mercutio

"you're an insanely hot guy adrian, why wouldn't i wanna see that?" you tease with a haughty grin

adrian gulps loudly, almost chokes on his spit, he's still very unused to being called 'hot' in that way, he chuckles something bashful and infuriatingly endearing

he also chooses to mask his nerves with a deflection, another teasing jab "they got sites for that you know? if you're into that sorta thing-" his eyes shine with satisfaction when you inevitably snort in response to that

when you finally convince him to do it, when he's spread out on the bed before you he immediately goes red at the cheeks, suddenly theres nothing amusing about the situation at all

he feels the pressure of putting on a show for you under the heavy weight of your stare, he stutters his words, he asks "like t-this? is this okay? should i do it f-faster?" he literally overthinks touching himself, as if he's hasn't done it so sooo many times

you have to coo at him a couple times for him to breathe in deeply and relax, he shuffles in place, avoids your eyes like he can't stand the unrelenting attention, his hands slide down his dick in tantalizing but still hesitant strokes, so you purr at him "such a good boy adrian, i love the way you play with yourself, it gets me so hot"

and that absolutely switches something inside his brain, he chokes, his hand immediately gains momentum in its rhythm, he hisses at the friction inflicted by his own impatient hand, he lets out a loud strained moan that ends with an elongated "yeah?" intended just for you, so you keep sweet talking to him

suddenly adrian is not all that shy, now he's even making eye contact only to smile so fucking big when your brows and mouth dip in awe, his eyes roll back and he whimpers when you gasp his name in incredulity of how stupidly and devastatingly hot he looks

adrian's hair is sticking to his forehead, his glasses are at risk of falling off his nose, his abs are clenching with punched out breaths, his column stirring and arching up the bed with every time you say his name

"yeah" you answer finally, not subtle at all when you slide your hand down the front of your jeans, you both gasp when you finally make contact with your wet, neglected center, "only camboy i wanna see" you add, giving him a teasing smile that paints his entire face far more red than it already was

"god shut the fuck up" he answers with an embarrassed groan and you giggle sweetly, victorious too

adrian cant help but laugh with you at the same time he hisses at his own relentless tugs, he's trying to match the rhythm of your hands as you plunge them inside you

their fingers are warm against your jaw, tilting your face toward the weak evening light filtering through the blinds. the eyeliner pen feels clumsy in their grip. you watch their expression, the slight pinch between their brows, the soft part of their lips as they concentrate.

“don’t blink,” jordan murmurs, the words a low vibration against your chest.

and you don’t. you hold perfectly still, feeling the delicate, ticklish drag of the felt tip along your lash line. it’s a strange, intimate vulnerability, letting them do this. their other hand comes up to steady your cheek, thumb brushing the apple of it. their touch is startlingly gentle.

“see?” you whisper, your voice too loud in the quiet room. “not so easy.”

“shut up,” they say, but there is no heat in it. their gaze is fixed on their work. you feel the slight tremble in their hand, the correction of a wobble. the scent of their skin wrapped around you. beneath you, you can feel the firm plane of their stomach, the steady rise and fall of their breath. and, more insistently, the hardening shape of them pressing against the seam of your shorts.

you shift your weight, a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. jordan’s breath hitches. the line skitters.

“fuck,” they breathe, pulling back to assess the damage. a tiny, uneven wing now graces your left eye.

you laugh, a soft, breathy sound. “told you.”

“you’re a terrible subject,” they grumble, but their eyes ara dark, fixed on your mouth. the eyeliner pen long forgotten, lowered to the rumpled comforter. jordan’s hands slide from your face to your waist, fingers splaying over the dip of your spine. “distracting.”

“am i?” you lean forward, bracing your hands on their shoulders, bringing your mouth a hair’s breadth from theirs. your breath mingles. you can see the lust flaring in their darkened eyes, the faint blush of their cheeks. “you seemed pretty focused.”

jordan answers with a kiss. not gentle or exploratory, but deep and claiming from the first moment. their tongue sweeps into your mouth, and you moan into the heat of it. their hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against them, and you gasp at the full, delicious pressure.

the careful, playful tension shatters, replaced by a hungry, sweeping current. jordan rolls you, a smooth motion that has you now pinned beneath them on the bed. the forgotten eyeliner pen clatters to the floor. jordan looms over you, their body a welcome weight, and kisses you again, slower this time, savoring. their lips trail down your jaw, to the frantic pulse in your throat, sucking lightly until you hum.

“jordan,” you sigh, your fingers tunneling into their short, soft hair.

they hum against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. their hands are everywhere, learning you anew. they push your top up, mouth following the path of their fingers. they take your nipple into their mouth through the lace of your bra, tongue circling the peak until it tightens into a painful, perfect point. you arch off the bed, a sharp cry escaping you.

“so sensitive,” they murmur, blowing a cool stream of air over the wet fabric. their hands work at the button of your shorts, then the zipper. the sound is obscenely loud. jordan hooks their fingers into the waistband of both your shorts and panties and draws them down your legs in one slow, dragging pull. immediately, the evening air kisses your bare skin, raising goosebumps.

jordan sits back on their heels, looking at you, laying  exposed, breathing heavily, watching them watch  you. their gaze is like a physical caress, warming you more than any touch. it travels from your flushed face, down your heaving chest, over your stomach, to the thatch of curls between your thighs, already glistening.

“beautiful,” jordan says, the word rough, reverent.

then they bend down, and their mouth is instantly on you.

the first soft, broad stroke of their tongue from your entrance to your clit makes your entire body jolt. a punched-out, ragged sound tears from your throat. jordan holds your thighs apart, their grip firm but not cruel, and feasts on you with a focused, luxurious patience that unravels you completely.

jordan licks into you, tasting your wetness, humming their approval against your slick flesh. their tongue circles your clit, flicks it, then presses flat and firm, building a slow, torturous rhythm. their nose nudges your clit as they dip lower to lap at your entrance, drinking you in. the room fills with the soft, wet sounds of their mouth on your cunt, your broken, pleading whimpers, and their own quiet, hungry noises.

“right there, oh god, right there,” you babble, your hips lifting off the bed to meet their mouth. your hands fist in the sheets. pleasure coils, tight and hot, deep in your belly.

and just as the coil begins to spiral toward a peak, jordan pulls away. you let out a devastated, needy sound.

“shh,” they sooth, kissing your inner thigh. their voice is thick, muffled against your skin. “i want to be inside you when you come.”

as they speak, you feel  it, a subtle shift in the energy of the body between your legs, a change in density, in presence. the hands on your thighs seem coarser, the shoulders above you broader. when jordan looks up at you, their features are the same beloved map, but the angles seem sharper, the jaw stronger. the evidence of their arousal strains noticeably against their jeans.

the transformation is seamless, a natural progression of your intimacy, and it only stokes the fire in your blood. you reach for them, pulling them up for a kiss. you can taste yourself on their lips, salty and musky, and it is wildly erotic.

“please,” you breathe against jordan’s mouth.

they make quick work of their own clothes, shedding them until they are left as bare as you are. their cock, full and flushed, stands heavy against their stomach. they settle between your legs again, the head nudging your soaked folds. the feeling of them there, blunt and hot, makes your breath catch.

they look into your eyes, a question in their gaze even now.

“yes,” you whisper, wrapping you legs around their hips. “always yes.”

that’s all jordan needs to hear before they finally push in.

it’s slow, a stretching and yielding that steals the air from your lungs. you cry out, your head falling back into the pillow. they sink deep, hilting themselves inside you, and pause, their body trembling with the effort of holding still. your inner walls flutter around the thick intrusion, adjusting, clenching.

“fuck,” jordan groans, their forehead dropping to your shoulder. “you feel… unbelievable.”

they begin to move. a slow, deep withdrawal, then a rolling thrust forward that rubs against a spot deep inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. they set a rhythm that is less about frenzy and more about connection, each stroke a deliberate claiming. the bedsprings give a soft, rhythmic complaint.

your nails leave scratches on jordan’s back as you meet each thrust, your hips rising to meet theirs. the slap of skin on skin a lewd counterpoint to your ragged breathing. they shift the angle slightly, and the next thrust has you gasping at the intensity.

“there! jordan, there, please—”

they obey, angling their hips to hit that spot with every deep, driving plunge. the dual stimulation; the deep, filling stretch and the external friction, builds a second, brighter coil alongside the first. your moans grow higher, more desperate. you’re close, so close, teetering on a shimmering edge.

jordan’s pace increases, but the rhythm remains fluid and controlled. their mouth finds your again in a sloppy, breathless kiss.

“come for me,” they growl into your mouth, the command a velvet wrap around yoursenses. “let me feel you.”

it’s all the permission you need. the coils finally snap. pleasure erupts through you, a wave that starts in your core and radiates out to yout fingertips and toes. your cunt clenches rhythmically around jordan's cock, milking them, and you chant their name into the crook of their neck as the waves crash over you.

feeling you convulse around them tears a ragged shout from jordan’s throat. their thrusts loose their precise rhythm, becoming shorter, harder, more frantic. with a final, deep grind that presses their pelvis hard against your oversensitive clit, they still. you feel the hot, liquid pulse of their release deep inside you, the intimate flood triggering another small, aftershock ripple of your own.

they collapse on top of you, a warm, sweaty, delicious weight, both of you gasping for air. as the minutes pass, jordan makes no move to pull out. their face is buried in your hair, their breaths hot against your scalp.

slowly, the world swims back into focus. the fading light outside  is now deep blue twilight. the distant bass of music from the party you were supposed to be at thumped faintly through the hallway. your eyeliner is now undoubtedly ruined.

jordan finally shifts back to her female form. they roll to the side, pulling you with them, tucking you against their side. their arm are a solid bar across your back, their hand stroking lazy patterns on your hip. you can feel the gentle, steady thump of their heart against your cheek.

“so,” you say, voice hoarse. “we’re late.”

jordan’s chest rumbles with a quiet, sated laugh. “fashionably.”

“and my eyeliner is a disaster.”

they turn their head, grinning. “i think it looks perfect.”

you tilt your face up, admiring their flushed cheeks, the few strands of hair sticking to her sweaty cheeks. you smile wide, feeling so incredibly in love it doesn’t even seem real. you trace the line of their jaw. “liar.”

they catch your finger, kissing the tip. “we don’t have to go.”

at that, you nestle closer, your leg hooking over theirs. the party sounded very far away now. 

“no,” you agree, eyelids growing heavy. “we don’t.”

Godolkin’s official statement was that Luke had simply snapped like a rubber band under the immense pressure of being at the top of the school. They said that he was a flaming Golden Boy who—ironically—couldn’t take the heat, so he murdered his professor and then committed suicide himself.

But thanks to Jordan, who had returned to your shared dorm that evening with more wounds than you’d ever seen on them before, you were able to learn the truth of the situation.

“Holy shit, Jordan. What happened to you?” You’d questioned as Jordan walked through the door. Your eyes were glued to the gauze on her forehead and the bandages wrapped around her arms.

She simply stared at you for several moments before suddenly pulling you into a tight embrace. You froze, then lifted your arms half a second later and hugged her back.

“Some really fucked up shit happened today…”

As you look back down at your notes, you wonder what greater good Luke might have been trying to achieve in his final moments, because he certainly didn’t light Brink up just for some positive engagement.

Or any engagement, really.

After his fight with Jordan, Luke had apparently launched himself high into the sky and then proceeded to explode like a human firework.

Videos of the incident are still circulating around campus, each featuring a different closeup angle of his brutal death. You can’t bring yourself to even think about it without feeling sick to your stomach.

You were never Luke’s best friend—nor was he yours—but if anyone had asked, you wouldn’t have hesitated to say that you were on good terms with each other. You’d frequently exchanged warm greetings in the hallways and had, standing side by side, taken the most disgusting shots together at frat parties. Maybe you weren’t good friends, but you were friends nonetheless.

Your mind takes you back to last semester, when Luke had pulled you aside to ask why you and Jordan weren’t dating despite, according to him, “copious amounts of sucking face.” He’d jokingly booed and threw you a thumbs down when you told him that you were just roommates who sometimes hooked up if the situation was right. The knowing smile that he’d given you at the time suggested that he knew you might have liked Jordan more than you’d let on.

Now that you think about it, with the way that Luke used to behave—full of unnatural cheerfulness, maturity unbefitting of his age, and slight hints of anxiety—it was always pretty clear to you that he had some sort of past, that he was carrying some baggage he could never seem to shed. But then again, who isn’t at this fucking school?

The only difference with Luke is that he’s dead now.

Super dead. Like, if someone looked hard enough they could maybe still find literal bits of him in the flowerbed dead.

—

A loud slam of the door jolts you out of your head. You turn around in your chair to see Jordan angrily tossing their backpack onto their bed before plopping themselves down on the couch and burying their face in their hands.

Jordan’s been a little distant in the past few days. Not that you blame them, after everything they’ve been through recently. So you do your best to give them space while still remaining close enough to provide them with your support if needed.

You sense that support is exactly what this current situation requires.

“…You okay?”

The moment that sentence leaves your mouth, you internally curse your own thoughtlessness. Jordan had lost a fight last week against their good friend who was unfortunately very naked and whose dick was very much ablaze—their words, not yours—after that same friend had burnt their beloved mentor to a crisp for reasons unknown.

Things probably couldn’t get worse for Jordan right now, and they are definitely not okay. So much so that you wouldn’t even blame them if they got up and started beating the shit out of you for asking something so stupid.

“Fuck—sorry, scratch that. What’s going on?”

“Check the fucking rankings.”

Uh oh.

Jordan has had a…complicated relationship with the ranking system for as long as you’ve known them, which was since day one of school. Their rank serves as their greatest source of pride or despair, depending on the day.

Back when you were still freshmen, their goal had just been to make it into the top ten. Once they achieved that, the goal became to break into the top five. Spoiler alert—that probably took them even less time. As Jordan kept climbing in rank, so did their ambition.

They’ve been sitting comfortably in second place for a while now, and Luke’s death meant that they finally had a real shot at taking first, but you doubt even that would bring them genuine satisfaction in the end.

You whip out your phone from your back pocket and tap on Godolkin’s proprietary ranking app. There, you immediately see the first row pop up with the name Andre Anderson, accompanied by his student ID photo.

“…What the fuck?” You whisper under your breath.

Then you scroll down, expecting to at least see Jordan’s name in second, but that doesn’t happen either. You keep scanning the rows to find that they don’t appear until the fifth row.

Rank five.

You stand corrected. Turns out things could—and did—get worse for Jordan.

“This has got to be a fucking joke.” You scoff.

“You’re telling me.” Jordan let out a sardonic chuckle.

“No, seriously, Jordan.” You look up at her. “This bullshit wasn't your fault. You just got fucked over by this godforsaken school like always. You know that, right?”

Her eyes soften and she nods, offering you a slight smile. You can tell that she’s not fully convinced.

Leaning back, you take in the sight of the Jordan sitting before you. Frustrated. Aggrieved. Miserable.

“Alright.” You shoot out of your seat and beeline towards your closet. “I have just the thing to make this better.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Feeling her gaze on your back, you reach the closet and pull on the second drawer from the bottom. The one in which you keep all your intimates.

“Why the fuck are you opening your underwear drawer right now?”

“Why do you know that this is my underwear drawer?” You tease, knowing full well that Jordan has lived with you for too long to not know the contents of each of your drawers.

Her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink.

You confidently push aside the bras and panties, reaching your hand into the very back of the compartment until you feel the familiar texture of a plastic baggie.

“Aha!” You yank the baggie out and wave it at Jordan. A smile appears on her face as her eyes lock onto its contents.

In the ziplock bag was nearly a quarter ounce of premium devil’s lettuce, a small grinder, and a lighter. You reach back into the drawer and pull out a corresponding tiny glass bong.

“Tada!” You smugly place both the baggie and the bong down on your desk.

Jordan raises an eyebrow at you. “You keep that in your underwear drawer?”

“Well, yeah. It’s good stuff. Can’t have the RA confiscating it. I’ve been saving this for a particularly rough day, but I think you need it more than I do right now. Only condition: you do the work.”

She doesn’t hesitate to grab the bag.

Jordan takes a decent sized bud and breaks it up into smaller pieces with her hands before placing them in the grinder. Then she twists it with so much force that you’re afraid the weed might turn straight to powder. Once she’s done, she packs some into the bowl with swift precision.

“Here.” You pass her the lighter.

As soon as Jordan takes the first hit, her shoulders relax a little and the metaphorical storm cloud around her begins to dissipate. She goes back for a second hit, holding the smoke in her lungs for a good while before exhaling. Then she repacks the bowl and passes the bong to you.

“Fuck, I definitely needed this,” she sighs.

You grin and take a couple hits yourself until you feel that familiar sense of contentment.

Suddenly feeling much lighter, you crawl from your spot on the floor onto the couch, settling in right next to Jordan. She rests her head on your shoulder. In turn, you rest your head on hers. You stay quiet, giving them total control over anything they might want to say or do.

“…God, I’m so fucking selfish,” Jordan confesses after a few minutes of silence. “Luke and Brink are fucking dead and all I’m worried about is how I dropped from second to fifth.”

While thinking of a response, you place your hand over hers. She turns so that you’re now palm to palm and interlocks your fingers. The corners of your mouth curl up unconsciously.

“…You do know you can be upset about the whole Luke/Brink situation and your rank at the same time, right? They don’t have to be exclusive, Jords.”

“But one is way more consequential than the other,” Jordan argues.

“Yeah, and one is a fresher wound than the other, but there’s really no need to compare the two.”

She pauses to think about what you just said. Then, when it clicks, she begins to shake her head, chuckling in defeat.

“How the fuck do you always know what to say to make me feel better? Is this a power you have that I didn’t know about?”

She nudges you playfully with her shoulder.

“Nah, probably just my years of experience in intense therapy?” You shrug as a laugh escapes from Jordan’s lips.

They shift into their male form before pulling you into their lap. You nestle yourself between his legs and lean against his firm body, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. He picks up the bong and casually takes another hit. You do the same.

He tilts his head back so that he’s looking up at the ceiling. “Life’s so fucking unpredictable, isn’t it?”

You nod, not quite sure yet what Jordan’s trying to get at.

“…And everything can change in a matter of seconds,” he adds.

You’re not sure if it’s the weed or something else, but you’re officially confused. So you narrow your eyes and slowly raise your head, only to find him already looking down at you with his beautiful dark brown—albeit bloodshot—eyes.

There’s a tension in the air that you can’t name, but it feels a little different from your usual interactions. He raises his hand and places it on your cheeks, his thumb caressing back and forth. You hope he doesn’t notice the heat creeping onto your face through his fingers.

“I’ve been thinking a lot the past couple of days,” Jordan states.

“About what?”

“About life—how stupidly fragile it is.”

“Mm.”

“And about us.”

“…Us?”

That word alone is enough to trip you up and send your heart into overdrive. You hadn’t been aware of any “us” between the two of you.

Jordan has never participated in anything other than casual flings and meaningless sex. Being their roommate as well as their occasional partner in bed, you were painfully aware of the “no feelings” rule, and not once have you ever dared to hope that you could be the exception. You knew how quick Jordan was to draw the line. You would never want to cross it one day and find yourself on the other side of that line.

“Yeah. Us. Me and you.” Jordan spells it out.

You roll your eyes. “I’m not dumb, dipshit. I know what the word means.”

“Well, you were looking at me like I’ve got three heads, so forgive me for thinking that maybe you’re so high you forgot basic English.”

Jordan’s playful grin turns into a wince as you press your pointer finger into one of the lingering bruises on his torso.

“Fuckin’ ow—stop!”

“What about ‘us’, Jordan?”

“Okay, okay, fine,” he yields. “I want us to be, like, a real thing. No more hooking up and pretending like nothing happened the next day.”

Jordan continues when you don’t respond. “I’ve had the thought before, but it was easy enough to ignore it and pretend it didn’t exist. Then all that… shit happened the other day and coming home to you felt weirdly… right. And today, you made me realize I’m just not capable of pushing those thoughts aside anymore.”

“…Because I shared my expensive weed with you?”

The wrinkles between your brow deepen as your brain struggles to keep up with the situation.

“Don’t be an idiot.” There’s affection in Jordan’s voice.

“You’ve never flinched when I shift, no matter when or where. You call me out when I’m being an asshole. You make me laugh even when I don’t want to. You know pretty much everything there is to know about me and you’re still fucking here.” He swallows.

“So yes, I’m asking you out because you’re sharing your expensive weed with me, but also because if I died tomorrow, I would really regret not making you my girlfriend today.”

You stare at him wide-eyed, not believing that what you’re hearing is real. After all, this is the same Jordan who used to claim that anyone who falls in love is just plain stupid.

Maybe Luke was some sort of psychic. Or maybe his weird look at the time was actually because he saw something in you and Jordan’s relationship that neither of you did. Either way, you wish you could tell him he was right.

Jordan’s smile falters as you still remain quiet. The adrenaline of the confession wears off and his nerves begin to take over.

“…Is that a n—“

Before he can finish, you wrap your arms around his neck and crash your lips into his with a sense of urgency that you’ve never felt before.

The kiss starts off soft, but quickly deepens into something that’s both familiar and new at the same time. You’ve kissed countless times before, and yet never with so much emotion behind it. You feel him smiling against you as your lips glide over each other with practiced smoothness. You thread your fingers into his soft, black hair. Jordan’s hands move to your waist, pulling you even closer to him.

When the two of you finally pull apart, you press your foreheads together in perfect sync. Your breaths mingle as you both take in the fact that you’ve just stepped into a new chapter of your lives. You place your hand on Jordan’s chest to feel his heart pounding at the exact same speed as yours.

“…Yes, Jordan, all the fucking way. BUT.”

You look into his eyes and see a flash of panic. You can’t help the giggle that comes out of your mouth.

“…Only if you promise not to die tomorrow,” you smirk, “cause I’d really hate to have to tell people I once had a sub-24-hour relationship.”

BRUCE WAYNE doesn’t really care about valentine’s day. he cares about you, though, which means he acknowledges it, even if he’d rather ignore the whole ordeal. a private dinner, away from prying eyes, in a restaurant where the lighting is low and the waitstaff are paid to be invisible. at some point, he slides a gift across the table—carefully chosen, either indulgent or deeply personal. a diamond necklace, or maybe a signed first edition of your favourite book—something you’d mentioned in passing months ago, tucked away in a conversation. he remembered. later, in the limo, bruce pulls up the partition before finally, finally catching your mouth in a kiss.

DICK GRAYSON loves valentine’s day. loves love. loves you. so he goes all out. you wake up to breakfast in bed: heart-shaped pancakes smothered in syrup with strawberries piled high. the card he hands you has a corny pun, but devastatingly sweet. he pairs it with an enormous teddy bear (too big to fit on the bed) the whole day is an adventure—ice skating, movie, rock-climbing, and when the sun starts to dip under the horizon, he leads you to the rooftop, setting up a picnic under the stars with an overpriced bottle of wine.

JASON TODD thinks valentine’s day is bullshit. it’s a scam designed to separate idiots from their money over overpriced chocolates and flowers that die in a week… but if it matters to you, then it matters. so he shows up at your door, a second helmet in hand, jerking his head toward the motorcycle without a word. he takes you on a ride through the city, the wind whipping past, your arms wrapped around his waist. when you get back, instead, when you get back, he orders greasy takeout—nothing fancy, just what you both want. the food barely lasts ten minutes before it’s abandoned, containers shoved aside, forgotten as he pins you onto the couch. the whole night was just prelude to this.

DAMIAN WAYNE does not partake in artifice or frivolity. no, he doesn’t acknowledge valentine’s day at all. the flowers, chocolates, saccharine bullshit irritates him. but you wake up to find a oblong wrapped package on your nightstand, and when you open it, it’s a weapon. a beautiful, custom-forged blade, perfectly balanced, your initials engraved into the hilt. when you ask him about it, he barely glances up from his sketchbook. if you are to be involved with me, you should be properly equipped. but you think you can see the tiniest flicker of satisfaction when you tell him you love it.

TIM DRAKE planned the entire thing weeks in advance. he’s always been an overthinker, and wants everything to be perfect for you. he shows up at your door slightly frazzled, running on caffeine and pure determination. over dinner (the reservation booked since christmas), he hands you a small velvet box. inside, a minimalistic yet stylish bracelet—just when you‘re about to thank him, he just smirks and presses the clasp. it’s not just jewelry. it’s a custom-built device, wired with a discreet GPS tracker, a silent distress signal, and—his personal favourite—a high-voltage taser disguised as a charm. just in case, he tells you, like it’s an afterthought.