you’ll always be that sunburn on me

Throwing a bomb would have been less disruptive, but a lot less funny you think, staring at Roy and Wally’s twin expressions of shocked horror.

“Babe?” Roy’s voice is incredulous, a little strangled as he clutches a hand to his chest in aghast betrayal, brows furrowed in confusion.

Wally’s no better, tips of his ears nearly as red as his hair as he alternates between sputtering a failed attempt at a clever retort and vibrating through the floor.

“I mean, why else would the two of you need to be in each other's personal space?”

Wally leaps back like he’s been burned, skin getting even pinker still as your teasing grin brightens, headache momentarily forgotten.

Roy, ever adaptable and in tune with you, sees the mischievous sparkle in your eye and quickly shifts gears.

“You’re asking me to cheat on you?” Throwing you a wink, he turns to Wally, deliberately giving his friend a slow once over with a lascivious grin that has Wally stiffening in place.

“Just this once.” You joke, only for your laugh to turn into a gasp when Wally’s face becomes awash with determination, and faster than you can blink, his lips are on your boyfriends.

Roy recovers with a speed that’s frankly suspicious after being unexpectedly jumped by a speedster, sliding a hand down to rest on Wally’s waist, tugging him even closer as his other tangles in ginger locks.

It’s a decidedly filthy kiss, when Wally, deciding he’s not one to be outdone, slots a thigh between Roy’s legs and licks into his mouth.

To your surprise, there’s none of that ugly envy that sometimes rears its head when Dick starts sniffing around your man.

As if reading your mind, Roy’s eyes flicker open, a silent question in his gaze that has your heart squeezing in affection.

You simply grin, cheeks burning a little as you sit, contented and a little flustered at the unexpected display.

When they finally pull apart, Wally’s chest is heaving and both boys have pinkened cheeks and kiss-swollen lips.

You reward them with a wolf whistle that turns into a laugh when Wally flushes bright red before speeding out the door, your eyes following his retreat. Unbeknownst to you, Roy watches you thoughtfully.

Your birthdays coming up, and suddenly he’s got a lot more ideas

PETER PARKER & JOHNNY STORM

Johnny Storm is, unfortunately, very cute. Even worse, he knows he’s cute, and boy does he act like it. 

Physically, he’s very much your type. If only he weren’t such an insufferable rake, then maybe you’d even have jumped into bed with him when he’d started flirting with you all those weeks ago. You wouldn’t have even minded just being another notch on his bedframe, except for the fact that you were both friends with Peter Parker, and thus were forever cursed to exist in the same small social circle. 

It was fine. It wasn’t like you minded the flirting; it was a hell of a confidence booster, but you were still far from giving him a chance. Or rather, it would have been fine, but Peter had suddenly taken it upon himself to advocate on Johnny’s behalf. You couldn’t go ten minutes without Peter giving you puppy dog eyes, or waxing lyrical about “how great Johnny is, just give him a chance!”

It all culminates when Johnny crashes (though Peter, the traitor, definitely invited him to) movie night, a long-standing tradition between you and Peter, and you end up sitting between the two of them. Peter, the annoying little shit, is doing his best to take up as much couch space as humanly possible, forcing you to rest against Johnny’s side, the blond’s arm thrown conspicuously over the back of the furniture. 

The movie’s paused, Johnny ducking off to the bathroom and giving you room to finally breathe. 

“You know, he’s really—”

“Fuck me dead, Pete.” You exclaim, beyond sick of his ‘wingmanning’ “if Johnny’s so great, why don’t you kiss him!”

Of course, that’s when the topic of conversation ambles back into the room, blue eyes sliding between you and Peter, huddled up on the couch with a widening grin as he pieces together the missing pieces of conversation. 

“I would, but Johnny’s not really my type.” Peter jokes as Johnny gives an offended squawk. 

You doubt you’ve ever rolled your eyes harder, “Peter, you’ve been riding Johnny’s dick so hard these past few weeks it’s a wonder you’re not pregnant.”

It’s Peter’s turn to squawk indignantly at that, but before you can even pat yourself on the back for undoubtedly putting an end to his annoying Johnny yammering, said blond has marched across the space, grabbed his friend by the cheeks and pulled him into a fiery kiss. 

Objectively, you know Peter’s an attractive guy. It’s just you’ve never really allowed yourself to think of him that way, but now, slack-jawed at a steamy kiss he’s started to reciprocate, as if vying for dominance, an unwanted heat starts unfurling in your gut. 

“Do you guys want me to leave?” Your voice cracks, high-pitched and squeaky, as you struggle to pull your gaze away from the increasingly tempting sight in front of you. 

As if you’ve spoken the magic words, the two suddenly jolt apart, sharing a conspiratorial look you miss as your tongue sits heavy and useless in your mouth. 

“Don’t even think about it, babe.”

An instinctive retort forms in the back of your throat, but Johnny promptly swallows it when his heated lips are suddenly on yours. Your brain shuts down, traitorous body succumbing to the kiss as a warm palm gently cups your neck, holding you in place without exerting any pressure. 

Fingers trail down your spine before sliding to rest on your waist, making you jolt before relaxing at the realisation that it’s just Peter. The next few minutes pass in a haze of wandering hands and kisses exchanged between varying combinations of the three of you until somehow, you’re deposited on Peter’s lap, chest to chest as Johnny’s practically glued to your back. 

“Just think, all that time turning me down could have been spent doing this instead.” You can feel, the smug grin on Johnny’s face as the plants a trail of kisses behind your ear and down your jawline. 

Rolling your eyes, you reach back to tangle your fingers in dishevelled blonde hair, tugging him forward as your free hand guide’s Peter’s face, “shut up and kiss each other again already.”

“Bossy.” He huffs, but much to your delight, complies with your demand enthusiastically. Peter and Johnny have always had a bad habit of showboating, and now, with you stuck between them, they’re more than willing to put on a show it seems. 

Finally, something you can’t complain about.

GUY GARDNER & HAL JORDAN

It had been a joke, something hyperbolic, a “ha-ha, gotcha” moment to get Guy to back off a little because there was no way Guy would follow through, and there was certainly no way Hal would let him. 

“The day I kiss you is the day you kiss Hal.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Guy. Quite the opposite, really. There was just a large part of you that doubted Guy truly liked you. You’d spent years watching him flirt with anything with a pulse, never phased at the many, many rejections. He’d just brush himself off and turn to the next pretty woman. 

What you, and certainly Hal, hadn’t expected was for Guy to barely give it a single second of consideration before he was gripping Hal’s face with large, calloused hands and planting a surprisingly passionate kiss on his unsuspecting friend. 

Hal freezes, statuesque in either shock or horror, long enough for Guy to slip him some tongue before he’s pulling away with a wet smacking noise that would normally have you flinching in disgust, but for some reason has you heating up a little under the collar. 

Just when you think you’ve imagined it all in some fucked up fantasy about two of your friends/coworkers, Kyle spits out the mouthful of your cocktail he’d helped himself to directly onto your new pants. 

“Rayner!” You shriek, managing to tear your eyes off Hal’s dazed expression at the uncomfortable new sensation of unintentionally being wet and sticky. Having sensed his impending doom, Kyle’s already thrown himself off the barstool and is halfway to the exit when a warm arm settles around your shoulders and prevents your chase. 

Whipping your head around, your heart stutters a little in your chest at finding Guy so close that your nose brushes against his. Blinking, you rapidly try to create space, only to fail when his arm keeps you steady in place, palm sliding down to rest between your shoulder blades. 

“So, about that kiss?”

“I can’t believe you actually did that.” Your voice is a little numb with shock, brain replaying the past ten seconds in slow motion like a football highlights reel. 

“That?” He scoffs, like he hasn’t just left Hal auditioning for the newest statue at the Louvre, “a small task to earn a kiss from you.”

“Are you sure you didn’t want to just kiss Hal, because I don’t recall saying you had to use tongue. To the outside eye, it almost seemed like you were super enthusiastic about the opportunity.”

“What can I say, I’m a giver.” Guy’s smirk is downright sleazy, and there must be something seriously wrong with your brain because suddenly he’s the most attractive man in the whole bar. 

You’re pretty sure that kiss is seared into your retinas for the rest of your existence; it’ll play behind your eyelids when you go to sleep tonight, that’s for sure. 

“Left you speechless, huh? Don’t worry, you’re not the—”

Grabbing him by the shirt, you pull him down into a kiss before you can think better of it. Guy, who apparently has been very eager for this moment, gets with the program immediately, and by the time you’re dazedly pulling away to breathe, you realise exactly why Hal’s still staring glassy-eyed into the cosmos. 

Against all universal laws, Guy Gardner’s a fantastic kisser. It would piss you off if you weren’t already pulling him in for another, suddenly wanting to make up for lost time.

Somewhere to your left, Jess makes a disgusted noise and follows after Kyle’s example. Not that you pay her any mind, it’s Hal’s sudden attention that has your interest, eyes flickering open long enough to confirm that he’s watching you and Guy a little more intently before you’re overwhelmed by another breathtaking kiss.

He's leaning in the frame, arms crossed, watching you with the particular expression he seems to wear as a default. Not unfriendly, exactly, just very still. It’s like he's turned most of himself down to a frequency you can't quite tune into.

You'd noticed him around the tower; it’s hard not to. He had this way of hovering near the edges of rooms — near enough to be present, far enough to have an exit, watching conversations like he was studying for a test on how to be a person again.

You'd clocked him lingering near the kitchen while Sam told a story, near the TV while Nat and Clint argued about something. Or near the window during debrief like a curious, brooding version of Thor.

You'd wanted to say something to him about a dozen times and each time you'd talked yourself out of it because you genuinely could not figure out what the opening line was. Hey, you seem lonely felt presumptuous. Good job not being a sleeper agent felt worse.

So you'd just decided not to..

And apparently he'd been doing the same math, which had resulted in him standing in your bathroom doorway at eleven at night watching you fail at first aid.

"Hey," you say, because something has to be said.

He nods, and you turn back to the mirror. "I've got it."

You don't have it. The gauze slips again, proof positive, and you watch his reflection push off the doorframe and cross the room and then his hand — the left one, the metal one, cool even through the cloth — covers yours and just takes it. Bucky wasn’t rough with it nor hesitant, just with the quiet certainty of someone who has decided a thing and is doing it.

You go still. "What are you doing?"

"Helping."

He says it like it's the most obvious thing — like you'd asked him what two plus two was. He's already repositioning, tilting the light, assessing. The efficiency of it catches you off guard, the way he moves through like a checklist: clean, irrigate, and assess depth. You can feel him deciding about the stitch before he says anything.

"This needs two," he says.

"I know."

"You were going to do it yourself."

"I was going to, yes."

He makes a sound, something not quite a laugh — something shorter, quieter. But it's there.

Bucky works without narrating it, which you appreciate. Some people talk through medical stuff to be reassuring and it always has the opposite effect. He just does it, and so the stitches are neat. Tighter than you'd have managed at this angle, if you'd managed at all.

You're watching his reflection without meaning to. He's focused — entirely, completely focused, the same way you'd clocked him watching the sparring sessions from the mezzanine last week. It’s like the thing in front of him is the only thing that exists.

"You had good angles tonight," he says.

You blink. "Sorry?"

"On the entry. The building." He ties off the stitch, reaches for the gauze. "Most people come in high. You came in low and right, cut off the exit before they registered you were there."

You process that for a second.

"You were watching."

"Everyone was watching. You were the interesting part."

It's delivered completely flatly; just a fact he's reporting.

"...thanks," you say.

He tapes the gauze down, smooth and precise, with no wasted movement. "The one by the stairwell. Your second engagement. You knew he was going to draw left."

"He was guarding his right side the whole time. Led with it."

Barnes nods like you've confirmed something. "He'd been hit there before, old injury. You read it in about four seconds."

"Three," you say, and then feel slightly stupid.

The corner of his mouth moves. Not a smile, exactly, but the shape of one. "Three," he allows.

He steps back, checking his work with the same assessing look. You pull your shirt back on and turn around, leaning against the counter. He's already moving to wash his hands, unhurried.

"I've been trying to figure out how to talk to you for like three weeks," you say.

He looks at you in the mirror.

"You're very — " you gesture vaguely, " — a lot to approach. You've got a whole thing going on. Very brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."

He's quiet for a moment, drying his hands. "I didn't know what to say."

"Yeah, me neither."

"So I didn't say anything."

"Same."

He turns off the tap and sets the towel down. Bucky looks at you with that low, even look, and you get the sense he's filing something away — cataloguing this. Perhaps in the  way he catalogued your entry angle and the guard's weak side and the two stitches. Just simply noting it.

"Your form on the last guy," he says. "The big one by the door."

"What about it?"

"It was reckless."

You stare at him.

"You had three cleaner options."

"I had him."

"You had him that time." He crosses his arms. "Different footing, you're on the floor."

You open your mouth, close it. "Are you critiquing me right now? You just stitched me up and now you're critiquing me?"

"The two things aren't unrelated."

You look at him, and he just stares back. Somewhere down the hall the laugh track goes off again, tinny and distant.

"Okay," you say. "Fine. What were the three cleaner options?"

And he tells you. Quiet and precise, standing in your bathroom at eleven-fifteen at night, talking about leverage and sightlines and weight distribution like he's narrating a documentary only he can see.

You find yourself arguing back. Though, not defensively, just because you have a different read. He seems like the kind of person who wants you to push back, actually, who comes alive slightly when you do, the stillness shifting into something more alert.

The laugh track goes off again and you both ignore it.

You're still leaning against the counter. He hasn't moved toward the door yet. There's something in the quality of the silence that doesn't feel like an ending, so you don't treat it like one.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looks at you.

"The — " you gesture vaguely in the direction of the rest of the tower, " — social stuff. Is it hard? Like, actually hard, or is that a stupid question?"

A pause. He seems to be deciding something.

"It's loud," he says finally.

"The tower?"

"Rooms. When everyone's — " he stops, and tries again. "When people already know how to talk to each other. There's a frequency. I can't find it."

He says it the way he said three — like a correction. It’s as if he's been carrying the precise language for it and hasn't had anywhere to put it. "I stand there and I know what a normal response would look like but by the time I've worked out how to enter it the moment's already gone."

Letting the conversation sit, you stay silent.

"Steve tries," he adds. "He's — he tries very hard. So does Sam. It's worse when people try."

"Because then you know they're watching to see if it works."

He looks at you; something shifts slightly. "Yeah."

"I noticed you," you say. "Around, for weeks. I kept almost saying something."

"Why didn't you?"

"Couldn't really figure out the opening line. You've got a very — " you make the same vague gesture from before, " — don't approach energy."

"Hm." He considers this without apparent offense. "What changed?"

"You walked into my bathroom and took the gauze out of my hand."

The shape-of-a-smile thing happens again. Brief and almost involuntary.

"I didn't think about it," he says. "I just — did it."

"Yeah." You pause. "That's usually how it works, actually. The thinking is the problem."

He's quiet for a moment. Then, like he's noting something: "You patch yourself up alone."

"I had it."

"You didn't."

"I almost had it."

He tips his head slightly, but not agreeing. "You came back from a mission with a laceration that needed two stitches and you didn't ask anyone."

"I didn't want to bother anyone."

He looks at you with an expression that is very flat and very pointed and somehow manages to make you feel slightly called out without him saying a single word.

"That's different," you say.

"Is it?"

"I'm not — " you stop and start again. "That's just not wanting to be annoying. That's not the same thing as not being able to read a room."

"You were alone in a bathroom at midnight with a needle."

"Barnes."

"I'm just noting it."

"You're critiquing me again."

"The two things," he says, deadpan, "aren't unrelated."

You stare at him, and he does the same. The laugh track plays. You both continue to ignore it.

"Okay," you say. "Fine. We're both bad at it."

He considers this for a moment, like he's checking it for accuracy. Then, quietly: "Yeah."

It's not a big admission, as he doesn't really make it one. But you get the sense it's the kind of thing he doesn't say out loud very often — the small ordinary version of the truth, without the armor around it.

He's still here, you think, and that's the thing. He walked in and he stayed and he answered. He's still here, which for Bucky at this particular point in his grand life is probably the whole sentence.

"We should spar sometime," you say. "You could show me. The three options."

He goes quiet.

Though not the closed-off quiet from before — something different. Smaller, like a door opening somewhere very far inside, in a room that hadn't been unlocked in a long time. Something that, if you knew him better, if you'd known him before — back when he had a whole laugh and an easy grin and twenty-five cents in his pocket for the Coney Island ferris wheel — you might have recognised it as the very beginning of giddy.

He doesn't let it reach his face, but it's there.

"Yeah," he says. A pause. "That sounds good."

It's four words, but it shouldn't land the way it does.

He leaves, and you're standing in your bathroom, alone again. The laugh track plays one more time.

Huh, you think. Okay then.

He finds Steve and Sam in the kitchen at half past midnight. They're doing nothing in particular.

Sam has a bowl of cereal he's clearly eating out of boredom, Steve has a book open that he hasn't looked at in a while. They both clock Bucky in the doorway and do the thing they always do, which is very carefully not make it a big deal that he's there.

"Hey," Sam says. "You eat yet?"

Bucky doesn't answer that. He comes into the kitchen and stops a few feet from the counter — hands at his sides, shoulders back, the posture of a man delivering a report to people with the appropriate clearance level — and says: "I talked to Y/N tonight."

Steve closes his book.

"Yeah?" Sam says, neutral, cereal spoon frozen.

"They came back from the mission with a laceration on their upper back. I assisted with the stitching." A pause. "Then we talked about the mission. Their tactical instincts are good. They read injury patterns. They noticed I'd been — " a very brief stop, " — around. They said I had brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."

Sam's mouth twitches. "They’re not wrong."

"We talked about the social stuff. I told them about the frequency thing." He says it plainly, no preamble, the way he'd report a weather condition. "They didn't make it weird."

Steve's expression does something complicated and tender that he is trying very hard to keep off his face and completely failing at.

"They patch themself up alone," Bucky continues, with the faint air of someone filing a complaint. "They came back with a two-stitch laceration and didn't ask anyone. Y/N said they didn't want to bother people."

"That does sound like them," Sam says carefully.

"It's the same thing. What I do. They just don't see it that way." He pauses. "I told them the two things weren't unrelated."

Sam sets his spoon down very slowly.

"We're sparring next week," Bucky says. "So I can demonstrate the three alternative approaches they should have taken in the final engagement. Their form on the last target was reckless."

Silence.

Steve is gripping his book, but his jaw is doing something. His eyes are doing something considerably worse. He has the look of a man watching a sunrise he'd been told might never come and trying very hard not to ruin it by crying about it in a kitchen at midnight.

"That's — " his voice comes out slightly higher than intended. He clears his throat. "That's really good, Buck."

"They’re good," Bucky says, with a faint defensive edge that no one asked for. "Technically. Their entry angles are efficient. And they process fast. They even asked me a question and then actually waited for the answer."

"Mmhm," Sam says, nodding. Neutral and completely fine. Absolutely not affected by any of this.

"I'm just saying. As context."

"Useful context," Sam says. "Very useful."

Bucky looks between them, and they look back. Sam with a careful, nonchalant stillance. Steve with the barely-contained energy of a man who is sitting, technically, but only just.

"What?" Bucky says.

"Nothing," Steve says immediately.

"Nothing at all," Sam agrees.

A beat.

"I'm going to bed," Bucky announces.

"Good night," Sam says smoothly.

"Night," Steve manages.

Bucky leaves; his footsteps go down the hall, then a door closes.

Steve and Sam look at each other.

"He made a friend," Steve says, at a volume that is too loud for midnight.

"Steve — "

"Sam. He made a friend."

"I know, I was there — "

"They waited for the answer — "

"Steve — "

"They just waited — "

"I will pour this milk directly onto you," Sam says. "Look at me. I mean it."

Steve presses both hands over his face. His shoulders are shaking. It takes Sam a second to clock that it isn't distress — it's laughter, the silent kind. The one that gets away from you when you've been holding something careful for a very long time and something small and good finally tips it over.

Sam looks at the ceiling, picking up his spoon and takes a bite of cereal.

"...they sound good," he says, after a moment. Quietly. "The frequency thing. That they just — let it sit."

"They’re going to be so good for him," Steve says, into his hands.

"We don't know that yet."

"Sam."

Sam takes another bite and looks at the ceiling again. "...yeah," he says. "Probably."

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

Who you can request for:

anyone who has been featured on this blog that has less than 3 fics

anyone else who has little to no fics on tumblr (just ask!)

anyone from the list below :)

How to request:

choose your fave neglected character

choose whether you want fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, slice of life (anything but smut!)

if you have any extra details you want to include, feel free!

Neglected Characters:

— DC:

any of the DC women <3

Booster Gold

Ted Kord

Simon Baz

Connor Hawke

Grant Emerson

Jean-Paul Valley

Victor Stone

Garth

Duke Thomas

Jaime Reyes

Garfield Logan

Bart Allen

Superboy Prime

Guy Gardner

Oliver Queen

— Marvel:

Angel

Colossus

Sentry

Clint Barton

any of the Marvel women

— Resident Evil:

Chris Redfield

Jake Muller

Ethan Winters

Carlos Oliveira

any of the women

— Overwatch:

any of the OW heroes <3 minus robots & animals

— if you have another fave who isn't on the list, feel free to ask <3

— characters will be updated as i write for them ^^

Masterlist:

A Night Apart - Jaime Reyes

Color Your Night - Piotr Rasputin

These Little Comforts - Jean-Paul Valley

Steve Rogers:

You know that Steve's a traditional guy, even if time has opted to finagle with his chronological meter. That's why you were a little worried to undress in front of him the first time, to allow him to see what lie under the waistband.

You worried to see shock or disgust dart over the span of his face as he peeled the hem of your pants down. But you're not sure how to qualify this.

As his eyes drink in the words scrawled in calligraphic ink on the slope of your abdomen. With his hands knuckling over the tender flesh of your waist, his thumbs digging into the ample skin that is his to hold.

His eyes look with such dogged intensity over the words; surely he must have gleaned comprehension as to what it says. But still he remains silent. His eyes in intensive focus, his brow knitted, the color rising to the apple of his cheeks.

"Steve?" You ask, your voice in meeker fashion than it might usually be. "Is everything okay?"

He chuffs out a breath in drastic measure, one locked tightly away in the real estate of his ribs. When his eyes dart up to you, it's an act of restraint to keep your jaw from dropping open.

His pupils are so dilated in manner you've never seen before—his nostrils flared, his shoulders broadened as he leans over you. His broad fingers seem to curl in ravenous means over you, as though allowing you to escape is unthinkable right now.

"Eat me?" He asks, without any heat—his voice is tight with need, his eyes seem to draw wider in something dark and hungry. You can't help but squirm under that implacable grasp as he instinctively grinds against you, feeling the way that the bulge tenting in his pants rocks against you.

"Yeah," you respond, feeling far more vulnerable than you assumed nudity would offer. But the verbalization of the tattoo marked under your belly button usually inspires a variety of reactions.

And this—as Steve's eyes draw up to you, raking over the ink once more—this is certainly a reaction.

"I got it in college," you confess shyly as his eyes seem to go glassy as he surveys you; slinks his eyes down to the promised land. "Do you like it?"

"Do I like it?" He asks, and his voice is gentle but rugged with a heat that you don't know you've heard him use save in combat. His thumb soothes into you, but the action isn't entirely reassuring considering he looks like he's considering the message of your lettering.

"Yeah," you reply as you appraise him. As his hands urge down your thighs, summoning tactile afterimage as he sinks between your legs.

"Well, it wouldn't be gentlemanly if I didn't follow instructions when they were given to me," he answers—his breath over that sensitive spot that is roiling with need makes you gasp open-mouthed.

"Don't you think?" He asks—you have to knuckle your forefinger against the full of your lips to stifle the shudder.

"I agree." You say, teasing cant to your voice. And Steve smiles as he looks to get to work on the assignment you've given him.

Frank Castle:

You should have known better, wearing a shirt with such a high cut to the gym. But you hadn't known that he was watching you—even though you should have expected it.

The two of you were the only people in the room, and it was so every like him to keep an eye on someone he had a hankering for making out with after certain hours. You just hadn't made it to the stage where clothes came off—yet.

This is why you didn't expect him to come and find you after you'd hustled your way off the stairmaster, to ask for a moment of your attention in the lockers. This is why you're absolutely, entirely flummoxed when he turns you around, and with a shove neither gentle nor rough, pushes you up against the wall.

"Frank, what the fuck—"—Is all that you begin to voice—not that you're entirely unhappy with his actions, just surprised—when you feel his hand tug under the hem of your shirt and hike it up. Feel the cool air hit the tack of your exposed, sweaty skin—and feel the breath of his crude chuckle as he admires the cyber silygism in perfect symmetry just above the cleft of your ass.

"How come you didn't tell me you had one of these, honey?" He asks, and there's something almost offended, though it's overridden by the blatant lust taking prominence in his voice. Lust that is clearly indicated by the bulge that is pressing up against you, supplemented by the instinctive grind he makes against you.

"What—"—You say, but there's his hands that pull at your hips as he bucks his own into you. And shamefully, needfully, you moan at his touch.

"Woulda loved to get a chance to see this sooner, baby," He groans, and you feel the scrape of rough fingers over the ink documented on your skin. Feel another ejection of a sharp chuckle as his hands sink their grasp into you.

"You're seeing it now," You respond through gritted teeth, angling your head back to look at him—taking ample time to watch the way he makes a rugged smile look so good. How he's already making way to free you from all this unnecessary clothing.

"Whatcha gonna do about it?" You ask him, and the chuckle he makes is laced with a greed only matched by the clutch of his hands.

"Think I'm gonna enjoy lookin' at it while I fuck you, honey," He grits as you feel the press of his cock against you, already at full attention.

You think that you wholeheartedly agree with him.

Peter Parker:

It almost seems like Peter has lost all coherent thought as he stares at the tattoo that makes journey from your hip down to the flesh of your inner thigh.

His hand seems to ghost over it in stuttering motion as he admires it with the pads of those rough fingers, his mouth falling open in slack-jawed way. You don't know if you've ever seen him at a loss for words before.

"Peter?" You ask, as you watch the way his finger traces down the barrel of the revolver emblazoned on your skin in monochrome. Watch as his Adam's apple bobs in thick, delirious manner, before his eyes find yours. And then his brain seems to reboot, returning his ability for coherent speech.

"This—"—His hand skirts over the trigger of the tattoo, his eyes blown wide—"—This is so fucking hot."

"Yeah?" You ask, letting a little sly smirk play on your lips. "What do you like about it?"

"I like that it's on you," Peter says with immediacy—you can't help but laugh aloud, even as his cheeks begin to flush with emotion.

"I like that it looks so perfect on your soft skin," He says in more quiet meter, his hands touching you in reverent notion. "And the way that it makes me want to kiss there. Kiss—"

He swallows again and when his eyes finally track to you, you can barely keep your own gaze riveted to him. The way his hand is rubbing over the junction of your legs makes a punched-out moan slide easily through the grit of your teeth.

"—Kiss you everywhere." He says, and you watch as the pink of his tongue darts out to run over the full of his lips. Your mouth has never felt so dry watching him.

"Can I taste you?" He asks, and his voice is husked at this, his eyes in worshipful cant. As though he has yet to taste ambrosia and hungers for the privilege to do so, between your legs.

"You better," You grin at him. He makes a soft, breathy chuckle, staring down at you as he works his hand over you.

"Okay." He says. And like a man settling himself down to prayer, he lowers himself to pay tribute at your temple.

Roy Harper:

It's always a comparison game with him. How much you can keep up during training, how many enemies that you can take down in a match. How many times you can bring each other to the floor during a sparring session. Tonight's theme is tattoos.

Roy, of course, goes first—he shows off the impressive columns of his muscles, first showing the Navajo armband in its dark, symmetrical, precise lining. Then he takes time to show you the black scorpion with poised tail, the skull bearing crossbow with sheath of arrows. Allowing you to see the fine work that has been made with permanence into his skin.

You make sure to give admiratory glance and appreciative nod, and perhaps if your eyes linger too greatly on the way his muscle recoils and flexes with the movement before you show him your own—

Well, you decide to move along before your eyes tarry too long.

You show him dates commemorated, your American Traditional on your arm—he goes through the motions of staring with marked interest. But then he asks the question.

"Any others?" He asks. And you could say no, but you don't.

"Yeah, but you can't see that one." You tell him, keeping your smile coy as his own grows with curiosity.

"Oh?" His voice is low and affected now. "Why not?"

"It's under my bellybutton." You grin at the way his eyes flicker with interest. "Got it with my first paycheck."

"What's it look like?" He asks, and if he nears you on the couch, you don't shirk away at his approach.

"Says 'trouble below,'" you laugh, "And it hasn't aged well."

"Well, how'm I supposed to know," He inquires casually, "If you won't let me see it?"

"Because I get the feeling," You say as his arm inches across the back of the couch towards you, "That you won't just take a look."

"Well," He echoes his previous statement, "How can I be a fair judge if I can't get a feel for the situation?"

"Don't you mean a taste?" You ask—his laugh is sure, but his eyes speak something else to you.

"Why not both?" He asks, and the way that his eyes lance through you, searching for your approval like a hungry dog. You can't resist it.

"Only if you take me out to dinner after." You say, to which Roy makes speculative noise.

"Kinda odd, putting dessert before dinner," He says, his fingers notching their way to your waistband, closing in on the promised land, "But I guess we can switch it up."

"Yeah?" You ask, your voice light, airy, teasing as he begins to coax you out of your clothing. "How's that?"

"Guess I can give you dinner and a show, sweetheart," He says as his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin he reveals. "We'll just get started with the show first."

As he presses a heated kiss to the sinew of your skin where the tattoo is imprinted—you certainly think he's on to something.

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Something is wrong with Guy Gardner. At least, the League seems to think so.

Maybe he’s been possessed, or replaced with an alien, or maybe a series of ghosts visited him in his sleep and convinced him to be a better man. Whatever the reason is, there’s only one thing they agree on: it’s weird.

The first person to notice it, unfortunately, is Hal Jordan. He’s leaving the Watchtower, clocking out from an excruciatingly long patrol shift, when he notices something odd.

Guy Gardner, two cups of coffee in his sweaty palms, psyching himself up in the hallway. Hal blinks, head cocked to the side, wondering what could possibly make Guy Gardner of all people so nervous.

His answer comes in the form of you, settled into a chair with a book in your lap, oblivious to Guy’s arrival until he taps you on the shoulder.

“Guy, hey!”

He smiles, something awkward and strained. He thrusts a hand out to you, “brought you a coffee.”

You take it, bringing it to your lips and inhaling the sweet aroma. You grin ear to ear, “ugh, my favorite. How did you know?”

“You know me,” he shrugs, an attempt to remain nonchalant. “Guy Gardner knows things.”

You giggle slightly, taking a sip from your coffee. “You know, I’m starting to think you actually do.”

Guy blushes. Hal shudders. What parallel universe has he stepped into?

The next person to notice, unsurprisingly, is J’onn. 

Guy Gardner’s been pacing the command deck all day, which in itself drew suspicion. He’s not one to hang around when he’s not on duty or doesn’t need something from someone. It’s especially unlike Guy to be pacing and nervously wringing his hands together like this.

J’onn observes him with sly sideyes and the occasional telepathic checkup, wondering what on Earth he could possibly be waiting for.

The answer comes when you stumble back into the Watchtower, soaking wet and shivering, Hal Jordan by your side. You shake off the water on your body like a dog, wrinkling your nose.

J’onn feels it before he sees it. The sudden relief, the dissolving anxiety in the room.

“That,” Hal mimics your motion, wet hair dangling in his face, “sucked.”

You laugh, “you think? I’m freezing.”

The two of you fall into the steady rhythm of smalltalk, discussing the details of your mission while simultaneously dripping water all over the floor. You’re so caught up in your conversation with Hal that you don’t notice Guy sidle up to you until he’s shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

It’s warm, perfectly comfortable over your wet and cold clothes and best of all, it smells like the cologne he douses himself in every morning. You tug it tighter around yourself and look over your shoulder at the man who gifted it to you.

“Guy?”

“Hm?”

“What’s this for?”

“Since you said you’re cold and all,” he shrugs, trying to keep it casual. “Can’t have you getting sick on me.”

Hal and J’onn exchange looks. What the hell is going on?

Guy catches himself. “Don’t want you shirking your responsibilities, leaving all the world saving to me. I got things to do.”

You see through the facade easily, see it for what it really is. You only smile and thank him, crossing your arms over your chest to thoroughly absorb his warmth.

Guy resists the urge to drape an arm over your shoulders. Hal resists the urge to gag. 

The third victim of Guy Gardner’s new attitude is no other than John Stewart, who wasn’t even supposed to be here but was instead sentenced to it by the Guardians.

He’s tired when he arrives at Guy’s house, not willing to deal with the odd ecosystem Guy has created for himself. Still, he forces himself through the door and calls out for Guy, only to trip over his shoes.

Wait—not Guy’s shoes. Someone else’s. 

John squints, examining the shoes that almost took him out. They’re too clean to be Guy’s, the soles still sporting some white where Guy’s would usually be worn down and dark in colour. 

He calls out for Guy again, stepping further into his apartment and past the plant he’s somehow growing inside of an old boot. It would be impressive if John wasn’t so grossed out by the room around him.

His search of the apartment turns up empty until he comes across the barely open door to Guy’s bedroom, the room behind it enveloped in darkness. Hesitating, John pushes open the door and freezes dead in his tracks when he sees what’s inside.

He should’ve known. The apartment was slightly cleaner than usual, there was an extra pair of shoes at the door and Guy wasn’t answering and still, here he is. John can’t help but stare, slack-jawed at the sight in front of him,

Guy, laid on his side, his thick arms wrapped around your waist. Your waist. John wasn’t sure anyone on the planet would be willing to date Guy Gardner, least of all you of all people. 

He rubs at his eyes and the sight of the two of you remains. 

It’s then that Guy props himself up on one arm, shooting daggers towards John. “D’ya mind?”

John takes a big step back, shaking his head, still speechless. Guy tosses a construct pillow at him, John dodges.

“I’m just—I’ll text you.”

John spins on his heel, leaving the apartment more haunted than when he first arrived.

You’re walking the street with Guy, swinging your hand in his, that the question finally comes to your mind.

“Do you think people have been…weird around us lately?”

Guy squeezes your hand. “Why do you think that?”

“Just…everything. I mean, we spend all our time around superheroes. One of them is bound to figure it out at some point.”

Guy pauses, thinking back to the other day with John, and the week before that with Manhunter, and even before that with Hal. He shrugs his broad shoulders.

“No,” he smiles, “don’t think those dummies are gonna figure it out anytime soon.”

Liar.

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