“You told me two hours ago that we were going to have birthday sex, that makes me the birthday boy—”

“Oh my god!”

Your hands smack down on his mouth as your cheeks burn, not hard enough to leave any marks, just with the hope that it would get him to stop talking. You could never be so lucky.

“You were really good, babe,” he adds unhelpfully, voice muffled by your fingers, “'s what made me think of the question in the first place.”

You did so well that you reminded him of an anglerfish?

A horrified noise escapes your throat.

He laughs, the low rumble of his chest sending electricity down your spine. His hands move up to grab yours, thumb tracing the skin of your wrists, guiding them away to free his mouth for more heinous words to escape. “Jus’ hear me out — imagine you're an anglerfish — the prettiest one in the entire sea, of course, would you let a guy like me inside you?”

“I've already let you inside me.”

“But it's different! Did you know that upon mating, the male fuses with the female?”

Hal's hands run from your shoulderblades down your waist, settling at your hips underneath the blankets, fingers playfully squeezing your skin.

You're too cute like this, he thinks. Lips pressed together, curving into a pout, eyebrows furrowed as you try to be mad at him. All for him, barely visible in the dark of your small room, the only thing separating this moment from the outside world are the janky, half-closed blinds he can never get to close quite right.

And it is his birthday today. The world has gotten enough of you; doesn't he deserve to have you in private?

He allows himself to imagine for a moment— is tissues fused to yours, sinew and muscle intertwining into either, your blood vessels becoming his, your hearts beating at the same pace.

(Hal doesn't mind it — the thought of being completely yours.

So much so that his next words come out wistful.)

“I would get utterly absorbed by you, forever physically bound to you.”

Well.

You didn't know that.

You suddenly become acutely aware of just how close he is to you right now, sandwiched between the blanket and the heat that exudes from his bare body.

Moonlight bleeds on the side of his face, highlighting the gleam in the chocolate in his eyes, akin to reverence.

(Does he know that you would do anything for him? For the boy who rivals the sun?)

“That's … kinda hot.”

He nods.

“Well?”

Hal Jordan is a lot of things. Loud, brash, and incredibly annoying, to name a few — one thing he is not is fickle.

You know that the months he's in space away from Earth are spent thinking about you, fighting so you can have a semblance of a life together. It's the fact that he works so hard that makes it hard to be mad at him, and makes it even more difficult to resist his declarations of love, however weird they are.

Just outside, you can hear the waves of Coast City's oceans crash against eachother, lapping against the port — just like the sand, you can't help but sink deeper into Hal Jordan.

Your nose twitches.

“Would he look like you?”

He thinks for a moment, eyebrows furrowing. “I'd like to think so.”

“Would he piss me off the same way?”

“How so?”

You giggle. “By asking weird-ass hypotheticals in the middle of the night.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You smile, clasping his face in your hands, feeling his cheeks warm up at your touch. Heat creeps to the edge of his earlobes, a flush of visible red on his face.

You lean in until you can feel his breath on your lips, half-lidded eyes filled with unmet desire meeting yours.

“Would he be just as kind and thoughtful as the man underneath me right now?”

Hal's eyelashes flutter, his sentence quiet. “He would try.”

“And would he love me as you do?”

He trembles, the vice grip on your hips only tightening. It's almost too much — how much he loves you and how much you love him, just how lucky he is to be the apple of your eye.

He doesn't know how he ever convinced you that he, of all people, was the person for you — hell, he doesn't even know if he deserves it, the foreign feeling of being special to someone like you. But under the Green Lantern suit, Hal Jordan is only human, so he can't help his selfishness.

“There isn't a universe,” his voice wobbles, “Where I am not deeply and madly in love with you.”

…

How were you not supposed to fall in love with every inch of him?

You pull back, just enough to revel in the expression he gives you. A thumb caresses the shadow on his jaw, your other hand brushing the lone curl away from his face.

“Then yeah,” you breathe, “I'd mate with you.”

“You sure?” He asks, “I wouldn't be a Green Lantern type of an anglerfish, just a regular one—”

You interrupt him by closing the distance, pressing your lips against his. The kiss is short and soft, not nearly as passionate as the exchanges you had a few hours prior, but something about it makes him want to cry.

“I would gladly spend the rest of my life with you, Jordan. Anglerfish cannibalism or not.”

His chest stops moving underneath you, breath caught in his throat. If it weren't for how erratically his heart thumps against his ribs, he thinks he might die trapped between your arms.

(It’s almost ironic, he thinks — how far he'd go to live for you in battle and how willing he is to die by your own hands.)

He can't respond in any other way than to kiss you again. And again. And again, and again, and again and again, on your eyes, nose, lips — on your cheeks, jaw, and neck, until he's out of breath and you're whining at his touch, all his energy spent on loving you. There's nothing else he'd rather be doing — truly, he could kiss you until the sun rises, but it's looking like it might actually soon, and unlike him, you have a stable job that needs you in early tomorrow.

(You've done your time indulging in his desires all day, but Hal's always been the type to celebrate his birthday week. He'll be waiting for your affection after you get off of work.)

Eventually, he grounds out—

“… Cannibalism is the wrong term for it. It's actually an extreme form of sexual parasitism.”

You groan.

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?”

“Next question, would you still love me if I were a worm?”

“I'm breaking up with you!”

His arms wrap around your waist, flipping you over faster than you can register what's happening. Heavy exhales turn into fits of laughter as your back hits the mattress, his nose burying into the crook of your neck, collapsing his entire body weight on top of you.

“Don't even joke about that.” He grumbles under his breath, lips curving into a pout against your skin as you giggle, clutching him close to you.

Unfortunately for everyone else involved, Hal Jordan completes you.

He doesn't need to spew out a billion hypotheticals to know that, nor do you need to turn him into a barely functioning sperm-producing appendage reliant on your bloodstream.

(Though, it might be fun to try.)

 Thor quickly emptied the carton, wiping his mouth. “Is that a challenge, archer?” 

“Sure is. One steak. One shot. Fastest to medium doneness wins.” 

Tony entered just in time to hear the word "challenge." He paused mid-step. “Hold it, I’m officiating this.” 

Steve blinked. “I thought you'd given up red meat this month,” he quipped. 

“I'm in it for the drama,” Tony replied, donning aviator sunglasses indoors simply for the aesthetics. 

He grabbed a dry erase marker and began scrawling on the whiteboard affixed to the fridge: 

STEAKDOWN Rules: 

Doneness must be at least medium. 

No trickery or magic (just in case Loki happens to be lurking somewhere) 

Tony is the judge, jury, and Iron Chef. 

Natasha looked up from her sudoku puzzle. “This is the most productive thing you boys have done all week.” 

🥩🥩🥩 🥩🥩🥩 🥩🥩🥩 🥩🥩🥩

“Contestant One: Clint ‘Ribeye’ Barton!” Tony shouted like a boxing announcer. “Your weapon of choice: The StarkTech Microwave 0069.” 

Clint held up his steak with confidence and tossed it on a microwave-safe plate. “Six minutes, baby. Just enough time for perfection.” He punctuated his statement with a chef’s kiss. 

Tony nodded. “Remember, it must be medium or better. Anything below that and you're serving it to the composter.” 

Clint saluted. “Yes, chef.” 

The microwave beeped to life. Everyone watched in suspense as the steak slowly revolved, and steam began to hiss as if questioning their decisions. 

Six minutes later, it emerged. 

Tony examined the steak, sliced it with one of his unnecessarily fancy knives, and gave a nod. 

“Passable medium. Edges are sketchy. Consistency of a low-quality leather shoe. But it passes.” 

Clint pumped his fist. “Let’s see what you got, Sparkles.” 

The Avengers gathered in the elevator and rode up to the rooftop of the tower. Dark clouds had already begun to swirl ominously. 

Thor stood walked near the edge, away from the others. He held the second raw steak in one hand, Mjölnir in the other. 

Tony removed his glasses dramatically. “Contestant Two: Thor ‘Flame Thrower’ Odinson. Your time limit: five minutes and fifty-nine seconds. If it’s not at least medium, the microwave wins.” 

Thor walked purposefully to the center of the roof while the rest of the team stayed well away having seen what he was able to do to the Chitauri. The god confidently put down the meat which lie on a steel plate. He proudly declared, “Prepare thyself bovine flesh. For Asgard!” 

Lifting Mjölnir high above his head, Thor called a bolt of lightning from above. As soon as it met the Uru metal, he directed the charge towards the steak waiting a few feet away.  

The steak was enveloped in a furious blaze of thunder and sizzle. The metal tray glowed red. In the distance, a pigeon screamed. Thor stood still, maintaining focus so that no one would be hit by a stray charge. 

After 20 seconds he stopped. The lightning retreated and the clouds drifted away. Tony approached the charred altar with a pair of large tongs, lifted the steak and replaced it on a stoneware plate. 

It looked perfect. It smelled even better. 

Everyone followed Tony back down into the kitchen where he sliced it down the middle. Juices glistened. The center was a warm pink. The edges were slightly burnt but the rest was uniform in color. 

He inspected it carefully. “Definitely medium. Maybe medium-plus. This cow saw Valhalla and came back to tell about it.”  

He then made the call. “The undisputed winner is Thor Odinson!” 

Clint flopped onto the sofa, defeated. “I’ve been put to shame by a Norse myth.” 

Thor handed him a slice of the victory steak. “Do not despair, archer. It is not about defeat but having the courage to compete in the first place.” 

“That’s dumb,” Clint said, chewing. “…But this is amazing.” 

Tony scrawled on the whiteboard: Microwave: 0, Point Break: 1 

“We should put Thor in charge of our next cookout,” he said, grinning. 

Natasha smirked. “Please tell me next it’ll be crème brûlée.” 

Thor’s eyes lit up. 

“Peter was only giddy to dance with me," you toed off your shoes. “Because he’s nineteen—”

“Twenty,” Loki interjects, tone glacial. “I checked the records.”

“—fine, twenty. He idolizes everyone with an Avengers passcode. Our waltz lasted 90 seconds and ended with him apologizing for stepping on my feet.”

“Yet long enough for you to laugh,” Loki murmurs, green eyes darkening. Outside the window lightning flickers, though the forecast promised clear skies. You cross to him, letting your hand skim his shoulder until frost becomes warmth.

“One laugh, one spin, no hearts stolen. You, darling, occupy all available real estate here.” You tap your sternum.

Loki’s lips curl in a silken crescent, but the flicker behind his lashes is anything but serene. Emerald irises catch the lamplight, bright as storm-lit seawater, an omen you’ve learned to read the way sailors read cloud fronts.

“Loki, what did you do?”

He splays a hand across his chest in wounded theater. “Must you presume mischief every time I inhale?”

“Yes.”

A beat passes before his shoulders slump in an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I may have redirected young Parker’s web-shooters.”

“Redirected how?”

“Up.”

“Loki!”

He waves a dismissive hand, as though you’ve merely noted the weather. “Midgardian gravity is pathetic. The boy dangled for what?Fifty two seconds before Rogers hauled him in. Perfectly safe.”

“And the glitter bomb that detonated on Clint an hour ago?” A flick of irritation crawls up Loki’s brow ridge. Caught, again.

“I was having a perfectly calm chat with him about Lucky adjusting to farm life when this puff of emerald smoke swallowed him whole. Next thing I know, he’s radioactive glitter pink from head to toe.”

A half smile adorns Loki’s mouth, wicked as a fox in the henhouse. “Yes. I refined the pigment with bifrost dust. Gives it that delightful day-glow sheen.”

“Which is now stuck permanently unto SHIELD-issue Kevlar.”

“An upgrade,” Loki counters. “Barton’s wardrobe needed flair.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I left you alone for thirty minutes—”

“You left me alone with them.”

The soft snarl on “them” tells the truth. Loki never felt comfortable in the Avengers’ tower, tolerated largely because of you. Their wary stares scratch old wounds he pretends have healed. Tonight, seeing you laugh, actually laugh, with the people who once hunted him? Salt in the wound.

You exhale and join him on the couch, prying his booted feet off the cushions. “Talk.”

“Must we?” His gaze flicks to the ceiling, expression somewhere between tragic poet and sullen teenager. “You looked radiant. They ogled you like magpies. I grew irritated.”

“Jealous.”

He scoffs, but the word loosens him. “Yes. Jealous. There. I despise how it feels. Like being chained again, only the shackles are inside my ribs.”

Your annoyance softens. You catch Loki’s chin, turning his face until he meets your gaze. “If you need reassurance, ask. Don’t rig equipment or hex people. Use your words.”

His lips quirk. “I have many words. Most of them sharp.”

“Then learn soft ones.” You brush your thumb across his lower lip. “Tell me the truth instead of setting glitter‐traps and letting innocent people hang from the ceiling.”

A silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of Manhattan traffic. Finally, Loki exhales the breath he has been hoarding for pride.

“Very well. The truth is I watched you toss your head back laughing at Clint's joke and it felt like frostbite. I wanted that sound to be kept for me alone. I imagined Parker’s mask cracking under illusion spiders. I pictured Stark’s suit misfiring champagne across his face. I thought of a dozen vicious things, all because you smiled at them.”

His jealousy is a thunderstorm. Beautiful from afar yet dangerous when you’re underneath. However, storms can also be guided.

“You’re allowed to want but I’m also allowed to have friends. The line is harm, Loki. Pranks that bruise bodies or egos cross it.”

He leans in, voice low. “I will try. But understand, my nature is not serenity. It is wind and wildfire. I can shape it for you, but extinguish it? Never.”

You press a kiss to his forehead, just where the crown would sit if he still wore one. “I don’t want it extinguished. Just channeled.”

His shoulders relax, mischief dimming to ember. “Then give me a target suitable for such channeling.”

“I have one. The dishwasher’s broken again.” You gesture toward the kitchen. “If you must hex something, hex the water jets. Make them behave.”

It earns you a surprised laugh, warm and genuine. “Very well, my love. I will wage war upon domestic inconveniences.” Loki rises, cloak swirling into existence with theatrical flare. “But first—”

He snaps his fingers. A soft pop sounds behind you. You turn to see a potted hydrangea now placed in the middle of the coffee table. Petals the deepest green. The exact shade of his eyes.

“Soft words,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that his breath fans your ear. “And softer deeds.”

“Keep practicing, Mischief Prince. I’m a patient teacher.”

"Here I was thinking your terrorising finally came to an end." Your voice echoes, a teasing tilt laced in its croak from hours of going unused. "It's nearly closing hour, Jay."

Despite the limp that accompanies his gait, clearly wounded somewhere beneath his large frame and thick layers of clothing, his own smirk greets your gleam of teeth. "Couldn't end a shit week without a recommendation."

Your heart skips, like the quick traitor it is. You feign a casual expression, as if you didn't have his next read hidden under your stack of orders you've yet to shelf.

"Bringing in blood to the floorboards again?" You raise a brow, gaze flickering to where his boots left imprints on the scratched-up wood.

"Nah." His smirk widens, stopping before you. "Wouldn't want you making use of free labour again to mop the dust off this place."

"Wouldn't be too difficult if we didn't have to use bleach, genius."

He shrugs, looking down at you with a pleased expression. "Useful skills I teach you, all without a price, sweetheart." His voice rolls over you like thunder, a low gravel for that mocking nickname he picked out for you like you're the only person he's ever given it to.

Your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "Right, next time I need help cleaning blood trails, I'll call my favourite potential vigilante."

"Oh, so I'm a favourite now?" His brow raises.

"You're so full of yourself." Your bite holds no mark, softening in its edge when your fingers trace over his next recommendation stuffed between the stack of new donations. Dragging it out, you hold it out with held breath.

It never gets easier, the silent exchange. The anticipation, the brief few seconds of waiting as his gaze assesses your pick. It had started out exactly like this, and like some idiotic, preening teenager—you had hoped with every right choice you made, it might heighten the chances of him coming back.

This isn't a library, an establishment where he had to return to at some point. No, he could very likely purchase your selection today, decide it was absolute shit, and never return. Yet, he always came back, and you began to lean on the crutch of a belief that he would continue to.

"Call it a profitable relationship." You joke, even as your heartbeat faintly thuds in the pads of your fingertips, digging into the spine of the copy you reserved for him.

He takes it, fingers brushing over yours. That lingering second of contact feels intentional, but the ghost of his touch disappears before you even have the chance to register its searing warmth.

His smirk dials down into something softer, more genuine. This is the part you love most, and secretly dread that you might not receive. That rare spark in his gaze, to receive something so personal based on the assumption of what he might like. All narrowed down from a history of ten minute exchanges every week in the dead of night, shared between an academic victim who likes spending too much of her time waiting for a suspicious individual to sneak into a local bookstore, and said suspicious individual.

"It's a local author." It spills out of you before you can stop it. "I know you've read most of the classics, but you haven't really delved into ones that relate more to home."

His lip curls, a hum stuck in the back of his throat, and you recognise its one of approval. It shouldn't affect you as much as it did.

"Literature that dives into the horrors of Gotham, should I expect an existential crisis tonight?"

"I'll leave the surprise to do its job.” Leaning in over the counter, your gaze drops to his cargo pants. “Any reason for the limp?"

“Jumped down from the fourth floor.” He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you’d wait up on me.”

You stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to call upon a joke—and he merely returns your stare, amused.

“Jason, you’re joking.”

“I never joke about closing hours.” He shrugs.

You're ready to start, because his frequent disregard for closing hours is a whole other thing—but his gaze shifts instinctively to the clock hanging lop-sided by the ladder, before landing on you again. The crinkles of his gaze deepens, softening the shadows. "You better catch the train. Do me a favour and remember to lock your windows when you get back?”

"Yeah, so long as you come in uninjured next time."

"Worried about me? As long as you keep yours, I’ll keep mine." The point in his grin sharpens, fingers giving a lazy wave as his shoulder digs into the door. The bell rings once more, as if to signify the gravity of his departure. "More illegal activities to run. See you next week, sweetheart.”

His shadow disappears past the flickering street lamp outside the store, as if he never existed. Your heart does that little, traitorous sigh—and that’s all the physical evidence you have past the lump in your throat that the exchange even happened at all.

Your first encounter with Jason was less familiarity-conduced endorphins and more of customer service's worst nightmare.

"Sir, I'm afraid we're closed."

You don't know why you bothered with the 'we', when you're clearly the only staff here. Or why you bothered speaking at all. This man who's barged in through the door, despite the 'Closed' sign, is obviously on edge and possibly on the run? Gotham's unspoken law is to never stick your nose into other people's business, especially if the stranger radiates danger right down to his bruised knuckles. All you should be concerned about is the ten minute walk you have to embark on and how all trains in this district stops at thirty minutes past eleven.

His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice, distracted and hyper-focused all at once. You're struck by the illuminating green that disperses into pale blue, when he finally notices that he isn't alone. Intense, and otherworldly—a gorgeous lunatic who looks like he materialised out of the shadows, stepping into the night and ending up on the wrong side of Gotham.

His gaze doesn't linger for long before it maneuvers around, scoping his environment as his lips press together, some sealed sigh laced within the charged tension between you two. Eventually, a low rasp leaves his lips. "I'll buy somethin'."

Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"

His hand shifts, waving you off impatiently. "Hand me a book, or two—whatever. I need more time."

The crease between your brows deepen, that soft irritation earlier rising again. Not only has he come in during closing hours, which is the worst of all experiences in customer service, but he had the audacity to be rude and dismissive about it.

"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time—"

"Lady." He cuts you off, gaze shifting back towards the streets before looking back to you in warning. "It's not a request. You can charge me however much you want, but I can't leave this store till the coast is clear... and neither can you."

Great, now he's holding you hostage too.

"Are you being chased?" You question impulsively. You have a bugging suspicion that he's prone to lying to you anyways, but his cutting tone makes you unfamiliarly bold. "You're a criminal?"

He snorts, finding something amusing. "In Gotham, some would say it's an honourable profession. There's worse bad guys out there, sweetheart. You're lucky it was me that came in here."

"I wouldn't call it luck." You frown. He doesn't bother with a response, clearly tuning you out, and your growing dislike finds something new to feast on. If you're going to waste a Friday night with some asshole, you may as well squeeze some money out of his pockets. Your gaze flickers over him, scrutinising.

"What are you looking at?" He murmurs, sensing your gaze even when his own is trained on the window, hand tucked under his jacket on what you hope isn't a weapon.

"Just wondering what kind of reader you are."

That finally gets his attention. He looks back at you, surprise evident in his gaze. Without that permanent furrow between his brows, he looks almost younger, erased temporarily of the self-righteousness buried in his bones and the weight of something deadly clutched in his hands.

A moment passes, his tight expression slowly unwinding into genuine amusement. "That's kind of you but you don't have to dial up your customer service. I'm not the kind of guy who leaves reviews."

Your brow twitches, frustration slipping past the cracks of your demeanour. "It's principle. I don't recommend books half-heartedly."

His smirk twitches higher, but you make the wiser choice of storming off, deeper into the shelves before he deigns you with another unfavourable response. Your mind is already slipping into its unfolding map of genres, of the books that encompass your pathway with what you think suits a jerk like him.

"Jackass." You mutter to yourself, opting between a self-help book or a literature pick for the jerk who acts so highly of himself. You decide on the latter, doubting the hunk would even understand the reference.

"Dorian Gray?"

"Yeah, heard of it?" You respond, unamused as you glare down at him.

He's made himself real comfortable, large thighs swallowing up your seat, swirling around on the creaky wheels as he eyes the store with that same assessing look he did when he first entered, as if he was used to mapping out any place he stepped into.

“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.” He mutters lowly, blue eyes landing back on you.

You blink once, then twice, wondering if you'd misheard him. "You're a reader?"

"Enough to know what you're suggesting, sweetheart." He mocks. "I know a thing or two about mistakes of men, so if you want to cause some real harm, you'll have to hit harder."

"I wasn't—" You falter, because that was exactly what you were intending on. "Fine. You forcefully extended a long, underpaid night shift, and I indirectly called you a jackass. Let's call it even."

His lip twitches involuntarily, not expecting your honesty. "Y'know being direct is what gets you places in Gotham."

"Yeah, gets you running into bookstores and terrorising their staff, you mean?"

"Well, I haven't been insulted through a book before." He shrugs half-heartedly. "I suppose you experience something new everyday."

"Anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?"

"Pretty too." He grins then, something striking and downright filthy. His hand taps on a copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. "That's what you seem to be suggesting, since you're clearly intent on being honest through your recommendations."

Your scoff escapes you, less annoyed than it should be. "I think my recommendation fits you just fine if that's the only thing you're willing to take from it."

"Oh, I'm more than willing." His grin sharpens. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid it's a little compromising, hitting on a customer this soon? You do this with all late night visitors?"

You're tempted to drop one of your heaviest dictionaries right on his skull to sort out the serious issues going on in that head of his. "Customer?" You raise a brow mockingly. "All I see is a stranger wasting my time after closing hours, raising this month's electricity bills, refusing to pay a single cent for his book, and getting out of here as promised."

"We still have—" His gaze glimpses to the clock. "—five minutes if you want to play it safe. You're doing a horrendous job at customer service by the way. Calling me a jackass, trying to kick me out. No wonder this place is—"

Your jaw drops. "You are not insulting the very place you're hiding in like a coward right now."

He raises both hands in surrender. "So charming. Was just going to mention how charming this place is."

Your lips quiver into an almost smile and you shut it down immediately, along with the quick decision that he is dangerous. Disarming with the quickness of his tongue, and unnerving in how he handles conversation like a chess board.

"This entire situation needs more tea." You grumble to yourself, turning your back on him.

There's nothing worth stealing on that counter of yours, unless he's crude enough to steal second-hand books worth cents if he even attempted to resell them in a city like Gotham. At most, he'd take the chipped mug rimmed with your tea. Oh, stupid you forgot your mug.

Your steps retract, a groan caught in the between your lips as you turn around with the anticipation to be hit with his mocking—only to find an empty seat in your view. Your head whips around past the shelves, but there was no sight of a worn leather jacket. Of course, he didn't even bother to announce his departure.

Coming back to the counter, you check for any missing items only to spot a bookmark poking out of one of your books, left in an ajar placement on the counter. On top of it, sat a pile of cash that was worth more than any copy in this entire store.

“Hey—”

He was already gone, you forget. You flip open the book, only to find there’s handwriting on your bookmark. Scratched in impulsively, like a lingering thought he had to put down.

“Jackass left you a tip for the trouble—and the rec. - Jason.”

His condescending tone somehow translates into pen on paper. It should irritate you. Yet, when your fingers lift to trace over the drying ink, you find yourself smiling involuntarily again. Jason. What kind of a man was he? It's a useless question, as you doubt you'll ever see him again.

A likely criminal, a guaranteed jerk—and probably the most exciting visitor of your entire summer.

Jason comes back not a week after. Covered in blood, which after your initial fright, is believed to belong mostly to the other guy. That particular fact he thought to include does little to soothe your nerves.

“You should’ve seen him.” He rambles, in what you could only hope wasn't his disgruntled attempt at impressing you, whilst laying flat on the desk. “Makes mine look like child's play."

The first-aid kit, hidden somewhere in the store cabinet, is squeezed haphazardly onto your office chair. There’s nothing more nerve-wracking than your first attempt at stitching a cut, not anything close to your caliber. If his arms weren't wrecked, you suspect he wouldn't have come all the way to you, an actual stranger. His voice distracts you, and you miss your aim.

Jason hisses, half-shirtless with his black tee tucked between his canines. "No, I said you have to turn it as soon as the point disappears."

Your hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers shaking slightly as you try to focus. "Stop shifting, and just keep quiet for a second. I can't focus with you nagging me."

"Forgive me for being concerned about my wound—"

Your hand comes up to shove the t-shirt further into his mouth, muffling his words. He raises a brow, almost amused, and a trickle of sweat brushes past.

"I'm trying my best to help, when this is clearly something hospitals exist for." You huff, focusing back on the stitch. "Give me some grace, and shut up."

His muscles flex and contract, but eventually, he listens. Your work becomes easier after that, despite it being the worst position you've ever been put in, neck cramping to avoid blocking your only source of light, the flickering lamp above the surface he's laid on, his blood dripping onto the wood.

"You owe me at least five purchases to make up for the blood stains." You grumble. "That requires you to stay alive."

He grunts through the fabric, and you take it as agreement.

“Why’re you back here anyway?” You question, trying to distract yourself. “Of all the places you could’ve gone, you thought that a bookstore keeper would have medical expertise?”

“Not medical expertise.” He mutters, voice too raw to not be honest. “I wanted..”

Your hand places a cloth over his wound, soaking the fabric red. “Wanted what?”

His gaze lingers over you, somehow more haunting with how the blue shade's grown darker, pupils expanded. He winces when you accidentally put too much pressure on the stitch, but that doesn't seem to be all to his sudden stillness. “A recommendation.” He answers eventually.

You stare at him, tempted to laugh. “You came all this way bleeding out, barging in through the door, past closing hours again—for a recommendation?”

He stares at you, and your laugh slips through when you realise that he’s at least half-serious. “I knew you'd be infuriating, but I didn't expect insanity.”

He ends up buying eight later just to prove his point and to make up for the blood stains, only after you promised that they'd all be your recommendations.

The hour's long past operating train schedules, and with the quiet acknowledgement of traumatising your uneventful Friday night, the second time he's reinvented what a normal shift should have been—he offers to walk you back once warmth seeps back into his skin.

Somewhere between sitting cramped behind the shelves as you pick out his recommendations and his tracking gaze over your frame as you rant on about how he desperately needed a self-help book or two, the unspoken tension gradually fades. Eventually, your frustrations die down too—and you realise his company, minus the blood and sharpness of tongue, wasn't the worst thing in the world.

You come to expect Jason’s presence, late in the night although he does begin to respect the concept of a ‘closing hour’. He's usually your last visitor regardless—leaving the two of you alone to... continue on your charade of recommendations. Even when he begins to linger longer than any customer should, offering to walk you back, or make you tea when you're too busy shelfing to bother with a new mug to replace your over-steeped one from the afternoon. Except for today, because Margery, your least favourite customer in the whole of Gotham, decides to pick the one night Jason's visiting to start her practiced act.

Clearly intending on slithering her way into getting something for free, Margery drones on about how important her niece's education is to her, and how anything contributing to children's education should be free of charge. All over a book set costing a measly seven bucks, but you suppose to dear Margery, supporting small businesses in Gotham isn't in her check-list.

“I’m sorry, Margery.” Your voice remains perfectly levelled. “I can't hand the set to you for free, because it's against our policy."

“Can’t you understand my situation?” She huffs, annoyance flared in the fine lines of her cheeks. “No one's even interested in that set, I've surveyed it for days.”

“Which by all existing policies, still requires a purchase, ma’am.”

She scoffs, nails drumming impatiently against the counter. “I want to speak to your manager.”

Your lips quirk up. “Jason.”

Jason shifts then, his gaze lifting from the book in his hand, one which he hasn’t turned the page since he conveniently perched himself right next to your counter ten minutes ago. He places the book down gently onto the wood, bookmark slipping into place, though the slight sneer of his lips conveys none of that delicate care as he slumps against the counter, shoulder brushing against yours.

“There a problem?”

Margery blinks, affronted by his attitude. Or his sheer size towering over her. "You're the manager?"

“Policy’s law.” Jason shrugs. “If you’d like to take this further, to save yourself—“ His gaze flickers to the book set, and his smirk quirks up higher—the perfect composition of a jerk. “Seven bucks, we'll be more than happy to call the authorities.”

“I have never experienced such horrible service!” Her cheeks grow warm, sloshed with embarrassment. “Acting as if I'm in the wrong—you’ll be receiving the worst review!”

"All’s fair in Gotham, ma’am.” He calls out with a grin as he watches her turquoise skirt catch onto the end of the door hinge, releasing another shriek from her lips.

The door slams shut, bell ringing dramatically with the impact, and Jason turns back to you, smile slipping into something familiar and reserved for you. “The review will be wiped the moment she hits post.”

You snort, leaning back against the shelves. “Should I be concerned about your illegal activities invading its way into my work?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Last place the GCPD will look into is some shabby bookstore.”

“Shabby.” You feign offense. "Our most repeating customer doesn't even hold a shred of respect for this place."

“Oh-no, I’m beginning to like the sound of being manager of this fine establishment.” He humours, glancing around as if he hasn't already memorised the interior.

You frown, suspicious of his change in tune. “Why, cause you’ll be the boss of me?”

His smirk deepens. “One of its many perks, I imagine.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Todd.” You glance back towards the door, still unable to rid yourself of the satisfaction of watching that entire fiasco go down. "Though I suppose a thank you is in order."

"Couldn't get her out of her fast enough." He shrugs. "She was taking up our time."

"Our?" You raise a brow, almost teasing as you look back at him. "Didn't realise this was our thing now."

His gaze lingers on you, as if he knew his response would be the deciding factor of acknowledging the thinly veiled string that's begun to loop itself around the both of you. Something about your dark circles, the oil on your nose bridge, or the mess of your knotted hair—whatever he saw in you, seals his decision.

"Yeah." His voice rasps, the most unguarded you've ever heard him. "It is."

It's an instantaneous kick, one that nearly leaves you breathless as you try to regain your composure. He could’ve said nothing. He could have thrown this to the side and said that his weekly visits for recommendations during your shifts, no matter if he was bleeding or bruised at the knuckles coming from a life clearly separate from yours—meant nothing.

Yet, it does mean something. Not just to you, but to him as well.

"Oh." You mutter, because you can't think of anything appropriate to say to that.

"Oh." He echoes, a genuine smile lingering at the edge of his lips. "Haven't received my recommendation of the day, sweetheart."

You blink, feeling strangely light, as if your body has regained all the energy zapped out from long hours of rearranging shelves and stacking boxes. It doesn't help that he's looking at you like that, soft and disarmed in a way you've begun to realise he's let himself be, only around you.

You should've trusted your gut that he was dangerous, but never in the way you expected. Your heart skips traitorously, the little thing already knowing something that you refuse to admit aloud. So, you do what you always do and dig out your recommendation, waiting for that spark to light in his gaze and pretend there's nothing more to why you love it so much.

Weeks turn into months, and Jason becomes your one constant even as your shifts lessen in hours to accommodate your academics. If anything, there's something comforting now about leather jackets, the faint scent of pain ointment, the certain knowledge that Jason is most probably a vigilante, after you noticed his constant vigilance over the district you work in has significantly lessened crime rates.

His shelf at home has built its steady collection, every book representing a particular week, an ever-increasing memoir of the thing shared between the two of you, from the first time he stumbled into the store. You don't know what to call it, only that you wish for it to never stop.

He knows the store like the back of his palm, including the exact hour in which you would get up for a tea refill, or when you need a steady hand on the ladder to reach the highest shelves. It's strangely intimate, the way he slots himself into the quiet mundane of your shifts, but he never complains of boredom or having something better to do with his time. If anything, the slower the day, the more he seems to uncurl like a satisfied feline—accompanying you by your side when there's nothing more to do, catching up on his reads while you have a read of your own.

"I have a recommendation for you." Jason mutters offhandedly, legs resting on the desk, as much as home as you are now, seemingly unbothered that he's randomly switched up the unspoken rules of the thing that's shared between the two of you.

You raise a brow, gaze peering over your current read. "You—Mr. I Can't Read Without Your Recommendations, has one for me?"

He shrugs, taking something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. You never understand just how much he's able—and willing to fit inside the leather confinements, and you swear half of it belongs to his side of the world you're privy to only in the latest of nights, when his hand is gripping yours knuckle-white, and he lets you stay by his side before muttering his review for his latest read.

In his hand, is a book, one in which you recognise immediately.

"Dorian Gray." You muse. "Is it your turn to call me self-conceited?"

His lip twitches into a half-smirk, but it buries itself under what you only recognise now to be nerves.

"Jason?" You murmur, slightly startled as you place down your book.

His own hand, scarred over the knuckles and engulfing the book, places its weight gently in your hands, as if offering something sacred.

"I wrote something inside." He mutters, voice softened.

Your brows furrow, but you oblige—flipping open the very first copy you've ever recommended to him, and find a handwritten note on the first page. It's unmistakably his, and there's a few scratched out lines that you can't make out, clearly something he pondered over for a while.

"I think you've probably figured it out by now, that I am not good with my words, no matter how many books I've read with greater speeches or declarations. Still, you deserve to hear something honest, and I've always conveyed myself better through my actions than I do with my mouth.

When I first entered this store, I never expected to run into you. Fate or whatever people call it, has never been considerate of my path, or who I encounter along it. Yet, you stood right there, clearly out of place with the world I know, and I don't think I'll ever truly comprehend how our paths aligned. I told myself to forget you, but you had given me a piece of you in the book you placed in my hands, and I couldn't stop thinking of that, of you. I tried convincing myself, after considering it for seven days, that seeking you out would make the curiousity dissipate, and not because I wanted to hear your voice again.

Bleeding out over your counter, I knew that I was done for when I realised I was willing to buy the entire store if it meant getting to spend a few more minutes by your side. Every book I carried home, was me getting to keep pieces of evidence, of this thing we share that feels like it's completely ours. Proof that a person who thought about what kind of reader I'd be despite every reason not to care—actually existed.

I'll probably regret this, I do have a talent of screwing up with people, but keeping silent has never been my forte, and I would regret not telling you what I've known since the first, which is that there hasn't been a single book where a line has crossed my mind without thinking of you. That there hasn't been a day, where I don't hold myself back from wanting to see you again. I'm offering you my honesty because I do believe that's the only decency available in Gotham, and I'd like to offer you at least that."

Speechless was an understatement for the shaking in your fingers, the weight of the page in your hand when you finally look up and meet his gaze.

He's nervous, pupils dilated—body locked with tension. He's just poured his heart out to you through the page of the very first book you've given him, and he's staring at you like you’ve changed the entire trajectory of his life, and not the other way around.

“Jason.”

“I’ve never done anything like this.” It spills out of him, as if he can’t contain himself. “Our thing, falling for someone. So, before you say anything—I just want to state that I'm not expecting anything. That's the one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn a long time ago, so don't feel you have to say something you don't mean. I just can't go on pretending that meeting you didn't change something in me—that it hasn't rewired what genuine happiness feels like. I began to read again, after all these years, because books which I once found comfort in now reminds me of you. That in every line I read, I searched for something to bring back to you."

"It scared me." He admits, and even the act seems to cost him. "To care that much. To have this lack of control over how I operate, how I should feel. You disarmed me in a way no one else ever had, and I didn't think I even had that in me anymore. To feel this terrified and to still want someone this much."

His hand lowers to the note-filled page, the book still gripped between your hands and his expression steadies. "I considered it countless times. To stop this, before I start something I'll never be able to take back. Then I looked at you, and I realised I can never go back to my life 'before' you. That I was already in this, and I'd be willing to do anything if you are too."

"Jason." You call out, and he stops with a trained halt, as if he expected the worst. That was your last straw.

"I didn't even need the note." You burst. "If you had simply told me you wanted me, I would've already said yes. Our thing, I've always wanted to be a part of it."

Before, he was tense—but now, your words seemed to have hit him like a truck. You continue, not wanting him to doubt something you realised should've been obvious from the moment you kept that very first note he left you in your wallet.

"I want to be in this with you, Jason." You confess. "You're the one person I wanted to see every night. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a mess but—every book in this store, I constantly look for something that screams you and I wait in the hopes that you'll like it, and that was the most scariest, intimate thing I've ever done for someone. So—you're an idiot if you think I don't want this as much as you do."

"...You mean I didn't have to feel physically ill to write that note out, and you would've said yes?" He mutters after a moment, a low huff of amusement leaving his lips.

“I thought you said being direct is what gets you places in Gotham.” You quote.

His smile gradually reappears. “Yeah, I suppose it got me places. Running into a shabby bookstore, getting hit on the first night.”

You raise a brow. “You and I remember that encounter very differently."

"Yeah?" He murmurs. "That'll be a problem if we aren't on the same page. Just to give it a test, what if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?"

Shock registers faintly to you, even if that thought's been circling your mind for months. A little smile pulls at your mouth. "Yeah, I think we might be on the same page there."

When he leans in, you smell faintly of gunpowder, something warm and smoky—so distinctly Jason. You don't think you'll ever tire of it, and you love it more when his fingers tangled itself into your hair, brushing against the nape of your neck. When he finally kisses you, a low rumble in the back of his throat in content, you find he was half-right that night you both met. Maybe there was luck involved after all.

"I am keeping that note." You murmur after he pulls away to press something softer against your temple.

His lips curl into a smile, and you feel it against your skin. "'Course you are."

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dc masterlist -> jason + other dc works

before he knew it, he couldn't form a coherent sentence. he was falling asleep.

no matter how hard he tried to keep his eyes from rolling back and listen to you talk about your day, everything just seemed to get drowned out by the slow rise and fall of your chest.

"rem?"

"remy?" you repeated.

he hummed, pretending like he simply hadn't heard you.

"do you think it's a good idea?" you asked.

the cajun was completely delirious and had no idea what you were talking about, yet still responded with, "yeah, chere."

you hadn't caught on yet, "i don't know. i guess i'm just worried because-"

you paused as you heard a loud noise that vibrated off your chest.

you craned your neck, looking down to find your boyfriend snoring.

"remy!" you said with mock annoyance. you couldn't possibly be upset with him.

he woke up immediately, blinking in confusion, "yeah?"

"did you hear anything i said?" you said as you gave him a look, already knowing the answer.

"sure, chere. something about, uh..." he paused before groaning and burying his face into you. "'m sorry sweetheart, it's jus been a long day."

you give him a sympathetic smile as you bring your thumb up to brush his cheek.

"and it doesn' help that you're so damn comfy," he flattered.

you shook your head, unable to hide the blush that crept across your cheeks. "you should've just said told me you were tired," you scolded.

remy gripped onto your sweater with a groan, "i know. but i love listenin' to your voice."

"tell me again. i'll stay awake this time," he promises, but the lazy tone of his voice says otherwise.

you continue to run your fingers through his hair affectionately, smirking at the way he hums.

you give in anyway, "alright."

and as you suspected, within the first five sentences he was dead weight.

but you didn't wake him or dare move. he was finally getting his much needed rest.

besides, you knew he'd be right there in the morning begging you to tell him all over again.

You watched from the kitchen window, coffee in hand, as the backyard slowly turned white. The frost was creeping up the glass, and inside, the house was full of warmth— the faint scent of cinnamon and apple, a low hum of an old radio, and the sounds of Lian Harper making very big plans.

“Daddy! We need carrots! For the snowman’s nose! And gloves for Will so he doesn’t get cold! And maybe a hat! A tiny one!”

Roy chuckled from the hallway, his breath misting as he zipped up her bright red coat, “You think your brother’s gonna help us roll snowballs, huh?”

“He’s helping by being cute,” Lian declared, the kind of logic only an eight year old could deliver with total confidence.

You came over, sliding Will’s little beanie over his wispy red hair. “He’s got that part down,” you said with a grin, kissing his chubby cheek. He gurgled happily, reaching for your nose with water proof mittened hands that made grasping impossible.

Roy smiled at the sight, your arms around Will, Lian bouncing impatiently at your side, snow swirling just outside the door. For a guy who used to live out of a duffel bag and on instant ramen, this kind of peace still hit him like a miracle.

“Alright, team Harper,” Roy announced, shouldering the door open, “Let’s conquer the backyard.”

The cold rushed in immediately, crisp and clean. Lian tore out first, squealing, her boots leaving perfect prints in the snow. You followed, holding Will close, his little nose wrinkling at the cold air.

“Oh, that face,” you cooed softly. “Not sure if he’s impressed or offended.”

Roy laughed, crouching beside you. “Give him a minute. He’s a Harper— he’ll be launching snowballs before dinner.”

“He’s also a Wayne,” you teased, brushing snow off his little shoulder as it landed, “In which case, he’ll just analyze them first.”

Lian, meanwhile, was already constructing something that might have been a snowman, or possibly a snow blob with personality. “He needs a sidekick!” she declared, “Mommy, Daddy, help!”

Roy took Will from you, tucking the baby against his chest as you helped Lian roll the snow. Will babbled, tiny hands waving every time Lian laughed, as if her joy was contagious.

“See, Will?” Lian said proudly once her snow duo was complete, “You gotta love the snow. It’s the rules.”

Roy kissed the top of her head. “He’s sold, Li. Look at him— he’s practically the snow king already.”

You turned to see Will blinking up at the falling flakes, one landing right on his nose. His eyes went wide and then he laughed. Loud, bright, and giddy, the sound was so pure it made Roy’s heart squeeze.

Lian froze mid-sentence, beaming. “Mommy! Daddy! He likes it! He really likes it! I told you he would.”

You and Roy exchanged that soft, wordless smile that came with being parents— the one that said ‘yeah, this… this is everything.’

Roy adjusted Will’s hat and whispered, “Told you, little man. Snow’s magic.”

Then Lian nailed Roy with a snowball, the snow splintering, pulling another laugh from the little boy on Roy’s hip.

“You were distracted!” she crowed, already packing another.

Roy gasped in mock betrayal, “You’re going down, short stack!”

Chaos followed; a baby shoved into your arms, shrieking, laughing, and the occasional “Roy! She’s eight!” from you when the snowball fights got too competitive.

By the end, Lian was giggling on top of a snow fort, Roy was dramatically “defeated” face-first in a snowbank, and Will was bundled back in your arms, hiccupping from laughing so hard.

Roy flopped back beside you in the snow, brushing flakes out of his hair. “Best first snow ever?”

You looked down at your little family— at Lian proudly guarding her fort, at Will starting to doze against your coat, his tiny hand clutching your scarf, and smiled softly.

“Yeah,” you said. “Definitely the best.”

Roy reached over, threading his fingers through yours. “Told you. Team Harper’s unstoppable.”

You squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of him through the cold, “Let’s see if you’re still saying that when we go inside and they both track snow through the house.”

He smirked, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, his lips cold and slightly chapped, “Worth it.”

Snow kept falling, soft and endless, as laughter echoed across the backyard. The sound of a family stitched together by love, mischief, and the magic of a babies first snow.

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Luckily enough, you found a tiny cave to retreat before parting. If you weren't fighting, you would've admire how beautiful the cave was, how some icy-looking sticks were hanging from the ceiling and how good it smelled there. But then you find a cave lake with some milky-like water, with a cute pinkish color that you were too attracted to check out.

If only both of you didn't sink your hands inside the lake. If only you wouldn't have slapped Hal after a stupid comment. If only you wouldn't have fallen asleep instantly. If only, if only, if only.

You wake up first.

Not because you're a morning person (God knows you're not) but because your body feels... wrong in the best way possible. No ache in your lower back from that old training injury. No dull throb in your left knee that always flares up when the temperature drops. Your shoulders don't feel like someone's been using them as a punching bag for a decade. You stretch, and it's effortless, like your joints have been freshly oiled. Even your skin feels smoother, warmer, alive in a way it hasn't since your early twenties.

You blink up at the jagged ceiling of the cave, the icy stalactites catching faint violet light from outside. Then you look down.

Green. Lantern ring still glowing softly on your finger. Green suit hugging muscles that are definitely not yours. Broad chest. Strong thighs. Hal Jordan's stupidly perfect everything staring back at you from your own borrowed reflection in the milky-pink lake water.

"Oh... fuck me," you whisper, voice deep, unmistakably his.

A groan—your groan, but pitched lower and angrier—comes from the other side of the cave.

You turn.

There you are. Or rather, there your body is. Curled on its side, one arm wrapped protectively around the ribs like it's trying to hold itself together. Sweat already beads on your forehead. The face (your face) is twisted in pain, eyes screwed shut, breathing shallow and ragged.

Hal-in-your-body tries to push himself up on one elbow and immediately hisses through clenched teeth.

"What the fu—argh—shit! Why does everything hurt?!" His voice cracks on the last word. "Why does my—your—fuck, why does this body feel like it got hit by a truck and then the truck backed up?!"

He finally manages to sit, one hand braced on the stone floor, the other clutching at your (his now) sternum like he's having a heart attack.

You stand, and Jesus Christ the difference is obscene. No protest from your spine. No click in your hip. You feel strong. Powerful. Like you could bench-press a starfighter without breaking a sweat.

Hal's eyes (your eyes) finally focus on you. They go wide.

Then wider.

Then he screams.

Not a manly yell. Not even a startled shout.

A full-on, blood-curdling, horror-movie shriek that bounces off every stalactite in the cave.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?! WHY AM I TINY?! WHY DO I HURT IN PLACES I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW COULD HURT?! WHY DO MY KNEES FEEL LIKE THEY'RE FULL OF BROKEN GLASS AND REGRET?!"

He scrambles backward until his back hits the cave wall, panting, wild-eyed, looking at his (your) hands like they've personally betrayed him.

You can't help it.

You laugh.

It's deep, rolling, Hal's laugh coming out of Hal's throat, and it only makes him more frantic.

"Don't—don't you dare laugh in my body, you asshole! This is your fault! This is definitely your fault!"

"My fault?" You gesture at yourself (at him). "You're the one who said 'c'mon, touch the creepy alien water, it'll be funny.'"

"I said it sarcastically!"

"You still touched it!"

"Because you slapped me first!"

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Hal. Focus. We're body-swapped. On an alien planet. With no backup for at least seventy-two hours. And your body," you gesture down at yourself "feels fucking incredible. Like I could run a marathon and then fight a war. Meanwhile you look like you're about to pass out from existing."

He glares up at you from your own exhausted face. "I have chronic pain, you dickhead. I have old fractures that never healed right. I have scar tissue in places scar tissue has no business being. I have—God, do you ever sleep? Why are my eyes so dry? Why is there a knot the size of a fist under my left shoulder blade?! Why are you still a superhero? HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?"

You crouch in front of him and for once you don't have to hide the wince. Because there is no wince.

"...I didn't know it was that bad," you say, quieter.

He looks away, jaw tight. Your jaw. "Yeah, well. You don't exactly advertise it. And you sure as hell don't complain about it."

A beat of silence. Just the soft drip-drip of condensation from the stalactites and the faint hum of the ring on your finger.

Then Hal mutters, "Your tits hurt."

You blink. "Excuse me?"

"They're... sore. Like, all the time. And your period is coming. I can feel it. It's like your spine is trying to secede from the union. Why didn't you warn me?!"

You stare at him. Then you start laughing again; helpless, wheezing, doubled over with Hal Jordan's lungs.

He throws a pebble at you. It bounces harmlessly off your chest.

"Stop enjoying this!"

"I can't help it!" you manage between breaths. "You're me right now and you're whining about my period like it's a war crime!"

"It feels like one!"

You wipe your eyes (his eyes) and sober up just enough to offer him a hand.

You and Hal spend the next few hours combing the cave system, or at least trying to.

You move ahead easily, Hal's body responding like it's been custom-built for this: sure-footed, strong, no hitch in your step even when the ground slopes sharply. The ring on your finger hums contentedly, as if it's happy to be worn by someone who isn't constantly fighting it with stubbornness.

Behind you, Hal stumbles every few steps. Your body protests loudly at every uneven rock, every dip, every breath of cold air. He keeps one hand pressed to his (your) lower back like he's trying to hold the spine in place. His face is pale, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed against the pain that's become background noise to you but is screaming symphony to him.

You find what looks like an ancient carving near the back wall: swirling symbols etched into the stone, surrounding a depiction of two figures touching hands over a pool that matches the milky-pink lake exactly. One figure glows green; the other... doesn't. Below it, more symbols that might be a warning, or instructions, or a grocery list for all you know.

"Think this is it?" you ask, tracing the lines with a finger.

Hal limps up beside you, leaning heavily against the wall. "Maybe. If we reverse whatever we did. Hands in the water again? Slap each other? Yell 'I wish I was me again' really loud?"

You snort. "Worth a shot. But last time we did that we passed out for hours. If it doesn't work, we're stuck like this until the extraction team shows up."

He nods, grim. Then winces as he shifts weight. "Jesus. How do you walk around like this every day? I feel like someone replaced my skeleton with rebar that's been bent wrong and then welded back together."

You glance at him. Really look. The sweat on your forehead, the way your shoulders hunch protectively, the shallow breathing. Things you've learned to ignore.

"I manage," you say quietly. "Always have."

He doesn't respond right away. Just stares at the carving, then down at his hands, flexing the fingers like he's testing if they're still attached.

You both kneel by the lake's edge again. The pinkish water ripples gently, reflecting your swapped faces back at you: Hal's sharp jawline and cocky smirk on your frame; your tired eyes and stubborn set to the mouth on his.

"Ready?" you ask.

He hesitates. Longer than he should.

"Hal?"

“No.”

Hal’s staring at you with your own eyes gone wide and shiny and determined in a way you’ve only ever seen when you’re about to do something monumentally stupid.

“No?” you repeat.

He takes one step back. Then another. “I’m not giving it back.”

You blink. “What are you not giving back?”

“Your body.”

A beat.

“WHAT? WHY?”

“CAUSE I DON’T WANT TO!” he yells, throwing both arms out like he’s declaring war on the universe.

“You hurt all the time! All the time! And I just spent half a day in here and I already want to set myself on fire! Your spine feels like it’s been through a woodchipper! Your hips click like a broken castanet! There’s a spot behind your left shoulder blade that’s been personally holding a grudge since 2017! I’m not sending you back to that! I’m keeping it! You can have this one!” He jabs a finger (your finger) at your chest. “It’s fine! It’s great! You’re welcome!”

You stare at him. He stares back. Your own face is doing the stubborn pout you hate seeing in mirrors.

Then he bolts.

He tries to, anyway.

He spins on your heel, takes three frantic steps toward the cave mouth (your shorter legs pumping, your bad knee buckling halfway) and you’re already moving.

Hal’s body covers the distance in two strides.

You scoop him up, one arm around your own waist, the other hooking under your own knees like he weighs nothing. Because to this body, he doesn’t.

He flails. “PUT ME DOWN!”

“Nope.” You pivot, still holding him bridal-style. “You just tried to steal my chronic pain like it’s a collectible Funko Pop. We’re talking now.”

He kicks. Your own foot connects harmlessly with Hal’s rock-hard thigh. “This is kidnapping! In my own body! That’s—that’s identity theft! Body theft! Theft theft!”

“You’re the one who said ‘I’m keeping it’ like we’re arguing over the last slice of pizza.”

He goes limp in defeat, head lolling back against your (Hal’s) shoulder. “I hate you.”

“You literally just tried to heroically sacrifice yourself to spare me pain. That’s the least Hal Jordan thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up.”

You’re both breathing hard now. Him from the sprint-that-wasn’t, you from laughing so hard Hal’s perfect abs are cramping.

Then—because the universe has a sick sense of humor—the momentum carries you both forward. Your foot catches on a slick rock. You stumble. Hal yelps. And the next thing you know you’re both crashing to the cave floor in a tangle of limbs.

He lands on top of you.

Face-to-face.

Your body sprawled across Hal’s chest.

His (your) forehead smacks gently against Hal’s perfect jaw.

For one long, horrified second neither of you moves.

You can feel your own heartbeat—fast, thready, familiar—hammering against Hal’s ribcage.

He can feel his heartbeat—steady, strong, annoyingly heroic—thumping under your cheek.

You both freeze. Suddenly you feel something creep in your legs.

"What—what is that?"

Hal pressed his lips together tight. "Oh my god, you are having a boner!"

"I'M HAVING A WHAT?"

"Why are you having a boner right now, woman, I barely even touch you!"

“I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS!” you yell, shoving at his shoulders. “It just HAPPENED! I didn’t—I don’t—I’ve never—how does it even DO that?!”

He scrambles backward so fast he nearly falls into the lake again, hands flying up like he’s warding off evil spirits. “Get it away from me! Put it back in its holster!”

“It’s not a fighter jet, Hal! I can’t just—” You gesture wildly downward. The movement makes everything worse. The traitor in Hal’s pants gives an enthusiastic twitch like it’s personally offended by the rejection. You slap both hands over it like you’re trying to smother a live grenade. “STOP. MOVING.”

Hal’s jaw drops. Your jaw. The betrayal is visible. “Are you—are you palming my boner right now? In front of me?!”

“I’M TRYING TO MAKE IT GO AWAY!”

“By SQUEEZING IT?!”

“I DON’T KNOW HOW THESE THINGS WORK!” you shout, voice booming off the stalactites. “I’ve never had one! It’s like someone parked a steel pipe in my crotch and now it has its own opinions! It’s weird! It’s hot! It’s—why is it throbbing like it has a pulse?! Is this normal?!”

Hal buries your face in your (his) hands. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die of secondhand embarrassment while inhabiting the body of the most repressed person in the galaxy.”

“I’m not repressed, I’m just normal! Female normal! We don’t get,” You make a helpless up-and-down gesture at the general pelvic region. “flagpoles! This thing has a mind of its own! It’s like it heard we were arguing and decided ‘yes, this is the moment’!”

Hal peeks through your fingers. “Did you… think about anything? Like, sexy thoughts? Because that’s usually how—”

“I WASN’T THINKING ABOUT ANYTHING SEXY!” Your volume hits new personal records. “I was thinking about how much I hate you and then we fell and now it’s—it’s awake! And angry! And I don’t know how to turn it off!”

Hal wheezes. It comes out high-pitched in your throat. “You’re panic-boning. You’re having a panic boner. In my body. Because we wrestled. This is the most heterosexual crisis I’ve ever been in.”

You groan and flop backward onto the cave floor, arms splayed, staring at the ceiling like maybe the stalactites will take pity and drop on you.

“It won’t stop,” you say to the universe at large. “It’s just… there. Staring at me. I can feel my own heartbeat in it. That can’t be right. That’s not supposed to happen.”

Hal crawls over cautiously, like approaching a live explosive and peers down at the situation like he’s doing damage assessment on a crashed jet.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Okay. Deep breaths. For both of us. You need to… distract it. Think unsexy thoughts.”

“Like what?!”

“Taxes. Your grandma’s feet. The time you walked in on Batman eating a banana.”

You try. You really do.

The traitor does not care about Batman’s potassium intake.

“It’s getting worse,” you report, horrified. “It heard Batman and now it’s… saluting harder.”

Hal makes a noise. “This has to be karma. I’ve spent years being smug about my equipment and now it’s betraying me via you.”

You sit up on your elbows, glaring at him with his own perfect green eyes. “Fix. It.”

“I can’t fix it from in here! You’re the one wearing it!”

“Then tell me what to do!”

He throws his hands up. “Cold water! Punch something! Recite the Green Lantern oath backward! I don’t know! I’ve never had to talk my own dick down from a ledge before!”

You glance at the milky-pink lake.

“Don’t you dare,” Hal says immediately.

You’re already moving.

“NO!”

Too late.

You scoop a handful of the glowing water and dump it straight into Hal’s crotch.

The cold hits like a slap from God.

The boner shrieks (metaphorically), retreats and basically yeets itself into hiding so fast you almost get whiplash from the deflation.

You gasp. “It’s gone! It’s gone. Holy shit, it’s gone.”

Hal stares at you, mouth open, your own face doing the most perfect fish-out-of-water impression you’ve ever seen.

“You just… baptized my dick in alien lake water.”

“Desperate times,” you mutter, wiping your hand on Hal’s perfect thigh like you can wipe away the memory.

A long silence.

Then Hal starts laughing. Helpless, wheezing, holding your sides like they’re going to split open from the force of it.

You join him.

You’re both cackling like lunatics on the floor of an alien cave, one of you cradling recently traumatized genitals, the other cradling recently traumatized pride, and neither of you can breathe.

“I hate this planet,” he mumbles between laughs.

“Same.”

When the laughter died, your stomachs were sore from laughing, he turned to you, and said, in a quieter tone:

“…I meant it, though. About not wanting you to hurt anymore.”

You swallow. Feel Hal’s throat work.

“I know.”

Another beat.

“But you’re still giving me my body back, asshole.”

He groans. “Fine. But only because if we stay swapped any longer I’m gonna have to deal with your period and I draw the line at wearing a tampon.”

You snort so hard Hal’s nostrils flare.

“Yeah, I'm also terrified of them.”

You both stay exactly where you landed, sprawled on the cool stone floor like two drunks who forgot how gravity works. Hal is propped against the wall now, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them like he’s trying to protect your ribcage from further betrayal. You are flat on your back a couple feet away, one arm flung over your eyes, the other hand still resting suspiciously close to the crotch region like you’re guarding against future mutiny.

The cave is quiet again except for the occasional drip from the stalactites and the soft, almost smug hum of the ring on your finger.

Hal breaks the silence first.

“So,” he says, voice scratchy in your throat. “On a scale of one to ‘we are never speaking of this again,’ how embarrassed are you right now?”

You don’t move your arm from your face. “I just gave your dick an ice bath in alien holy water because it decided to jump just from a touch of you. I’m at eleven. Maybe twelve.”

He snorts, which sounds unfairly cute coming out of your own mouth. “Yeah, well, I’m currently hosting what feels like the world’s angriest uterus and I’m pretty sure it’s plotting my murder. We’re even.”

You finally lower your arm and roll your head toward him. Hal’s eyes (your eyes) are doing that thing where they look tired and amused at the same time. It’s weird seeing your own expression aimed back at you like a mirror with attitude.

“You really were gonna keep my body,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating it.

He shrugs one shoulder, then immediately regrets it when your bad shoulder twinges.

“I mean. Yeah. For like… five dramatic seconds. Thought maybe if I suffered in your place for a while you’d finally take a goddamn vacation. Or at least stop pretending Advil is a personality trait.”

You stare at the ceiling. “That’s the stupidest, sweetest thing anyone’s ever tried to do for me.”

“Don’t get used to it. I’m taking it back the second we figure out how.”

“Deal.”

A pause. Then he nudges your boot with his (your) foot.

“Hey.”

“What.”

“Be honest. How’s my body treating you?”

You flex your fingers, roll your shoulders, feel the smooth glide of everything. No grinding. No popping. Just power, coiled and waiting.

“Like I stole someone else’s cheat codes,” you admit. “I could probably do a backflip right now and not immediately regret every life choice.”

He makes a low, appreciative noise. “Told you. Prime real estate.”

You smirk—his smirk, cocky and devastating. “Yeah, but the dick's kind of high-maintenance. Keeps trying to salute at the worst possible moments.”

Hal groans and drops his forehead onto his (your) knees. “Lets not mention your girlboner ever again.”

You laugh again, quieter this time. It rumbles deep in Hal’s chest and feels… nice. Too nice.

He peeks up at you through your own lashes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe a little.”

“You’re literally wearing my face and you’re flirting with me in it. That’s next-level narcissism.”

“Says the guy who just tried to body-jack me out of chivalry.”

“Chivalry,” he repeats, tasting the word like it’s suspicious. “Is that what we’re calling reckless self-sacrifice now?”

“Only when it’s stupid and hot.”

He freezes.

You freeze.

The cave somehow gets quieter.

Hal clears your throat. “Did you just—”

“Nope.”

“You said ‘hot.’”

“I said ‘stupid and hot.’ There’s a difference.”

He slowly pushes himself up a little straighter, wincing as your spine reminds him it exists. “So you think sacrificing myself to spare you pain is… hot.”

You sit up too, elbows on your knees, leaning forward. Hal’s body moves like it was born for dramatic leans.

“I think you being willing to suffer chronic pain for me, even for five seconds, is the most Hal Jordan thing you’ve ever done. And yeah. It’s… objectively attractive.”

He blinks at you with your own eyes. They look huge and startled and maybe a little glassy.

Then he laughs. “You’re hitting on me in my body. While I’m wearing yours. This is the most fucked-up foreplay in the history of the universe.”

You grin, all teeth and confidence. “You started it. You said my tits hurt like you were doing me a favor by noticing.”

“They do hurt. I’m doing heroic work right now just sitting here.”

“Mm. My hero.”

He rolls your eyes so hard you’re worried they’ll get stuck. But the corner of your mouth (his mouth now) twitches upward.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters.

“Takes one to know one.”

Another stretch of quiet. Not awkward, exactly. More like… charged. Like the air before a storm you both know is coming.

Hal finally speaks again, quieter. “When we switch back… you’re gonna let me help. For real. Not just ‘here’s a heating pad, bye.’ I mean actually let me carry some of it. Even if it’s just yelling at you to take a day off.”

You study him through Hal’s perfect vision. The stubborn set to your jaw. The faint worry lines you pretend aren’t there. The way your hands are clenched like you’re still bracing for impact.

“…Maybe,” you say.

He narrows your eyes. “Not maybe. Say yes.”

You sigh, long and dramatic in his lungs. “Fine. Yes. But only if you admit you were trying to flirt with me five minutes ago when you said my body was ‘fine’ and ‘great’ like you were selling me a used car.”

Hal’s cheeks (your cheeks) go faintly pink.

“…Shut up,” he mumbles, looking away.

You laugh again, softer.

He glances back at you, small crooked smile on your lips. “You’re still sitting there looking like a goddamn action figure. It’s unfair.”

“And you’re still sitting there looking like you’re about to fight the entire universe for me. Also unfair.”

He huffs. “We’re idiots.”

“Certified.”

A beat.

Then, because apparently neither of you can help it:

“…Wanna try the lake thing?” he asks.

You glance at the pink water. “Only if we agree: no slapping, no running, no boners, no attempted body theft.”

“Deal.”

You both stand; him slowly, carefully, you like you were poured into the suit this morning.

He holds out your hand.

You take it.

“On three,” you say.

“One,” he answers.

“Two.”

You both look at each other, one last stupid look.

“Three.”

Hands plunge into the water together.

Nothing happens.

Of course nothing happens.

You both groan in perfect unison.

“Figures,” Hal mutters.

You squeeze his hand (your hand) before letting go.

“…Guess we’ve got another seventy-two hours of this.”

He smirks with your mouth. “Guess we do.”

The pinkish glow from the lake paints everything in surreal light, like the whole cave decided to turn romantic without asking permission. Your hands dripping, shoulders almost touching. The failed ritual hangs between you like damp air.

Neither of you moves to stand.

Hal lets out a long, slow breath that makes your chest rise and fall in a way you’re not used to seeing from the outside. He’s staring at the rippling surface like it personally owes him an apology.

You tilt your head toward him.

“How awkward,” you say, voice low and rough in his timbre, “will it be to kiss you while you have my face?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink right away.

Just turns slowly, your own eyes meeting Hal’s eyes. They look… unguarded. Tired. A little amused. A little terrified.

“Very awkward,” he answers immediately, like he’s been waiting for the question. His voice cracks halfway through, your voice doing that thing it does when you’re trying not to sound affected. “Like… kissing a mirror that kisses back. And also has my stupid smirk. And also might bite.”

You huff a laugh through Hal’s nose. “Romantic.”

“The height of romance.” He shifts closer anyway. One careful inch. Then another. Your bad knee protests the angle and he winces, but doesn’t pull back. “Also, full disclosure: your lips are chapped. I can feel it. You need to stop biting them when you’re stressed.”

“You’re literally me right now. You don’t get to body-shame me.”

“I’m giving constructive feedback. From the inside.”

You roll his perfect eyes. “Noted.”

Silence again. Thicker now. The drip-drip from the stalactites sounds louder, like the cave itself is holding its breath.

He swallows. You watch your own throat work.

“Would you?” he asks, quieter. “If it wasn’t awkward. If we weren’t… this.” He gestures between your swapped bodies with a vague wave of your hand. “Would you want to?”

You study him. Really study him. The stubborn tilt to your own mouth. The faint flush creeping up your neck that you usually hide under collars or sarcasm. The way your lashes dip when you’re nervous, like right now.

“Yeah,” you say. Simple. No sarcasm. No deflection. “I would.”

His breath catches.

Then he laughs, soft and shaky. “Goddamn it. Of course you’d say that when I look like this. When I feel like roadkill and you look like a recruitment poster.”

“You still look like you,” you tell him. “Same eyes. Same stupid stubborn expression. Same ‘I’m about to do something reckless for someone I care about’ face.”

He looks down at the water. Then back up at you.

“Fuck it.”

He leans in first.

You meet him halfway.

It’s not graceful. Your heights are wrong (his borrowed body is taller, broader) so you have to duck a little while he has to tip his head back. Your noses bump. His (your) chapped lips catch on Hal’s smoother ones.

There’s a second where everything feels hilariously, mortifyingly off: the wrong jaw angle, the unfamiliar pressure of stubble against your own borrowed skin, the way your heartbeat (his heartbeat) is suddenly thunder in both chests at once.

Then you both adjust.

And it clicks.

His hand finds the back of Hal’s neck, fingers threading into short hair that feels like yours but smells like his shampoo. Your hand cups the side of your face, thumb brushing over the cheekbone you’ve hated in mirrors for years.

It’s still awkward. Of course it is.

But it’s also warm. And careful. And stupidly tender.

You pull back just enough to breathe. Both of you breathing hard through the wrong lungs.

Hal speaks first, voice wrecked in your throat. “That was…”

“Very awkward,” you finish for him.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

Then, quieter: “And really fucking good.”

You grin. “Told you this body is fucking amazing.”

He groans and drops his forehead harder against yours. “Shut up. I’m having an identity crisis and a sexuality crisis at the same time. Give me a second.”

You chuckle, low and warm. Your free hand slides down to rest over his still pressed to your cheek.

“Take all the seconds you want,” you murmur. “We’ve got seventy-two hours.”

He huffs a laugh against your mouth. Then kisses you again. Slower this time. Less bump, more deliberate.

And yeah.

It’s still awkward.

At work, you and Jimmy are just friends. Jimmy feels weird thinking the word "just" about anything relating to you, because everything about you means so much to him. Your friendship is one of the things he values most in the world. But he also values having sex with you quite a lot, and despite his best efforts, you won't do that at work.

To be fair, you are one of the busiest people he thinks he's ever known. You're Perry's assistant, and while there has definitely been a marked decrease in Perry yelling at them since you came on staff, you have something going on pretty much every minute that you're working. Of course, Jimmy thinks that's exactly why a good romp in the copy room would probably fix your head, but you always insist that there needs to be a separation there.

Last time you two had talked about it, you'd been riding him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your hips rocked steadily, hands gripping his biceps, moaning out the frustrations of a long day. "Now think how much better you would feel if you'd been able to relax during the day," He'd said, cupping your ass in his hands as he helped you grind yourself against him.

When you laughed, your walls fluttered around him, "This again? Jimmy, it's church and state. We should not be putting these things together."

He'd groaned, rolled his pelvis up to meet yours, "Isn't that kind of what we're doing already?"

"No!" Your nails dug into his arms, the speed of your movements increasing just a little, "It's two totally different relationships. At work, you are my coworker. One I like a lot, don't get me wrong, but still my coworker. Outside of work, you happen to be my fuckbuddy. Those two things have no reason to overlap."

Jimmy thinks he would've phrased it a little more delicately than "fuckbuddy", but on further reflection, he might've actually been the one who used that term first.

“I bet you’d like it more than you think,” He’d brought his hands back to rest behind his head, watching you on his cock, something that never failed to entertain and delight him. You laughed again, and your walls clenched around him again, “Oh, I know I’d like it. Probably too much. That’s the problem, I’d never get any more work done.” That answer had actually satisfied something in him. He watched you, contentedly, for a while, and when you’d started to lose some of your rhythm, clearly getting a little tired, he had brought his hands back to grip your hips. He bounced you on his dick, not bothering to hide his smug smile as your moans got louder, and half shrugged, “I guess I’ll just have to do an extra good job on keeping you sane when we're not at work, then."

You'd opened your mouth to retort, but all that came out was a kind of whining groan that made Jimmy bite his lip so he wouldn't just come at the sound. Instead of speaking, you threw your head back and let Jimmy do the work until he'd brought you to a trembling orgasm.

Later that night, when y'all were finally done, you had curled next to him, head on his chest. You'd run your finger in lazy circles on his skin for a while before you told him, "You really do relax me, you know. I think this job would've driven me crazy if I didn't have someone who could get all my tension out. Thank you for that, really."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jimmy had felt high from the ego rush that gave him ever since.

In many ways, he understood why you didn't want to do anything at work. You loved your job, and you would never do anything to risk it, and that made sense. And the thing you two had going on was supposed to be a secret from the people at work, which had been his idea, not yours.

"They know we're friends, it's not like we're dating. If there was anything romantic between us, that would be different, but I don't see why anyone needs to know that we're fucking."

Jimmy cringed a little when he thought back on his phrasing. He knew he had been too blunt, too crass. It was just that one of the things he'd liked about you in the beginning was that you were one of the only women he knew who didn't like him romantically, who didn't dissolve into pieces around him, and that was so good and he didn't want that to change. But now...well now he at least wished that he would've said it a little more delicately.

So yes, concern for your job made sense. He could also take some credit for the fact that you wanted to be subtle about it at work, so that people didn't get the wrong idea. He really understood why this was important to you. It was just that on days like this, when news was slow and you were hanging around the bullpen more, when you looked so good, he couldn't have cared less about subtlety. He could barely keep his hands off of you.

You were perched on the edge of Lois's desk, laughing with her about something that he hadn't actually paid enough attention to hear. Your ankles were crossed, and you leaned back on your hands, and there was something so casually sexy about it that he couldn't stop staring, and it was honestly pissing him off. You weren't doing anything. Sure, you were hot, but he shouldn't have been as captivated by you as he was.

"You're grinding your teeth," Clark's voice was suddenly in his ear.

Jimmy jumped, gave Clark a reproachful look, and pretended he was busy on his computer as he said, "Dude. Not cool."

"Your dentist will thank me," Clark smiled, dropped his voice to a whisper, "Your heartbeat is going crazy, too."

When Jimmy found at that his best friend was Superman, he had imagined a lot of exciting adventures. It turned out to be mostly Clark calling him out about things, which was decidedly less exciting.

Jimmy opened a random file on his computer and stared like he was focused. He shrugged, "I guess I'm pretty amped about work today." Clark laughed like he had just made a hilarious joke. Jimmy could feel your and Lois's eyes glancing over to them, and it took a lot of willpower not to look back, to keep his eyes locked on his screen.

Clark sounded apologetic, "You know you could just ask her out."

Jimmy clicked randomly around the screen, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh come on, you're always looking like a lovesick puppy lately," Clark nudged his arm, a smile on his face, "What's the worst that could happen?"

Jimmy doesn't bother telling Clark the full truth, that you guys have been sleeping together for months and that you seem perfectly content with this arrangement. If Jimmy had any romantic feelings for you (which he doesn't), it still wouldn't be worth it to risk messing up what you did have. Being your friend, sharing your bed, those were enough. He didn't need anything else from you.

Instead, he sighs, "I really don't know what you mean, man. Besides, I have a date tonight."

"You have a date every night," Clark's voice is a little louder now, more casual, "And it's almost always with a different woman."

So focused on looking like he's busy, Jimmy doesn't notice Lois approaching until she speaks, "I think he might be a sex addict."

He snaps his head over to look at her, feeling his face burn, "I am not a sex addict. I don't even sleep with most of them."

Your laugh rings through the air, but you're still at Lois's desk. Jimmy still doesn't look over at you, but he can feel that his blush has crept up to his ears.

Lois hums, "I actually think that might be sadder. All those dates, all this time, money, and you're not even getting laid? What's the point?"

"Maybe he's a gambling addict," Clark sounds half serious and half joking.

"Oh, you two be nice," You finally leave Lois's desk and walk over to Jimmy's, "I think it's kind of sweet."

Jimmy turns in his chair to find himself looking up at you. You, in your stupid sexy office clothes, with your perfect lips curled into a stupid sweet little smile, and your eyes sparkling with a teasing light. He can feel his heart thundering in his chest, and he finds that he's actually annoyed about how turned on he is looking at you. He blinks, hard, and then asks you, "Sweet?"

"I think you're a secret romantic. You're just trying so hard to find the right person," There was something genuine in your expression, although your tone stayed playful, "I think it's really just that you love, love. I'm kind of the same way. Looking for love is a noble pursuit, even if there are some missteps. Can't be afraid to swing and miss, or to end up heartbroken, or to lose out for a while. It's about finding the right person. It's sweet."

He could feel his smile widening, the blush on his face not leaving but mellowing, "Thanks. That’s a nicer theory, at least.”

Lois whistled, low and slow, "Not a bad analysis. But that just means he's a love addict. Is that really that much better?"

“I just think addict is too strong a word. If we’re deciding I’m a closet romantic, then can’t we just let it be romantic?” Jimmy pleaded.

Clark pat his shoulder, heavy but gentle, “Sorry bud, but I think this one stands. You’re definitely addicted to love.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jimmy cornered you by the printer later that day, unable to stop his eyes from trailing over your body. You’d clearly been working for a while, your sleeves rolled up past your elbows and your hair mussed, probably from raking your fingers through it. But you had a satisfied smile on your face and you seemed like you were finishing up, so Jimmy didn’t feel too bad about openly ogling you. His voice ended up coming out somewhat low, “Hey. Thanks for sticking up for me earlier.”

“Anytime,” You didn’t look up from the papers you were organizing.

His voice stayed casual, but he knew he was standing too close to you, arms caging around you as he rested his hands on the desk you were using, murmuring just above your ear, "Do you really think I'm a romantic?"

You let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, and turned around in his arms. Your chests and hips pressed together, and that sparkle was back in your eyes even as you rolled them at him, "I do, actually. But I don't think romance is what's on your mind right now."

"You look incredible," He refrains from rolling his hips against yours, but it might be the last semblance of self control he has before he gets on his knees and starts begging.

"I'm just wearing my office clothes, Jimmy. I look like I'm at work," You scoff.

He shrugs, lip twitching with a smile, "There's nothing sexier than dedication.

You bring a finger up, poke him in the chest, "You are incorrigible, Jimmy Olsen."

"I'm only a man. If you want some metahuman self-control, go find Superman," He licks his lips, "Although I'm not sure he'd be able to resist you either."

There’s a grin that you’re holding back, he can tell. You shake your head at him, pretending to be exasperated, “You’re getting better at the smooth talking, I’ll give you that.”

That was true. When you’d first started hooking up, Jimmy had been quite a bit less eloquent. He’d never really had to try, and when he did it came out clumsy, awkward. You’d teased him about it, but you never held it against him, and as time went on, he found himself growing more comfortable with it, improving at it. He figured it just added to the list of things he had to thank you for.

"Come on. It'll only take a minute," His eyes were wide, pleading.

This time you did grin at him, "Ah, yes, what every girl wants to hear before she has sex."

Jimmy laughed, bowed his head to touch his forehead to yours. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, yours were closed too. He remembers Clark saying he looks lovesick lately, which obviously isn't true, but nevertheless he's glad you're not looking at him right now, glad he can just take in the peaceful expression on your face and share this moment with you. Then, in the interest of ruining the moment on purpose before he could ruin it on accident, he said, "I just think you'd have a better day if you let me bend you over the printer. I'm doing this for you, y'know."

You slap his chest, eyes open now and eyebrow arched, "I commend your willingness to make that sacrifice, but I think I'll be okay, thanks."

Jimmy tried not to pout, then pouted anyway, "Could I at least have a kiss?"

"We can't kiss at work," You protested, but there was a gleam of consideration in your eye.

"I'll leave you alone about it for the rest of the day," He offered, "Hell, rest of the week. Just for one little kiss? Isn't that a fair trade?"

You hummed in thought, "Just one? And you'll stop badgering me about getting your dick wet while we're at work?"

He raised a hand up, "Scout's honor. Unless you want more, that is, in which case I may be willing to oblige."

"Absolutely incorrigible," You tsked, but you brought your hands up to gently cup his face.

His fingers itch to grab your hips, and he makes himself grip the desk you're up against tighter instead, lets you have control over what happens.

The kiss is shorter than he would've liked, but sweet, your soft lips melding perfectly against his. When you pull away, you cock your brow, not releasing his face yet as you ask, "Are we good?"

He beamed at you, “We’re fantastic.”

“Great,” You released his face and gently pushed him away, turning to pick up your papers, “Can’t wait to be normal coworkers for the rest of this week.”

Jimmy steps back to give you enough space to gather your things, but he places a hand on your elbow to pause you, “We can still…hangout outside of work, right?”

Snorting, you looked at him like he was stupid, “Of course. “I might come over tonight?” He hadn’t meant it to be a question, but his voice went up at the end anyway. “You know you’re welcome any time,” You smirk, “Although if you come too late you’re just gonna be sitting there while I sleep.”

“Terrible hosting,” He teased.

You shrugged, “Only for terrible guests.”

He thought about acting offended, but he had already gotten more than he’d really expected out of this interaction and decided not to push his luck too far. Instead, he just laughed, “I’ll give you a heads up before I come over. And I’ll try not to be too late.”

“Thank you,” Flashing him a toothy smile, you touched his arm gently before starting to make your way out of the room again. “Hey,” He spoke suddenly, pausing you again for a moment, “You should leave your work clothes on until I come over. A giggle bubbled out of you like an overfull pot, and you kept walking, calling over your shoulder, “Don’t get your hopes up.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jimmy likes to think that he's better in the written word than he is out loud. Still, every time he wants to come over to your place the first thing that flashes into his mind is just sending the classic "u up?" text. Sometimes he does do that, because it makes you laugh and tease him when he gets there, but tonight he doesn't have it in him to be silly. He's tired, feels on edge all the time lately in a way that's left him completely worn out. He sends you a "see you soon" before he's even finished rejecting his date's offer to come up to her apartment.

Some of that tired wears off when you open your door and peek your head out at him, squinting critically for a moment before you say, "I'm sorry, no soliciting."

"In a sex work way, or in a Girl Scout cookie way?" He chuckles, feeling a bit of weight that he hadn't realized was settled in his chest suddenly lift off.

"I'd let just about anyone inside if they had Girl Scout cookies," You spoke seriously, but after a moment you smiled and opened the door the rest of the way to let him in.

His eyes trail over you, a grin coming to his lips, "I thought you weren't going to keep your office clothes on."

You are still wearing your outfit from work, although your shoes are kicked off and he thinks you've taken off your bra too. You half shrug, smiling playfully, "I didn't say I wouldn't, I said you shouldn't get your hopes up. I assume you'll make it worth my while."

"Oh, I will," He slips his fingers into your belt loops, (feeling thankful that your skirt actually has belt loops because he's embarrassed himself before by trying to do that when there were none), and tugs you closer to him. When you tilt your head towards him ever so slightly, he takes the opportunity to kiss you.

You let him guide you to the couch, lips barely parting, let him sit and pull you down to straddle him. His hands move, trail over your body, caressing and squeezing but never staying in one place too long, like he can't miss a single part of you. Your lips move off of his, brushing along his jaw and up to his temple, then back down to murmur in his ear, "I really didn't think you'd be this excited about it."

"You look incredible," He repeats from earlier, but his voice is less lustful than before, genuine in a way you hadn’t expected. Then he almost imperceptibly shakes his head like that’ll clear it, asking you as casually as he’d ask for a water, "Can I eat you out while you're wearing this?"

"What, like I'm gonna say no to that?"

You assume he wants to go to the bed, but he just tips you off his lap and positions you on the couch, pulls you so your ass is on the arm and your legs are dangling off. Your skirt rucks up your hips, and he grabs your thighs tightly as he kneels, looking just a step down from truly reverent.

Jimmy delights in the sounds you make. He always does. He told you once that no one boosted his ego in bed like you do, which you're pretty certain is not true, but you can't deny that he makes you noisy in a way that you're not used to, draws sighs and moans and squeals from you with skilled touches that leave you trembling, and he keeps his dumb, dopey smile on his face the whole time.

He doesn't eat you out until you're satisfied, but until he is. You're not certain exactly what metric he uses to determine when he's ready to move on, but usually he wants you to come at least once, if not a few times, and no matter what he never stops until your legs are trembling and his face is drenched with your juices. He keeps that same smile on his face as he wipes it with the back of his hand, and you sometimes want to tell him that it's a dumb smile, but really it just makes your heart clench in a way that you try desperately to ignore. When he is done, a little after your second orgasm, he stands up and holds his hand out to you. You take it, breathless, and ask him, “You need me to return the favor?”

“Just wanna get you in bed,” Jimmy sounds earnest, almost desperate, although you’re sure he’s playing it up. You allowed yourself to be led to your own bedroom, and then to be guided to the middle of your bed. Jimmy doesn’t bother peeling off any of his clothes, just climbs on top of you and starts kissing you again as he undoes his pants and pulls his cock out. “Good?” His voice is soft as he slides the head of his dick against your sensitive folds, just above where you want him.

“Good,” You tell him, then keen upwards just a little, “Please, Jimmy.”

He doesn’t tease you, doesn’t make you wait. In fact you don’t even have your words all the way out when he starts sliding into you, a long groan sounding from deep in his throat as he bottoms out. He’s right on top of you, pressed all the way against you. He calls this “belly to belly missionary” sometimes, and he’s barely holding himself up, his face buried between your shoulder and your pillow, thrusting steadily, if without great force.

Jimmy wants to tell you how massively his stress has been reduced just by being inside you, but he can’t think of a way to say it that won’t sound weird. Instead, he tries to focus on making you giving you everything you want. Squeezing your hip the way he knows you like, pressing kisses to your neck, letting out little noises while he’s breathing heavy in your ear. He came here with an urge to be selfish, to relax by taking care of himself first, but the only way he can think of to make himself feel good is making you feel good.

It’s been like this a while, him rutting into you, movement never stopping even if he’s not particularly fast. It takes him by surprise when you orgasm, grabbing the back of his head with one hand and pulling him close to you, the other scratching down his back. It seems like it takes you by surprise too, your body trembling as a wrecked moan escapes your lips. When you stop shaking, you pat his head gently and then move your hands, taking deep breaths as if to steady yourself. Jimmy thinks about offering to change positions, although he likes this a lot. Then suddenly, casual as ever, you ask him, “So how did the date go?”

He pauses, just for a second but it’s long enough to make you whine, and the sound kickstarts his movement again. Thrusting mindlessly, he leans up on one arm so that he can look at you quizzically, “Why?” “We’re friends, aren’t we?” Your hips rocked in time with his, “Why wouldn’t I want to know?” Jimmy tried to think of a good answer to that, but he didn’t have one. He shrugged, or at least tried to (it was difficult in his position), “Not great, obviously. She was…I don’t know, annoying? Maybe not really annoying, just really dumb. I don’t feel like we held a real conversation the whole time. She wouldn’t answer any questions I asked her about herself.”

He had sped up a little without realizing, frustrated, and you made a noise halfway between a squeak and a moan that he liked more than he would’ve expected. You cleared your throat, looking a little embarrassed for a moment, and then asked, “What, was she not into you?” “No, she made an extremely unsubtle comment about seeing ‘the rest’ of me when I walked her home, and she wouldn’t stop touching me. I’m pretty sure she’s just like that.”

There was obvious surprise on your face, “So she wanted to sleep with you?”

Jimmy scoffed, “I know, right? Who would want to do that?”

He bucked his hips a little harder now, and you bit your lip, clearly keeping some kind of noise in. That bothered him, and he was going to say something about it, but then you smacked his shoulder lightly, “It’s not that, idiot. I mean I saw that girl, she was hot.”

He slowed his movements a little, did his awkward half shrug again, “She was conventionally attractive, yeah.”

“So why didn’t you go with her?” You sounded genuinely baffled.

The silence that hung for a moment was heavy with something that neither of you could exactly name. Or at least, Jimmy told himself that it was something he couldn’t name. He reminds himself that you don’t have romantic feelings for each other, that that’s the whole point of how you interact with each other, and then he feels very stupid for having to remind himself of that.

“I had somewhere else I would rather be,” He tried to keep his tone as light as he could.

“Yeah?” You gave him a careful look, but tried to keep your own tone playful, teasing, “And where is that?”

Jimmy decides he doesn't really care about sounding weird, and tries his best to make his voice sound sexy, which he normally doesn’t bother to do, “Inside of you.” Your pussy clamped down on him as you laughed, “That’s such a creepy thing to say to someone.” He forced himself to laugh too, but it came out strangled from trying to suppress a moan. You continued to giggle, seemingly oblivious to the way your warm, wet pussy was squeezing his cock every time you did so. The tension that had filled the room (not that there was any tension between you, of course) had dissipated, and he grinned at you, “Are you sure? It wasn’t hot?” “I didn’t say it wasn’t hot,” You were still laughing, still unknowingly fluttering around him, “I just said that it was creepy. It can be both.”

Jimmy can feel himself starting to lose control. His movements got faster, more erratic, and your laughter shifted easily into moans as you shoved your head further into the pillow, crying out, “Fuck, Jimmy, I’m-”

You clenched around him once again as you came, and that feeling mixed with the sight of the sudden switch from you laughing to your eyes rolling back was what pushed Jimmy over the edge, unable to hold in a guttural groan as he said, “Me too.”

When he's done, he doesn't really bother to hold himself up anymore. He collapses onto you, and your arms wrap around him, holding him there. When he rolls off of you, looks at your face, you're smiling at him, "Yeah, it was worth it to keep the stupid clothes on. Thanks.”

“Thank you,” Jimmy grins, tries to ignore the way his heart flutters at the sight of your smile, “You’ve drastically improved my day.”

“I’m sorry your date didn’t work out, but you’ve improved my day too,” There’s a look in your eye that’s almost defiant, like you’re challenging him, but then you blink and it’s gone, “I do think it’s sweet that you’re a secret romantic, but I’ll be a little bummed when you finally do find your one true love and I’m alone with a vibrator again.” Jimmy laughs, but only after you do first, and then he shakes his head, “I don’t think you’ve gotta worry about that. The romance theory is nice, but I don’t know, I don’t really think I’m the kind of guy who falls in love.”

You roll your eyes, sit up, “Everyone says that until they do. Wanna take a shower?”

“Absolutely,” He stands up, already heading for the bathroom.

You hold up a finger to pause him, “Not to have sex. I’m scared of slipping. I just need a shower, and you’re a little sweaty. Conserve water, y’know?”

“I mean, you’ll still be naked, right?” “Yes, Jimmy, I will be naked in the shower.” He starts walking again, “Then I’m in.” “You were the one who made me keep my clothes on to have sex,” You called after him. “Just because you’re hot with clothes on doesn’t mean you’re not hot with clothes off. It can be both, remember?”

Chuckling, you trail behind him, stripping your clothes off as you go. When you get the the bathroom he’s already naked too, eyes wide with an absurd amount of excitement at the sight of you. “Why do you act like you’ve never seen me naked before? We had sex like two seconds ago,” You nudged him out of your way so you could get him a spare towel.

"Why go to an art museum twice?" His tone is musing, like he's trying to sound deep, "You've already seen all the paintings."

"You are ridiculous," You have to shift past him again to turn the water on, skin brushing against his.

He takes the step that it takes to be right behind you, pressed against you as you lean down to turn the water on, listening to the drum of it spraying onto the back wall of the shower. His cock is half hard against the swell of your ass, one hand resting lightly on your hip, and you can almost hear the self-satisfied smirk in his voice, "I'm a student of the arts. I'm sorry you can't appreciate beauty the way I can."

You laugh, a little derisive but still soft, "Yeah, you're getting really good at the smooth talk."

Jimmy laughs too, lets you lead him into the shower with you, but something in your tone makes his chest tighten. Like he could only ever be joking or flirting, like he couldn't mean it, even though he did.

He doesn't mean for his mind to wander, but the steady lull of the water hitting him and the soft sound of you humming made his mind feel a little out of his control, like this was just something he was supposed to be feeling, even though the idea of looking in on himself and his emotions was usually pretty far from his mind.

But he thinks, unintentionally, of your first time together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You'd been at the Daily Planet for a little while at that point, and you and Jimmy had been friends for about the same amount of time. You always smiled when you saw him, which was nice, but it was the same smile that you gave all your other friends, and that was even nicer somehow. You treated him like just another friend, just Jimmy, and there was something about that that was just so relieving to him.

The two of you always talked at work. You sent each other shitposts. You hung out as a group with other people. You grew closer than he had expected far faster than he had expected, but you weren't usually alone together. Most of your deepest and longest conversations were had over text, usually at odd hours of the night.

But that night, you'd both had to work late. Just you two. He had a massive backlog of photos he'd needed to go through after a crazy week, and you...well to be honest Jimmy didn't even remember what Perry had you doing. He remembered being vaguely annoyed about it on your behalf, but you had just smiled and said it was part of the job, and he remembered how beautiful you had looked as you worked, the lights dimmed and the air mostly quiet for once. You had everything sprawled out on the floor, had kicked off your shoes and folded yourself into a neat little pretzel to work. He told you that you could probably borrow a desk, but you'd shaken your head, cracked an energy drink, and seemed perfectly content with the work you were doing.

"You're so weird," He had told you, "And those drinks are gonna give you a heart attack."

You laughed, dismissive, but you looked up at him with your eyes glittering, "I'm tougher than I look."

He didn't doubt that, but how tough you were wasn't exactly the main thing on his mind. There was something about the way that you sat there, the way you chewed on the tip of your pen and gazed contentedly through your lashes at him whenever he laughed at one of your jokes. Something in the sharpness of your quips but the softness of your smile. Jimmy doesn't know exactly what it is, can't name the exact moment that it happens, but it suddenly dawns on him that you're hot. He files the thought into the back of his mind, tries to ignore it, but it keeps surfacing. He'd always thought you were pretty, but it had never really factored into his thoughts about you. But that night, suddenly, it's all he can think about.

He finished editing before you were done with your work, but he stayed anyway, and when you finally finished he walked you home. When he offered, there was no ulterior motive. He cared about you, you were his friend, of course he would walk you home.

Then, at your door, you'd offered for him to come in for a drink. And then, tone light, you had added, "You'd be the first guy in a while, so if there's a sense of yearning in the air don't let it go to your head, it's just like that in there now."

You had both laughed heartily, and he'd joined you inside, and it had been good. Great, even. And then you had talked a little more about the dry spell you were having. Explained to him to him that it wasn't that there was no one out there you could get with, but you didn't want to hook up with someone who you didn't even like, and you didn't like most of the guys who talked to you. He had complained about how it seemed like girls never left him alone, but he just never connected to them enough to want anything more. It had ruined a lot of friendships too, he explained, because girls who he did really connect with and like as friends would end up drifting away when they realized it would never be more.

“And why is it more?” He’d asked, cheeks flushed a little with tipsiness but eyes clear and focused like he was presenting his manifesto, “Who got to decide that romance is something more than friendship? Why do we say it like that? What if I dated someone first, and then we decided that we needed something more, and that something more is being friends? I love my friends! I love Clark and Lois and…and you more than I’ve ever loved any woman I’ve dated."

You had been quiet for a little bit, letting him ramble, but he looked over to see you smiling at him. Your voice was thick, clearly getting sleepy and a little tipsy yourself, but he couldn't stop himself from staring at the way your mouth moved as you spoke, "I understand exactly what you mean. I don't disagree, either. I love you, and you're a great friend, and I'm sorry that you have to deal with this, but anyone who can't see that is the one missing out."

"I'm sorry too," He told you, and he was staring at you now but it was because he didn't want to miss any of your reactions, "I understand why guys would just want to get with you. You're fucking hot. But you're also a great friend. Like, one of the smartest, funniest, most passionate people I know. You deserve a lot more than just a hookup. Even if it's not romance, you deserve someone who sees how great you are. Frankly, they don't deserve to be in your bed if they don't."

He hadn't realized he'd leaned in until you said something, "Jimmy. What're you doing?"

Blinking hard for a moment, he realized that he was right up against you know, face just a few inches from yours. He shrugged, but he didn't lean away, "I don't know. Thinking about how great you are?"

And then you had kissed him, and everything had changed.

His heart roared in his ears, his whole body becoming tense in one second and then releasing, relaxing more than he's felt himself relax in quite a while.

It wasn't a long kiss, not even a particularly lustful one, but it was what had gotten him hooked on you. That one kiss was all he needed to know that he wasn’t going to get you out of his mind for a long time.

You'd pulled away, looking suddenly shy, opening your mouth for an apology that he really didn't care to hear. He cut you off before you got past "Sor-"

His hands came up to cradle your face, and he leaned in again, closing the small gap that you had reopened. Part of it was to see if the first one was a fluke, if kissing you was really as great as that had made it seem. The other part was because he knew it would be even better, and he was right. Soon it had grown lustful, frenzied, the two of you slotting together perfectly. Your teeth had clacked together when he guided you to straddle his lap, but somehow even that was hot, and you on top of him with your arms around his neck and your tits pressed against his chest would’ve made up for it anyway. When you broke apart again, both of you breathing heavy, you giggled like you’d just stolen from a cookie jar. Then, suddenly serious, you asked him, “Are you drunk?”

“No,” He answered immediately, maybe too quickly, but it was true. Then he raised an eyebrow, “Are you?”

Your smile was nervous, but still coy, “No. I just realized I never gave you a proper tour of my place…would you like to see my bedroom?”

Jimmy almost knocked you off his lap to stand up faster, but he managed to restrain himself, nodded like a bobblehead, "I would love to."

The night had escalated quickly from there. You were both half naked by the time you fell into the bed, kissing again. Your hands grew bolder, pawing at each other, feeling unexplored territory. You had discussed what exactly this was, a little, when you managed to tear your lips apart.

"No romance," Jimmy had to keep himself from gasping as you kissed along his neck, scraping your teeth against the sensitive flesh, "No worries about being exclusive."

"Just two incredibly sexy friends helping each other out," You had nodded, laughed, then bit his earlobe.

There was no real foreplay that first time. All hot skin and frantic groping at one another, ripping clothes off of each other. He stood up next to your bed, and wordlessly you moved so that he could stand between your legs, grabbing your pillow from the head of the bed so he could push you down onto it.

"You're sure?" He had asked, already lined up with your entrance and using his last bit of self control to keep from burying himself inside you.

"Positive," You grinned up at him, and he kissed you again as he sunk into you.

You were tight, so tight that he worried he hadn't done enough to get you ready, but you were also dripping wet, and you let out a long, quiet moan at the feeling of him filling you.

"Is it okay?" He couldn't keep himself from moving even though he thought he should wait and see how you felt. Your pussy was so soft and warm, so perfect, he just didn't have it in him to resist, his hips thrusting mostly of their own volition.

"No, it's awful," Your face was entirely deadpan for a moment before you laughed, "It's better than okay, dummy. How about you?"

You'd wrapped an ankle around his thigh, pulling him a little closer, and then canted your hips up a little more, letting out a half-choked noise when he hit a new spot inside you. Jimmy felt himself spurred on, the slam of his pelvis meeting yours getting louder as his speed and force increased.

His hands tightened on your hips, "Fucking amazing."

You let out a whine at the way his fingers were burying themselves into your skin, feverish and hot, and then you nodded, "Me too."

"Keep making noises like that, and I'm not gonna last," Jimmy warned, movements never slowing.

There was a blissed out look on your face. Jimmy had seen it a lot of times since that night, and they were always good, but when he was alone sometimes it was that first one that he found himself thinking about.

"I'm not exactly doing a marathon here either," You panted, shooting him a grin, "I'm pretty close, if we're honest here."

He had paused, just long enough that you'd opened your mouth to complain, and then he shifted your legs, straightening them out and hooking one arm around them, pulling them so they stretched up over that shoulder. His previous pace resumed with no warning, and as he listened to the shrieks and moans you let out he'd felt his blood rush in a sense of accomplishment that he had only ever really gotten from work.

If everything else hadn't been good enough, the first time he saw you come, felt you come, he would swear his life changed. He had leaned down, bending you practically in half, so that he could kiss you as you fell apart, letting you moan into his mouth.

It didn't take him long to follow after you, and he came harder than he ever had in his life up to that point.

And after, when you had both fallen into each others arms, sweaty and sticky and satisfied, he had known that this was a perfect arrangement.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Jimmy," Your voice suddenly snapped him out of his thoughts, "You good, dude?"

"Hm?" He blinked, scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, "Yeah, no, I'm good."

You laughed, holding up a bottle of shampoo, "You kind of zoned out there. Here, turn around, I’ll wash your hair."

"What? Why?" He was still getting his bearings, trying to get over the hypnotic crash of the water and be back in the present. He liked the present, liked being with you, didn't want to miss out on it even if he was just in his own head, even if you were what he was thinking about.

You raised an eyebrow at him, “I’m sorry, do you usually wash your hair somewhere other than in the shower?”

“You want to wash my hair?” He stared like you had just said something a lot more ridiculous than you actually had.

“I mean, I don’t have to. I just thought it might be nice.”

“No,” Jimmy smiled gently, “It does sound nice. It’s just…no one’s ever done that.”

Now you gaped at him like that was crazy, which he really didn’t think that it was, “What, you’ve never showered with someone else?”

“No, I have,” He wet his hair and then turned around, tipping his head back a little to give you easier access, “Plenty of times. It’s just that the shower has never really been the point.”

“Sad,” You tell him, “Hopefully you don’t hate it.”

He hears the click of the shampoo bottle lid, and then your hands are in his hair. You’re close behind him, close enough that your skin keeps brushing his back. Jimmy almost unleashes a full-body shiver as you work your fingers over his scalp, digging in firmly but not too hard. The familiar, floral (lavender?) scent of your shampoo fills his nostrils, calms him in a way that only being close to you seems to do. His breath catches when you give a little affectionate scratch behind his ear, and then he holds it to give himself something to concentrate on, to distract him from how badly he wants to disintegrate under your gentle touch. You’re using the very tips of your fingers, rubbing little circles, not speaking but humming to yourself again. Jimmy is fairly certain that this is the best feeling he’s ever experienced, better than the best sex of his life, better than getting high or drunk, better than the first time one of his photos made the front page.

He reminds himself again that you don’t have romantic feelings for each other, that he certainly doesn’t have romantic feelings for you. You’re his best friend, you’re his favorite lay, but Jimmy Olsen is not the kind of guy who falls in love. He feels stupid, again, for having to remind himself of that.

You move your hand down, graze over his back. If you notice the taut pull of his muscles you don’t mention it, but the tension melts away wherever you touch him anyway. You have him take a half step back to rinse his hair, and the rush of water lets him breathe again, sobering from the fog that you had put him in. But then your hands were back in his hair, repeating all the same motions, and once again all of his mental effort went into standing still, into not letting out a moan like your hands were working a different part of his body, holding his breath again. Jimmy tries to think of another time someone has touched him so tenderly, treated him with so much care, but he can’t. He wonders to himself if he has defined intimacy incorrectly his whole life, because he can’t think of any other moments more intimate than this. When you’re done, you twirl the hair at the nape of his neck around your fingers playfully, and he has to hold in another shudder. You step away and he mourns your touch.

“All done,” You announce, and it’s jarring to him how normal your voice is. A reminder that this is all just business as usual to you, that there is nothing for him to read into here, nothing but his own absurdity. He clears his throat before he speaks, but it still comes out a little shaky, “Thanks.”

Smiling, you hand him a towel. He dries his hair, probably too roughly, trying to get rid of the tingling that he still feels all over. When you speak, he can tell that you’re trying to sound casual, but he can hear something (hope? horniness? something else?) behind your voice, “Will you stay over?”

He wants to say yes, badly. You spend the night with each other sometimes, although usually not on work nights. But he does have a couple spare work outfits here because your place is closer to the Planet than his, and he does miss falling asleep in the same bed as you. All he wants in the world is to say yes, to stay with you. But he also knows that it would be best to get some distance, clear his head a little more so that he doesn’t do anything he might regret. So he wavers, voice unconvincing even to himself, “I don’t know, I should probably get home.”

“But it’s getting late,” You have a playful pout on your lips, and he’s alarmed by how hard his heart hammers at the sight of you. Jimmy wonders if Lois and Clark were right, if he is an addict. As much as he knows that he should go, should quarantine himself from your allure in the safety of his own apartment, he already knows that he can’t tear himself away from you now. Whatever resolve he’d managed to muster, it crumbled instantly at the thought of you being upset that he left. Addicted to your smile, maybe. Addicted to you being happy, you feeling good.

“Alright,” He relents, “But I get to pick which coffee shop we go to in the morning.” There are four on the walk from your place to the office, and Jimmy knows even as he says it that he’ll probably pick your favorite. You beam, lean to peck him quickly on the lips, “Yay. Whatever you want.” “And you have to give me a real kiss before bed,” He adds quickly, relishing in the way you laugh and smack his arm. You get two glasses of water, not asking before you put one on the bedside table on his side. Not the one on his side, he has to remind himself, just the one that’s opposite to the nightstand that most of your stuff is on, the side he’s on when he happens to sleep over. He turns the fan on without you having to ask and then crawls into bed beside you, sinking into the softness and warmth that reminds him so much of you. You throw one of your legs over his hip, wrap your arm around him, settle in close. Then you grin, “You need a goodnight kiss?”

“I don’t know how I normally sleep without one,” It’s supposed to be a joke, but he can’t help but worry that his tone isn’t as light and teasing as it ought to be. But it doesn’t matter because then your lips are on his, and the world is perfectly simple again. All that matters is feeling you, sharing the moment with you. Your fingers find the hair on the nape of his neck again, still damp but curling slightly as it dries. He presses one hand to the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer, and the other comes up to thumb softly at your jaw. He hopes, somehow, that his touch conveys the words that he can’t say, not even to himself. Addicted to kissing you, maybe. Addicted to touching you. When you break apart, your eyes are soft with the sheen of sleepy contentment, a gentle lilt of teasing still in your voice, “Was that real enough for you?” “Yeah,” He says (No is the true answer. Not unless it was real for you). “Good,” You smile, then nuzzle up against him. Then, voice totally casual like what you’re about to say won’t punch him in the gut (Not that you have any reason to think it will. It shouldn’t, really), you add, “I’m glad we’ll have a little extra time in the morning. I’ve got a date tomorrow night, so I won’t be able to hang out.”

You hummed under your breath, barefoot on cool marble, sleeves of Jason’s hoodie rolled up to your elbows as you stood in the large kitchen, helping Alfred lay out breakfast. The older man had insisted—very politely—that you relax, but you’d ignored him in equally polite defiance and taken to slicing fruit while he worked on the eggs. Jason was upstairs showering, and everything was feeling domestic and peaceful.

“Would you be a dear and watch the eggs for a moment?” Alfred asked as he dried his hands on a dish towel. “I’ve just remembered the preserves need restocking.”

“Of course,” you said, offering him a warm smile as you stepped in front of the stovetop. The eggs were nearly done—edges crisping perfectly. 

They let out a gentle hiss as you stirred them. You were so focused on making sure they didn’t burn. You didn’t even hear the door creak open behind you.

You only realized that you were no longer alone when you heard footsteps approaching from behind.

“Back already?” you asked without looking up. “I think they’re just about—”

You turned.

And screamed as you saw a massive, dark figure looming behind you with ghost-pale eyes fixed on you.

You didn’t even think.

Instinct screamed through your body. Your hand snapped to the counter, grabbed the first thing you saw—the damn pan again—and swung.

CLANG.

The sound rang out like a gong in a cathedral.

The figure jerked back, staggering a half step as a low grunt escaped him—equal parts pain and surprise—as the pan connected with the side of his head.

All Bruce could think in that moment was, Thank God you hadn’t aimed for the jaw, like he’d advised last time. If you had, he’d be sporting a nasty burn in addition to what was already shaping up to be a mild concussion.

The eggs—once again utterly ruined—sailed from the pan in a slow, tragic arc and hit the wall with a wet splat, yolk and butter sliding down like the world’s saddest crime scene.

At that exact moment, Alfred stepped out of the pantry holding a jar of marmalade. He paused, blinked once, and sighed with the quiet resolve of a man who’d lived through way too many Bat-related mishaps.

“Oh dear,” he said, utterly unbothered. “Master Bruce, are you quite alright?”

You stared at him, arm still raised, pan trembling.. Then back to the man you’d just clocked. “Wait—Bruce?!”

Before anyone could clarify further, thudding footsteps sounded from the hallway—multiple sets, heavy and fast. A second later, the door slammed open as three figures rushed in, weapons drawn. They burst into the kitchen scanning for threats like they were about to face off with Gotham’s worst.

Nightwing with his glowing blue escrima sticks crackling with electricity. Red Robin, gripping his bo staff and finally Robin with his sword already halfway unsheathed.

“Is it Joker?!” Nightwing barked, eyes scanning the room.

“Where is he?!” Red Robin demanded, doing the same.

“Please tell me someone needs to die,” Robin muttered, his tone almost hopeful.

You screamed—again—reflexively, throwing the frying pan up like a shield.

And then—they all stopped.

Three pairs of masked eyes locked on the scene, Batman rubbing his head, Alfred calmly setting jam on the counter, you clutching a frying pan like your life depended on it, and the eggs completely and utterly ruined against the wall.

At that moment, Jason strolled into the kitchen, shirt half-tucked and hair damp from his shower. He also took one look at the scene and sighed.

“Again? Seriously?” He looked at Batman with a crooked grin. “B, you really need to announce yourself. Keep this up, and the rogues’ gallery is gonna find out and your reputation’s gonna tank.”

You, however, were spiralling.

“I—okay, someone needs to explain what the hell is going on,” you said, voice rising as you looked around in disbelief. “Why is Alfred calling him Bruce?! That’s Batman in the kitchen! Batman! And the rest of his team! Oh my god, am I about to have to fight all of you?! It was an accident! I swear! He keeps following me and—someone needs to put a bell on him! or—or better yet tell him to stop breaking into people’s houses! Wait—why are you all laughing?!”

Jason stepped in quickly, his smirk barely held in check as he gently pried the pan from your grip before you could land another accidental assault charge on Gotham’s most feared vigilante.

“Babe,” he said, tone low and soothing, like he was trying not to make you panic more than you already were. “That is Bruce. As in Bruce Wayne. My dad.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And those three?” He pointed behind him with his thumb. “Nightwing—Dick. Red Robin—Tim. And the family disappointment, Robin—Damian.”

“I heard that,” Damian snapped.

You stared at them, utterly dumbfounded. Then looked back at Bruce who was now rubbing his temple like this was more inconvenience than injury. The others casually pulled off their masks, and sure enough, there they were—Jason’s siblings. The same faces you’d seen over breakfast, teasing one another in sweatpants and hoodies. Now suited up in full tactical gear.

“You’re telling me…” you began slowly, turning toward Jason with a look of utter disbelief. Your voice cracked under the weight of your unraveling sanity. “Your entire family is made up of vigilantes and you just—forgot to mention that?”

Jason shrugged, unbothered, the corner of his mouth curling in amusement. “I was easing you into it all.”

You gawked at him, then at the others, then back to Bruce, and then back at Jason. Your eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Give me back that damn pan.”

Jason stepped just out of reach, hiding the pan behind his back like that might save him from your wrath. “Hell no! At least B had armour when you swung.”

You inhaled sharply, exhaled an equally sharp curse under your breath, and dragged a hand down your face. “I think I need to sit down.”

Without missing a beat, Bruce—still in full Bat-gear, cowl and all—muttered, “Preferably somewhere without cookware.”

Alfred, who had returned to plating toast like none of this was new to him, cleared his throat gently. “Shall I prepare ice for the swelling, sir?”

Bruce exhaled through his nose. Long-suffering because he was becoming way too old for this shit. “No. I think I’m just going to go to bed.”

He turned and walked out, cape swishing with whatever dignity he had remaining—which wasn’t much.

You stared after him in stunned silence, then turned back to Jason. “I’m gonna be banned from the manor now, aren’t I?”

Jason only grinned, sliding an arm around your shoulders and tugging you into his side like this was all perfectly normal. “Nah. You’re family now. It’s like… tradition.”

You looked up at him, deadpan. “Do all your family traditions involve blunt force trauma?”

“Only the fun ones.”

You lightly elbowed him in his side with a tired groan, glaring up at him. “I’m still half-tempted to hit you with the pan for not telling me all of this sooner.”

Jason smirked. “That’s fair. Just… at least give me a running headstart.”

From the other side of the kitchen, Tim—still in partial gear, bo staff casually propped against the counter—lifted an eyebrow. “So… when exactly are we making her a suit?”

Dick let out a laugh, arms folded across his chest, that mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. “I say we call her Cast Iron. Ooh! Or Pan-man!”

Jason groaned, rolling his eyes. “You seriously need to work on your names.”

“Says the one who practically named himself after Red Riding Hood,” Dick shot back with a smirk.

“Like you can speak, Disco-Wing,” Jason retorted.

Damian scoffed, cutting the two off as he turned on his heel. “She’s lucky Father didn’t counter the attack. You would’ve been mopping her off the floor.”

Jason’s expression darkened slightly. “Watch it, demon brat.”

But you only groaned louder, dragging both hands down your face. “I’m never living this down, am I?”

Jason looked back down at you and his face brightened as he grinned. “Not a chance.”

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