❝ The art of flirtation ! ❞ ― leo valdez !
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a/n: this was a req, but i accidentally deleted it TT. ! This is short as fuck, but I tried 🫂
— ✦ pairing: leo valdez ! reader.
LEO VALDEZ DID NOT invite you into his workshop.
Let’s make that clear.
You showed up. With your sketchbook, your paints, and that annoyingly pretty sunshine-aura thing you had going on—like some golden art nymph from a Renaissance painting decided to cosplay as a demigod and crash a garage.
You just waltzed right in, right past the “No Touchy” sign, the hazardous contraptions, and the suspicious trail of smoke leading to the corner where Leo’s latest death-trap invention was probably preparing to self-destruct.
And then, without asking, you sat down.
Right on his favorite workbench.
The one with burn marks, mechanical limbs, and a mysterious stain he’d never admit was salsa.
“Hey, Leo,” you said, like you owned the place. Like this wasn’t a sanctuary of gears, grime, and chaos but your own personal studio.
And just like that, he was done for.
You weren’t supposed to stay long. You’d said something about “inspiration” and “sunlight and steel” and how his workshop “had good vibes,” which sounded fake—but also suspiciously like a compliment.
So Leo just blinked at you, watched you pull out a battered paint palette and start sketching, and then spun on his heel and marched back into the clutter muttering something about “boundaries” and “how hot people always get away with stuff.”
That was, like, an hour ago.
And Leo liked chaos.
Not the dangerous, world-ending kind—he’d had enough of that to last a lifetime—but the fun kind. The kind that made your hair smell like smoke and your hands stained with oil and laughter. The kind that made sparks fly from metal and from the stupid little grin he always gave you.
Now? You were still there. Legs crossed on his bench, covered in smudges of gold paint and soft humming, your brush swishing across a canvas that rested against a toolbox labeled “DO NOT OPEN (seriously this will explode).”
You were a walking contradiction: warmth in a place built on fire, elegance in a place built from metal, and chaos in a form Leo somehow didn’t want to throw out the door.
So, naturally, he had to bother you.
For balance.
You sat on the workbench, surrounded by scattered sketches, sunbeams, and the faint scent of oranges. Your fingers danced across the canvas like they had a secret to tell. You looked out of place in the middle of scrap parts and smoke—but somehow, you belonged more than the blueprints ever did.
Leo peeked around the wall, a smudge of grease on his cheek and a screwdriver still behind his ear. He tried not to smile. Failed.
“Hey, sunshine,” he called, leaning on the doorway like he was auditioning for the role of "most annoying boyfriend alive." “Don’t mind me, just checking if the goddess of light came to bless my extremely important tinkering with her divine presence.”
“You mean I came to save your mess of a workspace with actual taste?” you said calmly, flicking your paintbrush with a flourish. “I should charge for the aesthetic upgrade.”
Leo gasped, staggering back like you’d stabbed him. “You wound me, art girl. You really do.”
You didn’t flinch.
“You know,” Leo continued, peering dramatically over your shoulder, “this whole art-in-my-space thing… very bold move. Should I be worried? Is this how invasions start?”
“You’ll survive,” you said, not looking up from your painting.
“Debatable,” he muttered. “You’re sitting directly on my wrench stash. That’s a war crime.”
You tilted your head, dipped your brush into a bright streak of orange, and replied calmly, “I’ll move if you say something that doesn’t sound like a bad pick-up line.”
Leo gasped. Clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “You insult me. That was a great pick-up line. It had flair.”
“It had grease stains and poor delivery.”
“Oof.” He collapsed against the bench, sighing dramatically. “You wound me, Apollo girl. First, you break into my temple of fire and invention, then you destroy my ego.”
You just kept painting. Which, frankly, made it worse.
“What are you even painting, anyway?” he asked, craning his neck to get a peek.
“The way sunlight moves across metal,” you answered simply.
Leo blinked. “You mean like… a shiny toaster?”
You smacked him with your paintbrush. Gently. He grinned anyway.
“Okay, okay,” he said, hands raised in surrender. “No toaster metaphors. Got it.”
There was a pause. A soft one. Your brush slowed, catching the light. Leo found himself staring—not at the painting, but at you. Your calm, your focus, the tiny smile you tried to hide whenever he teased you too much.
His heart did a little thing. Probably a short circuit. Or something poetic. Gross.
He looked away.
“You know,” he said eventually, “you don’t have to come in here just to steal my lighting.”
“Oh?” you replied, not missing a beat. “Then why do you keep turning the ceiling mirrors to catch the sun where I sit?”
Leo paused.
Then groaned.
“Ugh. Busted.”
You smirked.
Later—much later—he found himself sitting beside you, both of you on the floor, surrounded by paint-splattered rags, half-disassembled gadgets, and the soft buzz of quiet companionship.
Your painting leaned against the wall, golden and warm. His half-finished invention sparked beside it, humming softly like it didn’t mind sharing the space.
“You know,” Leo said quietly, “I always thought this place was too chaotic for someone like you.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”
“Y’know. All light and soft colors and poetic metaphors about sunshine.”
You nudged his leg with your foot. “You’re all sparks and fire and grease stains. Guess we’re both chaotic in our own way.”
Leo smiled, small and real. “Yeah. But you’re the pretty kind of chaos.”
You looked at him for a moment—really looked—and then leaned your head against his shoulder.
“And you’re the kind that makes a mess and calls it a masterpiece.”
“Rude,” Leo muttered. “True. But rude.”
And for the first time in a long time, the workshop felt complete.
Not perfect.
Just… warm.
— 💐 Req: Heyyyy could you maybe write Leo and an Apollo reader, with him tinkering and her doing art in his workshop? Then maybe he comes to bother her with bad jokes and teasing?
