#yeah ouch

“Stay here.” Nico says when you realize you’re in your room instead of the kitchen, with a note of decisiveness that makes you know he means it. Before you can agree, he’s already gone. You wait near the door, listening for voices, trying to make out what they’re saying. It feels like forever before you finally hear everyone making their way upstairs, slowly getting ready for bed. It’s even longer until the house is finally quiet. Eventually you can’t hear anymore hushed conversations, the water stops running through the pipes into the bathroom, and the light from the cracks in the door aren’t spilling onto the floorboards anymore. 

Eventually, when everyone else has long since gone to sleep, you don’t have an excuse not to anymore. You lay down in your bed, trying to make it warm. You do your best to ignore everything racing around your mind even more than usual, try to quiet the events that transpired tonight from playing on a continuous loop in your mind. You lay there with your eyes closed, trying to find anything else to think of besides everything that’s on your mind. You try so hard to sleep without Leo that night. 

In spite of your best efforts, and how late you went to bed, you only manage to get a few hours before you’re wide awake. You stare at the ceiling, every part of you begging to be with him, craving him like an addict. You really are trying your best to make it through the night without him, but… You sigh, not knowing how much longer you can do this. You roll over, seriously considering sneaking in to see him. You weigh your options, thinking about how much better you’d feel, how excited he always is when you appear in his doorway. 

But you know if you go to him now, it will seem like you do only want him as a hookup, you actually are just using him for his body. You don’t want him to think that, you’re not sure why but you just don’t. Nico’s words from the kitchen echo in your mind as you let out a shuddering, frustrated sigh. You press your hands into your face. Maybe if you hadn’t been telling him that you’re only using him for his body since you first fucked him, he wouldn’t think that. You roll over, wishing that little voice in your head would shut up.

You know it’s right, but you don’t want to hear it. Not right now. You know that you’ve had a justification for everything for everything you’ve been saying this whole time; you’re only using him for sex and you don’t care about feelings, that the reason you should keep it a secret is so it would be less drama for him, you always spend the night with him because his bed is more comfortable than yours. You believed all that at first, but now, you’re starting to think that maybe those justifications were just that - justifications for getting to be with him. 

Now you’re alone again in your big cold bed, with sheets that still aren’t broken in because you never fucking sleep here. You never sleep in your own bed, because you don’t want to. You want to sleep in Leo’s bed with him, where it’s warm and there’s someone to hold you tight and kiss you on the cheeks and forehead. You want to sleep with your breath mixing with someone else’s, with your limbs tangled up and your chests slowly rising and falling together. 

Of course you want that, of course you want to be held in a big ball of warmth, you don’t know who wouldn’t want that. You ache for him, and it makes your room feel even colder and more empty. Between how late everyone went to bed and how much time you spent deliberating on whether or not you should even try to sneak in and see him, it’s way later than usual. So by the time you finally make your way down the hall and creep into his room, he’s fast asleep. 

Earlier while you were lying awake, staring at your ceiling and agonizing over the events of the past few hours, Leo was down the hall doing the exact same thing. Calypso’s words invade his every thought, and he keeps comparing what she said to everything you’ve done. He knows he's overthought this to death, but it’s relentless. 

He struggles to trust his instincts, to stop doubting himself. Could he have horribly misread everything? Can Calypso see something obvious that he can't? He's never pretended to be objective when it comes to you, but maybe that's not as good of a thing as he thought. He continues beating this dead horse until he eventually passes out. 

He comes to suddenly, unsure of what time it is. He squeezes his eyes shut in frustration that he can’t even sleep through the night after such a wild day like today. More than a little of that upset and frustration is because it’s so much later than usual, and there’s still been no sign of you. He hasn’t seen you since you said you’re not friends, and that horrible self doubt is making him start to think you were serious. A moment later, before his mind can really latch onto that sentence and the way you said it to prove to himself that you were joking (you were joking, right?)  the door to his room opens gently and slowly. Your silhouette appears, familiar and alluring, and it makes his heart squeeze in his chest. 

His voice alone is like an oasis, so you do. You go to him without any hesitation. Before you can say anything, he pulls you into his lap firmly and starts kissing you. Every touch from him soothes your frazzled nerves, and you’re so relieved again and again that he keeps letting you in. He grabs your face, pushing his tongue into your mouth, which you gladly accept. He leans into you, and you grab onto his shoulders to stay balanced. 

Your timing couldn’t be more impeccable. He really did think he missed you, or maybe that you wouldn’t come at all tonight. But here you are again, wanting him, searching for his embrace, once again finding solace at his doorstep. Part of him wants to be strong, doesn’t want to fold for you so quickly every single time. But gods, he can’t resist you. He can’t say no to you, the sight of you hovering in his door, waiting for him to wrap you up in his arms, to kiss you dizzy and make you smile. He wants it, too - to be the one that makes you smile. He really just can’t resist you, not even after the exhausting night you both endured. After a moment, he sits up and rolls his eyes, sighing exaggeratedly.

“C’mere.” 

There’s something there tonight, a tinge more dominance to him than usual. It makes you quiver under his touch, even more than you normally would. The way he holds you, the way he pushes his tongue further past your lips makes you really glad you’re on his lap, or you’d definitely be having some trouble standing up.  Leave it to Leo to literally make you weak at the knees after the most stressful day ever. 

He flips you over suddenly, you blink and your back is on his mattress and his hair is falling in your face. Your stomach flips and heat pools between your legs at his every move, every gesture, but especially that one. You pull away enough to say something in your signature snarky, quippy tone, but he doesn’t let you finish. 

“Shut up.” 

His tongue is in your mouth again. There’s still an element of playfulness to his voice, there always is, but you know he means business tonight. You can’t lie, you’re not used to him giving you orders, but you’re not… mad at it. Not at all. He grabs the back of your thighs and pulls you further down the bed so he can climb on top of you properly. Your eyes widen at the gesture, heat and butterflies erupting through you at his touch. At the same time, he pulls your legs further apart to settle himself between them. He continues kissing you in that way that makes you dizzy, shoving one hand between your legs to touch you, start playing with you a little. 

He scissors his fingers inside you, stretching you out for him as arousal drips down your folds. You’re already turned on enough that his skilled fingers make loud sticky wet noises within moments of working their way inside you. He knows exactly what he’s doing, too, hooking his fingers just right against that spot while he flicks his tongue deeper into your mouth. His fingers are so long, effortlessly reaching deeper inside you than you could ever hope to. He really wants to make you squirm tonight, so he grinds the heel of his hand against your clit. It’s just enough to wind you up, tease you without really giving you what you want. 

He focuses his attention on that spot inside you that makes you shudder, and once he feels you start to tighten up, right when you start to get close, he pulls his fingers out. The loss of contact is only for a moment or two, but it’s enough for you to whine into his mouth. He bites your lip in response, and you freeze, flustered at the sensation of his teeth on your skin. He’s really not taking any shit tonight. You had pulled a condom out of thin air a few moments ago, and he grabs it where it lays next to you, forgotten at the feeling of his fingers pushing inside you.

He grabs his cock, squeezing it in his hand and stroking himself a few times before lining himself up with your entrance. He pushes his tongue further into your mouth as he bullies his cock into your cunt, reveling in the sensation of your tight, gummy walls giving way to accommodate how hung he is. The tip of his cock bumps against your cervix again and again as he begins fucking you at a brutal pace. Between everything he’s doing and everything he did leading up to this, how close he got you, you already feel like you’re going to cum again. His kisses make you dizzy, and the pace he’s going at is enough to already make your head spin. He’s being rough with you tonight. 

His hands slide into yours and move them above your head, before he secures your wrists in place with one hand. His thrusts have a sharper edge to them, and when his other hand comes down to squeeze the back of your thigh, his grip is firmer than it has been before. You’re already tightening around him, and between the feeling of his body pressing into yours and his cock rubbing hard and fast against every delicious, sensitive spot, it’s only a few more seconds before that coil tightening and building inside you bursts. 

“Already?” He asks with a teasing smirk, lips brushing against yours as he speaks, “Maybe you are a little whore…” He chuckles, before connecting your lips again. There’s a playfulness to his words, and the fact that you know he doesn’t really mean it, that he still respects you as much as he always has, makes what he’s saying even hotter. You moan into his mouth as he keeps bucking his hips into yours. It’s like he’s competing with himself to see how deep inside you he can get, and whatever he’s doing now is winning. 

You can tell he’s pissed off about something - presumably whatever happened between him and his friends and Calypso that you still don’t know the details of - and if fucking you like this gets it out of his system, you’re more than happy to help him. He pounds into you, tantalizing your every nerve with his touch. His hands are all over you, moving from restraining yours to hold your face, squeeze your waist and hips, run up and down your thighs, envelop you in a bear hug that makes you feel even closer to him than you knew to be possible. He fucks the breath out of your lungs, fucks the thoughts out of your head, and you love every minute of it. You crave more. 

By the time the only coherent thought you can manage is Leo, Leo, Leo, a little part of you in the back of your mind realizes that he’s taking control. And you’re letting him. You should be terrified, you should be running for the hills. But you don’t. Somehow, in all your fear, all the walls you’ve built around you, Leo has found a hidden back door you didn’t even know was there. He’s entering slowly, and you’re letting him. For reasons beyond you, you don’t mind letting him hold you, letting him see you vulnerable like this. 

You’re surprised that you’re not scared and terrified to death of letting him do this to you, make you feel like this, but it feels so good. Not just the sex, but the way he looks at you, the way he touches you gently even when he’s obliterating your tight cunt, the way there’s always a sweetness and softness and care to his voice, even when he’s calling you a whore. There’s no situation, not even during rough, angry sex, that he hasn’t been sweeter to you than you knew a person could be. You used to cringe at the idea of aftercare, much less cuddling and snuggling and spending the night, but… maybe there’s a reason you only go back to your own bed at sunrise. 

Even if you could think clearly, you still would have lost track of how many times he’s made you cum long before now. You’ve spent the last… gods know how long with his hands pushing down on your stomach, slipping his fingers into your mouth for you to suck on while he tells you all his dirty thoughts about you. When he’s not muttering and growling things that make you lightheaded to hear, his mouth is everywhere. On your neck, your tits, leaving more hickeys than usual in its wake. He pins your arms above your head again, this time intertwining your fingers with his as he moans, guttural and shameless, into your skin. 

You’ve never seen him angry like this, never seen him pissed off and ready to fuck you hard. It’s surprising, and if you’re being honest, it has you much more turned on than you’d like to admit. You’re wetter than you’ve ever been, just from the way he grabs your face to make you look at him, the way he’ll say something right into your ear that sends chills down your spine and punctuate it with a bite. He fucks you fast and rough, but it still feels more tender than it has with anyone you’ve been with before now. 

Even like this, even when he’s fucking all of his frustrations out into you, he’s still gazing into your eyes, sighing against your skin and holding your hand. It’s still so loving. That underlying tenderness he has towards you that never wavers makes everything he does, every sensation feel even stronger, and you can’t get enough of it. He’s fucking you completely dumb, you don’t think you could form a coherent sentence if you tried right now. 

But what really makes your stomach twist, what really makes your face get hot and makes arousal gush between your legs, dripping down through your sensitive folds, is that he can fuck you like an absolute whore and still be so sweet to you. Not just afterwards when he’s gotten what he wanted, but at the same time. You’ve never met anyone who can do both. 

By the time you've both cum more times than you can count and he's reduced your cunt to a dripping, quivering, twitching mess, it's so late that you’ve passed the gray area between late night and early morning. You look out the window at the sky beginning to lighten in the anticipation of sunrise. Yeah, it's officially early. Leo stands up and stretches, and you can't help but admire his slender waist and stomach as he does. You wish you could get that on camera, watch his pretty muscles glint in the early morning sunrise beginning to illuminate the sky in slow motion. 

You watch him, lying on your stomach, chest pressed against his soft, warm sheets that smell like him. You managed to tug your pajamas back on, a little pair of velvety shorts and matching top in a deep dark red. They’re soft against his bed.  He turns away, and when you see his back, muscular and slender - just like the rest of him. There’s something so hypnotic about boys, their chests and waists and shoulders, the slope of their back where their spine meets their hips. Leo is no exception to this, if anything he perfectly exemplifies everything you love about boys. Your heart is pounding at his every move, and you feel like you could watch him forever.

He takes his time grabbing a black pair of boxers to shimmy into, and you watch him close, admiring him the whole time. Something is nagging at you, making you feel antsy, but you’re too distracted by Leo to pay it any mind. You wait, wondering how soon he’ll take you in his arms and kiss you and cuddle you. It’s not until now, when you have to wait for his touch, that you realize how much you need it. Human contact, sure, but mostly his touch. You want him to hold you in his warm radiator-like embrace. You want his lips on your nose and cheeks, peppering your skin with little kisses. 

It’s not until moments like this that you realize how little touch you actually receive, much less how much you’re actually starting to want it. You never wanted it before now. You never cared about this stuff until him, until you felt the way he touched you, felt the way he looked at you. As much as you didn’t want to admit it, a small part of you can’t deny that you’ve been craving that ever since the first time, craving it so deeply you’d go to lengths you don’t normally go to. Like instigating some of it. 

Your stomach flips at the thought. It’s a risk, a huge risk that you would normally laugh at even considering. But now, when it’s for Leo… Maybe now might be a good time to try and instigate things with him, break the cycle you’re in. Just a little. Maybe you should show him that you kind of like being around him too. That he’s not the only one here that’s… in love. Butterflies swarm through your system and your eyes fall to his sheets. You could. You could try. You trace the thread that forms the seam at the edge, trying to collect yourself. It would be easy. 

You just have to channel that same comfortable, easygoing energy he has with you, the kind that makes him so easy to get along with and love. It’s that light playfulness that makes anyone want to throw their arms around him, shout from the rooftops how he makes you feel. You remember a scene from an old soapy tv show Hazel was watching the other day, what one of the characters said when the love interests finally got together. Yes! Yes, yes, yes! I want to be with you now and always! That’s what the feeling is like, you think. You take a shaky breath. 

But maybe he can’t fix people. Maybe he can’t help someone become a better person by loving them and being patient with them. Maybe was wrong about Calypso, and he’s wrong about you, and he’s just been making a fool of himself this whole time. Maybe he was wrong and Calypso was right; you’re manipulating him and everyone secretly hates him and he’s annoying and unloveable. He can admit that he’s all of those things, but for fuck’s sake, he should still have his dignity. 

“Going so soon…?” It sounds just like something he’d say - in fact, it is something he said to you when you tried to sneak off one night. But coming from you it sounds more unsure than playful. He glances over at your voice.

One look at you, and he’s close to folding. He wants so badly to throw himself in your arms. He wants to pull you close to him and give you all the love that you’re so clearly craving. He aches for it. You look so sweet like this, and for fuck’s sake, you’re trying. Your effort doesn’t go unnoticed, it never does by him. But something holds him back. After the unmitigated disastrous mess he just went through with Calypso, the one thing repeating in his mind like a skipping record is that he doesn’t want to be stuck in endless cycles. He was in a horrible cycle with Calypso. Every time they’d go through the same thing, he would keep expecting it to change, to be different this time, but it never was. He kept giving her chance after chance, hoping it would fix something, that he could just be a better boyfriend and it would fix everything. 

Can he really be so pathetic that he’ll let himself get used by whatever scary, intimidating, incredibly hot girl looks his way just because he believes you’re softer inside than you let on? He sighs sharply. He doesn’t know who he’s kidding, acting like he’s going to suddenly start sticking up for himself like this. He knows it’s just a matter of time before he comes back to you, he’s sure everyone does. He’s not slick, he’s not subtle. When you said at the beginning of all this that you’re just using him for his body and he told you he’s okay with that, he meant it. He’ll take what he can get when it comes to you. As pathetic as it sounds, he knows you both know it’s true. 

“What,” you start with a half joking tone to mask the nerves in your voice, “you’re not gonna stay and cuddle?” You wait for his response, and wonder if it’s obvious how much you crave his touch, the warmth that’s so unique to him.

He really has to muster up every ounce of willpower he has not to kiss you and cuddle you, not to fuck you absolutely stupid again just to see you smile for him, see you at ease in his arms. It’s so much harder than he thought it would be not to press kisses across your cheeks and get you to giggle so sweetly for him like he always does. He deserves to at least pretend to have some dignity. The typhoon of horrible feelings and self doubt wins, and he turns back around, beginning to get dressed instead. The tables are turned, and now you’re the one craving his touch, hoping he’ll come back to bed while you watch him get ready. He lets your question hang unanswered in the air for a few moments.

“I have a project I gotta work on…” he says breezily, not meeting your eye. He refuses to believe what Calypso was so sure of, he’s not whipped for you. She made her points very clear, including the fact that you can’t possibly care about him at all, even as a hookup. 

He’s still unable to escape every harsh, vile word exchanged between him and Calypso - granted most of them were from the latter. She was insistent that you would be fucking someone else if there was anyone more convenient for you. He doesn’t know how much of what she said is true, but he knows he doesn’t want it to be. He wants you to care about him, of course he wants you to care about him. He wants you to want him, the way he wants you. 

Obviously he wants you to think of him, to crave his touch, to love the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles and the sun illuminates his soft curls, just like how he loves the dimples in your back and the way your expression always softens when you think no one is looking. All he wants is for you to be soothed by him, comforted and reassured by his presence, just like how he’s enamored and entranced by yours. You’re… enchanting. You’re so goddamn enchanting with every little thing you do, and for fuck’s sake, all he wants is at least a little reciprocation. 

He wants reciprocity, you want to keep things casual. Or at least, he thinks so. He doesn’t know. He has no idea what you want and he has no idea how to figure it out. He’s tried all the mental gymnastics he has to do with Calypso until he’s completely exhausted himself, and it’s lead nowhere, which means the only thing he can do is assess you, what you’re saying and doing. He pays such close attention to you, nothing gets past him. He notices all of it, your body language, your words, the way you participate even when you pretend it’s reluctant and care about what his friends think. 

It would be so easy for you to ruin everything, for you to talk shit and decimate every attempt to make things nice. He knows, because that’s what Calypso does. But you don’t. You watch mushy romcoms and screwball comedies, you dry dishes and make coffee for Annabeth when you make some for yourself. You tell Hazel when the tag of her shirt is sticking up and help Percy put away groceries. You act like you want to be part of everything.That nagging little voice in the back of his mind gets louder, insisting if you really wanted to be a part of everything that you would be. So you must want to keep things casual, and he must be the one trying to make something out of nothing. 

He would be fine to keep it casual, he really would. But gods, you make it so hard not to fall in love with you. Especially when you act all sweet and coy, when you lay in his bed and look at him bashfully, like you want him, when you act so… girlfriend. Any other day he would have taken that as a sign that he was right about you, that you actually like him and want to be with him. But not this time, not after the… conversation he endured with Calypso last night. Now he looks at you, your actions and motivations from other angles that aren’t there, trying to figure out how you could be doing this to mess with him or manipulate him, what you could be getting out of this. Or worse, that you know how badly he wants you, and you’re just messing with him, yanking his chain. The worst fucking part is that he’d let you. 

All of this culminates into a dry laugh. 

“I didn’t take you for the cuddling type.” 

The last thing he wants is to smother you, or force a relationship on you. It’s just like he told Hazel at the grocery store, he doesn’t want to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. More importantly, he doesn’t want you to be with him if you don’t want to be. Clearly she doesn’t want to be. The voice narrating that particular thought is Calypso’s not his, but the words sting nonetheless. Maybe you should just keep it as friends with benefits, but as you stated just a matter of hours ago, you’re not even really friends. A hookup, he supposes, a booty call. Sneaky link. Whatever words there are to describe the least commitment or emotional intimacy you can have in a… whatever this is. 

You sit up on the bed, facing him. You don’t want it to be obvious, the way your stomach sinks at his words. He’s all you want, and you have no way to convey that to him. 

A flare of excitement washes over you, but he’s too busy scouring your expression for any trace of insincerity to notice. 

“So… what type am I?” You ask lightly, biting your lip. He pauses, knowing you’re asking if you’d be a good girlfriend. You try to keep your tone playful, enough to bring him back from whatever dark place he’s heading toward, just like he’s done for you more times than he knows. But you can’t read his inner monologue. You have no way of knowing it’s Calypso’s voice in his head, dragging him away from you, telling him this is proof that you’re just messing with him, yanking his chain for fun. It’s too much, and the last 24 hours full of bullshit finally have him at a breaking point. He wheels around and marches right over to you, crouching down to your eye level and holding you by the shoulders, making you really look at him.

“Why are you being like this?” He demands. Shock is evident on your face as he continues, finally beginning to get what’s long overdue off his chest. Even like this, even as frustrated and sick of having his feelings toyed with as he is, his touch is still familiar and comforting as a hand-me-down hoodie from a loved one. “Look, I like you a lot-” 

“You know I like you a lot, I’ve made that crystal fucking clear, so I know you know.” He leans in closer to you, desperate to get through to you, “And I know that you act cold, and mean, and detached from everyone and everything, but I don’t believe you’re really like that!”

The sincerity of his voice and the tears brimming in his eyes cut through you like a hot knife. You’re suddenly glad he’s holding onto you so tightly. 

“I know that deep down you’re sweet, and you have feelings that you’ve been trying to hide this whole time! I think you want the same thing everyone else wants - to be loved. I didn’t buy this bullshit act from the second I saw you!” He’s pleading you with everything he’s got for you to really hear him, to listen. “Am I wrong?” He implores, fat tears finally spilling down his cheeks. 

He’s begging you to tell him he’s not. Tears prickle in the corners of your eyes. You just have to say one word. Just tell him he’s been right about you this whole time, confirm his hopes and confess to everything and throw yourself in his arms. One word, and he’s yours. 

Your throat is so tight you can’t get it out. 

His grip on your shoulders loosens, and he leans back, pulling away just enough for you to notice. When he speaks, his voice wavers.

“But you clearly aren’t interested in anything besides just hooking up.” He lets go. He swipes away his tear stained cheeks before his arms fall to his side. “So let’s call it what it is. It will make this a lot easier for both of us, cause in case you didn’t notice, I actually like you a lot. And it’s really hard not to cross a line when you act all cute and…” he gestures vaguely to you now, gripping his pillow and looking up at him with glistening eyes before dropping your gaze, unable to hold his. 

He’s a strange, conflicting combination of detached and fired up over you. He wants you to tell him he’s wrong. For the love of gods, please tell him he’s wrong. Tell him you actually do like him, maybe you even more than like him. You just need to say it and put all the self doubt, and bullshit from Calypso to rest once and for all. His words repeat in your mind, ringing clear like a bell. He likes you. Oh god, he likes you. He actually likes you that much, and seeing him in this state because of you is killing you. You can do it, you can say it back. 

You can feel yourself about to spill your guts, teetering on the precipice of confessing everything to him. You want to say it, you want to tell him that you like him, you might even love him. You have no idea what that even means, but you can’t think of any other words to explain how you feel about him. For a moment, you wonder if it would be so bad. How scary could it really be to look him in the eyes and tell him the truth. You’re considering, you’re about to do it. The impulse is almost about to win, but your throat stays just as tightened up as it has been. 

Every kind, honest word you were about to say to him dies in your mouth, leaving as a strangled sigh. Why can’t you say it? Your brow furrows as fear creeps in. You don’t want to lose him. You can’t lose him. Preemptive guilt starts seeping through you as your mind only finds one option, over and over, no matter how many times it speed runs searching for a way to fix this, and only finding one. Maybe it is selfish. Maybe Calypso is right, and you’re an evil, manipulative bitch that’s keeping Leo all for yourself, but you don’t care. You know one thing right now; you can’t lose him.

“Don’t try to cute your way out of this.” He says incredulously, removing your hand from his hair. You freeze, blanching at the unexpected reaction. He’s not bending. He’s not affected by you at all. This doesn’t make sense. You just turned up your sex appeal so high that he should be cumming in his pants right now. Before you can be any more confused than you are, Nico’s words suddenly resurface in your memory. 

You never wanted to do this to him, you promised yourself you never would, but you don’t have a choice. You blink away your tears and ramp up your sex appeal as high as it can possibly go, feeling the dizzying rush of power as you do. You reach out with it, grabbing him in a chokehold of seduction, and crawl across the bed to kneel in front of him, chest to chest. You let out a soft giggle that will make his knees literally buckle, and send all the blood straight from his brain to his dick, just like you want.

“Hey…” you say, soft as summer sunshine, and run your hands over his chest. You twirl his soft curls between your fingers, knowing he’ll be putty in your hands by the time you finish your sentence. “Let’s just get along-” 

The only person a child of Eros’s sex appeal doesn’t work on is their soulmate.