Fandom: DC Comics/Red Hood and the Outlaws
Characters/Pairing: Jason/Roy/Kori
Genre: Romance
Rating: R/NSFW
Summary: Nothing's perfect. However, slowly but surely, they're getting there.
Word count: 1, 125
Disclaimer: I own none (and make no profit off) of the characters and the Universe/stories they're from, they belong solely to their creator/s and the publishing company.
Notes: Even I'm not exactly sure what happened here. Um, enjoy?
Also I may or may not have stopped in the middle of finishing this to (cave in and) watch the first two episodes of Legend of Korra (SO GOOD, OMG WHY DID I WAIT) and make + eat breakfast at 11:30 at night. My life, folks.
It took a couple of tries before they get it right.
The first time they attempt it, they're making terrible jokes to break the heavy pauses of silence, and it's quite possible the only reason they even got their clothes off is because of Kori's annoyance with their pacing. There's too many limbs, none of which they're sure just what to do with, their bed suddenly seems too small when it seemed to fit them just fine before, and they spend far too much time just staring at each other and bickering over just what the hell they were going to do in the first place.
It gets done, slowly but surely, and it's downright terrible. Good enough to get something out of it, they sorta-joke afterwards, but still terrible in the way that first times often are.
They can't even remember just what inspired the three of them to bother trying at all.
Which is why it's a bit of a surprise that it happens again. But it does, because the adrenaline's pumping through them at dizzying speeds after their latest mission; they're riding the high all the way up to heaven. And it only takes a couple of glances, one of them to lick their lips and arch an eyebrow before another one begins their next sentence with, "You know, we've got the rest of the night off . . . " before it suddenly seems like the greatest idea ever, regardless of how it'd gone down the last time.
It's a little less clumsy this time around. There are less hands and feet accidentally shoved into someone's face or side, less confusion on who is doing what and with whom. Clothes are off a little faster; there's less annoyance at hands aiding with unyielding zippers and belt buckles and hidden snaps. Hands and eyes linger less.
They even swear that at some point, of them is moaning quietly to themselves, muffled behind a clenching fist, though no one wants to own up to it. Not so soon. Not when this is all so new to (most) of them. Not when they're scared of screwing this up before it's truly even started.
It's not bad. Not the best they've ever had, nothing all that brag-worthy, but it's not bad. Better than the last. Their muscles are a little less sore the next day, if that counts for anything. Their conversation over breakfast goes as smoothly as it normally does.
Then, for some reason, it doesn't happen again for a long time.
It's not like any of them have forgotten the several nights they all shared. It's just not really brought up. They get caught up in other things for a while. Important missions to successfully complete, enemies that won't stop chasing them half around the globe, alien technology to study and utilize for further use. Important shit. Half the time, they're not even staying at the same safe house.
When they do remember, it's when they've got a bed to themselves, sometimes miles or just a room apart from the others.
It's not until approximately a month later, when they're all finally sharing the same room, that it happens again. They're exhausted after a long night of work to the point where they can't even keep their eyes open. All three fall wordlessly onto the same bed, boots and costumes still on. Without hesitance they reach for each other, ignoring the protests of sore muscles and shallowly wounded flesh, and fall asleep together almost instantly.
They slowly rouse from their sleep early the next morning, but do not rise. They blink back fatigue and gaze amongst each other. The moment feels familiar, but carries with it none of the wariness or hesitance of previous encounters. No one flinches when one of them reaches out and strokes another's side, or when they lean forward to place a gentle kiss on one's cheek, then turn around to do the same to the other.
Instead, the other two lean into the affectionate gestures, one of them releasing a long with-held sigh.
They begin to follow the middles lead.
There's no delay in their touches, in their fondling hands and kissing lips. They hardly notice as hands reach around and behind bodies to shed articles of clothing and armor, as feet kick off boots and nails peel off gloves and a domino mask that one of them had somehow forgotten about entirely the night before.
There is but one pause during their ministrations. One of them reaches towards another, aiming for the hat that still graces their head. The hat-bearer raises their hands in defense, pulls the hat off and sets it aside on a nearby nightstand as though it were a precious treasure, murmuring something about not losing yet another one.
The others roll their eyes at the comment and grab the now hat-less person, yanking them back down onto the bed.
After that, there's nothing in their way. There's no more time for snide remarks. There are only thighs pushing in-between legs and lips pressing everywhere they can reach: thighs, navels, nipples, necks and shoulders and ears and anywhere and everywhere that can elicit so much as a gasp. But they're careful, always careful, of fresh bruises, scrapes, and cuts. Careful to kiss and lick around them. And if they must touch, they do so lightly, cautiously, always looking the wounds owners in the eyes to watch for any silent protest or discomfort.
There are only hands cupping fully aroused desires, stroking softly and caressing until all three are trembling against each other, until all three have fully given in and are gasping, even the more stubborn one of the three. They all pant and moan freely against each other, to each other, dare to breathe faint whispers of encouragement and desire for more.
Release sweeps through and has them falling like dominoes, one after the other, with only tensing muscles, digging nails, and sharp hisses for warning. Yet they do not cease touching. Long after they float back down from their highs, their warm, entwined limbs still do not untangle. Hands still graze and hold each other close; lips lazily press against and nip at any flesh they can reach without moving too much.
They don't move for a long time. Hours after the sun is up and high in the sky, when they'd normally be up and about on any other day, preparing for a flight and their next mission, they're instead content to lie in bed together. They're content to feel each second slip by, aware but blissfully apathetic. Content to rest together, to hold each other, to give and take comfort from each other.
They're content; that's all that matters.