present in his own body with you, instead of running through it.

He'll hate this but he'll need it, both, equally, and the very first time you do it (the first time you stop him, hand on his jaw, Jay, hey, look at me) he'll go completely still for a beat too long, like a circuit shorting.

His body braced against yours, his breathing ragged, and you'll see an emotion go through his eyes that you don't have a name for, and then he'll press his forehead to yours and exhale, hard, like he didn't know he was holding it, his nose against yours, his whole frame trembling with the effort of not running.

That exhale is one of the most intimate things he'll ever give you, and if you handle it right (don't say anything, don't make it a moment, just stay, just stay) he will, slowly, come back to his body with you in it, and the sex that follows that pause will be different. Slower, quieter, his hands less grabbing and more holding, his mouth against your shoulder more like a kiss than a bite, and afterwards he'll not joke, just lie on top of you with his face hidden and breathe.

That moment is the hinge of your sexual relationship. Before that night and after that night are different countries. Because once he's done it once, once he's let himself be slowed down, there's now a possibility in the room that wasn't there before. From that point forward the sex begins, very slowly, to deepen: still mouthy, still teasing, still possessive as hell, but with windows in it now, moments where he lets the noise drop out and just lets himself be there with you.

Around the three or four month mark you'll notice him starting to do small things differently: he'll keep the lights on instead of always reaching for the switch; he'll let you push him onto his back instead of always being above you; he'll let you take a turn driving the pace, which in the early days he wouldn't, he had to be running it (because if he was running it then he could control how close you got to him), and the first time he just lies there and lets you set the rhythm and watches you, eyes half-lidded, his hands loose at his sides instead of on you, a little stunned at the quiet of it.

Then his hands do come up, slowly, to settle on your thighs, not gripping, not directing, just resting there, his thumbs stroking idle patterns against your skin. You'll realise, then, that this is a gift, because he's not a man who gives up control easily, and what he's doing is showing you that he doesn't need to be the one with his foot on the gas to feel safe in this room with you anymore.

You'll also notice (and this is the one that hits haard) that he stops looking away: in the early months his eyes were always somewhere else (your throat, your mouth, the line of your collarbone, anywhere but your eyes), and one night, somewhere mid thrust, you look up and he's looking at you. Full-on, unblinking, eyes dark, expression open in a way you've literally never seen on his face before.

Jason doesn't break it, and the quality of the sex changes in the next ten seconds because he isn't running anymore, he's just here, and he stays here, and afterwards he doesn't joke. He just lies on top of you with his face in the curve of your neck and breathes for a long time.

That's the night you understand that he is in this, not just with you but in it, and you don't say anything about it because you know better, but you remember it for the rest of your life.

By six months in, he's started giving you the slow nights, the ones where he fucks you like he's trying to savour you. He'll go slow, keep his forehead against yours, say your name, your real name, in a voice he doesn't use anywhere else.

He'll move like he has nowhere else to be and nothing else to do, and his eyes will be on yours the entire time; on these nights his hands are different too, more reverent, less hungry. One cradling the back of your head, the other splayed flat on your back, holding you against him, and he kisses you between every other thrust he does, constantly, like he can't stop coming back to your mouth.

The rhythm itself is different, deep and unhurried, like he's trying to make it last, and you'll feel (for once) that you have his whole attention, not the part of him that's always halfway watching the door.

These nights are still rare, still precious, still earned, but they exist now, they're in the repertoire, and that's a thing that did not exist in month one.

The kissing on those nights is different too, and over time it becomes the way you can tell what kind of night it is going to be.

Jason normally kisses like the kissing is a fight he intends to win. With teeth, with intent, a hand at the back of your skull holding you exactly where he wants you. Deep, hot and a little punishing.

But on these nights he kisses you like he's apologising for something, slow, full and quiet, mouth soft, tongue languid, slipping deep, his hand on your jaw instead of gripping your hair.

He'll come back to your mouth between everything else like a bookmark, like he's checking you're still there, and the first time he kisses you like that you'll feel a shift in your chest, and after enough of those nights you'll learn to read it from the first kiss of the evening: oh, it's that kind of night, and you'll know, and he'll know that you know. Neither of you will say a word about it.

He has a thing (and you'll notice it over time, a thing that gets more pronounced as he gets deeper into his feelings) about your hands.

Jason likes them in his hair (and his hair, you'll discover, is soft, a fact that always weirdly disarms you given the rest of him, and he has a small tell that he likes having it pulled, just slightly, just at the back, and the first time you do it without thinking you get a sound out of him that he has clearly not meant to make).

On the back of his neck where the muscle is always tight, on his face if you've earned it, and he'll bring your hand to his mouth at strange unguarded moments and press his lips to your knuckles like a reflex, and he'll absolutely not acknowledge that he does this.

If you tease him about it he'll get pink at the back of his neck and tell you to shut up.

He also has a thing about your throat. Not in a violent way, in a possessive way. The flat of his hand resting there, his thumb at your pulse, like he's checking you're right there where he needs you, real and solid,a nd his. And he has, devastatingly, a thing about being held.

Actually held, after, with your arms around his ribs and your face in the curve of his throat, and he'll never, ever ask for this, but if you do it he'll not move for a long time.

And as Jason gets deeper into it, the things he wants change: in the early days he wanted you under him, fast, now; later he starts wanting things he doesn't have a way to ask for. Wanting you to stay over even when nothing is going to happen, wanting to be the little spoon (which he can't request and you have to figure out by trial and error, because one night you'll do it almost as a joke, fitting yourself behind him, and he will go extremely still in a way that you'll learn means yes don't make me say it, and then he will reach back and pull your arm tighter around his ribs without a word).

Wanting your hands on him in non-sexual ways during sex (your fingers in his hair, your palm flat on his chest over his heart, the small of his back, the back of his neck, you lips at his jaw, the corner of his mouth), wanting foreplay that's genuinely about touching him, not just escalation.

Wanting, in short, all the things he couldn't bear to want in month one, because back then wanting them meant admitting that he needed them.

In the early days the sex is frequent because the itch is mutual and unscratchable. He wants you, you want him, the chemistry is loud, and the hunger is mostly physical, mostly now, mostly the kind of want that has a clear destination and a satisfied stillness on the other side of it.

He texts you at midnight because he can't stop thinking about your mouth, you go over because you can't stop thinking about his hands, you fuck because the tension is unbearable and the release is the point. Afterwards he leaves or you doze and the want, briefly, quiets. That's month one. That's month two. The math of it is simple: stimulus, response, relief, reset.

But somewhere around the four or five month mark (somewhere after the hinge night, somewhere after the windows started opening) the math stops working.

He'll have you, fuck you properly, completely, and an hour later he'll still want you, more than he wanted you before, in a way that doesn't make sense by the old rules. He'll be lying with his head on your stomach, fully spent, your hand in his hair, and you'll feel him press his mouth against your skin like he's checking, like he's making sure you're still there, and then he'll roll up onto an elbow and look at you and you'll see it in his face.

Not finished, not in a sex way, in some other way, a way he doesn't have language for. And he'll kiss you again, slow this time, and you'll realise the wanting hasn't gone anywhere, it's just changed shape.

What it becomes (and this is the part he couldn't have explained to you on the night you met him, the part he can barely admit to himself even now) is anchoring.

Sex with you stops being an itch he scratches and starts being a place he goes to feel alive. Jason came back from being dead, and most of his life since has been spent at a slight remove from his own body, vigilant, watchful, half a step outside himself in case he needs to move; with you, in your bed, his face pressed against yours, your hands on his back, your breath on his throat, he is (for the duration) in his body, in the moment, here, and he can feel his heart going, and he can feel yours, and the proof that he's still alive is so loud it drowns out everything else.

That quiet, that presence, is something he can't get anywhere else and has stopped trying to find anywhere else.

So the appetite changes shape. He still wants you fast and rough (that mode never goes away, that's just in him) but a lot of the wanting becomes about closeness, about contact. Feeling you pressed against him in real time.

He wants long unhurried hours where neither of you has anywhere to be. He wants the lights on so he can see you. You on top of him with his hands on your hips so he can feel you moving, breathing, being there. He wants to fall asleep with his face against the back of your neck because the rhythm of your breathing is the only lullaby that ever worked. He wants (and this is the one that costs him the most to want) to be held while it's happening.

Your arms around his ribs, your mouth at his temple, your whole body wrapped around him while he moves inside you, and he will never ask for this, but if you do it, if you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him down against you and hold him tight, his whole frame will settle in a way you've never felt from him before, and the sound he makes will be something between a groan and an exhale and a quiet, broken fuck, and you will know.

You'll catch him, sometimes, in the middle of it (eyes closed, forehead against yours, his rhythm slowed almost to nothing, just staying there inside you, breathing, his hand splayed flat on your sternum over your heart) and he'll not be moving toward an end. He'll not be building toward anything. Just be with you, in his body, breathing in time with you, and you will understand that he isn't trying to come, he's trying to stay, he's trying to make the present moment last because in the present moment he is alive and you're alive and the both of you are warm, breathing and the world has not ended yet.

And the tell (the one that gives him away, the one you'll learn to read) is what Jason says at the end. In the early days, after, when he could still pretend, he'd give you the smirk and the joke: "yeah, that'll do, sweetheart," a kiss to your forehead, a stretch, a deflection.

Later, after the wanting changes, he stops saying anything at all for a long minute, and then what comes out (quiet, half-mumbled, into your hair, like he's not sure he means to let you hear it) is some version of "don't move, just—don't move yet," or "stay there, stay right there," or simply "god, I needed that," and he's not talking about the sex, not really, he's talking about you, about the warmth of you, about the proof of you, about the fact that he's here and you're here and for one more night he gets to stay.

He also gets quieter over time in general, which you will find a little shocking. Jason is mouthy, Jason is a shit-talker, Jason will happily narrate the apocalypse if he could.

But as he gets deeper into his feelings there are stretches in bed when he just goes silent, and the silence isn't absence, it's the opposite. It's him being so present he can't quite manage the words.

The first time it happens you'll wonder if something is wrong, and it's not, it's the most right something has ever been. You'll feel his breath ragged against your shoulder, his hand fisted in the sheet next to your head instead of running its mouth, his rhythm slowed almost to nothing.

The first time he comes quietly (without the muttered curse, without the bitten-off line of dirty talk, just a long shuddering exhale against your throat and your name, once, not loud) you'll know that something has migrated in him, that this is the version of him that didn't exist three months ago, and you will stroke the back of his neck and not say a word about it.

The vulnerable conversations happen at 3 a.m., in the dark, when neither of you is looking at the other, because he can't do them face to face. He needs the cover. He'll tell you things in bed, after sex, in the warm aftermath when his guard is down. About Ethiopia, about Sheila, about waking up in the dirt, about the year he can't really remember.

He'll tell it flatly, quietly, and wait for you to react, and don't react big: don't gasp, don't well up, don't reach for him too fast, he's testing whether you can hold it without dropping it. The way to win is to listen, to ask a quiet question, to not try to fix anything, to let him say the thing and then let it just exist in the air without you needing to clean it up or soften it.

If you do that, he'll tell you more, slowly, over months and months. The story of him will arrive in fragments and you will assemble it like a mosaic, and he'll never once say "thank you for listening", but the way he kisses your forehead before he leaves will mean it. You'll eventually realise that the sum total of what he's told you is more than he's ever told another living person, and you'll understand that this is what he has instead of words for love.

He will also, occasionally, ask about you (quietly, in roundabout ways, in the dark) and the rule there is the inverse: he wants the real answer, not the cleaned-up one, because he can smell a lie at fifty paces and the fastest way to lose his trust is to give him the version of yourself you give to people you don't know yet.

Jason doesn't want to be one of those people, even though he hasn't earned the right to ask not to be, and what he's doing when he asks you a question at 3 a.m. is asking let me in to the room I haven't earned yet, and the answer is supposed to be yes, but the yes has to come in the same coin he's paying in: quiet, unfussy, no big deal, while neither of you is looking at the other.

He doesn't say he loves you for a long time.

The first time will be by accident, muttered into your hair when he thinks you're asleep, and you have to pretend you didn't hear it because if he knows you heard it he'll panic and undo it.

The second time will be in a fight, yelling, angry: "Because I fucking love you, you idiot, that's why!" and then a horrible silence, then him walking out, then him coming back four hours later with takeout and not bringing it up.

By the time he can say it sober, calmly, looking at you, it will have been a year, maybe more. When he does it will undo you, because he will say it like it's been on his tongue the whole time and he's just finally letting it through, and his voice will be a little rough, and he'll not break eye contact, and the way he says your name after will be the kindest sound he has ever made.

And the first time he says it in bed (which is later, much later, because for him these are different rooms) the first time he says it mid-fuck, breathed against your throat, ragged and ungoverned, I love you, fuck, I love you, you'll know that the wall has come down all the way.

That this is the version of him no one has ever gotten to see, and what you do in the next thirty seconds will become the foundation of the rest of your life with him, and what you do is: you don't make it weird, you don't make him repeat it, you don't perform astonishment, you just say it back, simple and sure, and you let him hear it, and you let him have it, and you let him know that the room he just opened a door into is one he is allowed to live in.

Aftercare, which he would rather die than call aftercare but which he does, every time: he gets you water (always water, the man is on a mission), he cleans you up (his hands are surprisingly gentle for someone who breaks ribs for a living, there's a particular thing he does where he runs a warm cloth over your stomach, your thighs, with the same focused patience he uses for cleaning a wound, and you'll never quite get used to how careful his hands can be when he wants them to be).

He'll check casually like it's nothing whether anything hurts, and if it does he'll be quiet about it but he'll be careful with you for the rest of the night; he'll get you food if it's that kind of hour, he'll let you wear his shirt.

He likes you in his shirt, and he doesn't have the language for why, but there's a softness in his face the first time he sees you in one of his too-big henleys that you will think about for years, and if you fall asleep on him Jason will not move. He'll lie there dead-still for hours even if his arm goes numb, because he doesn't want to wake you, and this is the most romantic thing he's capable of and he does it constantly.

The aftercare also evolves: in the early days it was efficient, almost practical (water, check-in, joke, distance), and over time it becomes longer, more lingering.

He stays in the bed instead of getting up, he traces shapes on your back with one finger while you doze, he'll talk to you about nothing, real nothing, the stupid shit. What he ate that day, something a kid said in a bodega, the dog he wants you both to maybe think about getting (a sentence which makes him visibly regret saying it the second it's out of his mouth), and these post-sex small-talk hours become, by month eight or nine, one of the most important parts of your relationship.

Because this is when he's most himself, the least armoured, and also the funniest, and you'll find yourself looking forward to them in a way that has nothing to do with the sex and everything to do with the man underneath the noise.

On the nights when he needs aftercare (and there are nights) he won't ask, but you'll be able to tell: he'll be quieter than usual, his hands will linger longer than usual, he won't joke as fast as he normally does, and the way to handle it is the same way you handle his trauma stories: don't make it a thing, don't ask if he's okay (he'll lie), just stay close, bring him water, run your fingers through his hair while he's lying with his head on your stomach pretending to be asleep.

When he eventually says something (usually a half-sentence, half-mumbled, bad day, or just don't go yet) you say okay and you don't go, and that's how he learns, slowly, that there's somewhere on this earth where he's allowed to need things, and that the somewhere is you.

Jason doesn't sleep well. This is the single most important thing to know about being in his bed.

He doesn't fall asleep easily, and when he does he doesn't stay under, he's a light sleeper because if he wasn't he'd be dead again. He has nightmares all the time (about the warehouse, about the crowbar, about his mother, about the Pit, about Bruce's face, always the face), he wakes up with his hand already moving toward where his gun isn't.

Early on this means he doesn't sleep over: he'll fuck you and leave, or he'll wait until you're under and slip out the window, and he'll feed you a line about "shit to do" and you both know it isn't true.

When he finally starts staying (and it'll take time, and you'll want to mark the date) there are rules nobody told you about that you'll learn by trial and error: he sleeps on the side closest to the door, always, don't argue.

He keeps something within reach (a knife under the mattress, a gun in the drawer), he won't apologise, you'll get used to it or you won't.

Don't wake him by touching him. Say his name first, say it twice, thrice. He has exactly once grabbed your wrist hard enough to bruise it because you reached for him at the wrong moment, and the look on his face when he registered what he'd done was the closest you've ever seen him come to regret. He didn't sleep over again for two weeks after that, and the thing that finally fixed it was you showing up at his apartment with your wrist healed and saying nothing about it, just climbing into his bed like nothing had happened, because he needed to learn that you weren't going to keep score, and you needed him to learn it on his own.

He runs hot (stupid hot) he's a furnace and he steals all the blankets and he doesn't care, and if he stays the whole night you'll wake up tangled around him.

Because he's a clinger when he's actually under, he'd just rather die than admit this, and you can feel his face against the back of your neck and his arm heavy across your waist and his breathing slow and steady, and it's the only time you ever see him truly soft, and it's gone by the time he wakes up.

The morning after the first time he stays the whole night, he'll be weird about it. Quiet, gruff, making coffee with his back to you. You'll think you did something wrong, but you didn't; he's just rattled, because he slept, actually slept, and he didn't wake up swinging, and somewhere in the part of his brain that doesn't talk to the rest of him there's now knowledge that says safe here, and he doesn't know what to do with that, so he is, as always, an asshole about it for a few hours until he settles.

The big picture, the actual truth of dating Jason Todd is this: he will never be easy.

He'll never be the boyfriend who texts back in under ten minutes, who shows up on time, who tells you he loves you in the morning over coffee. He's been broken and reassembled and broken again, and the seams show. He's dangerous and grey in a way that means sometimes you'll not love what he does. He kills people (he has rules about it, but he does), he keeps things from you, he disappears, he's occasionally an asshole.

But he's also the man who, when you're sick, will sit on the edge of your bed for six hours and not check his phone once. He's the man who memorises your coffee order the first time and never gets it wrong.

He's the man who, when you tell him about a thing that happened to you when you were younger (a thing you've never told anyone, a thing that still wakes you up sometimes) will sit with you in the dark and not say anything at all. Because he understands that some things can't be fixed and he won't insult you by pretending they can.

He'll just stay, all night, without moving, and he is, against everything that was done to him, a person who chose to love you, knowing what love costs, knowing what it does when it goes wrong, knowing how it ends sometimes in a warehouse in Ethiopia with a crowbar and no one coming, and he chose anyway, and he keeps choosing, and that is not nothing—that is, for Jason Peter Todd, everything.

He is the worst and you will love him forever, godspeed.

[geminiwritten]

flour ; bucky barnes

fandom: marvel

pairing: bucky x reader

summary: sam kisses you to save your cover on a mission, and bucky punches him… but you still don’t believe he’s in love with you?

notes: dear lord, i’m so sorry about this. i started it over a year ago, so it is probably a little disjointed, and i tried writing in present tense for some reason ??? anyway, i hope it isn’t too stupid! i’m trying really hard to get back into writing :)

word count: 5537 (i’m sorry)

“You astound me,” Natasha says, her words fed through the small radio piece tucked into your ear, “your heart rate is barely above seventy b.p.m.”

Your frown is only slight, your demeanour remaining cool and casual as the escalator descends toward the mall’s food court. Beside you, Sam has his cap pulled low on his brow and his sunglasses pushed high on his nose, one hand is resting on the handrail while the other is wrapped softly around your waist. You turn to him to feign conversation as you ask Natasha, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re in the middle of a covert mission,” she says, “possibly gone wrong and you’re still so calm, but the minute Barnes is within a twenty-foot radius your heart rate goes of the Richter.”

Heat flushes through you, blood concentrating in your cheeks and turning them an embarrassed shade of pink, “Nat, what the-”

Sam chuckles and pulls you closer to his side, “Calm down. He lost our signal between the third and fourth levels below.”

Oh. The thrumming in your chest begins to slow again and you focus on keeping your balance as you step off the escalator. Bucky wouldn’t have heard Nat’s stupid remark because he is currently waiting beneath six levels of solid concrete inside a room made entirely of metal. Assuming he hasn’t been found out and tied up, he would be silently watching the mall’s CCTV footage of you and Sam making your way through the food court.

“Meet him outside, in front of Subway,” Nat instructed, “greet him like an old friend you didn’t expect to see. He knows the drill.”

Keep reading

[aureateink]

double vision | bucky barnes

feat. Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

summary: 5.2k. you drunk-dial your ex-situationship

cw: pov switching, thunderbolts era, fluffy caretaking, mild angst, day-drinking, hurt/comfort, mild brat-taming, Bucky has the patience of a saint, mentions of sex/hooking up

an: inspired by “Go Go Juice" by Sabrina Carpenter. this turned out so much mushier than I expected and with no explicit smut, who am i

| masterlist

Somehow, and for reasons that were almost certainly not your fault, your day-off mimosa had turned into three cosmopolitans (if you could call vodka with a whisper of whatever pink mix you had in your pantry a cosmo) and two shots of whiskey. You think they were roughly shot-sized. Close enough, at least.

You tipped the bottle back again, amber liquor sloshing into your mouth, and you grimaced as you swallowed. It wasn't yours. It was Dylan's—gag—, but you weren't about to let perfectly good liquor go to waste. Not when you could put it to use, blunting the sharp edges of your broken heart.

Six months, including a whole holiday season, you'd sunk into that capricious fucker, and he'd dumped you via text en route to the Valentine's Day dinner you'd planned.

You took another swig of whiskey, glaring at the offending device on your coffee table. Full of nothing but fuck boys and fuck heads and fucking limp-dick bitch boys—and him.

The bottle hit the table with a clatter as you set it down. Nope nope noooope. You weren't supposed to think about him, especially not after a few drinks. You'd built a firewall between that year, those memories, and yourself.

Do not pass go. Do not think about B—

You snatched up the bottle again, poured the lukewarm dregs of it into your mouth. Letting the liquor burn away the forbidden thoughts. Fuck, you needed an omelette and a nap.

And therapy, probably.

Omelette first.

You pushed to your feet and the room twisted, your body floaty and a little numb as you picked across your apartment to the kitchen. Reached for the pan, missed, decided on popcorn instead. Grabbed the bottle of strawberry vodka still in your freezer from Galentine's while the kernels popped. Checked the oven clock, 10:44 a.m., and you pretended you hadn't seen it.

Popcorn bowl in hand, you landed safely on the couch once again. The strawberry vodka went down too easily, viscous and syrupy on your tongue.

A memory slipped free, lubricated by the liquor. A date night at his apartment in Upper Manhattan. Billie Holiday playing on the record player in the corner. He cooked for you, despite still relearning how, and spun you around the kitchen like the lead in those black-and-white films he made you watch. For dessert, you'd had strawberries, whipped cream, and his mouth between your legs on the kitchen counter.

The liquor turned bitter on your tongue, but you still drank it.

You didn't remember picking up your phone, but the LED screen was bright in the dark hole of your apartment, thumb scrolling through your contact list.

Shawn? No.

Jake? Married now.

Harry? Hell no.

Dylan? Too soon.

Bucky? Your thumb hovered over his contact. His picture was still the selfie he'd taken of the two of you snuggled up in your bed, your hair half-covering his face, but his grin was palpable as he gazed down at you. It still sent your heartbeat galloping away every time you saw it, but you couldn't bring yourself to change it.

You'd met not long after the Blip, when the world was trying to reorient itself after half the population suddenly returned. You and Bucky had created a safe-haven of sorts, a solid place to land while you both healed.

It had been almost three years since he'd broken things off without warning. All but ghosting you not long after the night with the strawberries. Just days after that photo was taken.

It was never official, you reminded yourself. Just a situationship. A months-long situationship in which you felt more for him than anyone else you'd ever been with combined—but a situationship nonetheless.

The liquor had hold of you now, thick and pounding through your bloodstream, phone screen pulsing, then splitting as your eyes began to cross. Double vision, like the relationship you thought you'd had with him, and the reality of it.

Your thumb was moving before your brain could catch up, and his voice suddenly filled your apartment. Gruff and impersonal, but it still made your heart flutter.

“You’ve reached Bucky Barnes. If it's important, leave a message. If not…don't.”

Beeeeeeep.

—

Bucky’s fist connected with the punching bag, the thwack echoing loudly through the empty gym. He’d lost track of time in the concrete, windowless space, and that's exactly how he liked it. Buoyed by the quiet, the shelter from reality.

Therapy this morning had gone poorly. His therapist wanted to talk about his relationships, his emotional connections that went beyond obligation, and Bucky hadn't been able to provide a satisfactory answer, apparently. Mostly because he refused to talk about you.

Thwack. The energy from the hit reverberated up his metal arm, buzzing across his shoulders and down his spine.

He never let himself think about you, never let himself wonder if he'd made the right decision, never let himself imagine what things would be like if he had stayed. If he had been honest with you.

Thwack.

It didn't matter, anyway. He was certain you'd moved on, had seen the photos of that weasel on your social media pages. And he genuinely hoped you were happy with him, even if you were lightyears out of his league.

Thwack.

That's all Bucky ever wanted—for you to be happy and safe.

It's the reason why he did what he did, even though it felt like taking a lamb out into the yard and shooting it at the time.

Thwack, thwack, thwack—SNAP.

The chain holding the bag snapped, sending the bag flying across the space and slamming into a rack of dumbbells with a deafening crash.

Bucky shook out his fist. That was probably enough exercise for today.

He took a few gulps of water from the bottle and gathered his things. Pulled out his phone to check the time.

1 missed call from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

1 new voice message from DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.

He froze, staring down at his phone screen. You hadn't called him since the week after the breakup, when you'd left him a message to tell him you'd left some of his things outside his apartment. Nearly three years ago.

His thumb hovered over the message. It could be nothing, he told himself. Or, you might be in trouble.

“Fuck it," he muttered to himself, and hit play.

“Heeey, Bucky, it’s—hyuk—meee.” God, you sounded drunk. “I, umm, just wanted to see how you were d-doing. Maybe we could—hyuk—hooks up, er, no—hang out sometime?” you trailed off, faux-cheeriness slipping away. He could practically hear the sadness in your voice, and it made his chest ache. “Actually, f-forget I said anything—I’m just, fuck, ignore me. Sorry, I—I hope you're doing good, B.”

The call ended with an abrupt click.

Oh, you poor thing.

Wasted and crying at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday. So very unlike you, which meant something must have gone very wrong.

He showered quickly, racing the voices in his head telling him this was a mistake, and set off in the direction of your apartment before he could talk himself out of it.

You answered the door after about a dozen increasingly frantic knocks. He'd been pulling his phone out to call you when he heard the dead bolt slide into the wood.

It took you a second to adjust to the bright light of the hallway, lashes fluttering over red-rimmed eyes. You were still dressed in your pajamas, a tiny tank top, and shorts with delicate scalloped edges. Even in this state, you were more beautiful than the rose-colored lens of his memory.

With some effort, he glued his eyes to your face as you finally processed who was standing in front of you.

“Your hair is longer," you said finally, the words a little gooey, syllables sticking to the roof of your mouth.

God, he'd missed you so much. “It is," he replied, and you said nothing, doe-eyed and blinking. "Not a fan?” he pressed, running his fingers through it to smooth it back, still damp from his hurried shower.

He could practically see the gears turning in your head. You opened your mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Bucky, what’re you doin’ here?"

“You called," he shrugged. Trying to play it cool, like his insides weren't a tangled mess of worry.

You looked exhausted, bleary-eyed, and unsteady on your feet. He wanted to scoop you up and carry you to your bed right then and there. He maybe would have if he thought you wouldn't kick and bite like a feral cat. No one was safe when you were a little bit drunk.

“Sounded like you could use some company," he continued.

“Didn't think that you'd pick up. I’m f-fine," you lied, picking at the chipping paint on the door.

“Can I come in anyway?"

You contemplated this, gaze sweeping over him, and he resisted the urge to puff up his chest.

“Don't you have like, hero shit to do?"

“Nah, it's quiet today," he lied. The Thunderbolts were actually scattered across the city right that moment, gathering intel. But they could handle it. Right now, the only person he was concerned about saving was you, even if it was just from a nasty hangover.

He saw the moment you relented flicker across your eyes, and you turned your back on him, disappearing into the cave of your apartment. He followed closely behind, closing and locking the door behind him.

It was unusually dark in there, the only light coming from the edges of the curtains and the glowing TV. You were watching some 90’s sitcom he vaguely recognized, and returned to your nest on the couch, drawing the blanket around your body.

The apartment was mostly how he remembered it, with some new art and a larger bookcase. It was definitely messier, though, with empty cups and bowls on the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink, and a small mountain of laundry in your reading chair by the window.

“You're judging me," you accused, that drunken lilt tripping over the g’s.

“I am not." And he wasn’t, though he could tell you were a little embarrassed, even when thoroughly intoxicated. "I'm the last person to be dispensing judgment.”

“Please, your place was always immaculate." You rolled your eyes and reached for a bottle of something pink on the coffee table.

“Yeah, because I knew you were going to be there." He snatched it out of your hand before you could neck it.

“Hey—excuse you," you bit, trying to grab at it.

He held it high, suppressing a smile while he read the label. “Frisky Vodka?" he raised an eyebrow. “Salacious Strawberry—" he took a few steps towards the kitchen as you jumped to your feet, lunging at him, clumsy and slow from the alcohol.

“Bucky! Stop it—"

“—serve alongside a summer salad, vanilla cake, or at the beach with a handsome lifeguard—”

“Can you not—"

“140 proof!" he gasped, pausing by the sink. “Doll, this will strip paint."

“I swear to fuck—" You threw yourself at him, grabby hands batting at his chest and shoulders. You always were a spirited little thing.

He adored you so much it made his ribs ache.

Bucky tsked. “Language." He tipped the bottle over and poured it into the sink.

“Who the hell do you think you are barging in here—"

“You let me in," he countered, washing the liquor down the sink. The smell alone made his teeth ache. "You called me, sweetheart. You knew how this was going to go. I’m not one of the little party boys in your phone.”

You sucked your teeth, glaring daggers at him. You knew he was right. If you wanted a random hook-up or meaningless attention, you would have called any of the other drooling dogs on your phone. The thought alone made his stomach twist, his vision fill with blood. But instead, you'd called him.

There was a reason, whether or not you'd even admitted it to yourself.

“So, are you going to let me take care of you, or are you going to keep being a brat?"

“I hate you.”

“You can hate me while walking. Go take a shower, and I'll make you something real to eat.” Yes, he'd noticed the half-eaten bowl of popcorn. You’d need a lot more than that to soak up the strawberry-flavored lighter fluid you were drinking.

“You can't tell me what to do in my own apartment!"

“I believe I just did." He started collecting things to make brunch, surprising even himself with how well he remembered the layout of your kitchen.

Your eyes narrowed, arms crossed over your stomach. “You're different."

He paused his rummaging through your alarmingly empty refrigerator. “Good different?" he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“I haven't decided."

“Well, I always do my best thinkin’ in the shower. So get to it." He retrieved the carton of eggs at the very back, and by the time he straightened up, you'd stalked down the hallway. A door slammed shut a moment later.

Twenty minutes later, he plated a cheesy omelette and some tater tots—they were basically hashbrowns, right? Along with a few orange slices and the largest bottle he could find, filled with ice water. He’d also taken the liberty of starting a load of dishes and cleaning out the old food from your fridge.

He'd been about to run the trash when you came padding down the hall, dressed in a new set of pajamas, your hair tied up in a towel. The smell of your body wash caught him across the chin like a sucker punch, and he had to grip the edge of the counter so he didn't fall to the ground and start panting.

He was here to take care of you, nothing else.

You looked decidedly less hostile as you sat on one of the stools, even offering him a timid, melty smile when you took in the cleaner kitchen and steaming food. “Thanks, B," you mumbled while you tried to stab a tater tot. You missed, trying twice more before giving up and grabbing it with your fingers, popping it into your mouth.

Bucky didn't trust himself to speak around the heart-sized lump in his throat, so he nodded and nudged the water towards you.

“I promise I'm not an alcoholic," you said, and he snorted a laugh. “It's just been…" You trailed off, pushing eggs around your plate.

Bucky leaned on his elbows across from you, getting down to your eye level. “You don't have to explain anythin’ to me. Not ever," he said, and you nodded, swallowing hard. “Eat up."

But before he could turn back to the dishes, you spoke up again, all in a slurring rush. “He ghosted me on Valentine's Day. Used the reservation I made to take another girl. I should have known he just wanted to fuck me, he was always so weird and flakey and god—it was so fucking stupid. I just never thought he'd do something that shitty, y’know?"

Bucky contemplated this, untangling your scrambled words. “You dumped him?"

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“You want me to kill him?"

The corner of your mouth tilted up a tiny bit.

“I've got the clearance. I can make it look like an accident—”

“No, no," you giggled, shaking your head. "No murder.”

“That's what the clearance is for. It's not technically murder," he corrected, unable to stop himself from smiling back at you.

“No assassinations, then." You pronounced the word with about a dozen extra s’s, and he felt like he might keel over if his heart didn't return to a normal rhythm soon.

“Fine, no assassinations," he said. "I’m sorry he treated you like that. You aren't stupid, and it wasn't your fault. You don't deserve to be left hanging.”

Your smile faltered, gaze dropping back down to your plate. “And yet, it keeps happening,“ you muttered.

He realized his mistake, then. “Doll—"

“I know, Bucky, I know," you cut him off, waving your fork in the air. “You’ve got more important shit to do, like saving the world from purple aliens and, like, Russians or something. It's fine. We don't have to talk about it."

It felt like you stabbed the fork between his ribs, twisting the tines through the fragile skin of his lungs.

“Just—just forget it. It's fine. Thank you for breakfast.” You pushed the plate away, jumped to your feet too fast. Your balance failed, legs moving too slowly to catch you, but luckily, Bucky was quicker, and he caught you around the middle before you cracked your head on the counter.

“Easy now, I gotcha’." He shifted you back onto your feet, grip tight around your body to ensure you didn't fall again. You were trembling and hot to the touch, hands clammy against his arms. Your hair towel had fallen off, cold strands tumbling over your shoulders. You seemed very pale all of a sudden. " Let me get you into bed, yeah? C’mere, honey—”

“No—" you tried to protest, but he was already scooping you beneath your knees, lifting you carefully into a bridal hold. Trying his very best not to jostle or move you too quickly.

“You look like death warmed over, doll. Pipe down and let me help you." He started moving towards your bedroom, the path so familiar he could chart it with his eyes closed.

You swatted weakly at his chest, but didn't protest, head lolling against his shoulder. You were so limp in his arms, so trusting, and he was deeply grateful you'd had the foresight to call him, and not one of those other dipshits who might have taken advantage of you. It healed something in him to know how much you trusted him, even after everything he'd done. Maybe he really wasn't the monster he saw in the mirror.

“Just wanted to fuck you," you mumbled into the hollow of his throat, lips brushing his skin.

He barely stifled a laugh at your bluntness. “Did you?" he asked, stepping over a pile of clothes and into your bedroom. “That's why you called, huh?"

You nodded. “But you're being mean." Your voice was barely above a whisper, fading as you drifted closer to sleep.

“I know, doll," he hummed, unable to resist placing a kiss on the furrow between your brows. You wouldn't remember it anyway; he was being selfish. “And you can curse me out all you like tomorrow."

“Bet your ass I will…”

“Oh, I'm counting on it." But his words hung empty in the air. By the time he got to your bedside, you were fast asleep, tiny snores tickling the hair around his throat. Careful not to wake you, he tucked you beneath the covers, arranged your hair so it wouldn't soak your pillowcase.

He retrieved a wastebasket, your water, and a few Advil, setting them all within arm's reach on your nightstand. Then he plugged in your phone, turned on all your little ambient lamps around your room to make it cozy, and put your comfort show back on, volume all the way down.

Satisfied that you were settled and safe, he debated whether he should stay. What if you woke up and needed him? What if you really were ill?

He decided to stay just a little longer, to finish cleaning up the kitchen and take the trash. That's the last thing anyone wants to do when they're hungover.

But when that was done, he decided to tidy up the living room, just a little bit. Throw away the old flowers and dust the shelves, straighten your desk, and put any stray items where they belong.

But then he might as well fold the pile of laundry. It was taking over your favorite chair after all, and you'd probably want to sit there later. So he folded your laundry, pretending not see the more delicate items in the pile that made his blood pressure rise, or the old t-shirt he'd been missing, the fabric significantly more worn than the last time he saw it.

And then the chair was bare, so he put a blanket over it and a favorite stuffed animal. Sure, it just so happened to be a bear he'd won you on Coney Island, but that wasn't the point.

And if you were going to enjoy your reading chair, you'd need a few snacks. Plus, your fridge was mostly condiments and beverages, so you needed groceries, too. He ordered some on Instacart, only needing mild assistance from Yelena, and waited around for the delivery to put them away.

By then, it was nearly six o’clock, so he might as well prep you some dinner.

It occurred to him that he was being a little bit insane, maybe a lot a bit, but he missed you so much, and just wanted to make sure you were okay. He had to know if you were okay.

And being back in your apartment, surrounded by your favorite colors and little trinkets and hobbies, it felt like coming home. A home he hadn't been to in a long, long time. It was like double vision, seeing the place he'd once loved, knowing it didn't really belong to him anymore.

With every hour that passed, the gravity of his mistake grew heavier, harder to ignore. He should never have let you go, should never have thought you'd be better off without him. That was your choice to make, not his, and all he'd done was hurt you both by making it instead.

He’d been a coward, and now he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to make it right. Not when you were clearly still hurting, still angry with him.

But, he thought with rare optimism while he dumped the pasta into the boiling water, maybe this could be a first step.

—

You woke up to a familiar laugh track and a kick-drum pounding behind your eyelids. Spotting the water on the table, you guzzled it, along with the painkillers sitting beside it—wait, you didn't remember setting that glass there, or the pills, or the wastebasket. And you definitely didn't turn on all of your ambient lights, or... was your hair wet?

Okay, you did remember taking a shower, and eating the best omelette you'd had since—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Bucky had made the omelette for you. Bucky had been here, in your mess of an apartment. Made you take a shower, eat, and dumped out your booze.

Then, the smell of frying garlic reached your nose, and your stomach gave a fierce growl.

Someone was cooking in your apartment.

Moving slowly to not irritate your head any further, you pulled on a hoodie and exited the dark safety of your bedroom.

You couldn't believe what awaited you.

Apartment? Spotless. Laundry? Folded. Lights? Dimmed. Candles? Lit. Bucky? Dressed in a too-tight t-shirt, chopping zucchini at your kitchen island.

“Thought the garlic might summon you," he said, his voice a low baritone alongside the thunkthunkthunk of the knife that soothed the ache between your eyes. "Hungry?”

“Did you…” You looked around, struggling to comprehend what you were seeing. Bucky had cleaned your entire apartment while you slept and was making you dinner, acting like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn't stomp on your heart and blow you off three years ago with no explanation. “Why did you do all of this?”

He finished chopping and scraped the vegetables into the pan. “You called me," he said, as if that explained anything.

“Yeah, for a hook up, not—" you gestured around the apartment, "—not for you to babysit me.”

“Don't act like a baby then." He turned back around, setting the cutting board on the counter. Those blue eyes were like fucking arrows, piercing straight through the soft parts of you.

“I am not—" you caught yourself. "You didn't have to do this.”

“Obviously." He braced his hands on the counter, his metal arm whirring faintly at the pressure. Fuck, how had he gotten even more buff than before? And you felt personally attacked by his newly long hair. You'd pestered him to grow it back out for months.

“So why did you?"

“How about a ‘thank you’?" He was deflecting.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Too hungover to filter yourself anymore. “Are you ever going to be honest with me?"

The question shattered like glass on the floor between you.

His jaw flexed, gaze lowering to the counter.

You waited for his response, the vegetables undoubtedly burning behind him. Your head was still pounding, stomach gone sour, and your tongue felt like it had a sock wrapped around it.

“Just go, Bucky. You've done enough. “ You turned on your heel to hide in the dark of your room, when he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry."

“What?" You turned back towards him.

“I’m sorry," he repeated, lifting his head to look at you. The hurt in his gaze was unmistakable. A bone-deep pain you'd only witnessed when he talked about losing the one person that meant everything to him. "It was a mistake, I made a mistake, and I—” his metal hand combed through his hair, scrubbed over his face. “I just wanted to help you, to do something for you. I know it doesn't change or erase what I did, but—fuck, I’ve missed you so much, and even just being in your home, around you was so...” he fell silent, letting his confession hang in the air between you.

Maybe you were still a little drunk—okay, definitely still a little drunk—but that look in his eyes was all the confession you ever needed. And deep down, you knew that you called him because you needed someone to take care of you, someone to love you, and Bucky was the only person you trusted to do so without taking more than they gave.

You hadn't called for a hook-up; you called because you missed him. Because you needed him. And he'd come because he missed you, too. He stayed because he needed you too.

With hurried steps, you crossed the apartment. Your arms found their way around his waist, tucking your head under his chin. Immediately, his arms encircled you, holding you tightly against his chest, his nose buried into your hair. The connection between you thrummed to life, sparks jumping every place your skin brushed his. The years fell away like autumn leaves, leaving just the two of you, and the love you both had tried so hard to bury.

“Thank you, B," you murmured.

“Anytime, doll," he hummed, the words resonating in the drum of his chest.

The two of you stayed quiet for a few minutes, unwilling to relinquish the fragile moment, but an acrid smell started to make your nostrils itch.

“Your veggies are burning.”

“Fuck ‘em," he said. “You just want the pasta anyway."

You giggled, nuzzling even closer, the smell of his skin turning your thoughts to static. “Yeah, I do."

His metal hand skimmed up your spine, sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. The coolness of his touch made you shiver, and he started gently pressing into the knots in your neck, loosening the tension that was like a vice around your skull.

“How's your head?" He asked.

You let your head fall into his palm, unraveling under his touch as your pain melted away. A moan slipped out when he dug into an especially tender spot, and you felt his breath hitch.

“Poor thing," he cooed. “You really did a number on yourself, didn't you?"

“I was stupid," you muttered, petulant.

His fingers tightened in your hair, craning your head back. “You were reckless, not stupid. Stupid would have been calling one of those other losers on your phone."

“Wouldn't have all those losers in my phone if you—”

“I know, I know,“ he pouted, loosening his hold. “Don't have to rub my nose in it."

“James Buchanan Barnes, are you jealous?" You teased, tugging at his pursed lower lip with your thumb.

He nipped at your fingers, his flesh hand wrapping your wrist to immobilize you.

“Maybe I'll call one of them right now, since you seem more interested in being my personal butler than hooking up—"

He pressed his mouth to your captive wrist, a hot, hungry kiss that shot up your arm and through your body, making your toes curl in your slippers. “Hooking up doesn't even begin to cover what I want to do to you," he gruffed, trailing his lips down your forearm while his metal hand fell to your lower back, pressing your body closer to his.

“So what are you waiting for?" you asked, a little breathless.

His lips moved to your throat, feather-soft against your hammering pulse, up towards the shell of your ear. “First, you're going to eat and hydrate. Then we're going to watch a movie, something mushy and romantic, and you're going to fall asleep in my lap,” his voice was slow and sinful, stoking the fire in your belly to an inferno.

You clung to him, head bobbing. Yes, yes, yes.

But he wasn't finished. “And when you wake up in the morning, bright-eyed and clear-headed, I'll seek my penance between those perfect thighs.” He leaned back to look into your eyes. “Sound good?"

You nodded, jaw a little slack. It was like he tipped your head over and all your thoughts came pouring out of your ears. “S-sounds great."

He pecked your lips, which was practically a crime against humanity after winding you up so much. “Now, go sit your butt on the couch. I got frozen pizzas as a backup."

You perked up at that, pout falling away. “Did you get my—"

“Your favorite? Of course I did. Go on and pick your movie." He turned you loose with a pat on the butt, and you scampered off to the living room.

“Hey, B, did you get any wine?—"

“No."

“Fiiiiiiiine.”

© aureateink 2026. do not copy, post, or claim my writing as your own.

[robs-your-robins]

On the topic of Tim trying to clone Kon but ending up with a baby that has both their DNA so it is technically their biological child, I picture Tim telling Bruce and Clark together not only because he’s exhausted from dealing with screaming baby and the truth has to come out but he thinks Bruce will take the news better with Clark there. He isn’t wrong.

Clark: This is so irresponsible, Tim. Not only did you not know what you were creating when you mixed your DNA with Kon’s but considering the history, with how Kon came to be? Do you think he would want this? Besides, you’re just a kid. You’re not ready to be a father, let alone to a baby that is a quarter Kryptonian.

Tim:

Clark: Bruce, back me up here.

Bruce, with the baby in his arms: What is his name?

Tim:

Clark:

Tim: I haven’t really gotten that far, B.

Bruce, with the most content, happy smile as he cooes down at the baby: We will have to come up with one. And I’ll have Alfred add some formula to the list. We’re going to need to get everything ready because this little guy is coming home with me.

Clark: Bruce-

Bruce: Clark, lower your voice, you will wake our grandson.

[ladythedrunken]

i love this genre of nerdy autistic men…..

[bvrnesher]

❝ 𝒫ull 𝒪ut 𝒢ame ! ❞ ― pjo/hoo boys !

— 💬 a/n: It's 3:12 a.m., I haven't slept and I have thoughts. Like ACTUAL thoughts. DELULU thoughts.

— 𝒫ercy 𝒥ackson ;; his pull out game is so-so but it's not really a game to him. it's a tragedy. he can pull out, he really can—but the second you clench around him and moan his name all breathy and wrecked? gone. he’s staying inside and apologizing for it while still twitching. “fuck, sorry, you just felt too good.” no self-control. man is one tight hug away from giving you triplets.

rating: 4/10

— 𝒥ason 𝒢race ;; textbook perfect. clinically correct. he’s the honor student of nut control. always pulls out with time to spare, wipes you down with a warm towel, kisses your forehead, and asks how you’re feeling. BUT—if you beg him not to? if you whimper a little and say “please”? he folds like a lawn chair.

rating: 9/10 when in control, 2/10 if you say “inside” in a pretty voice

— ℒeo 𝒱aldez ;; boy has ZERO pull out game. he doesn’t even pretend to try. he’ll be balls deep and babbling about how tight and warm you are, then let out a choked moan and cum inside you without warning. immediately follows up with a “fuckfuckfuck I was supposed to pull out” and then blames you for “being too sexy.”

rating: -3/10. negative.

— ℱrank 𝒵hang ;; he pulls out with sweet, apologetic gentleness. murmurs “almost there” and actually means it. doesn’t even thrust through the orgasm—he shudders and then paints your stomach like a gentleman. but the moment you say “it’s okay, baby, I’m on the pill”? oh. he’s finishing inside with a shaky moan and saying “you’re sure? really sure?” as he fills you up.

rating: 8/10 unless you give him permission—then all bets are off

— ℒuke 𝒞astellan ;; can pull out. just doesn’t. he’ll be like “what’s the point?” while holding your hips down and staying in deep, whispering “take it. you can take it.” he moans like it’s a religious experience and you’re lucky if you get a warning before he fills you up and says “mine.”

rating: 1/10. he’s breeding on purpose

Stormy's asks games ! :: I think we can safely say that a new section of "Stormy's asks games" is opening. Basically, You can send me "Games" either nsfw or sfw to the inbox and we can be delulu together 👭

example: this post

Reqs closed, asks games always open.

+ I saw it on Twitter and had to make it a pjo version, I lost the post, but credits for that one <3

[anyalarbslasagna]

i absolutely hate biceps hahaha definitely don’t flex rn i might scream hahaha

[honey-snail]

🗣️ I don't think Jason Todd fucks rough 🔥

Now, now - of course, he can. It's not because he isn't capable of it; It's simply a rare occurrence. (God knows he could fold you like a fresh pile of laundry with just one hand). But I fear he would like the intimacy of it all too much. Like the way your fingers dig into his bicep, how your legs shake on his shoulders when he's hitting that special spot just right. The soft little whimpers and cries of cute little pet names, with the occasional squeal of his full legal name.

He knows he doesn't need to be rough to make you go a little braindead, okay? And half the time, if he does leave you drooling and barely remembering your own name, it's totally on accident. You'd think that fine man would be more self-aware than he is. For someone so skilled in various things, Jason genuinely underestimates how much he's packing. He knows he's a big guy and awfully strong - but down there? Completely clueless.

He gets so embarrassed afterward, apologizing when you can barely walk straight to the toilet, and somehow manages to embarrass you too by insisting on checking that he didn't tear anything down there. Seriously, man is on his hands and knees in the bathroom just trying to catch a look while you're pushing him away.

He's not even into anything too kinky (call him puppy, and he'll cream). He does enjoy giving you the occasional spank here and there when you're being a brat, but never degrading. He's a praise guy, through and through. Loves it when you ride him so he can get a full view with his rough hands steady on your hips. Whispering things like "you're doing so good love," and "mmm, just like that, pretty."

However, don't even think about post-patrol, Jason. He'll come home at three in the morning with bruises, maybe a knife wound, caffeine finally wearing off. Helmet tossed on the counter, shower until the water is cold and clear - only to find you so excited to see him! Bouncing on your feet, pressing kisses to his neck, being a needy little thing.

Prepare to get your shit rocked.

It's really the only time he fucks you hard and deep, not even taking the time to properly prep you as much as he normally does. Once you're drooling on his chest, falling asleep with a dazed smile on your face, only then does he kiss your forehead and fall asleep himself. He doesn't mean to be rough like that - but damn, baby, he's tired!

He may have the scary dog privileges, but at the end of the day, he's just a lapdog waiting for your love.

dividers @/diviniyae

GOD I SERIOUSLY NEED TO SHUT UP ABOUT HIM

[um-soybean]

I need him so bad. Jason come home the kids miss you ❤️

[theobservatory]

A lot of people think that Jason is this suave ladies man, and headcanon Tim is an anxious failboy loser (he is), but so is Jason! That man has NO game. NONE. Yes he is tall, and muscular, and has a chiseled jaw, but that's all he's got.

He flusters when you flirt when him, and stutters when he flirts back! He cries when you walk out after an argument!

Jason is the type to get hit on by a 10/10 baddie and just,,, completely not notice. Unless you tell him to his face that you want to fuck, he has zero clue that's what you want. In turn, he's also shit at initiating physical intimacy, and the absolute worst at one night stands. The type to roll over and ask "what are we".

In bed, if you ask him to be rough he can ABSOLUTELY comply. He wants to put it down on you anyway you ask, but he totally cries during sex btw. That's exactly how you can tell how close he is, as soon as that first tear hits your shoulder you know.

He babbles into your skin, and kisses your neck, and all those low grunts from before turn into nagging little whines. Yeah, he's still using his big ass hands to pin you down, and he's pounding deep enough in you to make your vision white out, but he's still being really sweet while doing it.

He's mumbling desperate little words in between kisses; "I love yous" and "thank yous" and "kiss me?" all in between long huffy groans. It might be a little embarrassing later, but in the moment all he can think about is how good you feel around him.

For all that Jason comes off as masculine and macho, he's really emotional. He's normally pretty good at seeming unbothered, but sex is already so intimate, and he loves you so damn much... It's just hard for him to keep it all contained okay?? Make fun of him if you want to, but it's his truth.

Happy new years sluts. My resolutions are to get sexier, write more, and fuck nasty (<- lie, I am voluntarily celibate, but I would like to post some smut)

[um-soybean]

I would explode with joy (and worry) if Jason Todd would do this to me 😪

[indiewritesxoxo]

true love waits

seeing spectres? got a ghost problem? it seems Satoru Gojo has one of his own - one he doesn't want to get rid of

synopsis: full-time nerd turned part-time amateur ghost hunter, you've become Gojo's favorite occupation! living with a roommate is hard enough - let alone falling in love with your (un?)dead one!

pairing: nerdjo x ghost!Reader

content: mdni, angst and fluff and smut, roommates-to-lovers but one of them is dead lol, paranormal aspects ofc, fem reader, discussions of death, some darker themes but plenty of goofy gojo to go around, idiots falling in love, petty reader, gojo being a DORK, she falls first + he falls harder, this one's gonna be freaky guys, unprotected piv sex, oral (m! receiving), more tags to be added!

art by @chu-cho + divider by @petalpxl

gojo's ghost hunting guide

one | two | three | four

five | six | seven | eight

a/n: the amazing @madamechrissy inspired this <3

taglist: @fati27ma @soraairo @s-guru @shokosbunny @ssetsuka @deathofacupid @kayskow @pillkits @inoluvrr @baepsays @imm0rtalbutterfly @heartcam @littlenutmaestro @mia-can-yap-too @bbatzvil @sugarcoatedsoul @designerpvssy @gravity-valley @stellasloth @dostoevskyzz @aldebrana @lashaemorow @monstersholygrail @mai-505 @itsinherited @gojosprettyprincess @mimiluvzu2 @poopooindamouf @emochosoluvr @nina-from-317 @beautiful--macabre @gris3o @petalshxwer @oneirataxiaa @onixsky @flowerpot113 @ryuvies @anyx404 @herefor-tojis-tits @takethechai

[um-soybean]

UGH EVERY THING HURTS THIS IS SO GOOD

[indiewritesxoxo]

snowed in

is it a man? a beast? no! it's the abominable gojo!

synopsis: for a cash-strapped starving scientist such as yourself, finding a yeti would've made the discovery of a lifetime. there's just one tiny problem - he found you first

pairing: yeti!Gojo x researcher!Reader

content: mdni, angst and fluff and eventual smut, cryptid!Gojo, this one is probs gonna get REAL insane, reader trying her best to tame this beast, he's man-like but i mean still-, forced cohabiting, is it kidnapping if he doesn't know what kidnapping is?, soft (and fuzzy!) Gojo, somehow we've landed on monsterfucking guys this is my formal apology, EXTREMELY protective gojo, hurt/comfort, more tags to be added!

observation logs

one | two | three | four

five | six | seven | eight

nine | ten | eleven | twelve

the abominable snow monster

yeti!Gojo's notes

first thoughts | log 10.5

fanart for it here !!

asks ... #re: snowed in

pls lemme know in comments if you wanna be tagged<3

[um-soybean]

Okay I was a little concerned at first but WOW this is peak