#twentytomidnightwrites

Logan Howlett

He’s got an instinct for these things. Considering that he’s able to distinguish the heartbeat of a doe in the quiet of the woods, the bull-rushing wind that ghosts through the trees, the flap of wings as they take to the sky—it makes sense.

This is why he pauses in the descent down the meter of your body, the heat of his mouth loitering over the dip of your navel. His tongue scrapes against the divot as his eyes search you, admiring the way that your brows twist up. He appraises how your face wracks in delighted pleasure—but is also restrained with an element of anxiety.

“What’s wrong?” He murmurs, audible enough that you are distracted from the thrill of his explorations. Your eyes alight down to him too-quickly, caught out and without any proper defenses.

“Ah—”—You begin with a stammer that can’t be smothered in your voice—“—Nothing—”

“Haven’t done this before, have you?” He asks, and his voice is a corrugated rumble that snakes through you from your abdomen out. His hands seize around your bare waist, fingers clasping into the flesh, his eyes lancing through you with a deep, proprietary need.

You cannot lie to him in this most crucial of moments. Anything less than the truth will result in the cessation of this pleasure. Pleasure that even his body draped out of you produces.

“No,” You confess, your eyes askance to the bedsheets tangled in labyrinthine knots beneath you. If your body scalded with the torment of pleasure he coaxed out of you, this embarrassment is even more excruciating.

But you have little time to dwell on it before you feel the lap of a tongue up your stomach. Your vision drags to the obscene sight that he makes, his arms drawing you further under his implacable grip. His eyes are rolled over dark with a need to satisfy what you have yet to receive.

“You’re not—mad—”—You try to ask, but the inquiry is choked as you feel the sink of his teeth into the flesh of your thigh. Still his eyes refuse to deviate from you, drinking in every subtle reation that he can encourage from your lips, from the twitch of your body below him.

“Not at all,” He growls into the throbbing pulse where your legs meet, “Just means I gotta make sure I ease you into it.”

When his tongue laps at the heat of your body, making you curl your fingers into the meat of his arms—his groan couples beautifully with your own.

Scott Summers:

You cannot deny that you expected Scott to have a specific type of reaction when you confessed this to him. But the way that he draws entirely still under you, his hands adjusting down the slope of your waist, making further navigation down the cleft of your ass—

You don’t know if you expected this.

“Scott?” You ask, unable to discern the emotion that lurks underneath those opaque lenses. “Please say something.”

“I—”—He bows his head in humble incline, allowing you to see the knit of his brow as he makes a resuscitative noise you realize is a cough.

And this allows you to realize that he’s blushing, a ruddy dusting of color that spreads from the apple of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. You don’t realize that there’s a smile growing on your face, a coalescing of disbelief and amusement.

“It’s not—bad, is it?” You ask, affecting your voice to a low whisper as you look up to him. You take careful visual inventory of him through the fan of your lashes.

And he’s quick to respond, with an instinctiveness that is motivated by the need to reassure, to keep you in the span of his broad fingers. You can’t see the quality of those eyes, but you do the brows that twist in a worried desperation, a mouth expressionless with fear. That communicates volumes.

“No!” The syllable is expelled quickly, his fingers supplement to the veracity of his statement—they drape up the small of your back, ambling up you with needful obeisance to assuage your worries. “Not at all.”

He clears his throat again, though it does little to diminish the color that is still rising with the precarious quality of the situation. There’s something endearing. Something awkward—something shy.

“I just want to make sure that you don’t feel rushed into it.” He says, his voice low, deliberate. “I want to make sure you feel ready.”

There’s something that pulls tender, something in the way his hands rest on the ridge of your shoulderblades. He holds you as though you are precious—as though you are sacred.

There is a twist of longing in the caging of your ribs that matches with the beat that thrums between your legs; you can’t help but buck into the bulge that is still growing with nascent interest against you.

“I’m ready.” You tell him, staring at the lenses that are angled directly towards you. “I don’t want to do it with anyone but you.”

Scott’s jaw sets, a taut swallow makes descent down the column of his throat. Something grows firmer, harder still against you—and you chuff out a flustered breath, averting your eyes.

“Can we just—”—You reorient yourself in the clasp of his arms—“—Take it slow?”

His lips are on the slope of your shoulder, an oath of his fidelity, of his gentility. “Of course.”

His mouth makes slow journey up your neck, summoning tight shiver through the grit of your teeth. And his hands make warranted journey back to the heat of your body.

“Let me know if you want to stop, okay?”

“Okay,” You gasp as the rough scrape of those fingers continue lower—you know that you won’t.

Remy LeBeau

“You tellin’ me,” Remy asks next to you—and you’re trying so hard to not focus on the close proximity of his body to yours, “You never been with a man before?”

“Never been with anyone before,” You confess with a shyness that you wish you didn’t bear, shifting uncomfortably in your seating. You’re too focused on the weight of your admission to notice how his eyes draw in particularity over your body, nor to notice the crook of his mouth as he watches you.

“I know,” You continue, still ignorant to the gears that are turning in his mind, “It’s embarrassing—”

“Non,” He corrects with a an alacrity that makes your eyes dart up to him, look at the unexpected neutrality of his voice, “Only mean you gotta find the right person to do it with.”

He inches further down the limited real estate between the two of you, letting you see the clench of those muscular thighs as they flex nearer yet.

“Yeah?” You ask, your heart trapped in the housing of your throat, complex words clotted past articulation. “Like who?”

“Someone you know, chere,” He advises with a drawl that sends a thrill of adrenaline through your veins, and heady want in the pit of your abdomen. “Someone who treat you right—”

His arm slinks down the back of your chair, close enough to make tactile contact with you. You have to grit your teeth to resist the shudder that is trembling up your body.

“—Someone who make you feel good.” His eyes glow with an unspoken fire that scorches you the longer you share his gaze. But you want to feel the heat—perhaps this is why you near closer. Why you ask what you do next.

“Know anyone, Remy?” You ask him. When he chuckles, it’s a confident, arrogant noise. But it carries with it the weight of someone who knows how to fulfill a responsibility given.

“Maybe I do, minou,” He murmurs, and when his knuckles drag up your jawline, you don’t flinch—his touch fits perfectly against your face. As though you have been waiting for his hand to find your body.

His mouth is needy, it is eager to taste your own. To lick the salt from your tongue and to scrape against the back of of your teeth. His hands slink under clothes that are rapidly becoming unnecessary with each passing moment.

You help along the way as you buck your hips into the heel of his palm that grinds against you, that sends a shock of pleasure through your body. That makes him chuckle into your mouth, his teeth catching on the full of your bottom lip.

When he presses his tongue against it, draws it against his soft palate, and sucks, hard—you can’t help but moan. And his hand is eager to convince more from you as his fingers search in between your thighs.

“You gonna enjoy this, minou,” He reassures you as his breath ghosts over the crook of your neck, as his tongue marks territory that he will claim upon further inspection. “I promise you.”

You can only whimper into the shell of his ear. You think that he’ll make good on this guarantee.

Clark Kent:

To your relief, he takes your confession in eager stride, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. It does little to disguise the heady flush, the shyness that you find taking bloom over his face.

To your surprise, he makes further revelation to you as he shifts, letting you settle more fully from where you’re seated on his lap. You both are in various undress, so it falls to reason that goosebumps dart up your arms, your legs as he presses you against him.

“I am, too,” He informs you.

There’s something hopeful, something fearful in the slant of his eyes as he looks to you in worshipful manner. To you, to your altar that he has been given opportunity to lay sacrifice to, to give ample tribute to—with your permission.

“You are?” You ask in incredulous manner—there’s something difficult to believe about this, as you look at the wall of muscle that he makes under you. At the delicious display that he is under the spread of your arms, all power and sinew and warmth—all yours.

“I find that hard to believe,” You inform him as you run your fingers down the swathe of his chest. There’s a sharp intake of breath, of barely suppressed pleasure. Something down the descent of his body, pressing against you, speaks for the rest of him.

“I never got around to it,” He admits in hushed delivery, moving those wide hands up your body. Still, he touches you in hallowed meter, as though the privilege of your body will be rescinded at any moment.

“I always wanted it to be with the right person.”

“And am I the right person?” You ask him, letting something sly run undercurrent in your voice—though it is beset by that nagging self-doubt that hounds you. The way that he looks from the curves of your figure, to search your face, dispels any insecurity you might bear.

“You’re the perfect person for me.” He whispers to you, revelatory and reverent as he speaks. “Always.”

You know that you don’t imagine the smile that is making instinctual passage on your face, nor the way that his hands seek to commemorate your body under his palms.

“And,” Here, an element of mischief establishes itself in the crinkle of his eyes, the arc of his smile, “With any luck, I’ll be good at it eventually.”

“I get the feeling,” You draw your arms to rest on his shoulders, closing in to the plush of his mouth, “That that won’t be too difficult for you.”

He murmurs against your mouth, barely able to resist the taste of your lips, “Tell me what you like.”

Clark’s hands search you with the adoration of a man who has seen God. “So I can keep doing it for you.”

The last word before he finds your mouth with his, and works to fulfill his prayer, is “Always.”

And so, you let your disciple make prayer at the temple he has travelled vast journey to make.

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As far as friends with benefits go, you think that Wally West can’t be surpassed. He’s diligent with the backstroke when he sinks into you at that correct spot that makes your eyes flutter closed, your walls clench around him in such delicious manner. He’s so, so attentive to making you come.

Especially when his mouth draws slow and deliberate over your clit, his tongue eager to worship the way your body makes such plaintive moans.

When his fingers crook into you with such ease, his eyes watching you for the way that you gasp at the touch, shudder into the pleasure that his hands coax from you in wonderful meter.

When he says, “There’s my girl, come for me,” in such fond lustful denotation, watching with some type of reverent awe as you shake through the orgasm that he always, always works you to.

And, the rhythm his mouth makes against the inside of your thigh that trembles, kissing you through the wave—oh, he’s an excellent friend with benefits.

Only: you don’t know if friends with benefits do exactly what Wally does after the conclusion of every luxuriating fuck he treats you to. Which is, to put none too fine a point on it: encourages you to stay.

Much as he does now, rolling over to you in prime exhibition of the artistic nudity that artists have devoted decades to commit to canvas.

Every part of his lean body is curled with excitement that he can barely restrain, a fine sheen of sweat that clings to the landscape of his skin as he beams at you. Those sunny blue eyes gleam at you in such cheerful squint as he reaches a hand out, nudging a knuckle into your chin.

You can’t help but lean into it, in a way that doesn’t seem to befit the title your relationship has. Which is to say: nothing, save something sexual.

But his hands, which carried you against the push and rock of his hips as he fucked you so well, are so gentle in comparison now. And they convince you to hear what he says, as he stretches across the tangled sheets to you.

“You want to go get breakfast?” He asks, wistful—yearning—dangerous. Especially when that bright gaze is begging for you to say yes. To an excursion that requires clothes, that requires conversation that you’re no doubt certain that you could go toe-to-toe with him on.

“I have classes later,” You grimace around the apology you deliver his way.

Because perhaps it’s best to truncate the wish so clearly delineated in his eyes with this; because the want that pools in your abdomen isn’t of lustful depravity. It’s of something far more tender that you know how to define.

And, from the way his face restrains the disappointment so plainly spoken in the slant of his eyes: you know it’s for the best. For now, at least.

“Okay,” He says, wearing the wound in his voice that he tries to restrict physically; an emotion that you deny twists in the housing of your ribs. You can’t leave him like this. So you mollify what you can, and push yourself across the rubicon of unspoken feelings to find his mouth with your own.

He returns it, of course; there’s hunger spoken in the way his mouth moves against you, the hand that caresses and finds perch against your cheek. And when you pull back: you can tell that it’s a temporary balm. But it’s worked for now.

“I’ll see you later tonight,” You promise him, the only oath of fidelity that you can guarantee him at this time. Watching the joy break like the dawn over his face is enough to hearten you as well, return the smile in parallel with his.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Wally promises—and you know he means it. But you’re too busy saying goodbye with your tongue to really think more about it.

You don’t know if friends with benefits do this either—the aftercare part, that is. Sex is a given, of course; and he did it so well today, holding you in the span of his arms in missionary.

Pressing the tack of his forehead to yours as he groaned your name in such adoring manner through the clench of his teeth. How his jaw jumped with every pump that he rolled into you, that expelled harsh, desperate whimpers he took care to remedy with needy kisses to you.

He was perfect; his teeth as they drew against your collarbone, sucking bruises to mark you as his in mulberry trail down your body. The wonderful, metronomic pace of his hips against the full of your thighs wrapped around the trim span of his waist.

Those hands that took care to slink up your waist, sinking into flesh that he drew to a zenith as you sobbed his name into the crook of his shoulder.

Wally is the epitome of a good lover. But you didn’t know that he was an excellent masseuse until now, as he works his hands into you so gently, meticulous in avoiding pressing his weight to where he’s seated on the small of your back.

You’ve been given the runaround by more brutal hands—Jason had temporarily rendered you incapable of doing anything other than laying in the supine position for 42 hours. And you’ve been subjected to far more ineffective ones that hadn’t accomplished much of anything (Dick and Steph).

But Wally seems to possess unparalleled talents both in the bed and out of it with these hands; his touch exacting but so careful of the glide of your muscle.

So sparing to subject you to any real pressure and yet relieving the ache of a day on your feet, not to mention the strenuous exercise that comes with a mating press.

“Oh, Wally,” You sigh into the crook of your arm as his hands sweep over your shoulder-blades. His fingers are slick with oil he happened to have on hand (part of you wonders if he’s been waiting for exclusive opportunity to lavish you with this gift) as they keep steady angle up your body.

“Yeah?” He asks with a smug grin that he makes no effort to disguise.

You’re turning to pliable human putty in his hands, a new gusty chord of pleasure sighing out of you with each application of his fingers he works into you. You’d complain about how he’s laying it on thick, but his knuckles are working out that knot that’s plagued you for the past week. You think you’ll let it lie.

“You’re so good at this,” You murmur into the sheets. “Why even bother with moonlighting superhero work?”

“It pays the bills,” Wally returns glibly as he shifts around you. You make breezy noise of appreciation as his hands work down the junction of your neck and shoulder.

“Just do this full-time,” You return in pseudo-glum fashion. “I’ll keep you in business.”

Wally snorts through his nose as he continues to press in tender demarcation down your neck. “Like on retainer?”

“More like a concubine,” You answer—he rewards you with a full-bodied laugh; that is, until you continue.

“You’re gonna be such a good boyfriend one day,” You assert to him. His hands don’t still entirely, but they do jump in unexpected tick up your body, an errant twitch in the routine.

And though you’re aware that the two of you resided in cozy silence; it percolates now to something impermeable and without happy categorization.

Wally doesn’t let you stew in it for two long, nor does he cease his ministrations. But the way that his voice sounds above you is carefully maintained with uncharacteristic reticence.

“I could be a good boyfriend right now,” He says in manner that you assume kicked puppy would. The clutch of his hands as they work down your waist don’t seem so fond as they did before.

Now, they seem to be clutching for straws that are sliding out of his grasp. Articulating something he doesn’t want to say, that burgeons so badly on his soft palate.

You don’t want to say something yet. You want to stay with him, with his comforting words and his hands and the peace that he brings you so often. So all you do is take aim with your gaze up to him, crooking uneven smile his way.

“Pretty cute one, too.” You say—neither affirmation nor negation.

Placing you both in that comfortable limbo that the two of you are suspended in, with lack of labeling. And the smile he returns to you is genuine enough. But he doesn’t say another word until he finishes, pressing a chaste kiss to the nape of your neck.

“All done,” He whispers into your skin. You wish you didn’t feel the longing that twists in the dearth of your stomach as he says it.

It comes to a head. Wally keeps doing these acts of services, lingering kisses that carry communicable weight, keeps fucking you into euphoria every time you come over to his place.

You know that this is an unsustainable environment that the two of you are cultivating. So you take matters into your own hands.

You and Wally are supposed to get dinner before the two of you return back to his place (and perform the horizontal tango you’re so very fond of engaging with him). But you’ve decided on an addendum to the typical wardrobe you don at his place.

“You look—”—Is all that Wally’s able to communicate in flustered, awe-stricken measure—“—You look amazing.”

And you know you do, because you were particular in ensuring you would be. With a cute shirt that matches an equally tantalizing skirt leaving little to the imagination: and so much real estate for his eyes to take particular visual inventory over.

Which he does. Which you accounted for him doing.

“You gonna let me in?” You ask, arching a brow as you shift the strap of your bag over your shoulder. He drinks in this movement with such desperate consumption he almost forgets to step aside. But he does, and herein you can execute the masterstroke of your best-laid plan as you walk in.

So: you trip, and fall, allowing the contents of your bag to spill all over the hardwood floor of his nice hardwood foyer floor.

Given his capabilities as a speedster, it should be no great difficulty for him to gather them all in a picosecond’s blink. To wrangle them all before they even grace tactile surface of the ground.

But that would mean that he was focused on stopping their fall, rather than focused on the way that the fabric of your skirt rises. Rises so high, given the descent of your search to prevent the irrevocability of gravity, that he’s allowed to see the lace of panties he’s grown rather fond of.

Except you’re not wearing panties. You’re not wearing anything under the skirt at all. And as the air graces the soft pliable flesh given exposure to be seen: you can feel the roil of his stare upon the promised land.

Everything clatters to the floor in pell-mell discordance, the silence stretching in yawning elapse. But still you play the oblivious, letting your hand grasp over a highlighter that you tucked away into the folds of your crumpled bag. It lies on the floor next to the rest of the discarded contents, untouched as the other goods you’ve carried to his place.

Your heart paces steadily increasing interval in the clutch of your throat, as you rise and turn to Wally. You can’t restrain the coy denotation of your voice as you take in how thunderstruck, how truly unmoored he is. He seems to be apparently lost in the sight that he is reliving in storied memory.

“Something the matter, Wally?” You ask, and when you smile slyly: you can see he knows.

The next moment, you’re pressed against the wall, strong, firm hands grasping the diameter of your arms, the wet heat of his tongue taking carnal swipe up your neck. You make involuntary, whimpering moan as you feel his hands ruck up your skirt, desperate to confirm through navigatory feel what he has already seen.

“Oh, fuck,” Wally breathes as he swipes a finger against your clit, feels how wet you are—growls as you gasp, arching into his touch. “You’re so fucking hot.”

He’s stymied of further word, too busy working the pad of his finger in slow, torturous whorl that makes you say his name in strangled whimper. His mouth hums a needy groan at the chord of his name, but it doesn’t slow his pace. If anything, it makes it quicker, frantic as he seeks your body with his fingers.

The two of you don’t even make it to the room. Instead, he chooses to be pragmatic; your skirt ends up pulled to the median of your waist, leaving your bottom half in such lewd exposure, though you give it little care.

Not when you’re held in the span of those arms that maintain such easy, effortless hold over you. And not when he guides you down to sink onto his cock, letting you bottom out to the hilt.

“Oh my God—”—You whimper as he dots kisses up the edge of your jaw, gentle in physical persuasion even as he spreads you with the taper of his length. “Wally—I—”

“I know, baby, I know,” He huffs against you, syllables broken as he basks in the pleasure of your walls fluttering around him. “I just couldn’t—you feel so good—”

You twist your hands against him, from where you’ve anchored them on the spread of those magnificent biceps. Glassy, beautiful blue eyes find yours.

“Don’t stop,” You command with what little verbal acuity you have left. And from the way that his jaw sets, his eyes return back to the drunken bliss of your body; he’s happy to obey.

He’s usually more considerate, more sensual, far more loving. But you started this: so he finishes it with a greedy, rough fuck. The slap of his thighs against your ass is pornographic, the needy, stuttering pleas that are pushed with every thrust he sheathes into you obscene.

Each stroke summons that familiar pressure that he’s so good at encouraging from the meter of your body, while his mouth works to make continual mark on the tapestry of your shoulder. Each panting, wanton groan that he makes encourages you further to make ascent to familiar peak he’s pushed you towards.

“Wally—Wally—”—You beg, trying and failing to signal the approaching crest—“—Wally—”

“Yeah, baby,” He groans against your pulse, mesmerized by the plateau of your body, “I know—”

“Wally—”—Your voice bears that disoriented, unanchored urgency as he continues to fuck you with such perfect precision. Your fingers clench into him, only invigorating the pace that he keeps.

“I know, baby,” His lips drag against your neck as he rolls his hips with such fluid motion, “I love you, I love you—”

You come in slow-burning spread, with tandem comprehension of what he says. Broken by the wave of pleasure that capsizes you, as you come undone in the fold of his arms.

You’re vaguely aware of his own orgasm that is in quick succession as he bucks lazy thrusts on the come-down; but you’re too busy with the necessity of breath. Too busy internalizing through the haze the confession made in throes of passion, from eyes that seek out yours.

His shoulders heave, but his gaze is sterling, his grip comfortable and well-known to you. But he doesn’t speak, waiting for executioner’s blade to drop.

“I was waiting for that,” You say, working your hips in better accommodation around him. He smiles shyly, in that boyish charm that you so very dearly love about him.

“So,” He swallows in thick enunciation, “Now what?”

And you find that the answer comes easier than air, as he tightens clutch in preparation of losing you. As he hopes against hope.

“Well, are you fine fucking a girlfriend instead of a friend with benefits?” You ask with burgeoning grin.

The smile that breaks like sunshine through arterial clouds tells you all you need to know.

“Yeah,” He sighs in palpable relief, in incandescent joy, “I think I can do that.”

When he kisses you in spirit akin to baptism of eternal glory, evocative of blossoming love that you are happy to accept: you know that you made the right decision.

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request: (in addition to Cherry's idea she gave me hehe)

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Scott Summers/Reader/Logan

You feel as though you can’t quite remember how to circulate air through your body without deliberate, manual effort. As if there’s something trapped in the span of your throat as you stand before them. Watching as they sit on the cots that they’ve been assigned, breathing with heavy, roiling need.

You don’t know why you’re here: and yet you do. The way that Scott’s hands clutch into the sterile sheets, the way that you can see Logan openly eyeing you up and down. The way that they are both stiff in the tenting of their pants. The way they look like they want to eat you alive.

“You both asked for me?” You finally settle upon as statement, unsure of how else to cross this meridian they’ve set up. Watching as they have to physically focus on the question in different manner; so distracted they are by internal dialogue of plans they intend to do to you.

“Only way I could stand to stay in the room with Summers.” Logan sends back—his jaw twitches, works as he swallows. Licks his lips as his eyes drag down your legs.

Scott picks up the slack, trying to sound more composed—but there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he tries to remain composed. But even that’s cracking.

“We need you—”—And there's no mistaking that tone of voice—“—To help us. If you’re willing.”

Hope against hope strains him on the edge of the bed, waiting on tenterhooks for your response. His knuckles clutching so tight they jut white through the housing of his skin.

“I mean—of course.” You say. Logan’s shoulders jump like he means to have you there on the floor, but he resists it.

“Only—”—Your voice is halting, fleeting, embarrassed—“I don’t want to make things worse when you’re back to normal.”

Logan chuckles and it’s a ragged noise, something bitter in the intonation of the chord.

“Honey, you’re the only thing that’ll take us back to normal.” He grits through the champ of his teeth. “We been thinkin’ about you for a long time.”

If you had any coherent response, it’s washed away clean from the slate of your mind with this as he continues, staring at the button of your jeans. It’s obvious what he wants to do.

“Think you’re the only thing that’ll keep us in line.” Logan informs you. And you start at this.

“What?” A flush of heat runs under your skin at “keep us in line—”—are you even going to be able to walk after this? Do you even want to when these two men are making such desperate, mouthwatering displays of themselves?

“It’s true.” Scott chuffs out a pained breath to the ground, obviously desperate for relief. “He’s telling the truth.”

Under such duress, you know that he’s not lying. Not from the way Logan licks his pink tongue against the full of his lips. Your mind races.

“Oh. So—”—You let your voice peter out and dissolve into the air. What can you say? When they want so badly to fuck you? When you’re already tempted to absolve conversation and satisfy what they need?

“You wanna keep fucking after this, we can.” Logan asserts. It’s clear he's reaching some kind of agonizing threshold with no immediate relief in sight.

“But right now—”—His eyes practically roll over dark—“—Let us blow off some steam.”

“Are you okay with that?” Scott asks, looking directly to you. Hoping against hope.

You know your answer. “Yes.”

This is how you find yourself spread in between the two of them, Logan’s thick cock sinking into your entrance with such wonderful stretch you nearly come on the spot.

But Scott’s cock pressing into your hole makes any coherent thought, nothing but a deep, guttural, animal noise escape you. Scott’s arms tug around you, keeping you steady as he utters curses about how good you feel, how good you’re taking him, how much he needs you—

“Take this,” Logan says. Before you can comprehend through the whited-out plane of your mind, he stuffs two fingers into your mouth that you start to suck on without hesitation.

Greedy, wanting noises as you work your tongue around his knuckles. And then his hips start to roll into you, making delightfully obscene noise as he drags his length in and out of you.

Angry, rutting thrusts like he means to make you take his cock like you owe him something. And all you can do are make muffled noises of overstimulation into his hand; not that you would ever want to stop.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Logan groans as he slams his hips into you, hard enough to bruise later. Scott is busy fucking your hole, mouthing sloppy kisses at your pulse, his hands working at your nipples.

Each lick, each pinch drives you crazy, makes your eyes roll back in your head as your whimpers are muffled by the digits you lick like your life depends on it.

“Think—”—Scott moans, his statement catching as he sheathes himself inside you and you tilt your head off of Logan’s fingers with a wet pop—“—Think they look good like this—”

All you do is collapse back on Scott’s chest as his tacky palms knead at your chest, working to make your skin aflame with tactile sensation. Each time his fingers clutch at you is in tandem with the way he jumps his hips against you, bobbing you on his cock. And further pushing Logan deeper into you.

“God—”—You cry out in ecstasy, as Logan leans forward to catch one of your nipples in your mouth and bite. As Scott catches your earlobe in his teeth and sucks. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come—”

As you do, full-bodied and with a keening wail, you know it’s far from your last. Especially as they continue to savage you with their mouths and the works of their ever-determined hands.

Venom/Reader

They find you, flustered and overstimulated, humping a pillow in your shared bed. The sight is enough to make something roar to life in the meter of them both: except for the tear tracks that have dried down your cheeks.

Except for the fact that your hole is stuffed with a vibrator he’s used on you before, but never at full speed. As you look at them with such abject relief: but don’t do anything to greet them.

So Eddie comes to you, as you paw desperately at his shirt. As you beg, “Come fuck me—please, Eddie, please.”

“Sweetheart, what happened?” Eddie asks, though Venom doesn’t care to ask questions when he can satisfy.

You’re trembling, shaking through another unfulfilling orgasm, your mouth caught in half-helpful ecstasy— “—I got blasted by this weird pollen—”—Your voice catches in Eddie’s arms as you try to unbutton his shirt—

“They say there’s only one cure.” You look at him with half-lidded eyes even though your head is already lolling back on lazy, fucked-out swivel. Even though it’s clearly not enough, even though it’s clear that you need what Eddie can give. What Venom is demanding within that he give you right now.

“I—”—Eddie searches, thinks of a past incident where Peter went through something like this, and realizes there is a first for everything. You're already making quick work of the buttons on his shirt.

“You can’t be serious.” He starts. But makes no move to halt you as you continue to work. All the while your hips keep grinding in maddening display.

“I am. Please—”—Your hands make quick work of his belt, starting to drag on the glide of his zipper, “I need you.”

There’s no denying the lust in your eyes, the way you scald to the touch. The way the pillowcase you keep riding is soaked with you. The way you’re trying to persuade him to touch you, to do anything.

He can’t resist. Not when you give yourself on platter like this.

“Okay, honey—”—He says—the sigh you make is guttural—“—I’ll do it.”

You make a breathless laugh that halts around another approaching orgasm. But your voice breaks through clearly enough in audible manner.

“Both of you.” You hold his gaze. “Please.”

“We thought you’d never ask, sweetness.” Venom says. And then it’s not Eddie who’s driving the car anymore. It’s your other man, who hulks over you in such dominating fashion in such blink-of-an-eye speed you can barely register it. All you can do is sigh in relief.

This doesn’t last long; you’ve barely comprehended how you’ve ended up with your ass in the air, on all fours. Venom hasn’t taken care to remove the vibrator—he pushes it in deeper, the way your toes curl and you groan in delight summoning a growl.

“Think you can take us all, sweetness?” He asks, and you feel the press of that cock against you. The one that you and Eddie have tried to work you to with little success.

But all three of you can tell something’s different. Especially when you beg, “Yes, yes, yes—do it!”

“So wet for us,” Venom’s finger sinks into you and you greedily push back for more relief, “So good already.”

“Please,” you cry into the sheets you’re pushed into. “Please—”

Venom needs no further encouragement. When he slides into you, spearing you on that impossibly wide length, stretching you open—all you can do is open your moth, though no sound escapes. Though your eyes have wrenched closed and your fingers have fallen slack against the sheets.

“Good,” Venom makes throaty chuckle as he continues to work into you with so little effort. You’re so wet and aroused that if you were in proper state of mind you’d be embarrassed. But all you can focus on is the way that you finally feel full. You finally feel like the orgasm you get will be satisfying.

“So nice,” Venom hisses, “Maybe we’ll fuck you fat with kids, sweetness—like that, huh?”

His claws dig into you—you moan, nodding mindlessly. “Yes, yes, yes—”

“Like thinking about having our kids, sweetness?” He works further into you, deeper, deeper still. Still not enough. “Getting bred?”

“Breed me,” you beg. “Breed me.”

“Don’t ask twice,” Venom coos—and he hits the back. You sag into the sheets, though this is no trouble for your man, who lifts you easily.

“Don’t worry,” Venom says as he holds you flush against his chest, cold, unblemished, smooth. “We’ll make sure this takes. We’ll make sure you like it a lot, sweetness.”

You can’t tell if he's serious or not. But when he lifts you bodily off the length of his cock and then sinks you back down with ease, filling you to the hilt—you don’t care. You want it more than anything you've ever had.

“Yeah,” Venom purrs as he fills you up, “Best you ever had.”

Guy Gardner/Reader

Guy seems marvelously in control of himself as he regards you, fully stark-naked. He’s lying on his side, letting his cock bob in such tantalizing motion that it’s so difficult to be able to keep your eyes riveted on his own.

“Nice’a you to stop by, sweetheart.” Guy grins as he watches you, shifts that shelf of muscles that makes up his toned stomach. Lets you see the way his biceps gleam with sweat he seems disinclined to give any attention to right now. His arm coils, framing the display of his body.

“You look real good right now.” He says, and at this, you swear you see his cock twitch flush against him. You have to think of something to say before you’re far too gone, past the point of no return.

“Guy?” You ask carefully, watching him with caution. He doesn’t seem anything like how they described he would be. He’s gleaming with a sheen of energy expended, for certain, and his cock is certainly at angle you’ve never seen it torqued to before—but he’s in good form. Almost a good mood, given the circumstances.

“How do you feel?” You ask, taking a careful step towards him. He chuckles, because this is a waste of a question. His thighs flex, tick out as he bends knee on the one he doesn't prop weight on. God—he’s perfect like this.

When he replies, he’s quite cheerful with his answer. “Feel like I wanna fuck ya til I gotcha creamin’ on my cock.”

You have to take a deep, circulatory breath to make sure that you heard him right—when he laughs at your lack of reaction, you can’t help but feel something flush to life. Something roll in wanting need between your legs, making your mind blissfully blank.

“You like that?” He asks, his voice drawing lower in pitch and timbre. Waiting to see what you’ve yet to say, what he’s dying for you to say.

But you can’t help but indulge the urge to needle him. To see how he’s going to hold up—even though he’s in, er, fantastic form.

“Sure you got it in you?” You ask with a smirk. The way his teeth show look likes he wants to take a bite out of you—and in several choice places.

“With this shit?” He asks, and at this, he rolls his fist up the length of his cock, letting you watch the mesmerizing show. “Baby, we’re going for days, not hours.”

You laugh, unexpected and bubbling out of you before you can stop it. “Promise?”

“Get over here.” He commands—and his smile grows ever-wider as you dutifully approach.

He wants to fuck you against the wall first, pushing you so your hands have to clutch against unerring surface as he pulls your ass back. When he fucks into you, the wet slap of his hips snap into you with such brutal need that every thrust punches the air out of you. Has your walls clenching tight around him, gasping for more as he takes care to sheath you to the hilt.

Then, Guy wants to make sure he gets to see you proper—so he has you ride him reverse cowgirl, watching as your ass bounces on the spread of his hips as his cock fucks up into you.

As his fingers grasp so tightly around the width of your waist, guiding you so dominantly as he helps you keep pace on him. When you have to stop so that you can shake and moan through your orgasm, he takes care to keep thrusting in to you to carry you to the finish line.

After, Guy wants to shake it up, so he has you sit on his face while you take your cock into his mouth—or you would try, should his tongue give you any rest. If he wasn't pumping his fingers with such aim to make you collapse on top of him, at the mercy of the way his tongue sucks at your clit.

It seems his favorite, though, is when he fucks you sideways, wrapping your legs around his waist as you bite into a pillowcase. As he slams his cock into you to the hilt with such delicious drag that all you can do is whimper into the pillowcase as he takes his fill. As he keeps fucking into you with such abandon that you know he’s nowhere near satisfied—and neither are you.

“How you doin’—”—He asks through his teeth as he leans over you in mating press, your ankles ticked over his shoulders. There’s a perfect ‘o’ on your lips as you sink your nails into his biceps, dragging them down with terrific rasp that makes him groan in pleasure.

“Perfect—”—You manage out, cock-drunk and glassy-eyed and so, so happy—”—Please don’t stop, Guy, please please please—”

“Anythin’ for my baby,” He grins as the head of his cock noses at that spot that makes you go stiff, curl your toes. Guy Gardner’s always happy to oblige for you.

Colossus/Reader

“Peter—”—You ask as you step into the room—”—why are you chained?”

Even in the throes of the pollen’s effects, he is still so clearly seized by some modicum of embarrassment. Even though his cock is so clearly visible in this metallic form, jutting against the tenting of his pants.

“I asked them to—”—He admits in that soft Russian lilt—“—I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You chuckle in disbelief; you and Peter have been through a lot of bedframes. You doubt that this will be any different than the other times.

“Let me free you,” you begin, reaching for one of the manacles that encircles his wrist. But before you can, his fingers splay out, his arm jerks against chains that would crack concrete and moves them with ease.

“Nyet—no!” There is fire, worry written in the manuscript of his syllables, as his eyes, already glassy with lust, find yours. He articulates deep breath that makes that plateau of his chest rise and fall, though it's clear it takes so much concentration to do so.

“You will do this for me—”—He continues, avoiding your eyes though it’s clear all his interest is directed towards you—“—Because I don’t wish to risk anything.”

He swallows thick, slow, his adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes find you once more, as he ruts his cock along the air to no relief.

“You are too beautiful—”—Even through the haze you can detect the sincerity—“—Too precious to me.”

Even in the throes of fuck-or-die sex pollen, he still has such a poetic way with words. As he tries to breathe but clearly struggles without salve to his troubles.

“Okay.” You say, clapping your hands against your thighs—his eyes watch the movement with such dedicated interest— “—So what do you want?”

His life depends on it. His vitals have already demonstrated sharp decline. But his face darkens in burgeoning rust, his eyes avoid yours in his shamefacedness.

“I do not mean to ask—”—He begins, something wanting but reticent in the cadence of his voice. You put a hand over his arm, feel the scorch of his metallic skin. Hear the hitched moan as you draw physical contact against him.

“Ask.” You assert with determination. “How do you want me to fuck you?”

Your thumb soothes against his skin and clears house of any other thought than pleasure.

“Please—”—He begs—“—Get on top of me. Ride me.”

And when you find yourself perched on his cock, sinking your hole down onto that curved metal shaft; his wrists jerk against the chains that do not give. His whole body shudders as he mutters whispered praise to your body, your hole, your gift to him.

“I am lost without you,” he praises in worship as you bounce on his cock. As he watches the way the flesh of your body twitches and trembles as you hold onto his calves backwards—and fuck yourself on him. Your thighs burn, your breath comes tight—but he fills you so perfectly. He was made for you.

“I am yours,” he whimpers quietly, “I am servant to your body. Bozhe moi—I am liberated by you.”

You work him all the way in he can make—pausing as you feel how impossibly full you are, how your body twitches in perfect agony—

“I am made anew with you,” Peter groans, “You are my savior.”

As he spills into you with near-roar of pleasurable relief, without softening within you, you can’t help but smile with relief. Even though you huff for lost air, your body covered in thick layer of sweat. Looks like you definitely have your work cut out for you.

Reed Richards/Reader

“Reed,” you begin, unmoored, bearing no small amount of horror as you stare at his reclined body, “You did this to yourself?”

“Just,” he grunts, a fine sheen of sweat coating his face, a long trail of exertion slinking down his slick chest, “Thought it would be a worthy pursuit for science.”

Science certainly explains the way his cock angles out in such incredible arc—to the point of painfulness. You don’t know if you’ve ever seen it so large, with such great vein that trails down the shaft, precum already dribbling down the head.

“To infect yourself with it?” You ask, licking your lips in spite of yourself. “And what’s the cure?”

“Well,” he groans as he looks at you, his cock making traitorous twitch, “We have to have sex.”

You take a step forwards. “You think once is enough?”

“The assumption,” he says, “Is that we go as long as we need to. That’s what previous studies have found.”

“Previous studies—”—You begin, breaking off abruptly. “Reed, have you done this to yourself before?”

“Yes,” he admits, “though all I had were uh, other methods to relieve pressure.”

“But now you have me,” you return, sucking through your teeth. Reaching out to touch the shaft that jolts at the curve of your palm. Precum freely dribbles down at the merest contact; you gasp.

“Yes,” Reed says, and there’s ghost of a plea in his voice that even pride, in this haze, restricts him, “And I need you.”

You make experimental pump up his cock, hear the raw, ragged noise of pleasure as you work your thumb at that sensitive bundle of nerves behind the head. And you decide to hop on.

You’ve ridden him like this before, canted your thighs up and down on the length of his cock. Groan around the way that his curve fits so perfectly into you, dragging with such deep intensity against your walls that you can only let your head fall back and moan.

But he’s not content to watch you; his hands, his arms reach out for you, his fingers going against the conceivable rules of anatomy to tug both of your hands behind your back. You let him, something wicked and wanting as he restrains you with the easy pinioning of one hand, digits wrapping around you.

“Reed—”—You begin as you relax your thighs, sink onto his cock again. As you swallow another moan that makes you dizzy.

“I can go bigger,” he murmurs, a rasping breath huffing out of him, “For you.”

“What?” You ask, confused and lost as you fuck yourself on him. And then: your sense of grounding shifts. Your hands, still tugged behind you, begin to tilt as you’re eased back—as Reed’s body moves in malleable manner—as his hand seizes around your throat.

“There we go,” Reed coos, “That’s better.”

“What do you—”—You ask, before his hand clenches with just enough pressure to help you toe the line of pain and pleasure. The groan of want you make is barely stifled by his fingers that seek to keep you trapped under his grasp—and then you feel yourself lifted.

“Reed?” You ask, confused, searching for what’s happened. Through the glassy-eyed desire, you look on in bemusement as you lean against his lower thighs, your angle adjusted to recline on him like you would a lawn chair, bathing luxuriously in the heat. As though you’re not in your husband’s lab, bound and restrained in such flustered state of nakedness.

And then—his hips roll up into you. And whatever follow-up question you were going to make is silenced. And all that escapes you is a tight, “Oh, fuck—”

You don’t know what he’s done—he's never this big. He's never this thick and wide as he fucks into you at this perfect angle that you're unable to do anything more than take it. He must be using his powers—it must be the pollen—you feel like can’t think of anything save the way your thighs tremble before him.

And how he’s still sinking into you with the rut of those desperate hips, making your walls stretch more than they ever have before. You want it more than anything else.

“Reed—”—You whine—“—Please—”

He knows what you want. So he obliges—and starts to set a pace. A quick, desperate, needy fuck to satisfy this want that’s been boiling over in the both of you. As he glides his cock that is so impossibly tight inside of you, taking every bit of space that he can as he keeps fucking that spot that has you a shaky mess.

“Oh my god—”—You’re vaguely aware of saying—”—Don’t stop, don’t stop, don't stop—”

If there’s one thing that Reed can do, it’s listen to orders. And he fucks you without resistance, without difficulty, keeping his hips tethered in singular direction, pumping it into you with such speed that your moans are broken up by each wet slap.

Each sink of his cock bookended by satisfied groan from him as he keeps you bound and helpless. As you try to work your hips, arch your back against him—sing his praises.

“Reed, I'm gonna come—”—You beg—and if you thought the speed was mind-numbing before—when his hips begin to rock into you with such starved cadence, making your flesh bounce with each snap of his hips—

“Oh, fuck—”—Is your only preamble before you come, collapsing fully into the cradle of his arms, his body. Still, lazily he keeps deliberate pump to keep you familiar to the shape of him. But when you resurface enough to send him shaky smile; you know that starved, needful look in his eye.

After all, Reed’s a scientist. He must exercise experimentation to the best of his abilities to confirm his theorems. And you, to your delight—happen to be his guinea pig for this avenue of study.

When he starts to pick up the tempo of rocking his hips back into yours, you can’t help but think about how lucky you are.

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You are, of course, as the beloved house-cat is inclined to luxuriate in the space between fondness and aggravation, to engage in a dollop of mischief. 

But at the very least, today you can make pretense that you operate in the spirit of scientific exploration. 

That’s what you tell yourself at least, during the onset of your experiment begun at the conclusion of patrol. When you say Tim’s name across the precipice of concrete ledge, your smile coy and coquettish in nature; his eyes gawkish and ogling as they find visual purchase upon yours. 

You’re dedicated to the task of swaying Tim, that you do not take ken of the other pairs of eyes that drag onto the meter of your form. But this will have consequences that you will make dedicated interaction with later. For now, all you do is extend your arms to Red Robin in come-hither appropriation. 

“Tim,” You plead in adjusted, sympathetic pitch—already he is crossing the rubicon to make diligent approach to you, moth to proverbial flame—“—Come cuddle with me.” 

His shoulders broaden, his eyes brighten at the task that you’ve given him, something stalwart takes hold of his frame. Makes him fill the suit in more valiant fashion than prior occasion. Again, you both are ignorant to the glares that are exchanged, the mouthed words that are given credence in conversation you are not party to. 

All you can focus on are those blue eyes in domino-mask that are aching to prove themselves worthy of the task. His arms look to make union between yours, his teeth issuing dissipating fog from the endured chill.

After all, your request was not borne of nothing. You merely needed appropriate instigation to bring him to you.

“You cold right now?” He asks, and when his arms encircle the span of your figure; it is resuscitative balm. He is personal knight in radiating armor, his hands gentlemanly and unyielding down the length of your back—they reside in the prescience of your upper back, gloved fingers darting over your shoulder-blades. 

“Course I am,” You respond, letting your teeth chatter for auditory measure, making jagged interval of the condensation that champs through your teeth. “Figured I could get a two-for-one handling the cold.” 

Tim nods as though you have suggested sage, excellent idea, the tick of his smile smug. The grasp of his arms careful and deliberate in choosing adequate spot to best allocate warmth. 

“Sure—”—He agrees, and his voice darts in lower register of huskiness, making access to heat pooling in junction of your legs—“—Hope you don’t mind my reach.” 

“I don’t.” And to better emphasize your point, you allow your head to rest on the firm plateau of his shoulders, to feel the unyielding armor and firm flesh-and-blood muscle that lies beneath. If he articulates stuttered breath, his heart traitorous in indication of exhalation—then you ignore this as well. 

All you surrender to the nuance of muscle, to better jar the pentameter of his pulse, is a murmured, “You feel good in my arms like this.” 

His chuckle is demarcated in the reverb of the ear cupped to his body, made double in the wintry air that you cling to him for comfort from. And his heart: it thunders with the implacability of a man too nervous to ruin a good thing. 

“Been waiting to hear you say that.” He makes in confidence to you, a secret that he carries with utmost sanctity. Even though the two of you cannot suffer under the illusion that you are alone on this rooftop, at the conclusion of your duties.

The best he may do is keep this to the mutual cradle of each others arms. And his hand palms flat over the span of your back, greedy to memorize the terrain of your body that is immutable under him. 

“Does it compare to what you thought?” You ask, nuzzling the sink of your cheek against him—prompting another treasonous noise to escape him. You can’t help but smile at how easy of a task it is to unmoor this studious vigilante. 

“Even better.” He mutters, and there’s a forlorn yearning that is made nascent in this admission. Something stirs in the housing of your ribs and draws saccharine-sweet, delightfully opalized in the mien of how he holds you. 

“Careful—”—you tease back in lilting cadence—“—I might ask you to keep doing this.” 

And when his arms clutch about you to better maintain the privilege, his voice speaks at odds to the dictation of the request. 

“Oh, no, that would be horrible.” He jokes, to better ensure that you don’t realize that you’re already in too deep with one brother made notch on the bedpost. But you won’t realize this until later. 

It’s an unspoken rule that whenever someone is on patrol, the others are set as watchmen to carry the torch for their return. The others have undertaken the expectation, and you yourself are no stranger to the task given you. But it’s always expected, unspoken rule and unwritten custom of tantamount significance. 

You’re not tired as you sprawl across the comfortable chair sequestered in necessary arrangement, in the depths of the cave. The darkness has long since lost frightening quality, and the shadows that keep menacing curvature around recessed walls and low-hanging stalactite have grown to comfort you. 

The cave is a safe haven where all little bats and birds come home safe. And so you sit with your fellow charge for the night, and wait. 

Your gaze meanders away from the territory his broad-shouldered form has taken up, that thatch of white hair that shocks through the dark—to the time that is delineated in artificial bearings on the screen. 

“They’re back late.” You comment, looking at the hours that have continued in irrevocable passage. You don’t let yourself worry. Not until the sunrise returns in cresting arrival to summon the dawn. 

“Better they’re out with company,” Jason reassures you.

His voice is composed with corrugated intonation, amber whiskey and slow-spooned molasses that sinks through the arteries of your veins, the channels of your body. It imparts experience and comfort that you seek with the unspoken question you make. 

“Yeah,” You agree, once again returning your long-reaching gaze to beyond. The light at the end of the tunnel displays pinhole of nighttime sky—and with them, the prodigal children yet to return. “They’ll have each other’s backs.” 

“Better to pass the time,” Jason suggests, his gaze unnoticed in your periphery, the desire unspoken even in prose of his syllables, “If you got someone to keep you warm.” 

You let your worry transition into bewilderment, into curiosity. And then, finally, into sluggish comprehension as you take the way those thighs, housed in grey sweatpants, have spread wider on the chair.

How those abyssal green eyes are watching you, like predator encroaching through the tall grass, awaiting the lowering defenses of prey. 

You recall your interaction with Tim from the previous week, earmarked by the shoal of those warm hands, the oasis of his body in frigid weather. And the cave is no stranger to chill: though you have yet to ever find salve like this. 

“Oh,” You let smile take foundation on your face, let sly, wily approach bleed into your answer. “You’re offering?” 

“Saw you ask Tim.” His face remains impartial of any emotion. But his shoulders school out to make sacrifice of his body, his legs pitch and tilt open. Beckoning you to the temple that he willingly offers shelter in. 

“Thought I’d nominate myself.” He concludes; and then: smile takes crooked posture. Crooked, playful, attractive posture. Those eyes are daring you to play the tête-à-tête he’s brandished as challenge your way. 

“I only asked Tim,” You proper up buttress of defense—after all, you must explain the anthropological aspect of your study, “Because I'm conducting research.” 

“Yeah?” His teeth are given perfect exhibition, canines taking prescience in the pronunciation. “How’s that work?” 

“Trying to ask people to cuddle—”—You return in coy answer, keeping yourself neutral, though your smile is traitorous to a fault—“—And see who’s the best.” 

His smile does not waver. But his body seems to grow in proud stature: you cannot deny yourself a visual glimpse of the testament of anatomy he has become over the years. 

“Well, come on over, sweetheart,” Jason returns, his finger tapping careful metronome on the chair, “Come test me out.” 

The way he offers it is layered in entendre, implicative of further exploration of the body. You try to avoid clotted swallow to regulate the pulse ascending to the nape of your tongue. Try to deny peristalsis that will allow you better means to focus. You rivet your attention on closing the distance instead. 

Your limbs carry so much more gravity, when you are the one that must make consumptive act to walk over to him. To allow your body admission to the cradle of his—to have no more than mere fabric separate the encompassing swathe of his body and yours. 

He’s hot—every square inch of him blazes in heady, sweltering thoroughfare. And his arms, coiled with the task of enfolding around your waist are both protective and ardent. 

“Rest your head on me,” His words carry gentility that the hunger of his body belies, “I don’t mind.” 

And so you do, letting your temple settle into the hollow of his neck, curling up upon the altar of muscle made yours. He feels so good to the touch, his hands of chivalrous navigation. 

“What do you think?” He asks, and his question is a rumble of sensation that makes circuitous route through your body. 

“Think,” You admit with growing smile, “I’m finding my judgment shifting.”

“Good.” His hands settle on the crook of your arm, intent to keep you in his embrace. “Good.” 

You have made yourself comfortable enough that you don’t see the satisfaction inlaid to the spread of his smile. But you don’t realize the dangerous waters you grow deeper into, when Jason is so excellent to hold. 

The eldest of the brothers is made available at more convenient time: when you have been granted reprieve of duties, rotational shift of the team determining that you will not be the one with harboring lantern.

But even then, you both cannot make orbit out of the heavenly body that is Wayne Manor: and so the two of you make residence in the living room, a quiet movie making sedative, somnolent ambience. 

But the two of you are distracted by matters of other things. Your arms have beckoned out to the brother who has yet to be tested, but it is not without him to luxuriate in being smug. A trait he has passed on to all of his siblings. 

And so he leans back, those toned arms spreading about the backing of the couch. His smile cocky and of cavalier clarity as he looks keenly upon you. 

“About time you ask me.” He gloats—and yet in the gloat is an assertion of wounded nature. He smarts at being asked last, at being final rung on the ladder. You will have to earn your way to enjoy the presence of his body. 

You offer initial statement to the tableau, still keeping your arms aloft. “Figured it was perfect because we’re watching a movie.” 

He makes a harrumph, jilted cuddler left standing at the altar. His smile is of roguish cadence, daring you to keep trying. Daring you to seduce him your way. 

“But that’s the only reason?” He retreats to offense—still smiling, still daring. “Am I just convenient eye candy to you?” 

You roll your eyes, though remain steadfast to the cause. As your eyes take exploration over him, he can’t help but proffer out aspects of his body ideal to the cause. Those impressive shoulders. That toned chest, the ample thighs. 

All yours for the taking—should he allow it. Your voice is dry. “You’re being neither convenient nor eye candy right now.”

“Oh,” And here he clasps crumpled fist to the spot his heart takes residence in, “Like an arrow through the heart.” 

“More like duct tape on the mouth.” You grumble, but he’s had his moment to whinge in despair. You clamber over to let yourself take position on the spread of his body, something his hands are eager to guide you along to.

They dare at the very mores of social propriety, lingering on access of thigh, on structure of ribcage—on the small of your back which summons instinctive shiver—

But you’ll give him one thing. He is an excellent cuddler, the shape of his body perfect diameter to yours, the warmth that he exudes of perfect distinction to the cool air of the room itself. And when you rest your weary head upon the slope of his shoulder, you can feel the exulting triumph that radiates off of him. 

“Well?” He asks, keeping a mockery of demure comportment in his voice. Playing the innocent, when he is anything but. “How do I shape up?” 

“Pretty good,” you admit as you match your body in perfect slot against his, “Pretty good.” 

“As I thought.” He returns with subdued glee. And if you are not given opportunity to leave his arms, the abode of his body until the movie has concluded—well, it’s not as if you were making marked effort to leave. 

“I think this will make them mad,” You assert from the support of Bruce’s enfolded arms, “But I think that you’re the best for it.” 

“That’s a surprise,” Bruce says in dry monotone. His heart is careful dirigible that resounds through the carriage of your ear pressed upon it. “Why is that?” 

“Because you’re a dad, Bruce,” You return with abject fondness that you don’t make disguise of. His chuckle, amused notion at this, takes deep root through you as it rumbles by. “Dads always are the best cuddlers.” 

“And because the other three you’ve tested it with have nefarious intentions?” Bruce asks in further wry inquiry—how very like a father—your second father by any means—to get to the arterial heart of the matter.

You dither in silence for a second as he carries you further up the stairs in the clasp of those careful arms. 

“I don’t think they’re nefarious,” You offer carefully. “But they are obvious.” 

“But have any of them won the test?” He asks—and it’s clear he’s not asking about your scientific method. You know what he’s asking about. So the two of you while in this comfortable silence as he continues to be vessel up into the darkness for you. 

“I’ll have to think on it a little more.” You admit to him. “Maybe even do some more testing.” 

“Better do it quick,” Bruce returns in deadpan. “I think they’re going to do something stupid.” 

“When do they not?” You ask—again, another mirthless chuckle. But he doesn’t dispute this. 

“Let me know when you do,” Bruce returns, “So then I can finally reduce my painkiller intake.” 

Your shared, quiet chorus of laughter carries you both up the stairs, and into the quiet of the night retiring into silent repose. 

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Bruce Wayne

To watch the way that Bruce takes defined repose amongst the gargoyles that delineate the upper echelons of the skyscraper they all cling to: he is magnificent.

Domineering in posture, intimidating in mien, with chiseled jaw and defined anatomy that has been gained through lifetime of hard-earned work.

“Fearless leader,” Dick says from besides him in calm recline on the edge. How very languorous he appears as he sways one leg over the ledge—death-defying heights have been old hat for him for some time now.

Bruce doesn’t respond. But Dick has accrued excellent skill to comprehend the hieroglyphics of his body language. So Dick continues into the silence subtly undercut by the ambience of a world teeming with life and soft-suffused light below, bathed in the chill of an unending night.

“Thinkin’ about hittin’ the hay anytime soon?” He asks—Dick has been none-too-subtle about eyeing the clock tower that looms in towering monolith within eyesight across the city skyline. The very one that determines that the time is closer to three than he would appreciate.

“We’ve only done one sweep of the city,” Bruce answers in rather unyielding, characteristic fashion. “It’s not sunrise yet.”

Dick knows better than to voice his opinion on that observation. So, perhaps it is divine providence that the chime of a familiar intercom beeps in the confines of Bruce’s cowl.

It’s a noise that Dick knows as well as he does the pulse of his own heartbeat shuttering in the real estate of his ribs—Bruce even more by intimate degrees.

It means that you’re calling. Dick provides excellent imitation of the gargoyle sitting besides him as he does his best to pretend he isn’t desperately eavesdropping on the muted din of your voice on the other end. Bruce raises the trigger finger to his ear that allows the dam to come cresting through.

“Bruce, it’s too late. You need to come home.” Dick strains to hear the dulcet tones of your voice in saccharine delivery. You aren’t mad: yet.

“We’ve finished one circuit of the downtown district,” Bruce returns in low timbre. But Dick knows the precarious thin ice that he operates upon—and knows what to expect from you in reply.

“Bruce, I’ve been tracking yours and Dick’s location for the past four hours. You two have been as thorough as you possibly can.” There’s a nuance of steel that is communicated in the advance of your argument, something lost in the patience you speak cadence with.

Bruce is no more than marble etching upon the ledge. Dick pretends that the loose thread on his glove is far more interesting than whatever is being spoken with soft threat into the shell of Bruce’s ear.

“Jace and Cass will be going out in half an hour—they don’t need you to double up with them.” Your voice speaks with logical reasoning, without erring in pico-decibel: you don’t need to assert volume of tone when your argument holds water to his.

Bruce’s voice does not err in retort—but there is a weakening as he replies. “It’s been a quieter night than most.”

Dick has to press the heel of his palm into his mouth and pantomime a sneeze.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come home. I don’t want to go to sleep in an empty bed, Bruce.” Comes a reply that is more plaintive in plea: the final death-stroke—appealing to a man’s empathy.

And surely not even the Bat is infallible to his spouse making plea for his presence in warming their marital bed.

Dick holds his breath. The silence makes endured duration measured in the gravity that it settles on his shoulders, his heartbeat.

“We’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” Bruce says in that infallible voice. But Dick knows a beaten man when he sees one.

“You better be. I’m not going to fall asleep waiting for you.” Loving but bearing an undercurrent of aggression waiting to be tested. The line crackles with a quiet burst of static and Bruce is left standing, regarding the city skyline he has spent a lifetime protecting.

“Let’s go back,” He tells Dick with the monotony that one resigned to their fate does. Dick tries his best to conceal his smile and fails miserably.

“Thought we were staying out later,” Dick responds, to which he receives a scowl akin to the glacial shelf splintering for his troubles. He can wade further in dangerous waters than others can: but even so, there’s only one person who can go for a swim in them.

And Dick knows that that person is at home, curled up in the office chair in the Cave, waiting for their husband to come back to them. They should all be so lucky.

Lobo

No one else understands, truly. It’s an odd thing, to see you, dwarfed nearly double in the way that he towers over you. It’s not that he operates with gentility around you, nor that he is of more gentlemanly, chivalrous quality. But he is, for lack of better word—tolerable.

Much as he is with you seated on the spread of those massive thighs, scratching the barrel of his revolver idly against the stubble of his jaw. Watching the league who views him with open disdain as he runs idle finger down the meter of your shoulder.

“So who you want fragged?” Lobo asks, working his thumb into the nuance of your skin, a self-soothing motion that you lean into. How very like a doll you look, seated upon him like some trophy of past hunt.

Clark sighs silently through his nose, using the remainder of his patience to proceed. “Not fragged, captured.”

Lobo makes a shrug that lifts you with the flex of that great muscle that you’ve taken residence upon, a note of indifference carried in his grunt. “Same difference. Money spends all the same.”

Diana decides to take the torch for Clark on this one, crossing her arms over the span of her chest. “You’re getting immunity for this one. Not money.”

It’s here the bear is successfully poked—Lobo rears forward with subdued outrage spelled on his lips. His hand tucks around you to keep you stable as he takes advancement towards the League.

“Immunity?” He spits out the word like the anathema that he views it to be. “Thought the credits were part of the deal.”

It’s clear that something is burgeoning if someone doesn’t make mollifying statement. And this is where you come in, turning topside to rub a hand on the underside of his jaw, your voice drawing through the miasma of fury roiling on the horizon.

“But if you’re pardoned—”—You make defense for the point, your words level, unhurried.

To Clark’s surprise, Lobo seems to deflate in tick of shoulders as he takes reckoning of your words—“—No one can do a thing until you make another crime. So you get a grace period, honey.”

Lobo weighs the gravity of your argument, considering the virtue of this. Letting reasoning weigh out over knee-jerk reaction. And then: he settles, letting the heft of his body, and you with it, angle back into recline.

“Hmmmm. Alright.” He amends his mood after great interval of thought. His hand works into your cheek, worrying at the sink of the skin to let himself reintroduce his touch to your body.

“So, uh, when’s that go into effect?” Lobo asks through his teeth.

Clark recovers. “Once you bring back the prisoner.”

“Yeah.” Lobo nods in affirmative; a slick grin crosses his mouth. “It matter if they’re missing a limb or two?”

You take point on this one, piping up with careful directive. “Probably does, honey.”

“Ahhh. You justice league fucks are boring.” Lobo’s head rolls on broken swivel as he flexes the tendons of that column of neck.

“Whatever—”—He rises to his feet, not even seeing necessity to let you be relegated to the ground. Up you go in princess carry, one-handed, with such ease and such comfort—you’re exactly where you want to be. Where he wants you to be.

“See you idiots in a few days.” Lobo makes by means of farewell—and departs with you in tow, smiling with cheerful wave goodbye. No one exhales in relief until you both are gone.

It's probably for the best that he always brings you along on these little social calls.

Miguel O’Hara

Miguel stands before the obelisk of information relayed in milliseconds—a flurry of realities that have yet to be comprehended by any but he.

The vortex of information so vast and multitudinous but his to perceive alone, made easier in the translation by the time that he’s spent in the deluge—his to command. His to protect. His to control.

The hours are demarcated by the noise that ebbs and flows from distant hallways. They indicate the patrols that have returned from missions he has organized, rescues he has arranged, acceptances that he has dedicated to the roster.

All his to make mastery over: but still nothing is perfect. Nothing must be left unattended so long as an iota of detail is left out of place.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Comes a voice so dedicated to the sanctity of his memory he can conjure conversations without needing hear the source. He keeps his eyes trained on a strain of information so fluted in passage that he delays response to better decipher it.

“Miguel,” You warn—he is working your patience. It’s something that you permit to a point, which necessitates that he must speak. And in providing an answer, he becomes aware of his other faculties returning to him.

The scent of your body which is his alone to taste. The shudder of breath returning to you in normal meter, disrupted in homeostasis by the mission he directed you to. The smell of fresh, baked dough that barely restrains the fresh aroma of meat.

“I don’t need to eat,” Miguel returns in passive response, which is answer enough. He continues to scroll through screens that dictate avenues yet unexplored.

And a hand that he has felt on every inch of his body makes slow, unhurried journey up the slope of his arm, searching for the Miguel that shares a bed with you. The Miguel that knows you deserve more than dismissive shoulder.

This is why he turns the arc of his gaze away from the screen, so that radiant afterimage winks in his vision, framing you in beatific display of light. Marking you as the heavenly body he does not deserve, come bearing gifts to his humble altar.

“You need to eat,” You offer in determined gentility—and because he has made mistake of directing his body to you, making himself exposed—you go in advancing offense.

He does nothing to stop the journey of your hallowed form into his lap, the muscle of your thighs working around the great span of his.

You are a shape that he takes into detailed worship on instinct; the rough underside of his hands navigating down the flush of your hips. His broad fingers clenching in proprietary nature: you are his and it is uncontested even by you, who works yourself against the plateau of his chest.

But he cannot claim the privilege of your mouth slotted against his. Not until he acknowledges what you press with the encroach of your knuckles against him. His eyes dare briefest of glances to what lies in your hand on unassuming plate.

“Pupusas?” He asks in inquiry. His brow is moved in inquisitive arc, and you smile.

“So you do have object permanence,” You joke in manner only you may do so. He accepts your gift without removing the press of his stare from you. The other hand he works around your waist compensates for what he must sacrifice.

“How else would I keep you in here?” He asks—and here carries multitudes, as does everything for him. In work, in collegial bearings—in the twisted sheets he keeps you pleased in. You finally reward him with a genuine grin.

“You don’t need to try,” You reassure him of a truth he always needs to hear again. “But you do need to eat.”

Your arms work around the impressive schooling of those shoulders that are less-resistant by degrees to your touch. Your forehead presses against his as he drinks in appraisal of you like a starved man.

“So eat, Miguel,” You order him, “Then you can have the main course later.”

And he becomes poignantly aware of the pulse that thrums in the column of your neck: his as well. And because Miguel knows the exchange of quid pro quo: for you alone, he obeys.

Wade Wilson

Logan uses the operative term ‘handler',’ while Cable has adopted the phrase ‘caretaker.’ It’s of assumption that either would be excellent term to explain the categorization of your relationship. But it always comes into excellent demonstration whenever the two of you are tasked into collaborating with other people.

Though perhaps Peter would better describe this as ‘foisted into unnecessary circumstances.’ After all, he needs a sharpshooter, and he needs backup. And this is where the two of you come in.

“Aren’t they, just like,” Wade says as he takes near perch on Peter’s elbow, overwhelmed with ebullient glee, “Just so cool when they post up like that?”

Peter would agree if it wasn’t perhaps the approximate 84738292nd time that he had seen you knelt over the ledge, sniper rifle held in the firm housing of your arms. Watched the way that your eye squinted into scope that perhaps was not even necessary, save for reassurance for Peter’s sake.

“Yes, Wade,” Peter agrees in rather resigned notion, “They are.”

“Just you wait, Spider-Manling,” Wade coos into Peter’s ear, mask doing little to disguise the spittle that is currently splattered on the interior of his cowl, “One day you’ll get to wear the big boy pants and have a partner like mine.”

“Uh-huh, Wade,” Peter says. The friendly neighborhood Spider-Man considers how long it would take for Wade to dissolve the webbing if he pinned him to the concrete ground right now. “I can only hope.”

“Just make sure they have some type of survival skill on hand,” Wade chirrups with oblivious devotion, “Wouldn’t want them to be a liability in the old cape-crusading endeavors—”

Peter doesn’t usually weigh the virtue of manslaughter, but thankfully, this is where you speak up. The diction of your voice is both restrained and layered in a patience that seems near effortless—and with nary a degree of vexation.

“Leave the nice spiderling alone, Wade,” you direct as you trail the barrel of the rifle in refined arc, “And come over here and rub my shoulders.”

“Your wish is my command, my liege,” Wade instantly releases Peter from the crushing grip of what he qualifies as embrace. It’s almost as if there is cartoonish silhouette of smoke where a Deadpool once stood.

He crouches behind you with such diligent airs, fingers pirouetting as he warms up for the attack—and slides Peter a conspiratorial look that Peter perhaps wishes he could’ve gone without.

“That’s my sniper main,” Wade croons, working his knuckles into the slope of your shoulders, “Gonna tranq the baddies Spider-Man needs you to bag, you’re so cool—”

“Just like my man,” you say back without any errant disruption of your expression—but the sincerity layered in your voice is without question. Peter can only marvel as Wade makes rather coquettish giggle, and continues to make diligent craft of massage into the seized knots of your shoulders.

“I don’t get it,” Peter mutters. But he stares—and admires the besotted Wade Wilson—all the same.

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Bucky Barnes:

“I’m a plenty good flirt,” Steve grins at you as he stares openly across the kitchen island, “You just haven’t seen it yet.”

“Oh, yeah, grandpa?” You ask, fumbling a hand for one of the apples centered in the basket occupying the center. This allows you to miss the way that he carries a subtle wince at the jape. But it’s vanished on the wind by the time that your eyes levy back up to him.

“Hit me with something.” You assert with a grin, only barely aware of Bucky as he lopes languidly into the room. There’s an impartiality occupying the real estate of that stern face as he silently appraises the exhibition, occupying the wide doorframe with the spread of his shoulders.

“Like what?” Steve asks with a grin; you’re already making way to let your arms cross above your chest. Bucky settles the meat of his flesh-and-blood arm against the beam of the door to watch.

“Ask me out.” You grin with a blithe smile. “Pretend for me.”

It’s endearing, the way that his shoulders broaden, the look of courage that he shores up on his face as he poises himself across the meridian of the marble. When he says your name, there’s an almost rigid formality that he never articulates it with.

“—Would you do me the honor—”—And you watch the way that his Adam’s apple bobs, the way that he portrays the very picture of awkward shyness so well—“—Of going out with me?”

You can’t help but let an instinctive smile cross your mouth at the display. At the almost-genuine flush that sinks across his cheeks, the way that his eyes seem riveted upon you as he waits for your pretend reaction. You can’t help but provide him a small smattering of applause which gives no degree of relief.

“Very good, Mr. Rogers,” you grin. “Some people like the old tried-and-true formal touch.”

“Do you?” Steve asks. But before you have the whiling span of a second to answer this, Bucky’s voice drawls in such leisurely manner into the fray of your conversation.

“People these days like a more direct approach, Stevie,” Bucky says with a ghost of a grin that sneaks over his face. All you can do is watch as he saunters over to an unoccupied side of the marble island, ignorant to the slow-simmering indignation that burns in Steve’s eyes.

“Oh, yeah?” You ask with no lack of dubious quality to your voice, directing your disbelief to thing two rapidly approaching. “And what experience do you have in the modern-day love scene to back that up, Barnes?”

And then he leans an elbow—the metallic one, so that it settles with a hollow thunk on the embossed stone—and it feels as though something shifts. Bucky himself doesn’t change, doesn’t undergo drastic transformation. But there’s something about the way that he holds himself with intense gravity, the rivet of his eyes that seem to smolder through you, draw tight within the hollow of your stomach.

“Been thinkin’ you and me oughta go get some drinks tomorrow, doll,” He says—no, husks is more accurate descriptor. There’s something in rugged intonation that sends a frisson of heat up the length of your spine. “Lot of stuff on my mind I been wantin’ to tell you.”

And the way that he appraises you, the cant of his gaze, the tilt of his body towards you—masculine, broad-shouldered, devoted your way—something about it feels oddly surreal, yet grounded in reality. It strings tightly round your neck, in the pulse of your legs as the two of you share the heat of an exchanged gaze.

You let a blustering chuckle escape you. It seems oddly important to redirect conversation to greener pastures, than to focus on the way that the room seems to spinning in intoxicating fashion.

“Wow,” You finally confess to Bucky, who has drawn back, allowed the moment and the indecipherable gravity with it to dissipate—“—Maybe you do know what you’re talking about.”

“Years of practice,” He responds in coarse, unaffected manner. “Me and Steve’ll practice for the next time he asks you.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” you respond—the two of them are such kidders. But the odd, implicative glance between each other escapes your attention as you search for the proper apple to enjoy. And the silent discussion of forbidden fruit that they exchange between each other falls beneath your notice.

Remy LeBeau:

“People want the strong, silent type.” Logan returns in response to your question levied across the tacky bar counter. To better emphasize the point that he makes, he punctuates it with a deep swallow of his beer. The neck of the neck of the bottle is swallowed in his great mitt, allowing you to see the flex of his knuckles, the draw of those wide fingers.

“Not everyone wants the strong, silent type,” You dispute with cavalier ease, buoyed by the drink. He sends you a dark, near-inquisitive look with such immediacy that sober you would have sensed something was up. You angle your old fashioned against your lips, savoring the acrid burn, the faint zest of the orange peel.

“No?” He asks, a rough, low inquiry. “You’re tellin’ me—”

And he props an elbow into your space, drawing into closer proximity so that the conversation becomes confidential between the two of you. You can't help but be drawn in, magnetized by curiosity as to how he will proceed with his example.

It's this, your gravitational pull, that draws the attention of a pair of eyes from across the room.

“—That if I told you right now,” Logan growls in corrugated whisper through his teeth, “Just how I felt about you, and what I’d do if I got the chance—”

Your eyes draw up in amused curiosity, a corner of your mouth turning up at this hypothetical that he offers your way. How very illustrative of Logan to approach with an example of the two of you.

“Yeah?” You ask with a grin that exhibits the inhibition drink has brought to you.

“—You’re tellin’ me that you wouldn’t want to see where it took you?” Logan asks. There’s something stark in the way that his eyes are searching for your reaction. Almost as if he’s not asking from an anthropological point of view. Almost as if he has a vested interest.

“Not every person likes the roguish approach,” You chuckle, pulling back—how silly, how charming, how funny your friend is. “Some people like other methods of attack.”

“Like what?” He asks. There’s something in the crook of his brow as they knit together, still watching. He doesn’t pull away, still maintaining the space that he’s forded into of yours.

“Maybe some people like the romantic approach, no?” A voice takes intrusion into the conversation. You turn with more curiosity than Logan, who seems to be stolid and unappreciative of the newcomer strolling in.

“What d’you know ‘bout it, Cajun?” Logan asks as he regards Remy, who looks the proverbial cat that ate the canary. As though he bears secrets, sacred knowledge that Logan doesn’t. His eyes are fixated upon you.

“Some people got refined taste, Logan,” Remy takes swaggering step towards you, eating up distance so that the two of you are far closer than you and your other counterpart, “They like to be wine and dined.”

“And how many people have you wined and dined, LeBeau?” You ask with a cheeky smirk that he reciprocates in wider manner. Besides you, Logan chafes with the heat of his glare, but you’re only looking up to Remy.

“Enough to know you like a nice sit-down dinner,” Remy says, his eyes dancing with such hypnotic allure, “That you want music, a nice view—”

He leans down so that it’s a confidential whisper intended for the two of you, but his voice is audible enough to Logan—“—Maybe swept off your feet with a little dancin’, no?”

You laugh with a healthy degree of skepticism. “You know how to dance?”

“Remy be real light on his feet when he want to, minou,” Remy smirks at you, “For the right person.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” You grin as Remy seems to bear a smug satisfaction you’re unsure of the source, “For later.”

“You do,” Remy grins, “Maybe I take you up on it soon.”

And you’re far too occupied with picking the peel from your drink to take in the way that Remy grins at Logan. And how he willingly, happily wades further into playing in dangerous waters.

Jason Todd:

“There’s a difference between between flirting and being a flirt, Grayson.” You inform him as the three of you return back from the dire exhaustion of patrol. You make an interesting sight in triad, covered in a sheen of effort and exertion earned together.

“And what am I?” Dick asks as he turns to regard you from the right. On your left, though you are ignorant to this, Jason tenses in quiet, monolithic airs.

“You’re a flirt, of course,” you return; Dick has the good graces to pretend mock-offense as he splays his fingers over the plateau of his chest.

“I resent that observation,” Dick returns staunchly. “I just happen to have a charming personality.”

You snort through your nose at the generous description he’s provided himself. The three of you conclude your journey into the cave, settling the weapons and defenses of the night on the ground, the floor. Wherever acreage is available to hold the aspects of your vigilante identity for civilian facade soon becomes occupied.

“Charming personality doesn’t mean that you throw yourself at everyone that’s available.” You reply back as you unclip your cape, the protective armor you bear over your torso. If Dick’s gaze lingers over the vulnerable skin underneath, you don’t take regard—nor of the way that Jason’s eyes raze over you as well.

“I don’t throw myself at everyone,” Dick’s voice lilts in good-humored glibness, “Just you.”

“Well, you’re doing a fantastic job of proviing that you’re a flirt,” You return back primly with a haughty sniff as you remove your mask. “You ought to be more like Jason.”

“Oh stiff-upper lipped lieutenant?” Dick asks with demeanor convincing enough to persuade you he is not nettled by you involving Jason in the discussion. “How so?”

“With Jason, I know he’s not laying it on thick,” You say, turning to look at Jason relinquishing the heft of his mask to the table, “I know that Jason speaks with the truth in every single syllable.”

“Doin’ me a lot of credit, sweetheart.” He returns in that gruff delivery. You smile knowingly and press the heel of your palms against the table to support yourself.

“It’s true—watch—” You reply, giving Dick a 'better pay attention' glower he returns with ambling grin; you turn back to Jason, who watches you silently—“—Jason, who do you like?”

“You, honey.” Jason says in such sincere delivery that you wouldn’t doubt the cadence of his delivery, the means of his posture that attests to his want, the desire that rings clear in his eyes. And this is what causes the cave to draw into heavy silence.

But it’s interrupted with your impressed chuckle. “Wow. That was pretty good.”

Before Jason can formulate proper retort, you round on your heel back to Dick. “See? You need to be able to speak things with honesty like Jason. Then people would believe you a lot more.”

“I don’t know,” Dick returns in sly bearings—another aimed barb from eldest brother to younger, you think, “I think ol’ Jason speaks from the heart.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” You reassert as you stride past the two of them to the world concealed by winding staircase, “Try to sound genuine and maybe it’ll work for a change.”

The two of them remain in deliberate silence until you have departed—then Dick turns with slow, menacing grin to his brother.

“Yeah, Jason,” Dick beams, “Maybe you should sound more genuine and they’ll believe you.”

“Cold place in hell for you, brother,” Jason returns back with a tone that indicates it’s no skin off his nose. And as he looks up to the heavenly ascent that you’ve taken, past their visual reckoning—Dick knows that Jason isn’t out for the count. Not for long, anyways.

Where you’re concerned, Jason can only operate in the most dedicated of truths. There’ll just come a time when you actually believe it.

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